The Prince of Mist

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  Max gave a little nod as he tried to recover his breath.

  ‘Sounds amazing, doesn’t it?’ Roland laughed. ‘There’s also a library, but I’ll stick my hand in the fire if it has more than sixty books.’

  ‘And what do people do round here?’ Max managed to say. ‘Other than cycle.’

  ‘Good question, Max. I see you’re beginning to get the idea. Shall we go?’

  Max sighed and they returned to their bikes.

  ‘But this time I set the pace,’ Max demanded. Roland shrugged his shoulders and pedalled off.

  *

  For a couple of hours Roland guided Max up and down the small town and the surrounding area. They gazed at the cliffs to the south. That was the best place to go snorkelling, Roland told him, pointing offshore. An old cargo ship had sunk there in 1918 and was now covered in all kinds of strange seaweed, like some underwater jungle. Roland explained that one night, during a terrible storm, the ship had run aground on the dangerous rocks that lay a few metres beneath the surface. The waves were so furious and the night so dark – lit only by occasional flashes of lightning – that all the crew members drowned. All except one. The sole survivor of the tragedy was an engineer who, as a way of thanking providence for saving his life, had settled in the town and built a lighthouse high up on the steep cliffs that had presided over the scene that night. That man, who was now fairly old, was still the keeper of the lighthouse and was none other than Roland’s adoptive grandfather. After the shipwreck, a couple from the town had taken him to hospital and looked after him until he made a full recovery. Some years later, the same couple died in a car accident and the lighthouse keeper, Victor Kray, decided to take in their son Roland, who was barely a year old at the time.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ offered Max.

  ‘Never mind. It was a long time ago. I barely remember a thing,’ replied Roland.

  Roland now lived with the former engineer in the lighthouse cottage, although he spent most of his time in a hut he had built himself on the beach, at the foot of the cliffs. To all intents and purposes, the lighthouse keeper was his real grandfather. Roland’s voice seemed to betray a slight bitterness as he recounted these facts. Max listened in silence, not daring to ask any questions.

  After the story of the shipwreck the two boys walked through the streets near the old church, and Max met some of the locals – kind people who were quick to welcome him to the town.

  Before long, Max decided he didn’t need to get to know the whole town in one morning. He was exhausted. If, as it seemed, he was going to spend a few years there, there’d be plenty of time to discover its mysteries – if there were any to discover.

  ‘That’s true.’ Roland nodded. ‘Listen. In the summer, I go diving at the sunken ship almost every morning. Would you like to come with me tomorrow?’

  ‘If you swim the way you ride a bike I’ll drown,’ said Max.

  ‘I have an extra pair of flippers and a mask.’

  The offer was tempting.

  ‘All right. Do I need to bring anything?’

  Roland shook his head.

  ‘I’ll bring everything. Well … come to think of it, you bring breakfast. I’ll pick you up from your house at nine o’clock.’

  ‘Nine thirty.’

  ‘Don’t oversleep.’

  As Max pedalled back towards the beach house, the church bells announced that it was three o’clock and the sun began to hide behind a blanket of dark clouds that spoke of rain.

  *

  Max could hear the storm creeping in behind him, its shadow casting a gloomy shroud over the surface of the road. He turned around briefly and caught a glimpse of the darkness clawing at his back. In just a few minutes the sky changed into a vault of lead and the sea took on a metallic tint like mercury. The first flashes of lightning were accompanied by gusts of wind that propelled the storm in from the sea. Max pedalled hard, but the rain caught him when he was still half a kilometre from home. When he reached the white fence he looked as if he’d just emerged from the sea and was drenched to the bone. He left the bicycle in the shed and went into the house through the back door. The kitchen was deserted, but an appetising smell wafted towards him. On the table, Max found a tray with sandwiches and a jug of home-made lemonade. Next to it was a note in Andrea Carver’s elegant handwriting. ‘Max, this is your lunch. Your father and I will be in town all afternoon running errands. Don’t even THINK of using the upstairs bathroom. Irina is coming with us.’

  Max left the note on the table and decided to take the tray up to his room. The morning’s marathon had left him exhausted. The house was silent and it seemed he was alone. Alicia wasn’t in, or else she’d locked herself in her room. Max went straight upstairs, changed into dry clothes and lay on his bed. Outside, the rain was hammering down and the thunder rattled the windowpanes. Max turned on the small lamp on his bedside table and picked up the book on Copernicus his father had given him. He’d started reading the same paragraph at least four times but his mind was elsewhere and the mysteries of the universe suddenly seemed too far removed from his own life. All he could think of was how much he was looking forward to going diving around the sunken ship with his new friend Roland the next morning. He wolfed down the sandwiches and then closed his eyes, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. He loved the sound of the rain and the water rushing down the guttering along the edge of the roof.

  Whenever it poured like this, Max felt as if time was pausing. It was like a ceasefire during which you could stop whatever you were doing and just stand by a window for hours, watching the performance, an endless curtain of tears falling from heaven. He put the book back on the bedside table and turned off the light. Slowly, lulled by the hypnotic sound of the rain, he surrendered to sleep.

  5

  THE VOICES OF HIS FAMILY ON THE LOWER floor and the sound of Irina running up and down the stairs woke Max. It was already dark, but he could see through the window that the storm had passed, leaving a canopy of stars behind it. He glanced at his watch: he’d slept for almost six hours. Just as he was sitting up he heard someone rapping on his door.

  ‘Dinner time, sleeping beauty,’ roared Maximilian Carver on the other side.

  For a second, Max wondered why his father was sounding so cheerful. Then he remembered the cinema session he had promised them that morning at breakfast.

  ‘I’m just coming,’ he replied, his mouth still feeling pasty from the sandwiches.

  ‘You’d better be,’ said the watchmaker as he went down the stairs.

  Although he didn’t feel the least bit hungry, Max came down to the kitchen and sat at the table with the rest of the family. Alicia stared idly at her plate, as usual, not touching her food. Irina was devouring her portion with relish and babbling to her loathsome cat, which sat at her feet, its eyes glued to her every movement. As they ate Mr Carver told them that he’d found some excellent premises in the town’s centre where he’d be able to set up his shop and restart his business.

  ‘And what have you done today, Max?’ asked Andrea Carver.

  ‘I’ve been into town.’ The rest of the family looked at him, expecting more details. ‘I met a boy called Roland. Tomorrow we’re going diving.’

  ‘There, you see? Max has already made a friend,’ stated Maximilian Carver triumphantly. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘And what’s this Roland like, Max?’ asked Andrea Carver.

  ‘I don’t know. He’s friendly. He lives with his grandfather, the lighthouse keeper. He’s been showing me around the town.’

  ‘And where did you say you were going diving?’ asked his father.

  ‘On the southern beach, on the other side of the port. Roland told me you can see the remains of a ship that sank there years ago.’

  ‘Can I come too?’ Irina cut in.

  ‘No,’ said Andrea Carver quickly. ‘Won’t it be dangerous, Max?’

  ‘Mum …’

  ‘All right,’ Andrea Carver conceded, ‘but be careful.
’

  Max nodded.

  ‘When I was young, I was a good diver,’ Mr Carver began.

  ‘Not now, darling,’ his wife interrupted. ‘Weren’t you going to show us some films?’

  Maximilian Carver shrugged and stood up, eager to show off his skills as a projectionist.

  ‘Give your father a hand, Max.’

  Before doing as he was asked, Max glanced over at his sister Alicia. She had been silent throughout the meal and it was crystal clear from the look on her face that she was miles away, yet for some reason nobody else seemed to have noticed, or they preferred not to. Alicia momentarily returned his gaze.

  ‘Do you want to come with us tomorrow?’ he suggested. ‘You’ll like Roland.’

  Alicia didn’t reply but she gave the hint of a smile and her dark, enigmatic eyes lit up for a second.

  ‘Ready. Lights out,’ said Maximilian Carver as he finished threading the film into the projector. The machine looked as if belonged in the age of Copernicus himself, and Max had his doubts as to whether it would actually work.

  ‘What are we going to see?’ asked Andrea Carver, holding Irina in her arms.

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ the watchmaker confessed. ‘There’s a box in the shed with dozens of reels and none of them is labelled, so I chose a few at random. It wouldn’t surprise me if we don’t see anything at all. The emulsion used on film is very fragile and it could easily have been damaged after all these years. You see, the nitrates used in—’

  ‘Dear …’ Andrea Carver said sweetly but firmly.

  ‘Right.’ The watchmaker nodded.

  ‘What does emulsion mean?’ Irina asked. ‘Aren’t we going to see anything then?’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Maximilian Carver replied as he turned on the projector.

  A few moments later they heard what sounded like an old motorcycle engine struggling to start as the machine rattled into life. Suddenly the beam from the lens cut through the room like a spear of light. Max concentrated on the rectangle projected onto the white wall. It was like looking inside a magic lantern, never knowing what visions might emerge from its depths. He held his breath and in a few moments the wall came alive with pictures.

  *

  It didn’t take long for Max to realise that the film they were watching didn’t come from the storeroom of some old cinema. It was not a print of some famous film, nor even a forgotten reel from a silent movie. The blurred pictures, eaten away by time, showed that whoever had filmed these images was obviously an amateur.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Irina.

  ‘I don’t know, darling,’ answered her father.

  The film was a rather clumsy attempt at depicting a walk through what looked like a forest. The person operating the camera advanced slowly through the trees, the images jerking from one place to another with sudden shifts in light and focus, so that it was difficult to pick out where this strange walk was taking place.

  ‘But, what is this?’ cried Irina, visibly disappointed. She looked at her father, who was staring in bewilderment at what appeared to be a strange – and, judging from the first minute, boring – film.

  ‘I don’t know,’ mumbled Maximilian Carver, despondent. ‘I wasn’t expecting this … Maybe it’s just one of the Fleischmanns’ home movies.’

  ‘Is that the people who used to live in this house before us?’

  Max had also started to lose interest in the film when something caught his eye in the confused rush of images.

  ‘What if you try another reel, dear?’ Andrea Carver suggested, trying to keep her husband’s spirits up.

  ‘Wait …’ Max interrupted as he recognised a familiar silhouette.

  The camera had now left the forest and was heading towards an area surrounded by tall stone walls with a gate of spearheaded bars. Max knew this place; he’d been there only that morning.

  Fascinated, Max watched as the camera operator appeared to stumble slightly and then entered the walled garden filled with statues.

  ‘It looks like a graveyard,’ whispered Andrea Carver. ‘Dear, turn this off.’

  ‘Just a second,’ said Max.

  The camera panned across the scene. In the film the garden didn’t look as neglected as it had when Max discovered it. Not a hint of weeds, and the stone surface of the ground was clean and smooth; someone had been keeping the place immaculate.

  The camera paused at each of the statues standing at the cardinal points of the large star that was clearly visible at the base of the figures. Max recognised the white stone faces, the circus costumes. There was something unnerving about the rigid poses adopted by these ghostly figures and the theatrical expressions on their mask-like faces.

  The film went from one statue to another, capturing each member of the circus troupe without any cuts. The family watched the haunting scene in silence, no other sound in the room except the rattle of the projector.

  Finally, the camera turned towards the centre of the star. Standing with its back to the light was the figure of the smiling clown, around which all the other statues were arranged. Max studied its features and felt the same shudder running through his body as when he’d stood in front of it. There was something about the clown that didn’t quite match what he remembered from his visit to the walled garden, but the poor quality of the film didn’t give him a clear enough view to work out what it was. The Carvers continued sitting in silence as the last few frames ran across the projector’s beam. Maximilian Carver stopped the machine and turned on the light.

  ‘Jacob Fleischmann,’ Max finally murmured. ‘These were filmed by Dr Fleischmann’s son.’

  ‘We don’t know that, Max,’ said his father, his tone sombre.

  They looked at each other but Max said nothing. He started thinking about the boy who had drowned over ten years ago only metres away on that same beach. It seemed to him as if the boy’s presence filled every corner of the house, making Max feel like an intruder. Maybe he was sleeping in what used to be his bed.

  ‘Can we see some more?’ Max asked timidly.

  The watchmaker caught the darting looks his wife was giving him.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Max.’

  Without another word, Maximilian Carver began to dismantle the projector, and his wife picked up Irina and carried her upstairs to bed.

  ‘Can I sleep with you?’ asked Irina, hugging her mother.

  ‘Leave this,’ said Max to his father. ‘I’ll put it away.’

  Maximilian looked at his son, intrigued, but then patted him on the back.

  ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ he whispered.

  The watchmaker turned to his daughter. ‘Goodnight, Alicia.’

  ‘Goodnight, Dad,’ she replied, watching her father as he climbed the stairs. He looked tired and disappointed.

  When the watchmaker’s footsteps could no longer be heard, Alicia turned and fixed her eyes on Max.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ asked Max.

  Alicia leaned towards him. Sometimes his sister had a peculiar intensity to her, as if she could shatter glass with a single glance.

  ‘Promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you,’ she said.

  ‘But …’

  ‘Promise. On your life.’

  Max sighed. ‘This better be good. OK. I promise. What is it?’

  Alicia shot one last look at the top of the stairs to make sure nobody could hear them. ‘The clown. The one in the film …’ she began.

  Max didn’t like where this was going.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘You’ve been to the garden of statues?’

  Alicia shook her head, confused.

  ‘What garden? No. I mean I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘Where?’

  Alicia hesitated. ‘In a dream.’

  Max looked into Alicia’s eyes. She was deadly serious about this. He felt a chill down his spine.


  ‘When did you see him?’ asked Max, his heart beating faster.

  ‘The night before we came here.’

  It was difficult to read the emotions on Alicia’s face, but Max thought he noticed a hint of fear in her eyes.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Max asked. ‘What exactly happened in your dream?’

  ‘It’s strange, but in the dream he was … I don’t know … different,’ said Alicia.

  ‘Different?’ asked Max. ‘How?’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t a clown,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders as if it didn’t matter, but her voice was shaking. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Yes, I believe you,’ Max lied.

  ‘Do you think it means anything?’

  ‘No,’ Max said. ‘It was just a dream. I wouldn’t worry about it.’

  Max smiled reassuringly at her. He had picked up this trick from his father, who was a master. You just had to pretend to be absolutely calm and positive about something and then people would believe you. For the coup de grâce he placed his hand on Alicia’s arm and gently squeezed it. His father used that one on his mother all the time.

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Alicia agreed, suddenly embarrassed. ‘You won’t tell anybody, will you?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘I’d better go to bed too. Long day…’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea.’

  Alicia walked towards the stairs.

  ‘By the way, is the plan for tomorrow still on? Diving …’ she asked.

  Max was surprised she had taken him up on his offer. He nodded.

  ‘Of course. Shall I wake you up?’

  Alicia smiled shyly at her younger brother. It was the first time Max had seen her give a proper smile in months. It felt good.

  ‘I’ll be awake,’ she replied. ‘Goodnight, Max. And thanks.’

  ‘Goodnight, Alicia.’

  Max waited until he heard the door of Alicia’s room closing, then he sat in the armchair next to the projector. From there he could hear the murmur of his parents speaking in a low voice. The rest of the house sank slowly into the silence of night, disturbed only by the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. Suddenly Max felt a presence right behind him. He turned around. Someone was looking at him from the foot of the stairs.