‘We think the blood is human. The rags were probably medical gauze used to clean wounds – we don’t know whose yet, or what type of cornucopia we’re looking at – but give the team a few days –’ Fabregat slams the table – ‘and we’ll be running hard down the tracks. It could be nothing . . . but you asked me about instinct? Hah! My instinct says: Drive.
‘Drive on, Anna. There’s more where this came from. So you keep doing your work, and I’ll keep doing mine – and somewhere, we’ll meet in the middle.’
Like hell we will.
‘Nena! Entens? Do you understand?’ The joy on his face electric. ‘The police have reopened the case. The lives of four women – maybe more – are wrapped up in this. No t’importa? Don’t you realize what you could do for us? You have a gift. A bloody gift, girl! I have been waiting ten years for this and we’re not giving up now. You’re a crack, Nena. No one suspects a little guiri has teeth. But you do. You definitely do. I want you onside. We –’ he pushes up from his seat and pours dark meat over the onions in the pan – ‘are working together on this one. So: we clear? I decide when we stop. I run the show. In the meantime: relax. Be grateful. And eat. I’d also ask that you generally try and pull yourself together. Take a shower. A la taula. To the table,’ he orders. ‘Ghosts or no ghosts. Mata més gent la taula que la guerra.’
I cannot help but smile at Fabregat’s morbid Catalan refrany. Feasting at the table kills more people than war.
While the inspector naps on the low sofa in the living room, I decide to take matters into my own hands. I place a belated phone call to my friend and colleague the Abbey Librarian. He puts me through to a man who would not give me his name, but deals with the more mystical intrigues of the monkish community on the island. I tell this man about my vision of the girl in the church, and the name that came to me in my trance. Out of all the people in the world, these monks of Mallorca are the only ones who take my lunacy seriously, and for this I am deeply grateful. The voice on the phone asks if the vision had given me a name. Padre Canço, I reply. A woman came to him ten years ago at Santa Maria del Pi and left him an offering.
‘Ah,’ says the voice, and its owner thinks for a moment. ‘You are certain?’
‘Yes.’
A long, meditative pause ensues.
I am summoned cursorily the next morning to a meeting on the far side of the Parc de la Ciutadella, built on the ruins of a panoptic military fortress called the Citadel – raised in the mid-nineteenth century. I enter the park via the Zoological Museum, strolling through the cast-iron gates, winter sun floating like a half-forgotten denarius. I stop for a moment at the great waterfall flanked by winged serpents with a lion’s head. The fountains dance, and people swarm to watch. The park is a charged, strange place, full of pained histories and I remember how I arrived in this city and set about educating myself in Catalan history and language. I bought myself an Anglès–Catalan Dictionary and a thick tome entitled Forgotten Empire: A History of Catalonia and Her Ports. I learnt a word a day, and read the book overnight. During those first few weeks in the city, I raced through The Kingdom of Aragon and Gothic Spires, Roman Roots, followed by Gaudí’s Universe, The Secret Life of the Black Virgin of Montserrat, Els Quatre Gats: Barcelona’s Art Legacy and George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. Later I studied the Usatges, or Usages, Catalonia’s medieval charter of civil rights, which predated the Magna Carta by more than a hundred years. The Usatges formed a bill of rights insisting that ‘citizens’ (though not serfs) existed alongside nobility in the eyes of the law. These keys led to the founding of the Consell de Cent, the Council of One Hundred, or the original governing body of Barcelona. I sigh as I walk. These books were meant to be my salvation. I did not think murder would bring me back here.
I arrive early at the appointed rendezvous and decide to order an almond milk horchata, out of season but still delicious, and a plate of jamón ibérico with crushed tomato and bread. The waiter brings me a copy of La Vanguardia, which I skim through. Unbeknownst to me, he then retreats into the lobby and places a swift phone call to the clerical offices at Santa Maria del Pi. Fifteen minutes later the bustling figure of Father Canço heaves out of a taxi and scoots across the road towards the café.
Canço is round and red as a swollen tomato and wears a white carnation in his button hole. A moth-worn coat amplifies the effect of this bulk, and there is not a hair on his shining head, which sweats despite the cold, insipid sun. When he sees me, he gives a furtive meaningful sigh and shuffles forward, worrying his hands. ‘Perdó,’ he interjects upon reaching my table, eyes nearly swallowed up by fat. ‘But am I speaking with Anna Verco, friend of the Librarian of the Abbey of La Real and the Noble Monks of the Tramuntana Range?’
‘You are indeed.’
‘Thank God you are here.’ The priest gathers wind before exhaling – ‘I have a matter of grave importance to discuss with you . . . And I fear there might be people listening.’
The café is unpopulated and the waiter absconded entirely.
‘I will take a coffee with you. I cannot stay for long. My throat is very dry.’
He pauses, twitching slightly, and smiles the smile of a man who does not want to appear nervous. ‘I admire that you are reading the papers. Too few of our citizens read the papers.’ The waiter reappears and Canço orders himself a cafè amb llet, a fresh orange juice and a side of churros with chocolate.
‘I feel, given the circumstances, that a bridge must be made between our distinguished personages. Miss Verco, your illustrious name was delivered to me by a messenger who asked me to reveal my secret upon certain circumstances, which sorrowfully –’ the priest crosses himself twice – ‘have occurred . . .’
Goosebumps on the back of my neck.
Canço drops his voice to a theatrical whisper: ‘It is concerning the murdered girl, Natalia Hernández. Now I would like to hear everything that you claim to have witnessed in your vision.’
* * *
‘My dear . . .’ he sighs when I have finished. ‘It was all just as you have described. I must affirm the correlation in the positive – proving once again that one can never underestimate the mysterious powers of the delicate sex . . .’ The priest dipped the end of his churro into a bowl of chocolate. ‘The woman you witnessed came to my side on the eve of San Juan, 23 June. From her voice I knew that she was young, no older than twenty. One of my novices found her in the church – such a dreadful story – it was very late on La Revetlla, around midnight, if I remember correctly.’ The priest takes another bite of his churro before continuing: ‘She confessed a great deal to me that night . . . She called herself a “midwife to murder”, insisting that she had drunk blood, blood she could not wipe off her hands. When I asked her to speak the name of her oppressor the devil bit her tongue. She could not utter his name aloud – a terrible thing which I am told occurs only –’ he coughs demurely into his hand, then squints up at me – ‘when one has had sexual intercourse with the Beast. My dear girl, you must understand that this woman had fallen under the control of a monster – and that in penance she wished to excommunicate herself from Heaven, believing her crimes could have no punishment but the most miserable of self-inflicted deaths.’ The priest paused. ‘With hindsight I have come to the bitter conclusion – as I am sure you will – that the madwoman who arrived at my door was none other than Natalia Hernández.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’
Canço sighs a large, arching sigh.
‘Ours was a private matter of the Church. An issue of faith. If we went to the police with every confession we received half this city would be behind bars. However, my agreement before the eyes of God does not stop me from her message. The girl gave me a most puzzling and rather horrible object. I had it blessed with holy water on the off chance that it did something vile.’ From the pocket of his coat he removed a small bible, and opened it to a dog-eared page. There, tucked into the fold of the book was a furled piece of parchment.
> ‘Give me your hand,’ the priest orders.
I offer up my palm hungrily.
‘Miss Verco, I wish to absolve myself of this burden. Each day I have felt guilty. But I believed the time would come. “The Sign of the Sibyl” she called it, and by God –’ Canço crosses himself profusely – ‘it is surely a mark of the devil, the very thing which bound her tongue, and I am glad to be rid of it.’
My breath sucks in as I turn the scrap over. On one side: the golden ouroboros. Against the opposing face, she has written six illumined letters:
AUREUS
Beneath this, two ornate keys drawn in the shape of an X, their mouths crusted with battered gold leaf.
‘That night the girl uttered a great many wild incantations: repeating – That which she seeks he does not know, and that which she knows he does not seek . . . and a second line – if I recall correctly – As a man is a pen so he is a knife – or something to that effect. After this point, my dear, I am afraid I could not make head nor tail of her ramblings. I thought she was deranged, and did not believe the import of her words. I absolved her of her sins and sent her on her way. My shame will follow me to my grave.’ The priest casts his squint down. ‘I apologize for not having come forward sooner, but the heavens have their own logic – which I, mere mortal, cannot fathom. I trust also that you will respect my secrecy in this matter. I do not want it getting out. If you have any questions you know where to find me, but I see from your face the object is self-explanatory.’
The priest slurps the last of his juice, throws down a five-euro note and sombrely bids adieu, leaving me speechless in the café, staring with fascination at the shimmering golden serpent in my hand.
Aureus. A scrap of paper handed to a priest in a confessional, accompanied by a myth. The Mark. I redraw her compass, allowing my imagination to follow the lines of her diagram. Aureus. I scribble the word again, sound out the syllables. Au. Re. Us. From the Latin aurum meaning gold. In figurative speech, meaning glorious, excellent, magnificent. Followed by the black keys of St Peter, formed like a barrier, a position of defence. Check again for Catholic connotations. Bishop and Martyr of Mainz, Germany, slaughtered by Huns with his sister. Saint Aureus. Also: Treasure. See: Codex Aureus of St Emmeram, ninth-century Carolingian Book of Gospels. I drum my fingers on my computer keyboard. Then Aurelius. Bishop of Carthage and Companion of Saint Augustine of Hippo, active in the fourth century, responsible for the establishment of Christian Doctrine and the eradication of the leading heresies of the time. Father Canço called it the ‘Sign of the Sibyl’. The lead in my pencil breaks. Click, click, snagging at the paper. Again. She meant it as a name. A name. A name. I am interrupted by the movement of two feuding crows in the branches beyond my window. They squawk and argue bitterly, but I find them reassuring. Wine cold down my throat and warming all at once.
A U R E U S
I shift the first three letters.
U R A E U S
My pen hovers. Uraeus. From the Egyptian hieroglyphic: ‘rearing cobra’, from the Greek, ouraios or on its tail. The Egyptians celebrated the beauty and wisdom of the snake, and chose it as a symbol of divinity, royalty and power. The cobra could not blink, and thus was an ever-watchful guardian of kings, rearing on the golden Mask of Tutankhamen. The Uraeus may also have been a totem of the ancient goddess Wadjet, the snake-headed deity of pre-dynastic Egypt, the life-giving Serpent Womb, protectress of Lower Egypt; her oracle inhabited the city of the region named after her snake-self, Per-Wadjet or House of Wadjet – rumoured to have given birth to the oracles of Ancient Greece. Her image was worn for the blessing of women in childbirth. Wadjet. Derived from the hieroglyphic symbol: Papyrus. Or Papyrus-coloured one. Wadj meaning green-coloured in reference to the leaves of the plant – Goddess of the famous ancient symbol of the Eye of the Moon, the wadjet, later called the Eye of Horus, the focal symbol of seven gold, lapis lazuli, carnelian and faience bracelets found in the tombs of the mummy kings, in the pendants of old framed by the rearing carnelian cobra and eagle . . . The goddess Wadjet being the two-headed Serpent, or lion-headed matriarch . . . an amulet against the evil eye and chthonic protection for safe passage into the underworld, the mark of a king on earth, icon of the dominion and power of Egypt. Aureus – Uraeus. Connection far-fetched? I rein myself in. Focus on the keys. That symbol is clear. The Crossed Keys of St Peter, Pope of Rome. Peter the Rock. Gemini mouths canine, at once a barrier and a seduction. Protecting and revealing.
Then it dawns on me.
I feel a resonance.
Gut-deep. Act on it.
On my makeshift desk a glass of wine. Open laptop. The photographs of her face posted on the window. Ashtray with six stubs. Two half-drunk cups of coffee. I upload the photos from my camera, the sketches she drew as a teenager. Rest in them. Little phonebook black on table. Her handwriting so delicate, so quick. I flick through the book.
‘I was always too scared to call these numbers.’ Villafranca’s voice breaks my thoughts. ‘Every man’s name. I thought: “I’ll ask each one. Did you do it? Did you drive her mad? Did you love her?” But I didn’t want to know this version of my daughter.’
I return to the picture. Keys to the city of Rome. Perhaps they signify something so simple as Pere in Catalan? Or Pedro? She has not alphabetized by first names, but I am undaunted, and read methodically on through the bulk of the entries until I reach five magic letters in blue pen. Peter. I think of the fisherman. The tight skip of her R ending with a sharp flourish. To my surprise the spelling is English, the last name Warren. Beside his surname she has drawn a tiny set of keys. A landline number. Reach for the phone. One, two, skip to my Lou. Fly’s in the buttermilk, shoo, fly, shoo. There’s a little red wagon, paint it blue. Round and round you go. Dial. Punch the numbers in. Phone next to ear. Mouth open.
Lost my partner, what’ll I do? I’ll get another one, prettier than you.
Skip, skip, skip to my Lou.
The call rings out. And out again.
Click. Carr-rrink, caaarunk.
‘Hello, you’ve reached Peter Warren’s phone, please leave a message . . .’
The breath rushes out of me. I call again. No answer. Not this time, I decide. No message.
Peter Warren. I type his name and ‘Barcelona’ into Google’s search bar. Far down in the results a series of links to articles published in the British travel magazine Bulldogs Abroad detailing nightlife in the city. A small photograph of the man is attached to the third article advocating a pub crawl linked to religious heritage sites of the city. Brown skin, broad smile, pixelated features. The fourth article, published in 1998 and reposted on a blog, is a review of a breakout performance by an ingénue, eighteen-year-old Natalia Hernández. The writer quotes the actress.
Back at my desk, I dial Fabregat. I hesitate. Do not tell him about the priest. The scrap of paper. It was left for me – and not for him. Instead I focus on a hunch – a ‘nebulous feeling’ – my circus act.
‘Good girl!’ he shouts down the line.
‘Can you do something for me . . . ?’ I ask slowly. ‘I don’t know what your capabilities are but—’
‘Out with it! I’ve not got all day. Barça is on in ten!’
‘I have a name for you.’
‘Who are we looking for?’
‘Peter Warren.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A telephone number.’ I read it out.
‘On it.’ Fabregat signs off. I shuffle into the kitchen and make a cup of tea, leaning my weight into the countertop. When the water boils I choose chamomile and drop the bag into a yellow cup. Steam rises. A brown stain leaks into the water.
Fabregat calls back almost immediately.
‘He left the city ten years ago. Sold an apartment in Gràcia. No residency papers. UK national. Goes back and forth in the summer months. Seems to have come through Border Patrol this year, no record of leaving. Doesn’t pay taxes. Scrounger. Does that help? The phone number belongs to a house in Capi
leira, Cortijo del Piño,’ he booms, audibly pleased. ‘I’m asking my boys to check it out – any single British males in that town.’
Time slips by me. I find the taste on the air off-putting; Natalia Hernández has emptied me of emotion. I pick up my phone and dial Peter Warren. His voice clicks on: ‘Hello, you’ve reached Peter Warren’s phone, please leave a message . . .’
No response. Irritation boils. Who the hell is this man? What is he up to in Andalusia? He’s here illegally – no residency papers? A criminal record perhaps? Nothing serious. A bar fight in Seville in 1989. Can they find him? Fabregat hunts quickly. Where was he in 1996? The year Cristina died and Villafranca went on tour?
A day passes listlessly. I call the landline again. Obstinate.
‘Hello, you’ve reached Peter Warren’s phone . . .’
I leave a message, calm, collected. My name and number. And my interest in speaking to him, euphemistically about his ‘time in Barcelona’. Next I consult the Great Oracle Google. C-A-P-I-L-E-I-R-A. Image search. El Cortijo del Piño. It comes up immediately. A holiday rental in the summer, occupied by the owner in the winter. I forward the details to Fabregat. The town hall next, tourism, any hack will do. I get a village number. A local bar. Scribble them down. How big is the population?
528.
A village that small? They’ll know him. Everyone will know him. I call the tourist centre in the town hall and speak to Juan, who agrees that, yes, there is a man who fits that description. Pedro?
Is he there now?
Maybe.
Ahora? I ask.
No sé. I don’t know. He gets suspicious.
I say I will call back later. Phoning the bar, I hit up a cheery woman with a croaky voice – ‘Comó?’ she asks, perplexed. With whom do you want to speak?
The Serpent Papers Page 33
