35
A few minutes before midnight I finally reached the tower house. As soon as I opened the door I knew that Isabella had left. The echo of my footsteps down the corridor sounded different. I didn’t bother to turn on the light. I went further into the apartment and put my head round the door of what had been her room. Isabella had cleaned and tidied it. The sheets and blankets were neatly folded on a chair and the mattress was bare. Her smell still floated in the air. I went to the gallery and sat at the desk my assistant had used. She had sharpened the pencils and arranged them in a glass. The pile of blank sheets had been carefully stacked in a tray and the pen and nib set I had given her had been left on one side of the table. The house had never seemed so empty.
In the bathroom I removed my wet clothes and put a bandage with surgical spirit on the nape of my neck. The pain had subsided to a mute throb and a general feeling that was not unlike a monumental hangover. In the mirror, the cuts on my chest looked like lines drawn with a pen. They were clean, superficial cuts, but they stung a great deal. I cleaned them with surgical spirit and hoped they wouldn’t become infected.
I got into bed and covered myself up to the neck with two or three blankets. The only parts of my body that didn’t hurt were those that the cold and the rain had numbed to the point that I couldn’t feel them at all. I lay there slowly warming up, listening to that cold silence, a silence of absence and emptiness that smothered the house. Before leaving, Isabella had left the pile of Cristina’s letters on the bedside table. I stretched out my hand and took one at random, dated two weeks earlier.
Dear David,
The days go by and I keep on writing letters to you which I suppose you prefer not to answer - if you even open them, that is. I’ve started to think that I write them just for myself, to kill the loneliness and to believe for a moment that you’re close to me. Every day I wonder what has happened to you, and what you’re doing.
Sometimes I think you’ve left Barcelona, and won’t return, and I imagine you in some place surrounded by strangers, beginning a new life that I will never know. At other times I think you still hate me, that you destroy these letters and wish you had never known me. I don’t blame you. It’s curious how easy it is to tell a piece of paper what you don’t dare say to someone’s face.
Things are not simple for me. Pedro couldn’t be kinder and more understanding, so much so that sometimes his patience and his desire to make me happy irritate me, which only makes me feel miserable. He has shown me that my heart is empty, that I don’t deserve to be loved by anyone. He spends most of the day with me and doesn’t want to leave me alone.
I smile every day and I share his bed. When he asks me whether I love him I say I do, and when I see the truth reflected in his eyes I feel like dying. He never reproaches me. He talks about you a great deal. He misses you. He misses you so much that sometimes I think you’re the person he loves most in this world. I see him growing old, on his own, in the worst possible company - mine. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but if there’s one thing I wish for in this world, it is for you to forgive him. I’m not worth depriving him of your friendship and company.
Yesterday I finished one of your books. Pedro has them all and I’ve been reading them because it’s the only way I can feel that I’m with you. It was a sad, strange story, about two broken dolls abandoned in a travelling circus that come alive for one night, knowing they are going to die at dawn. As I read it I felt you were writing about us.
A few weeks ago I dreamed that I saw you again: we passed in the street and you didn’t remember me. You smiled and asked me what my name was. You didn’t know anything about me. You didn’t hate me. Every night when Pedro falls asleep next to me, I close my eyes and beg heaven or hell that I might dream the same dream again.
Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, I’ll write again to tell you that I love you, even if it means nothing to you.
CRISTINA
I let the letter fall to the floor, unable to read any more. Tomorrow would be another day, I told myself. It could hardly be worse than this one. Little did I imagine the delights in store. I must have slept for a couple of hours at the most when, all of a sudden, I awoke. It was still long before dawn. Somebody was banging on the door of my apartment. I spent a couple of seconds in a daze, looking for the light switch. Again, the knocking on the door. I must have forgotten to lock the main entrance to the street. I turned on the light, got out of bed and walked along to the entrance hall. I slid open the spyhole. Three faces in the shadows of the landing. Inspector Grandes and, behind him, Marcos and Castelo. All three with their eyes trained on the spyhole. I took two deep breaths before opening.
‘Good evening, Martín. I’m sorry about the time.’
‘And what time is this supposed to be?’
‘Time to move your arse, you son-of-a-bitch,’ muttered Marcos, which drew from Castelo a smile so cutting I could have shaved with it.
Grandes looked at them disapprovingly and sighed.
‘A little after three in the morning,’ he said. ‘May I come in?’
I groaned but let him in. The inspector signalled to his men to wait on the landing. Marcos and Castelo agreed reluctantly, throwing me reptilian looks. I slammed the door in their faces.
‘You should be more careful with those two,’ said Grandes, wandering up the corridor as if he owned the place.
‘Please, make yourself at home . . .’ I said.
I returned to the bedroom and dressed any old how, putting on the first things I found - dirty clothes piled on a chair. When I came out, there was no sign of Grandes in the corridor.
I went over to the gallery and found him there, gazing through the windows at the low clouds that crept over the flat roofs.
‘Where’s the sweetheart?’
‘In her own home.’
Grandes turned round, smiling.
‘Wise man, you don’t keep them full board,’ he said, pointing at the armchair. ‘Sit down.’
I slumped into the chair. Grandes remained standing, his eyes fixed on me.
‘What?’ I finally asked.
‘You don’t look so good, Martín. Did you get into a fight?’
‘I fell.’
‘I see. I understand that today you visited the magic shop owned by Se?or Damián Roures in Calle Princesa.’
‘You saw me coming out of the shop at lunchtime. What’s all this about?’
Grandes was gazing at me coldly.
‘Fetch a coat and a scarf, or whatever. It’s cold outside. We’re off to the police station.’
‘What for?’
‘Do as I say.’
A car from police headquarters was waiting for us in Paseo del Borne. Marcos and Castelo pushed me unceremoniously into the back, posting themselves on either side.
‘Is the gentleman comfortable?’ asked Castelo, digging his elbow into my ribs.
The inspector sat in the front, next to the driver. None of them opened their mouths during the five minutes it took to drive up Vía Layetana, deserted and buried in an ochre mist. When we reached the central police station, Grandes got out and went in without waiting. Marcos and Castelo took an arm each, as if they were trying to crush my bones, and dragged me through a maze of stairs, passages and cells until we reached a room with no windows that smelled of sweat and urine. In the centre stood a worm-eaten table and two dilapidated chairs. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling and there was a grating over a drain in the middle of the room, where the two inclines of the floor met. It was bitterly cold. Before I realised what was happening, the door was shut behind me with a bang. I heard footsteps moving away. I walked round that dungeon a dozen times until I collapsed on one of the shaky chairs. For the next hour, apart from my breathing, the creaking of the chair and the echo of water dripping, I didn’t hear another sound.
An eternity later I heard footsteps approaching and shortly afterwards the door opened. Marcos stuck his head round and peered into the cell with a smile. He held the door open for Grandes, who came in without looking at me and sat on the chair on the other side of the table. Grandes nodded to Marcos and the latter closed the door, but not without first blowing me a silent kiss. The inspector took a good thirty seconds before deigning to look me in the eye.
‘If you were trying to impress me, you’ve done so, inspector.’
He ignored my irony and fixed his eyes on me as if he’d never seen me before in his life.
‘What do you know about Damián Roures?’ he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Not much. He owns a magic shop. In fact, I knew nothing about him until a few days ago, when Ricardo Salvador mentioned him. Today, or yesterday - I’ve lost track of the time - I went to see him in search of information about the previous occupier of the house in which I live. Salvador told me that Roures and the owner—’
‘Marlasca.’
‘Yes, Diego Marlasca. As I was saying, Salvador told me that Roures had had dealings with him some years ago. I asked Roures a few questions and he replied as best he could. There’s little else.’
Grandes inclined his head.
‘Is that your story?’
‘I don’t know. What’s yours? Let’s compare and perhaps I’ll finally understand what the hell I’m doing here in the middle of the night, freezing to death in a basement that smells of shit.’
‘Don’t raise your voice to me, Martín.’
‘I’m sorry, inspector, but I think you could at least have the courtesy to tell me why I’m here.’
‘I’ll tell you why you’re here. About three hours ago, one of the residents of the apartment block in which Se?or Roures’s shop is located was returning home late when he found that the door of the shop was open and the lights were on. He was surprised, so he went in, and when he did not see the owner or hear him reply to his calls, he went into the back room, where he found Roures, his hands and feet bound with wire to a chair, over a pool of blood.’
Grandes paused, his eyes boring into me. I imagined there was more to come. Grandes always liked to end on something dramatic.
‘Dead?’ I asked.
Grandes nodded.
‘Quite dead. Someone had amused himself by pulling out the man’s eyes and cutting out his tongue with a pair of scissors. The pathologist believes he died by choking on his own blood about half an hour later.’
I felt I needed air. Grandes was walking around. He stopped behind my back and I heard him light a cigarette.
‘How did you get that bruise? It looks recent.’
‘I slipped in the rain and hit the back of my neck.’
‘Don’t treat me like an idiot, Martín. It’s not advisable. Would you rather I left you for a while with Marcos and Castelo, to see if they can teach you some manners?’
‘All right. Someone hit me.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘This conversation is beginning to bore me, Martín.’
‘Well, just imagine what it’s doing to me.’
Grandes sat down in front of me again and offered a conciliatory smile.
‘Surely you don’t believe I had anything to do with the death of that man?’
‘No, Martín. I don’t. What I do believe is that you’re not telling me the truth, and that somehow the death of that poor wretch is related to your visit. Like the death of Barrido and Escobillas.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Call it a hunch.’
‘I’ve already told you I don’t know anything.’
‘And I’ve already warned you not to take me for an idiot, Martín. Marcos and Castelo are out there waiting for an opportunity to have a private conversation with you. Is that what you want?’
‘No.’
‘Then help me get you out of this so that I can send you home before your sheets get cold.’
‘What do you want to hear?’
‘The truth, for example.’
I pushed the chair back and stood up, exasperated. I was chilled to the bone and my head felt as if it was going to burst. I began to walk round the table in circles, spitting out the words as if they were stones.
‘The truth? I’ll tell you the truth. The truth is I don’t know what the truth is. I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know why I went to see Roures, or Salvador. I don’t know what I’m looking for or what is happening to me. That’s the truth.’
Grandes watched me stoically.
‘Stop walking in circles and sit down. You’re making me giddy.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Martín, you’re not telling me anything. All I’m asking you to do is to help me so that I can help you.’
‘You wouldn’t be able to help me even if you wanted to.’
‘Then who can?’
I dropped back into the chair.
‘I don’t know . . .’ I murmured.
I thought I saw a hint of pity, or perhaps it was just tiredness, in the inspector’s eyes.
‘Look, Martín. Let’s begin again. Let’s do it your way. Tell me a story, and start at the beginning.’
I stared at him in silence.
‘Martín. Don’t think that because I like you I’m not going to do my work.’
‘Do whatever you have to do. Call Hansel and Gretel, if you like.’
At that moment I noticed a touch of anxiety on his face. Footsteps were advancing along the corridor and something told me the inspector wasn’t expecting them. I heard voices and nervously Grandes went up to the door. He tapped three times with his knuckles and Marcos, who was on guard, opened up. A man dressed in a camel-hair coat and a matching suit came into the room, looked around him in disgust, and then gave me a sweet smile while he calmly removed his gloves. I watched him in astonishment. It was Valera, the lawyer.
‘Are you all right, Se?or Martín?’ he asked.
I nodded. The lawyer led the inspector over to a corner. I heard them whispering. Grandes gesticulated with suppressed fury. Valera watched him coldly and shook his head. The conversation went on for almost a minute. Finally Grandes huffed and let his hands fall to his sides.
‘Pick up your scarf, Se?or Martín. We’re leaving,’ Valera ordered. ‘The inspector has finished his questioning.’
Behind him, Grandes bit his lip, looking daggers at Marcos, who shrugged his shoulders. Without losing his expert smile, Valera took me by the arm and led me out of the dungeon.
‘I trust that the treatment you received from these police officers has been correct, Se?or Martín.’
‘Yes,’ I managed to stammer.
‘Just a moment,’ Grandes called out behind us.
Valera stopped and, motioning for me to be quiet, he turned round.
‘If you have any more questions for Se?or Martín you can direct them to our office and we will be glad to help you. In the meantime, and unless you have a more important reason for keeping Se?or Martín on the premises, we shall retire. We wish you a good evening and thank you for your kindness, which I will certainly mention to your superiors, especially to Chief-Inspector Salgado, who, as you know, is a dear friend.’
Sergeant Marcos started to move towards us, but Inspector Grandes stopped him. I exchanged a last glance with him before Valera took me by the arm again and pulled me away.
‘Don’t wait about,’ he whispered.
We walked down the dimly lit passage until we came to a staircase that took us up to another long corridor. At the end of the second corridor a small door opened onto the ground-floor entrance hall and the main exit, where a chauffeur-driven Mercedes-Benz was waiting for us with its engine running. As soon as he saw Valera, the chauffeur jumped out and opened the door for us. I sat down on the back seat. The car was equipped with heating and the leather seats were warm. Valera sat next to me and, with a tap on the glass that separated the back from the driver’s compartment, instructed the chauffeur to set off. Once the car was en route and had settled in the central lane of Vía Layetana, Valera smiled at me as if nothing had happened. He pointed at the mist that parted like undergrowth as we drove through it.
‘A disagreeable night, isn’t it?’ he said casually.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To your home, of course. Unless you’d rather go to a hotel or—’
‘No. That’s fine.’
The car was rolling along down Vía Layetana. Valera gazed at the deserted streets with little interest.
‘What are you doing?’ I finally asked.
‘What do you think I’m doing? Representing you and looking after your interests.’
‘Tell the driver to stop the car,’ I said.
The chauffeur looked at Valera’s eyes in the mirror. Valera shook his head and gestured to him to continue.
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Se?or Martín. It’s late, it’s cold and I’m taking you home.’
‘I’d rather walk.’
‘Be reasonable.’
‘Who sent you?’
Valera sighed and rubbed his eyes.
‘You have good friends, Se?or Martín. It is important in life to have good friends and especially to know how to keep them,’ he said. ‘As important as knowing when one is stubbornly following the wrong path.’
‘Might that path be the one that goes past Casa Marlasca, number 13, Carretera de Vallvidrera?’
Valera smiled patiently, as if he were scolding an unruly child.
‘Se?or Martín, believe me when I say that the further away you stay from that house and that business, the better for you. Do accept at least this piece of advice.’
When he reached Paseo de Colón, the chauffeur turned and drove up to Calle Comercio and from there to the entrance of Paseo del Borne. The carts with meat and fish, ice and spices were beginning to accumulate opposite the large marketplace. As we drove past, four boys were unloading the carcass of a calf, leaving a trail of blood that could be smelled in the air.
‘Your area is charming, full of picturesque scenes, Se?or Martín.’
The driver stopped on the corner of Calle Flassaders and got out of the car to open the door for us. The lawyer got out with me.
‘I’ll come with you to the door,’ he said.
‘People will think we’re lovers.’
We entered the alleyway, a chasm of shadows, and headed towards my house. On reaching the front door, the lawyer offered me his hand with professional courtesy.
‘Thanks for getting me out of that place.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ replied Valera, pulling an envelope out of the inside pocket of his coat.
I recognised the wax seal with the angel even in the tenuous light that dripped from the street lamp above our heads. Valera handed me the envelope and, with a final nod, walked back to the waiting car. I opened my front door and went up the steps to the apartment. When I got in I went straight to the study and placed the envelope on the desk. I opened it and pulled out the folded sheet of paper with the boss’s writing.
Martín, dear friend,
I trust this note finds you in good health and good spirits. I happen to be passing through the city and would love the pleasure of your company this Friday at seven o’clock in the evening in the billiard room of the Equestrian Club, where we can talk about the progress of our project.
Until then, please accept my warm regards,
ANDREAS CORELLI
I folded the sheet of paper and put it carefully in the envelope. Then I lit a match and, holding the envelope by one corner, moved it closer to the flame. I watched it burn until the wax turned to scarlet tears that fell on the desk and my fingers were covered in ashes.
‘Go to hell,’ I whispered. The night, darker than ever, leaned in against the windowpanes.