32
A sliver of light fell through the blanket of clouds, illuminating the red paintwork of the shopfront in Calle Princesa. The establishment selling conjuring tricks stood behind a carved wooden canopy. Its glass doors revealed only the bare outlines of the gloomy interior. Black velvet curtains were draped across cases displaying masks and Victorian-style apparatus: marked packs of cards, weighted daggers, books on magic, and bottles of polished glass containing a rainbow of liquids labelled in Latin and probably bottled in Albacete. The bell tinkled as I came through the door. An empty counter stood at the far end of the shop. I waited a few seconds, examining the collection of curiosities. I was searching for my face in a mirror that reflected everything in the shop except me when I glimpsed, out of the corner of my eye, a small figure peeping round the curtain of the back room.
‘An interesting trick, don’t you think?’ said the little man with grey hair and penetrating eyes.
I nodded.
‘How does it work?’
‘I don’t yet know. It arrived a few days ago from a manufacturer of trick mirrors in Istanbul. The creator calls it refractory inversion.’
‘It reminds one that nothing is as it seems,’ I said.
‘Except for magic. How can I help you, sir?’
‘Am I speaking to Se?or Damián Roures?’
The little man nodded slowly, without blinking. I noticed that his lips were set in a bright smile which, like the mirror, was not what it seemed. Beneath it, his expression was cold and cautious.
‘Your shop was recommended to me.’
‘May I ask by whom?’
‘Ricardo Salvador.’
Any pretence of a smile disappeared from his face.
‘I didn’t know he was still alive. I haven’t seen him for twenty-five years.’
‘What about Irene Sabino?’
Roures sighed, muttering under his breath. He came round the counter and went over to the door. After hanging up the CLOSED sign he turned the key.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Martín. I’m trying to clarify the circumstances surrounding the death of Se?or Diego Marlasca, whom I understand you knew.’
‘As far as I know, they were clarified many years ago. Se?or Marlasca committed suicide.’
‘That was not my understanding.’
‘I don’t know what that policeman has told you. Resentment affects one’s memory, Se?or . . . Martín. At the time, Salvador tried to peddle a conspiracy for which he had no proof. Everyone knew he was warming the widow Marlasca’s bed and trying to set himself up as the hero of the hour. As expected, his superiors made him toe the line and when he didn’t, they threw him out of the police force.’
‘He thinks there was an attempt to hide the truth.’
Roures scoffed.
‘The truth . . . don’t make me laugh. What they tried to hide was a scandal. Valera and Marlasca’s law firm had its fingers stuck in almost every pie that was being baked in this town. Nobody wanted a story like that to be uncovered. Marlasca had abandoned his position, his work and his marriage to lock himself up in that rambling old house doing God knows what. Anyone with half a brain could see that it wouldn’t end well.’
‘That didn’t stop you and your partner Jaco profiting from his madness by promising him he’d be able to make contact with the hereafter during your seances . . .’
‘I never promised him a thing. Those sessions were a simple amusement. Everyone knew. Don’t try to saddle me with the man’s death - because all I was doing was earning an honest living.’
‘And your partner, Jaco?’
‘I answer only for myself. What Jaco might have done is not my responsibility.’
‘Then he did do something.’
‘What do you want me to say? That he went off with the money Salvador insisted Marlasca had in a secret account? That he killed Marlasca and fooled us all?’
‘And that’s not what happened?’
Roures stared at me.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since the day Marlasca died. I told Salvador and the rest of the police everything I knew. I never lied. If Jaco did do something, I never knew about it or got anything out of it.’
‘What can you tell me about Irene Sabino?’
‘Irene loved Marlasca. She would never have plotted anything that might hurt him.’
‘Do you know what happened to her? Is she still alive?’
‘I think so; I was told she was working in a laundry in the Raval quarter. Irene was a good woman. Too good. That’s why she’s ended up the way she has. She believed in those things. She believed in them with all her heart.’
‘And Marlasca? What was he looking for in that world?’
‘Marlasca was involved in something, but don’t ask me what. Something that neither Jaco nor I had sold him. All I know is that I once heard Irene say that apparently Marlasca had found someone, someone I didn’t know - and, believe me, I knew everyone in the profession - who had promised him that if he did something, I don’t know what, he would recover his son Ismael from the dead.’
‘Did Irene say who that someone was?’
‘She’d never seen him. Marlasca didn’t let her. But she knew that he was afraid.’
‘Afraid of what?’
Roures clicked his tongue.
‘Marlasca thought that he was cursed.’
‘Can you explain?’
‘I’ve already told you. He was ill. He was convinced that something had got inside him.’
‘Something?’
‘A spirit. A parasite. I don’t know. Look, in this business you get to know a lot of people who are not exactly in their right mind. A personal tragedy hits them: they lose a lover or a fortune and they fall down the hole. The brain is the most fragile organ in the body. Se?or Marlasca was not of sound mind; anyone could see that after talking to him for five minutes. That’s why he came to me.’
‘And you told him what he wanted to hear.’
‘No. I told him the truth.’
‘Your truth?’
‘The only truth I know. I thought he was seriously unbalanced and I didn’t want to take advantage of him. That sort of thing never ends well. In this business there is a line you don’t cross, if you know what’s good for you. We offer our services to people who come to us looking for a bit of fun, or some excitement and comfort from the world beyond, and we charge accordingly. But anyone who seems to be on the verge of losing their mind, we send home. It is a show like any other. What you want are spectators, not visionaries.’
‘Exemplary ethics. So, what did you say to Marlasca?’
‘I told him it was all a load of mumbo-jumbo. I told him I was a trickster who made a living organising seances for poor devils who had lost their loved ones and needed to believe that lovers, parents and friends were waiting for them in the next world. I told him there was nothing on the other side, just a giant void, and this world was all we had. I told him to forget about the spirits and return to his family.’
‘And he believed you?’
‘Obviously not. He stopped coming to the sessions and looked elsewhere for help.’
‘Where?’
‘Irene had grown up in the shacks of Bogatell beach and although she’d made a name for herself dancing and acting in the clubs on the Paralelo, she still belonged to that place. She told me she’d taken Marlasca to see a woman they called the Witch of Somorrostro, to ask for protection from the person to whom Marlasca was indebted.’
‘Did Irene mention the name of that person?’
‘If she did I can’t remember. As I said, they’d stopped coming to the seances.’
‘Andreas Corelli?’
‘I’ve never heard that name.’
‘Where can I find Irene Sabino?’
‘I’ve already told you all I know,’ Roures replied, exasperated.
‘One last question and I’ll go.’
‘Let’s see if that’s true.’
‘Do you remember ever hearing Marlasca mention something called Lux Aeterna?’
Roures frowned, shaking his head.
‘Thanks for you help.’
‘You’re welcome. And if at all possible don’t come back.’
I nodded and walked off towards the exit, Roures’s eyes following me distrustfully.
‘Wait,’ he called suddenly.
I turned round. The little man observed me, hesitating.
‘I seem to remember that Lux Aeterna was the name of some sort of religious pamphlet we sometimes used in the sessions in Calle Elisabets. It was part of a collection of similar books, probably loaned to us by the Afterlife Society, which had a library specialising in the occult. I don’t know if that’s what you’re referring to.’
‘Do you remember what the pamphlet was about?’
‘The person who was most familiar with it was my partner, Jaco - he managed the seances. But I seem to recall that Lux Aeterna was a poem about death and the seven names of the Son of Morning, Bringer of Light.’
‘Bringer of Light?’
Roures smiled.
‘Lucifer.’