“Hello!”
A peroxide blonde with hair amassed into a rigid perm appeared in the corridor. The young lady sporting the prodigious helmet was wearing a flower-print dress and matching rouge.
“Good morning,” said Alicia. “Is this Señor Brians’s office?”
The young lady took a few steps toward them and gazed at them in surprise. “It is. Or was. We’re moving. Can I help you?”
“We’d like to speak to the lawyer.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not. Is Señor Brians in?”
“He usually gets in a bit later. Likes to take his time, you know, make an entrance . . . Perhaps you’d like to wait in the bar downstairs.”
“If you don’t mind, we’d rather wait here. There are lots of floors to climb.”
The secretary sighed and nodded. “As you wish. As you can see we’re in a real mess here.”
“We’re aware of the situation,” Vargas said quickly. “We’ll try not to bother you.”
Alicia’s sweet smile and in particular Vargas’s looks seemed to have softened the secretary’s distrust. “Follow me, please,” she said, and guided them down the long corridor that cut through the offices. On either side there were rooms packed with full boxes, ready for the move. The bustle had stirred up shining particles that tickled their nostrils, and they continued their voyage through the remains of the shipwreck until they came to a large corner room at the end. It looked like the last standing bastion in the workplace.
“If you’d be so kind . . . ,” said the secretary, showing them in.
The room was, in fact, all that remained of Brians’s office. It presented a mass of shelves and files stacked in precarious heaps against the walls. The main exhibit was a desk of fine wood that looked as if it had survived a fire, and behind it a glass cabinet containing the entire collection of Aranzadi law books, randomly piled together.
Alicia and Vargas sat down on a couple of improvised stools by the French window, which opened onto a balcony with a view of the statue of Our Lady of Mercy perched on the dome of the basilica, on the other side of the street.
“You could ask the Virgin Mary to have pity on us. She pays no attention to me,” the secretary remarked. “Who shall I announce?”
“Jaime Valcárcel and wife,” said Alicia before Vargas could even blink.
The woman nodded diligently, although her eyes brushed mischievously past Vargas, as if she wanted to remark on the age difference and let him know that she had no problem forgiving this peccadillo in a handsome fellow like him.
“I’m Puri, at your service. I don’t think Señor Brians will be long. Can I offer you anything while you wait? Mariano from the bar brings up a few madeleines and a Thermos flask with coffee every morning, in case you’d like some . . .”
“I wouldn’t say no . . . ,” Vargas allowed.
Puri smiled happily.
“I’ll bring it along right away.”
They saw her march off with a suggestive swing of the hips that did not escape Vargas.
“Enough of Mariano and his madeleines,” muttered Alicia under her breath.
“We all make do as best we can.”
“How can you possibly still be hungry after eating a whole pig?”
“Some of us still have blood in our veins.”
“Maybe it’s Señorita Puri who has awoken your wilder side.”
Before Vargas could reply, the abovementioned returned, carrying a plateful of madeleines and a large cup of steaming coffee, which the policeman readily accepted.
“Forgive me for serving it like this, but everything is in boxes . . .”
“Don’t worry. Thanks so much.”
“And why is it you’re moving?” asked Alicia.
“The landlord, he wants to hike up the rent. . . . He’s a greedy oaf. I hope the entire building gets vacant, and the rats move in.”
“Amen,” Vargas agreed. “And where will you go now?”
“I wish I knew. We had a verbal agreement for an office nearby, behind the post office, but the work they were doing to modify the space for us has been delayed, and we’ll have to wait at least another month. For the moment all this is going into a storage warehouse owned by the lawyer’s family.”
“And where are you going to be meanwhile?”
Puri sighed. “An aunt of the lawyer’s, who died not long ago, had an apartment on Calle Mallofré, in Sarriá, and it looks like we’re moving there for the moment. As you can see, we live from one day to the next . . .”
Alicia and Vargas looked over Brians’s decommissioned office again, taking in the air of bankruptcy it exuded. Alicia’s eyes paused on a frame containing what looked like the parody of a graduation photograph. It was a portrait of Brians as a young man, or so she imagined, surrounded by people in rags and starving prisoners shackled up to their necks. Beneath the image were these words:
Fernando Brians
Defender of Lost Causes
Alicia stood up and walked over to have a look at the tableau. Puri joined her, shaking her head. “There he is, the saint of Barcelona’s magistrates’ courts. . . . That’s a joke his classmates played on him years ago, when he was young. And he hasn’t changed. He even thinks the whole thing is funny enough to display it where the clients can see it.”
“Doesn’t the lawyer have clients who are more . . .”
“Prosperous?”
“Solvent.”
“There are one or two, but all it takes is for Don Fernando to meet some poor, godforsaken devil in the street, and he’ll bring him up to the office and sign him pro bono. . . . He’s a bleeding heart, is what he is. And this is the result.”
“Don’t worry. We’re the paying sort,” Vargas put in.
“God bless you. How are the madeleines?”
“Memorable.”
While Vargas was giving a practical demonstration of his hearty appetite, much to Puri’s delight, they heard a crash that sounded like someone bumping into something, followed by a prolonged stumble that ended in a loud curse.
Puri rolled her eyes. “The lawyer will see you right away.”
Fernando Brians looked like a public-school teacher. He wore a secondhand suit and a faded tie that had probably not been knotted afresh in weeks. The soles of his shoes shone like river stones. He cut a slender, nervous figure and despite his age still sported a good head of gray hair and penetrating eyes behind black horn-rimmed glasses—the sort that had been fashionable before the war. He looked as much like a Barcelona lawyer as his secretary Puri looked like a nun. Yet Alicia thought that despite the modest context framing his professional life, Fernando Brians retained the irreverent demeanor of those who have never been told that time has passed and they should adopt a more respectable and settled manner.
“What can I do for you?” Brians asked, sitting down on a corner of the desk and looking at them with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Perhaps he had a soft spot for lost causes, but he seemed to be nobody’s fool.
Vargas spoke first, pointing to Alicia. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll let my wife explain our case to you. She’s the one in charge.”
“As you wish.”
“Shall I take notes, Don Fernando?” asked Puri, who was watching the scene from the doorway.
“There won’t be any need. You’d better go and keep an eye on the movers. They’re blocking the street with boxes, and the van won’t be able to get through.”
Puri nodded, disappointed, and went off on her mission.
“You were saying?” said Brians, picking up where they’d left off. “Or your wife was, who is the one in charge . . .”
His slightly steely tone made Alicia wonder whether Gustavo Barceló, the bookseller she’d spoken to in the Equestrian Club, had warned the lawyer about her possible visit. “Señor Brians,” she began, “an aunt of my husband Jaime has recently died and left us a collection of works of art, as well as a library of extremely valuable b
ooks.”
“My condolences. Do you perhaps need help with executing the will, or—”
“The reason why we’ve come to see you is that among the books in this collection, there is one by an author named Víctor Mataix. It’s part of a series of novels published in Barcelona in the thirties—”
“The Labyrinth of the Spirits,” said Brians, finishing the sentence.
“Precisely. We’ve been told that you represent a collector who is very interested in acquiring all extant copies by this author, and that’s why we thought it would be a good idea—”
“I see,” said Brians, abandoning the corner of his desk and taking shelter in the armchair.
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to put us in touch with your client, or, if you prefer, give us his details so that we can—”
Brians was nodding, more to himself than to Alicia’s suggestions. “Unfortunately, I can’t do that.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t give you that information, or put you in touch with my client.”
Alicia gave him a conciliatory smile. “And may I ask why?”
“Because I don’t know him.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
Brians sat back in his armchair and linked his hands over his chest, rubbing his thumbs together. “My relationship with this client has been conducted strictly by correspondence through a secretary. I’ve never seen him in person, nor do I know his name. As usually happens with some collectors, he prefers to remain anonymous.”
“Even with his own lawyer?”
Brians smiled stiffly and shrugged.
“So long as he pays the bill, right?” Vargas ventured.
“Well, if you’re in touch by letter with his secretary, you will at least have an address where you can write to him,” Alicia suggested.
“It’s a PO box whose number, needless to say, I cannot give you for reasons of confidentiality. Just as I can’t give you the name of his secretary, since I’m not authorized to divulge any information about my clients that they do not wish to make public. It’s a simple formality, but you must understand that I have to observe it.”
“We do understand. Even so, how can you get hold of books for your client’s collection if afterward there’s no way of contacting him directly to let him know there’s an opportunity?”
“Believe me, Señora—Valcárcel?—if my client is interested in buying a book that is in your possession, he will be the one to notify me. I’m simply an intermediary.”
Alicia and Vargas looked at one another.
“Goodness,” the policeman improvised. “We’ve obviously been mistaken, my dear.”
Brians stood up and walked around the desk, holding out his hand with a smile that had all the signs of a farewell. “I’m very sorry not to be able to help you in this matter, and I must apologize for the appearance and state of my office. We’re in the middle of a move, and I wasn’t expecting any clients today.”
They shook hands and let Brians guide them to the front door as he hopped about, avoiding obstacles and clearing the path for them.
“If you’ll allow me a bit of impartial advice,” he said, “in your place I’d talk to a good secondhand bookseller and get him to spread the word. If you have a genuine Mataix, there will be no lack of buyers.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Barceló, next to Plaza Real, or Sempere & Sons, on Calle Santa Ana. Or Costa in Vic. Those are your three best options.”
“We’ll do that. Thank you so much.”
“You’re most welcome.”
Alicia didn’t open her mouth during their descent to the entrance hall of the building. Vargas followed her at a prudent distance. Before stepping through the front door, she stopped to look at one of the piles of boxes left there by the removal crew.
“What now?” Vargas said.
“Now we wait.”
“What for?”
“For Brians to make a move.”
Alicia knelt down by one of the closed boxes. She glanced briefly at the door and, seeing nobody around, pulled a label off the cardboard and put it in her pocket.
“Can you tell me what you’re doing?”
Alicia walked out into the street without replying. To his surprise, the moment Vargas stepped out, she went into the bar on the corner. Mariano, the bartender and champion of the morning madeleines, was still mopping the pavement, and seemed even more surprised than Vargas to see her entering his establishment. He quickly leaned the mop against the wall and followed her, drying his hands on the cloth hanging from his belt.
Vargas sighed and went in behind them.
“A little coffee and madeleines for the young lady?” Mariano proposed.
“A glass of white wine.”
“At this hour?”
“When do you start serving white wine?”
“For you, twenty-four hours a day. A smooth Penedès?”
Alicia nodded. Vargas sat on the stool next to her. “Do you really think your plan is going to work?” he asked.
“There’s no harm in trying.”
Mariano returned with the glass of wine and a plateful of olives on the house. “A little beer for the gentleman?”
Vargas shook his head. He watched Alicia relishing her wine. There was something about the geometry of her lips caressing the glass, about the shape of her pale neck throbbing as the liquid went through it, that lit up the day.
She noticed his look and raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Alicia raised the glass. “Do you disapprove?”
“God forbid.”
Alicia was downing the last drop of wine when the figure of the lawyer sped past the bar’s front window. Swapping a quick glance, Alicia and Vargas dropped a few coins on the bar and left the place without a word.
22
It was well known to everyone in the Force that when it came to the art of following or even chasing citizens—whether or not they were suspects—Vargas was unequaled. When asked what his secret was he would say that what mattered, more than discretion, was knowing how to make good use of the lay of the land. What was essential, he argued, was not what the pursuer could see or guess, but what was within range of the pursued person’s vision. That and good legs. As soon as they began to follow the lawyer, Vargas realized that Alicia had not only mastered the discipline to perfection but even raised it to a fine art. Her exhaustive knowledge of the old town’s mesh of narrow streets and alleyways allowed her to follow Brians unnoticed.
Alicia walked more confidently than the day before. Vargas supposed she must be wearing the girdle the taxidermist had told him about. The way she moved her hips was different, and she seemed more upright. She led him through that maze, indicating pauses, taking shelter in blind spots, and following Brians’s route without the lawyer realizing what she was doing. For almost twenty minutes they trailed the lawyer through the dense grid of passageways that rose from the port to the town center. More than once they caught a glimpse of him stopping at an intersection, looking back to make sure nobody was following him. His only mistake was to look the wrong way. Finally they saw him turn into Calle Canuda and head for the Ramblas, mixing with the crowd that already filled the central boulevard. Only then did Alicia stop for a few seconds.
“He’s going to the metro,” she murmured, holding Vargas back with her arm.
Mingling with the surge of people along the Ramblas, keeping about ten meters back, Alicia and Vargas followed Brians to the metro entrance next to the Canaletas fountain. The lawyer rushed down the stairs and into the web of tunnels that led to the so-called Avenida de la Luz.
More like a boulevard of darkness and sorrow than an avenue of light, this extravagant and ghostly mall had been designed by some enlightened soul who hoped to create an underground Barcelona by gaslight. The project, however, had never come close to fulfilling that vision. A budding graveyard through which gusts of air coughed up the scent of charcoal
and electricity from the metro tunnels, Avenida de la Luz had become a refuge for those who shunned the surface and the sun.
Vargas scanned the long, gloomy line of mock-marble columns that bordered the shoddy bazaars and dimly lit cafés, then turned to Alicia. “The city of vampires?”
“Something like that.”
Alicia and Vargas followed Brians down the underground avenue, the lines of columns on either side shielding them from view. The lawyer walked on almost to the end, not showing any interest in the shops bordering the avenue.
“Perhaps he’s allergic to sunlight,” suggested Vargas.
Brians walked straight past the Catalan Railways’ ticket office and continued down the vast gallery. Only then did it become obvious where he was heading.
The Avenida de la Luz Cinema loomed ahead, a somber fantasy marooned in that strange subterranean Barcelona. Its amusement-park lights and old posters for rereleases had been tempting the tunnel creatures—sacked office clerks, truant schoolchildren, and sleazy pimps—to its matinees since shortly after the civil war. Brians walked up to the ticket office and bought a ticket.
“Don’t tell me our lawyer goes to the cinema halfway through the morning,” said Vargas.
At the entrance, the usher opened the door for Brians, and he disappeared under the canopy announcing that week’s program: a double bill with The Third Man and The Stranger. A somewhat evil-looking Orson Welles bearing an enigmatic smile looked down from a poster, framed by flickering lightbulbs.
“At least he has good taste,” Alicia said.
As Vargas and Alicia went through the velvet curtains sealing the entrance, they were hit by an aroma of old cinema and unspeakable sadness. The projector’s beam cut through a thick cloud that seemed to have been trapped for decades over the stalls. There were only three or four people in the entire cinema. Rows of empty seats sloped down to the screen, where a treacherous Harry Lime ran through the phantasmagoria of Vienna’s sewer tunnels, in a series of spectral images that seemed, to Alicia, straight out of Víctor Mataix’s book.
The Labyrinth of the Spirits Page 29
