“I don’t think so. He had to take Victoria to the doctor first thing this morning.”
“Victoria?”
“Victoria is my wife.”
“And your wife’s family name is . . . ?”
“Ubach. Victoria Ubach.”
Vargas raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sanchís nodded, vaguely irritated. “Daughter of Don Miguel Ángel, yes.”
The policeman winked at him, as if he wished to imply that he admired the golden marriage that had taken him to the top of the company.
“Captain, please explain what this matter is about . . .”
Vargas smiled in a friendly, relaxed manner. “As I was saying, it’s nothing important. We’re investigating an accident that took place this morning on Calle Balmes. Someone was run over, and the suspect’s car sped off. Don’t worry, it’s not yours. But two witnesses have declared that they saw a black car parked right there, on the corner, and the car fits the description and license plate of the black Mercedes driven by . . .”
“Valentín.”
“Exactly. In fact, both witnesses have declared that when the accident took place, the driver of the Mercedes was inside the car. That is why we’re interested in locating him, in case he was able to see anything that could help us identify the driver who fled the scene.”
Sanchís looked concerned as he listened to the story, although he also seemed visibly relieved that his car and his driver were not involved in the accident. “That’s terrible. Any fatalities?”
“Yes, unfortunately there is one. An elderly lady who was taken to the Hospital Clínico, where she was pronounced dead on arrival.”
“I’m terribly sorry. Of course, whatever we can do to help to—”
“All I need is to be able to speak to your employee, Valentín.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you know whether Señor Morgado took your wife anywhere else this morning, after the visit to the doctor?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. Yesterday Victoria mentioned that she had visitors coming to the house around lunchtime today. . . . Maybe Valentín had gone out to do some errands. Some mornings, if my wife or I don’t need him, he delivers documents or letters from the office.”
Vargas pulled out a card and handed it to him.
“Would you be so kind as to ask Señor Morgado to get in touch with me as soon as possible?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he’s located and gets the message. I’ll do that right away.”
“He probably won’t be able to help us, but we have to go through the formalities.”
“Of course.”
“One last thing. Does Señor Morgado, by any chance, have any distinctive feature?”
Sanchís nodded. “Yes. Valentín was wounded during the war. Part of his face is disfigured because of a mortar explosion.”
“How many years has he been working for you?”
“At least ten. Valentín was already working for my wife’s family, and he’s a trusted person in this house. I can confirm that.”
“One of the witnesses mentioned something about a mask covering part of his face. Could that be so? I just want to make sure this is the right person.”
“That’s right. Valentín wears a prosthesis covering his lower jaw and left eye.”
“I don’t want to take up any more of your time, Señor Sanchís. Thank you so much for your help. I’m sorry I interrupted your meeting.”
“Don’t worry at all. My pleasure. It’s a duty and an honor for a Spaniard to collaborate with the State Security Forces.”
As Sanchís was leading Vargas to the exit, they passed a large carved door behind which lay a monumental library with a view of Paseo de Gracia. Vargas stopped a moment and peeped inside. The library stretched out like a Versailles gallery that seemed to occupy the entire side of the building. Floor and ceiling were lined with polished wood, so shiny they were like two mirrors facing each another, in which columns of books multiplied to infinity.
“Impressive,” said Vargas. “Are you a collector?”
“A modest one,” replied Sanchís. “Most of these books come from the collection of the Ubach Foundation, although I must admit that books are my weakness and my escape from the world of finance.”
“I understand you. In my own humble way, I do the same,” said Vargas. “My hobby is serving arrest warrants on rare and unique books. My wife says it’s the policeman in me.”
Sanchís gave a nod, keeping his polite and patient expression, although his eyes were betraying mounting fatigue and a desire to rid himself of the policeman as soon as possible.
“Are you interested in rare books, Señor Sanchís?”
“Most books in this collection are eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Spanish, French, and Italian texts, although we also have an excellent selection of German literature and philosophy, as well as English poetry,” the director explained. “I suppose that among some circles this would already be considered rare enough.” Sanchís took Vargas’s arm gently but firmly and led him back to the corridor and toward the front door.
“I envy you, Señor Sanchís. If only . . . I have limited means and must make do with more modest items.”
“There are no modest books, only arrogant ignorance.”
“Of course. That’s exactly what I told a secondhand bookseller whom I’ve asked to find a series of novels by a forgotten author. The name might ring a bell. Mataix. Víctor Mataix.”
Sanchís held his gaze impassively, then shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of him.”
“That’s what everyone tells me. A man can devote his whole life to writing, and then nobody remembers his words . . .”
“Literature is a cruel lover that easily forgets its suitors,” said Sanchís, opening the door to the landing.
“Much like justice. Luckily there is always someone who, like you and me, is ready to give them both a nudge.”
“That’s life: it forgets us all too soon. Now, if there’s nothing else I can do for you . . .”
“No, thank you again for your help, Señor Sanchís.”
24
As he left the building, Vargas noticed the watercolorist, who was putting away his tools and lighting an old sailor’s pipe. Vargas smiled at him from a distance and walked over.
“Hey, it’s Chief Inspector Maigret,” cried the artist.
“The name is Vargas.”
“Dalmau,” the painter introduced himself.
“How is it going, Master Dalmau? Have you finished your painting?”
“A painting is never finished. The trick is to know at what point to leave it unfinished. Are you still interested?” The artist lifted the rag covering the canvas and showed him the watercolor.
“It looks like something out of a dream,” said Vargas.
“The dream is yours for ten duros plus whatever you think fit.”
The policeman pulled out his wallet. The artist’s eyes shone like the embers in his pipe. Vargas handed him a one-hundred-peseta note.
“That’s too much.”
Vargas shook his head. “Consider me the day’s patron.”
The painter wrapped up the watercolor with brown paper and string.
“Can one make a living doing this?” asked Vargas.
“The picture-postcard industry has hit us hard, but there are still people with good taste.”
“Like Señor Sanchís?”
The artist raised an eyebrow and looked at him suspiciously. “I thought there was something fishy going on here. I hope you’re not going to get me in trouble now.”
“Has Sanchís been a customer for long?”
“A few years.”
“Have you sold him lots of pictures?”
“Quite a few.”
“Does he like your style that much?”
“He buys them out of pity, I think. He’s a very generous man, at least considering he’s a banker.”
“Perhaps he has a bad
conscience.”
“He wouldn’t be the only one. There’s loads of those in this country.”
“Are you referring to me?”
Dalmau muttered a curse under his breath and folded his easel.
“Are you leaving? I thought you’d be able to tell me something about Señor Sanchís.”
“Look, if you like I’ll give you back your money. And you can keep the picture. Hang it in one of the dungeons in the police station.”
“The money is yours. You’ve earned it.”
The artist hesitated. “What do you want with Sanchís?”
“Nothing. I’m just curious.”
“That’s the same thing the other policeman said. You’re all alike.”
“The other policeman?”
“Sure. Pretend you know nothing about it.”
“Could you describe my colleague to me? There might be another note if you lend me a hand.”
“There’s little to describe. Another thug like you. Although this one had a scar on his face.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“We didn’t get that close.”
“When was that?”
“Some two or three weeks ago.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here. In my office. Can I go now?”
“You don’t need to be afraid of me, boss.”
“I’m not afraid of you. I’ve seen it all before with your type. But I’d rather have a change of scene, if you don’t mind.”
“Have you been locked up?”
The artist chuckled disdainfully.
“La Modelo?”
“Montjuïc. From 1939 to 1943. There’s nothing you can do to me that you haven’t done already.”
Vargas took out his wallet, ready to make a second payment, but the painter refused it. He pulled out the money Vargas had given him and let it fall to the ground. Then he took his easel and paint box and walked away with a limp. Vargas watched him disappear up Paseo de Gracia. He knelt down to pick up the note and headed off in the opposite direction, carrying the picture under his arm.
* * *
Ignacio Sanchís walked over to the boardroom window and observed the policeman talking to the watercolorist on the corner. A couple of minutes later he saw the policeman strolling off toward Plaza de Cataluña, carrying what looked like a picture he had bought from the artist. Sanchís waited until he’d lost sight of Vargas among the crowd. Then he stepped into the corridor and made his way to reception.
“I’ll be out a few minutes, Lorena. If Lorca calls, from the Madrid office, pass him over to Juanjo.”
“Yes, Señor Sanchís.”
Sanchís didn’t wait for the elevator, but walked down the stairs. When he stepped out into the street, he felt a slight breeze grazing his forehead and realized it was covered in sweat. He made his way to the café next to Radio Barcelona on Calle Caspe, and asked for a cortado. While his coffee was being prepared, he walked over to the public telephone at the far end and dialed a number he knew by heart.
“Brians,” replied a voice on the other end of the line.
“A policeman called Vargas has just paid me a visit.”
A long silence.
“Are you calling from the office phone?” asked Brians.
“Of course not,” said Sanchís.
“They’ve also been here this morning. The policeman and a girl. They said they had a Mataix for sale.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“He’s obviously a policeman. I didn’t like her one bit. As soon as they left, I did what you said. I phoned the number you gave me and hung up immediately to signal Morgado to meet at our usual place. I saw him barely an hour ago. I thought he’d already warned you.”
“Something unexpected turned up. Morgado had to go back to the house.”
“What did the policeman ask you?”
“He wanted to know about Morgado. Some nonsense about an accident. They must have followed you. For all I know, they tricked you.”
The lawyer sighed. “Do you think they’ve got the list?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t run any risks.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Brians.
“No meetings with Morgado and no calls until further notice,” Sanchís ordered. “I’ll contact you if necessary. Go back to the office and act as if nothing had happened. If I were you, I’d leave the city for a while.”
The banker put down the phone. He walked past the bar, pale-faced.
“Your cortado, boss,” said the waiter.
Sanchís looked at him as if he didn’t know what he was doing there, and left the café.
25
Mauricio Valls has seen too many people die to believe there is anything beyond death. Coming back to life from the purgatory of antibiotics, narcotics, and hopeless nightmares, he opens his eyes to the wretchedness of his cell. The clothes he was wearing have disappeared. He’s naked and wrapped in a blanket. He lifts the hand he does not have to his face and discovers the stump, cauterized with tar. He stares at it for a long time, as if trying to find out who is the owner of the body in which he has awakened. Bit by bit, his memory returns, dripping images and sounds. After a while he remembers everything except the pain. Perhaps there is a merciful God after all, he tells himself.
“What are you laughing at?” asks a voice. The woman who, in his delirium, he had taken to be an angel, is staring at him from behind the iron bars. There is no compassion or emotion in her eyes.
“Why didn’t you let me die?”
“Death is too good for you.”
Valls nods. He’s not sure who he is speaking to, although something about this woman seems extremely familiar.
“Where is Martín? Why hasn’t he come?”
The woman looks at him with a suggestion of scorn and sadness. “David Martín is waiting for you.”
“Where?”
“In hell.”
“I don’t believe in hell.”
“Have patience. You’ll believe.” The woman withdraws into the shadows and begins to climb the stairs.
“Wait. Don’t leave. Please.”
She stops.
“Don’t go. Don’t leave me here alone again.”
“There are some clean clothes there. Get dressed,” she says before disappearing up the stairs.
Valls hears a metal door closing. He finds the clothes in a bag, in a corner of the cell. They’re old clothes that are too large for him, but they’re moderately clean, even though they smell of dust. He throws off the blanket and eyes his naked body in the half-light. He can make out bones and tendons under the skin where once there was a thick layer of fat. He gets dressed. It’s not easy to dress with only one hand, or do up trousers or a shirt with only five fingers. What he is most grateful for is a pair of socks and shoes with which he can hide his feet from the cold. At the bottom of the bag there’s something else. A book. He instantly recognizes the black leather binding and the outline of a scarlet spiral staircase engraved on the cover. He rests the book on his lap and opens it.
The Labyrinth of the Spirits III
Ariadna and the Theatre of Shadows
Text and illustrations by Víctor Mataix
Valls keeps turning the pages and stops at the first illustration. It shows the carcass of an old theater in ruins, on whose stage stands a girl dressed in white, a fragile look in her eyes. Even in the candlelight he recognizes her.
“Ariadna . . . ,” he whispers.
He closes his eyes and holds on to the bars of the cell with one hand.
Perhaps hell does exist.
26
A velvet sun was painting the streets with innocence. Alicia strolled through the crowds milling around the center of town as she mulled over a scene she had read in the last pages of Ariadna and the Scarlet Prince. In this scene, Ariadna met with a street vendor who sold masks and dead flowers by the entrance to the city of the dead, the great southern necropolis. She had arrived there in a g
hostly tram with no driver or passengers. The tram had a notice on the front that read:
DESTINY
The vendor was blind, but he could hear Ariadna approaching and asked her whether she wanted to buy a mask. The masks he sold in his cart, he explained, were made with the remains of doomed souls who inhabited the cemetery. By wearing them, one could outwit the fates and perhaps survive one more day. Ariadna admitted that she didn’t know what her destiny was, and that she thought she had lost it when she fell into the haunted Barcelona ruled by the Scarlet Prince. The vendor smiled and replied with these words:
Most of us mortals never get to know our real destiny; we’re just trampled by it. By the time we raise our heads and see it moving off down the road, it’s already too late, and we have to walk the rest of the way along the straight and narrow ditch that dreamers call maturity. Hope is no more than the belief that that moment hasn’t yet come, that we might still manage to see our real destiny when it draws near and jump on board before the chance of being ourselves disappears forever, condemning us to live in emptiness, missing what should have been and never was.
Alicia remembered those words as if she had them engraved on her skin. Nothing is more surprising or frightening than what one already knows. That midday, as she placed her hand on the doorknob of the old Sempere & Sons bookshop, she felt the presence of that life still to be lived and wondered whether it wasn’t already too late.
She was greeted by the tinkle of the entrance bell, the perfume emanating from thousands of pages waiting to be read, and a faint luminosity that wove the scene into the texture of dreams. It was all just as she remembered it, from the endless pale wooden shelves to the last speck of dust caught in the beams of light filtering through the shop window. Everything except herself.
She stepped into that room as if she were going back into a forgotten memory. For a moment she told herself that this place could have been her destiny if the war hadn’t snatched from her everything she possessed, if it hadn’t maimed her and abandoned her on the streets of an accursed land. If it hadn’t turned her into one more puppet in a show from which she knew she could never escape. She realized that the vision she could divine inside the four walls of the Sempere & Sons bookshop was the life that had been stolen from her.
The Labyrinth of the Spirits Page 31
