The Prince of Mist

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  Roland set off again, trying to put these thoughts behind him. He’d been awake for too long and his body was beginning to feel the strain. When he reached the lighthouse cottage he left his bicycle leaning against the fence and went indoors without bothering to turn on the light. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed like a dead weight.

  From his bedroom window he could see the lighthouse itself, some thirty metres beyond the cottage, and behind the large windows of its tower, the motionless silhouette of his grandfather. Roland closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

  The events of that day paraded through his mind, from the dive down to the Orpheus to the accident of Alicia’s and Max’s younger sister. Roland thought it was both strange and somehow comforting to realise that just a few hours had brought them so close together. As he lay there in the solitude of his room, thinking about the brother and sister, he felt they had become his closest friends, two soul mates with whom, from that day on, he’d be able to share his secrets and fears.

  He noticed that the very fact of thinking about them was enough to make him feel safe, as if he was not alone. In return, he felt deep loyalty and gratitude for the invisible pact that seemed to have bound them together that night on the beach.

  When at last exhaustion won, Roland’s last thoughts as he fell into a deep, refreshing sleep were not about the mysterious uncertainty that hung over them, or the grim possibility that he would be called up to join the army that coming autumn. That night, Roland fell asleep in the arms of a vision that would stay with him for the rest of his life: Alicia, draped in moonlight, dipping her white skin into a sea of silver.

  *

  Day broke under a blanket of dark, menacing clouds that stretched beyond the horizon. Leaning on the metal railing of the lighthouse tower, Victor Kray gazed down at the bay, thinking about how he’d learned to recognise the mysterious beauty of those leaden, storm-clad days that foretold the advent of summer on the coast.

  From his vantage point, the town looked like a scale model meticulously assembled by a collector. Further on, towards the north, the beach extended in an endless white line. On bright sunny days, standing in the same place, Victor Kray was able to distinguish the shape of the Orpheus under the water, like a monstrous fossil wedged in the sand.

  That morning, however, the sea was like a deep, murky lake. As he scanned its surface, Victor Kray thought about the last twenty-five years he’d spent in the lighthouse that he himself had built. Looking back, he felt as if every one of those years was like a heavy stone, weighing him down.

  As time passed, the anguish of his never-ending wait had led him to believe that perhaps it had all been a fantasy, that his obstinate obsession had turned him into a sentry guarding against a threat that was only imagined. But then the dreams had returned. The phantoms of the past had awoken from a sleep of many years, and were once again haunting the corridors of his mind. And with them came the fear that he was now too old and too weak to confront his ancient enemy.

  For years now he had barely slept more than two or three hours a day. Most of the time he was alone in the lighthouse. His grandson Roland spent a few nights a week in his beach hut so it wasn’t unusual that, for days at a time, they might have only a few minutes together. This distance from his own grandson, to which Victor Kray had voluntarily condemned himself, did at least give him some comfort, for he was sure that the pain he felt at not being able to share those years of the boy’s life was the price he had to pay for Roland’s safety and future happiness.

  Despite all this, every time he looked down from his tower and saw the boy dive into the waters near the hull of the Orpheus, his blood froze. He had never wanted Roland to know how he felt, and ever since Roland was a child he’d always replied to his questions about the ship and the past, trying not to lie to him but, at the same time, never explaining the true nature of events. The day before, as he watched Roland and his two new friends on the beach, he had wondered whether that hadn’t been a huge mistake.

  Such thoughts kept him in the lighthouse longer than usual that morning. Normally, he returned home before eight, but when Victor Kray looked at his watch it was already half past ten. He went down the metal stairs that spiralled around the tower and walked over to the cottage to make the most of the few hours’ sleep he allowed himself. On the way he saw Roland’s bicycle and knew he’d come home for the night.

  As he stepped quietly into the house, trying not to disturb his grandson, he discovered that Roland was waiting for him, sitting in one of the old armchairs in the dining room.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, Granddad,’ said Roland. ‘I was out like a light for a couple of hours but then suddenly I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.’

  ‘I know what that feels like,’ Victor Kray replied. ‘But I have a trick that never fails.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Roland.

  The old man gave him one of his mischievous smiles, which took sixty years off him.

  ‘I start cooking. Are you hungry?’

  Roland considered the question. Yes, the thought of buttered toast, jam and fried eggs tickled his stomach, so immediately he agreed.

  ‘Right,’ said Victor Kray. ‘You’ll be first mate. Let’s get cracking.’

  Roland followed his grandfather into the kitchen, ready for his instructions.

  ‘I’m the engineer,’ Victor Kray said, ‘so I’ll fry the eggs. You make the toast.’

  In just a few minutes, grandfather and grandson managed to fill the kitchen with smoke and the irresistible aroma of freshly made breakfast. They sat opposite one another at the kitchen table and raised their glasses full of creamy milk.

  ‘Here’s to a breakfast for growing boys,’ joked Victor Kray, pretending to be starving as he attacked his first slice of toast.

  Roland looked down. ‘I was in the ship yesterday,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I know,’ his grandfather replied, his mouth full. ‘Did you see anything new?’

  Roland hesitated, then put his glass on the table and looked up at the old man, who was trying to maintain a cheerful expression.

  ‘I think something bad is happening, Granddad,’ he said at last. ‘Something to do with some statues …’

  Victor Kray felt his stomach lurch. He stopped chewing and put down his half-eaten piece of toast.

  ‘This friend of mine, Max, he’s seen things,’ Roland continued.

  ‘Where does your friend live?’ asked the old man calmly.

  ‘In the Fleischmanns’ old house, by the north beach.’

  Victor Kray nodded slowly.

  ‘Roland, tell me everything you and your friends have seen. Please.’

  So Roland told him what had happened over the last two days, from the moment he had met Max to the events of the previous night.

  When he’d finished his story he glanced at his grandfather, trying to guess his thoughts. The old man gave him a reassuring smile but remained impassive.

  ‘Finish your breakfast, Roland,’ he told him.

  ‘But …’ the boy protested.

  ‘When you’ve finished, go and find your friends and bring them here,’ the old man continued. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

  *

  That morning, at thirty-four minutes past eleven, Maximilian Carver phoned from the hospital to give his children the latest news. Irina was continuing to make progress, albeit slowly, but the doctors still couldn’t assure them that she was out of danger. Alicia noticed that her father’s voice seemed fairly calm so she guessed that the worst was over.

  Five minutes later, the telephone rang again. This time it was Roland, calling from a café in town. They would meet at noon by the lighthouse. When Alicia put down the phone, she remembered the way Roland had looked at her, entranced, the night before on the beach. Smiling to herself, she went out to the porch to give Max the news. She recognised the outline of her brother, sitting on the beach, gazing out at the sea. Over the horizon, the first sparks of an e
lectric storm crackled across the sky like a string of bright lights. Alicia walked down to the shore and sat next to Max. It was a cold morning and there was a bite in the air – she wished she’d brought a jumper with her.

  ‘Roland called,’ she said. ‘His grandfather wants to see us.’

  Max didn’t reply, his eyes still fixed on the sea. A flash of lightning tore through the sky.

  ‘You like Roland, don’t you?’ Max asked, playing with a handful of sand, letting it trickle through his fingers.

  Alicia considered her brother’s question.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘And I think he likes me too. Why do you ask, Max?’

  Max shrugged and threw the handful of sand towards the water’s edge.

  ‘I don’t know. I was thinking about what Roland said, about the war and all that. That he might be called up after the summer … It doesn’t matter. I suppose it’s none of my business.’

  Alicia turned to her younger brother and tried to look him in the eye. He raised his eyebrows the same way Maximilian Carver did, and she saw the reflections in his grey eyes, the bundle of nerves buried just beneath the surface of his skin.

  Alicia put her arm round Max and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ she said, shaking off the sand that had stuck to her dress. ‘It’s cold out here.’

  9

  BY THE TIME THEY REACHED THE PATH THAT led up to the lighthouse, Max felt as if his legs had turned to butter. Before setting off, Alicia had offered to take the other bicycle that lay sleeping among the shadows of the garden shed, but Max had rejected the idea: he would take her on his bike just as Roland had done the day before. A kilometre on, he was already regretting his decision.

  As if he’d guessed how painfully difficult the long ride would be, Roland was waiting with his bicycle at the foot of the path. When he saw him, Max stopped pedalling and let his sister off. He took a deep breath and rubbed his muscles, which were in agony.

  ‘You look like you’ve shrunk a few centimetres, city boy,’ said Roland.

  Max decided not to waste his breath responding to the joke. Without saying a word, Alicia climbed onto Roland’s bike and they started up the hill. Max waited a few seconds before pushing off. He knew what he was going to spend his first salary on: a motorbike.

  *

  The small dining room in the lighthouse cottage smelled of freshly brewed coffee and pipe tobacco. The floor and the walls were lined with dark wood and, apart from a very large bookcase and a few nautical objects that Max was unable to identify, there was barely any other decoration. A wood-burning stove and a table covered with a dark velvet cloth, surrounded by old armchairs of faded leather, were the only luxuries Victor Kray had allowed himself.

  Roland asked his friends to sit in the armchairs while he sat on a wooden chair between them. They waited for about five minutes, hardly speaking, listening to the old man’s footsteps on the floor above.

  At last, the lighthouse keeper made his appearance. He wasn’t as Max had imagined him. Victor Kray was a man of average height, with pale skin and a generous head of silvery hair crowning a face that did not reflect his real age.

  His green, penetrating eyes slowly scanned the faces of the brother and sister, as if he were trying to read their thoughts. Max smiled nervously and Victor Kray smiled back at him, a kind smile that lit up his face.

  ‘You’re the first visitors I’ve had in years,’ said the lighthouse keeper, taking a seat on one of the armchairs. ‘You’ll have to forgive my manners. Anyhow, when I was a child, I thought all this business about the polite way of doing things was a lot of nonsense. I still do.’

  ‘We’re not children, Granddad,’ said Roland.

  ‘Anyone younger than me is a baby,’ replied Victor Kray. ‘You must be Alicia. And you’re Max. You don’t need much of a brain to work that out.’

  Alicia smiled warmly. She’d only known the old man for a couple of minutes, but already she was charmed by the way he put them at ease. Max, meanwhile, was studying Victor’s face and trying to imagine him shut away in that lighthouse for decades, guarding the secret of the Orpheus.

  ‘I know what you must be thinking,’ Victor Kray continued. ‘Is everything we’ve seen or thought we’ve seen during these last couple of days real? Is it true? To be honest, I never imagined the day would come when I’d have to talk about this to anyone, not even Roland. But things often turn out differently from the way we expect. Don’t you agree?’

  Nobody replied.

  ‘Right. Let’s get straight to the point. First of all you must tell me everything you know. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Including details that might seem insignificant to you. Everything. Do you understand?’

  Max looked at the others.

  ‘Shall I go first?’

  Alicia and Roland nodded. Victor Kray gestured to him to begin his story.

  *

  During the next half-hour, Max recounted everything he remembered, without a pause. The eyes of the old man were attentive as he listened to Max’s words without the slightest hint of disbelief or – as Max was expecting – surprise.

  When he had finished his story, Victor Kray took out his pipe and began to pack it with tobacco.

  ‘Not bad,’ he muttered, ‘not bad …’

  The lighthouse keeper lit his pipe and a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke enveloped the room. He took a few puffs of his special tobacco and sat back in his armchair. Then, looking the three friends in the eye, he began to speak …

  *

  ‘I’ll be seventy-two this autumn, and although people say I don’t look my age, every year weighs on my back like a tombstone. Age makes you notice certain things. For example, I now know that a man’s life is broadly divided into three periods. During the first, it doesn’t even occur to us that one day we will grow old; we don’t think that time passes or that from the day we are born we’re all walking towards a common end. After the first years of youth comes the second period, in which a person becomes aware of the fragility of life and what begins like a simple niggling doubt rises inside you like a flood of uncertainties that will stay with you for the rest of your days. Finally, towards the end of life, we reach the period of acceptance and, consequently, of resignation – a time of waiting. Throughout my life I’ve known quite a few people who have become trapped in one of these stages and have never managed to get beyond them. It’s a terrible thing.’

  Victor Kray noticed they were listening intently, but they seemed to be slightly puzzled, wondering where he was going with all this. He stopped to enjoy another puff of his pipe and beamed at his audience.

  ‘This is a path we must all learn to follow on our own, praying we won’t lose our way before reaching the end. If, at the beginning of our lives, we were able to understand this apparently simple fact, we would be spared many of the miseries and pains of this world. But – and this is one of the great paradoxes of the universe – we are only granted this knowledge when it is already too late. Here endeth the lesson.

  ‘You’ll wonder why I’m telling you all this. Let me explain. One time in a million, someone who is still very young understands that life is a one-way journey and decides that the rules of the game don’t agree with him. It’s like when you decide to cheat because you know you can’t win. Usually you’re found out and you can’t cheat any more. But sometimes the cheat gets away with it. And if, instead of playing with dice or cards, the game consists of playing with life and death, then the cheat turns into someone very dangerous indeed.

  ‘A long time ago, when I was your age, one of the greatest cheats who ever set foot on this earth happened to cross my path. I never discovered his real name. In the poor area where I lived, all the kids on the street knew him as Cain. Others called him the Prince of Mist, because, as rumour had it, he always appeared out of the thick haze that covered the streets and alleyways at night and before dawn he disappeared again into the shadows.

  ‘Cain was a good-lo
oking young man, but nobody seemed to know where he’d come from. Every night, in one of the many alleyways of our area, he gathered the local youngsters together – all of them ragged and covered in grime and soot from the factories – and he would propose a pact. Each child could make a wish and Cain would make it come true. In exchange, he asked for one thing only: complete loyalty. One night, Angus, my best friend, took me to one of Cain’s meetings. Cain was dressed like a gentleman who’d come straight from the opera, and he never stopped smiling. His eyes seemed to change colour in the dark and his voice was deep and measured. According to the other boys, Cain was a magician. I hadn’t believed a single word of the stories circulating about him, and that night I went along fully intending to have a laugh at this supposed magician. And yet I remember that, in his presence, any desire to make fun of him immediately vanished into thin air. As soon as I saw him, the only emotion I felt was fear and I was careful not to open my mouth. That night a few of the lads from the street made their wishes known to Cain. When they’d finished, Cain turned his icy eyes to the corner where my friend Angus and I were standing. He asked us whether we didn’t have any requests. I stood there, trying to keep my expression blank, but to my surprise Angus spoke. His father had lost his job that day. The steel plant where most of the local adults worked was laying off a substantial part of the workforce and replacing them with machines that worked longer hours for no pay and didn’t complain. The first people to lose their jobs in this lottery were the more troublesome leaders and Angus’s father seemed to have ticked all the boxes.