The Labyrinth of the Spirits

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  She spent an hour chain-smoking, walking up and down the apartment like a caged animal. More than once, more than ten times, she went over to the window to scan the other side of the street, hoping to see Vargas in his rooms above the Gran Café. There was no sign of him. He’d had plenty of time to call Madrid and receive his orders. He had probably gone out for a stroll, to clear his head, walking through that Barcelona to which he would soon say good-bye. The last thing he must have wanted right then was to be in Alicia’s company and run the risk of having his eyes pulled out for having told Leandro everything.

  He had no option.

  She would have liked to believe that too.

  As soon as Leandro left, she’d started to feel a stabbing pain in her hip. At first she’d ignored it, but now she could feel a dull ache throbbing with her pulse. It felt as if someone was trying to nail a picture hook into her by gently hitting it with a hammer. She could imagine the tip of the metal scratching the bone’s surface and slowly digging in. She swallowed half a pill with another glass of wine and lay down on the sofa to wait for the drug to take effect. She knew she was drinking too much. She didn’t need Vargas or Leandro to look at her and remind her. She could feel it in her blood and in her breath. But it was the only thing that calmed her anxiety.

  * * *

  Alicia closed her eyes and began to go over Leandro’s account. He himself had taught her, when she was barely a child, to always listen and read with the headlights on. “The eloquence of an explanation,” he had told her, “is directly proportional to the intelligence of the person expressing it, in the same way as its credibility is proportional to the stupidity of the person listening to it.”

  Sanchís’s confession, in the version recounted by Gil de Partera to Leandro, was perfect at first sight, especially as it didn’t seem perfect. It explained almost everything that had taken place yet left a few loose ends, as usually occurs with the most credible explanations. Truth is never perfect, never squares with all expectations. Truth always poses doubts and questions. Only lies are one hundred percent believable, because they don’t need to justify reality, they simply have to tell us what we want to hear.

  Fifteen minutes later the pill began to act. Slowly the pain lessened, until all Alicia felt was a sharp prickling she was used to ignoring. She stretched an arm under the sofa and pulled out the storage box containing the files they’d stolen from Brians’s furniture warehouse. She couldn’t help smiling at the thought that Leandro had spent the morning resting his illustrious bum on that information, without realizing. She had a quick look through the folders inside the box. Much of it, or the bit that mattered, had already been incorporated into the official narrative of the case. As she rummaged around the bottom of the box, however, she recovered the envelope with just the word isabella on it in longhand. She opened it and pulled out a notebook. A piece of fine cardboard slid off the first page.

  It was an old photograph, beginning to fade around the edges. The image showed a young girl with fair hair and lively eyes who smiled at the camera, her whole life ahead of her. Something about that face reminded Alicia of the young man she’d passed on her way out of the Sempere & Sons bookshop. She turned it over and immediately recognized Brians’s handwriting:

  Isabella

  Even the strokes in each letter and the way Brians had avoided adding the surname spoke of a strong feeling. It was not only guilt that was eating away at the defender of lost causes, but also desire. She left the photograph on the table and flicked through the notebook. All the pages were written in a clean, distinct writing that was obviously feminine. Only women write this clearly, without hiding behind absurd flourishes—at least when they’re writing for themselves and for nobody else. Alicia turned back to the first page and began to read:

  My name is Isabella Gispert, and I was born in Barcelona in 1917. I’m twenty-two years old and I know I will never reach my twenty-third birthday. I write these words knowing for certain that I only have a few days left to live, and that I will soon have to leave behind those to whom I am most indebted in this world: my son Daniel and my husband Juan Sempere, the kindest man I have ever known. I will die without having merited all the trust, love, and devotion he has given me. I’m writing for myself, taking with me secrets that don’t belong to me and knowing that nobody will ever read these pages. I’m writing to reminisce and to cling to life. My only wish is to be able to remember and understand who I was and why I did what I did while I am still able to do so, and before the consciousness that I already feel weakening abandons me forever. I’m writing even if it hurts, because loss and pain are the only things that keep me alive, and I’m afraid of dying. I’m writing to tell these pages what I can’t tell those I love, for fear of hurting them and putting their lives in danger. I’m writing because as long as I’m able to remember, I will be with them one more minute . . .

  For a whole hour Alicia lost herself in the pages of that notebook, oblivious to the world, the pain, or the uncertainty in which Leandro’s visit had left her. For an hour, all that existed was the story told by those words, a story that, even before she reached the last page, she knew she would never forget. When she came to the end and closed Isabella’s confession over her chest, her eyes were veiled with tears, and all she could do was take a hand to her lips and suppress a scream.

  * * *

  This is how Fernandito found her, a little later. After knocking a few times on the door and getting no reply, he stepped in and saw her curled up into a ball, crying like he’d never seen anyone cry before. He didn’t know what to do except kneel down and put his arms around her, while Alicia moaned with pain as if someone had set fire to her heart.

  6

  Some folks just can’t win, Fernandito told himself. He’d spent years dreaming about holding Alicia in his arms, and when at long last it happened, the resulting scene proved to be the saddest he could ever have imagined. He propped her up and stroked her head gently, trying to calm her down, not able to think what else to do or say. He had never seen her like that. In fact, he’d never imagined her like that. In all the fantasies Fernandito had placed over the years on the private altar of his adolescent yearnings, Alicia Gris was always indestructible, hard as a diamond that cut through everything.

  When at last she stopped sobbing and looked up, Fernandito encountered a broken Alicia, her eyes reddened and her smile so fragile it looked as if she was going to splinter into a thousand pieces of glass.

  “Are you feeling better?” he murmured,

  Alicia looked into his eyes and, without warning, kissed him on the lips.

  Fernandito, who felt a fire lighting up entire provinces of his body and soul he didn’t know existed, stopped her. “Señorita Alicia, I don’t think this is what you want to do now. You’re confused.”

  She lowered her face and licked her lips. Fernandito knew he would carry that image etched on his brain to the grave and possibly beyond.

  “I’m sorry, Fernandito,” she said, getting up.

  He also got to his feet and then offered her a chair, which Alicia accepted.

  “This will stay between us, all right?”

  “Of course,” he said, thinking that even if he’d tried, he wouldn’t have known what or whom to tell.

  Alicia looked around her, and her eyes paused on a box filled with bottles and food, standing in the middle of the dining room.

  “It’s your order,” Fernandito explained. “I thought it would be best if I showed up with the shopping, in case the gentleman who was here before was still around.”

  Alicia smiled and nodded. “What do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house. They didn’t have Perelada, but I brought you a Priorato, which according to Manolo is fabulous. I don’t know much about wine. Although, if I may volunteer a suggestion—”

  “I shouldn’t drink so much. I know. Thank you, Fernandito.”

  “May I ask what happened?”

  Alicia shrugged. “I’m not sure.”


  “But you’re better, aren’t you? Say you’re feeling better.”

  “Much better, thanks to you.”

  Fernandito, who wasn’t sure whether to believe her, simply nodded. “Actually, I’d come to tell you what I’ve found out,” he said.

  Alicia looked at him questioningly.

  “About the guy you asked me to follow,” he explained. “Sanchís?”

  “I’d forgotten about that. I think we might be too late, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you saying that because of the arrest?”

  “Did you see him being arrested?”

  Fernandito nodded. “Early this morning, I planted myself opposite his offices on Paseo de Gracia, just as you said. There was a nice old-timer there, a street painter, and when he saw me watching the front door, he told me to give Captain Vargas his regards. Does he also work for you?”

  “He’s an independent operator—an artist. And what happened?”

  “I recognized Sanchís because he came out wearing a very fine suit, and the painter told me that yes, he was the individual in question. He got into a taxi, and I followed him on the Vespa to the Bonanova district. He lives in a house on Calle Iradier, one of those that sweep you off your feet. He must have a good eye for business, because that area is pricey as hell, and the house—”

  “He has a good eye for marriages,” said Alicia.

  “Right. Lucky him. Well, the thing is that soon after he arrived, a car and a police van turned up, and a whole lot of cops filed out. There were at least seven or eight of them. They looked like very bad news. First they surrounded the house, and then one of them, dressed rather fancy for a cop, rang the doorbell.”

  “And while all that was going on, where were you?”

  “Under cover. On the other side of the street there’s a large house where they’re doing some construction, and it’s easy to hide. You see, I take precautions.”

  “And then?”

  “A few minutes later they took Sanchís out, handcuffed and in his shirtsleeves. He was protesting, but one of the cops hit him behind his knees with a billy club, and they dragged him to the van. I was going to follow them, but I got the impression that the fancy-dressed cop was giving the large old house the evil eye, like he could smell me. The van sped off really fast, but the car stayed behind. They moved it farther up the street, so it couldn’t be seen from the house. Just in case, I decided to stay put and out of sight.”

  “You did the right thing. In that sort of situation, never push it. If you lose the trail, you lose it. Better that than losing your head.”

  “That’s what I thought. My father always says that once you lose your ass, the rest follows—starting with your head.”

  “Wise words.”

  “The thing is, I was beginning to get rather nervous. I was wondering whether I should leave when a second car drove up to the front door of the house. A very flashy Mercedes. An odd-looking fellow got out.”

  “Odd-looking?”

  “Plain weird. He wore some kind of mask, as if he was missing half his face, or something like that.”

  “Morgado.”

  “You know him?”

  “That’s Sanchís’s chauffeur.”

  Fernandito nodded, all enthusiastic again, sharing the mysteries of his adored Alicia. “I thought he might be. He was dressed for the part. So, he got out of the car and went into the house. A bit later he came out again, this time accompanied by a lady.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Young. Like you.”

  “Do I look young to you?”

  Fernandito gulped. “Don’t tease me now. As I said, she was young. Not more than thirty, but she dressed as if she were older. Like a rich lady. Since I didn’t know who she was, I gave her a technical nickname: Myrna Loy, you know, like the one in the movies?”

  “Is that your type?”

  “Stop it.”

  “You weren’t far off, anyway. Her name is Victoria Ubach, or Sanchís. She’s the wife of the banker they arrested.”

  “I knew it. These crooks always marry someone much younger and much richer.”

  “You know what you must do, then.”

  “I’d be useless at that sort of thing. But going back to the events: they both got into the Mercedes. She sat in the front, next to the driver, and I found that odd. As soon as they drove off, the other police car started to follow them.”

  “And you behind them.”

  “Of course.”

  “How far did you follow them?”

  “Not far from there. The Mercedes went into a whole lot of narrow, elegant streets—the sort that smell of eucalyptus trees, where you only see maids and gardeners passing by—until we got to Cuatro Caminos, and from there to Avenida del Tibidabo. I was almost ironed flat by the blue tram.”

  “You should wear a helmet.”

  “I’ve got a US army regulation helmet that I bought at the Encantes flea market. It looks great on me. I’ve written ‘Private Fernandito’ on it, with a thick felt-tip pen—”

  “Get to the point, Fernandito.”

  “Sorry. I followed them up Avenida del Tibidabo, up to where the tram line ends.”

  “They were going to the funicular stop?”

  “No. The chauffeur and Myrna—Señora . . . Ubach—continued along the street that goes around it, and then the car drove into the house that’s on that hill, just above the avenue, the one that looks like a fairy-tale castle and you can see from all over the place. It’s got to be the prettiest house in all of Barcelona.”

  “It is. It’s called El Pinar,” said Alicia, who remembered having seen it a thousand times as a child when she was allowed out of the orphanage on Sundays, and liked to imagine herself living there in the company of a huge library and a night view of the city at her feet, spreading like a magic carpet sown with stars. “What about the police?”

  “In the police car there were two dog-faced thugs. One of them posted himself by the front door of the house while the other went into La Venta restaurant to make a phone call. I waited there for almost an hour, but there were no movements whatsoever. In the end, when one of the officers gave me a look I didn’t like, I came back to tell you what had happened and await your orders.”

  “You’ve done a stellar job, Fernandito. You clearly have what it takes for this business.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I’m going to promote you with immediate effect from Private Fernandito to what in English is called a corporal.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Pull out a dictionary, Fernandito. People who don’t learn languages have their brains turned into cauliflower mush.”

  “The things you know. . . . What are your orders, then?”

  Alicia thought for a few seconds. “I want you to change your clothes, into something dark, and put on a cap. Then you go back there and keep watch. But leave the Vespa parked farther away, just in case the policeman who looked at you recognizes it.”

  “I’ll leave it next to the Hotel La Rotonda and then take the blue tram up.”

  “Good idea. Then try to see what’s going on inside the house, but don’t take any risks. None whatsoever. At the slightest hint that someone may have noticed you, leg it. Understood?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Come back in two or three hours and give me an update.”

  Fernandito rose to his feet, ready to resume his duties. “And meanwhile, what are you going to do?”

  Alicia made a gesture that seemed to imply she was going to do a pile of things, or none at all.

  “You won’t go and do something silly, will you?” said Fernandito.

  “What makes you say that?”

  The boy looked at her rather anxiously from the door. “I don’t know.”

  This time Fernandito went down the stairs slowly, every step feeling like a reproach. Alone again, Alicia returned Isabella’s notebook to the box under the sofa. She stepped into the bathroom and splashed her
face with cold water, then took off the clothes she was wearing and opened the wardrobe.

  She chose a tight black dress that, in Fernandito’s estimation, would have made Myrna Loy green with envy. On her twenty-second birthday—Isabella’s age at the time of her death—Leandro had told Alicia he would give her whatever she wanted. She had asked for that dress, which she’d been admiring for two months in a boutique on Calle Rosellón, and a matching pair of black suede French shoes. Leandro had spent a fortune without complaining. The saleswoman, who didn’t dare inquire whether Alicia was his daughter or his lover, told him that few women could carry off a dress like that one. After leaving the boutique, Leandro took Alicia to dinner at La Puñalada. Almost all the tables were taken by what one could charitably call businessmen, who drooled like hounds when they saw her walk by and then gazed enviously at Leandro. “They’re looking at you like that because they think you’re an expensive hooker,” said Leandro before toasting to her health.

  She hadn’t worn that dress again until that afternoon. As she made up her character in front of the mirror, outlining her eyes and letting her lipstick accentuate her lips, Alicia smiled maliciously. “After all, that’s what you are,” she told herself. “A very expensive hooker.”

  When she stepped out into the street, she told herself she was just going to stroll around aimlessly. But deep down she knew that Fernandito was right. Perhaps she was going to do something really silly.

  7

  That afternoon, ignoring common sense, Alicia walked down the stairs with an inkling of where her feet would take her. The shops on Calle Fernando were already lit up, shedding strokes of color on the pavement. A scarlet halo faded in the sky, outlining cornices and rooftops high above the street. People came and went on their way to the metro station, their daily shopping, or their ticket to oblivion. Alicia joined the flow of pedestrians toward the City Hall square, where she passed a squadron of nuns flocking in perfect formation. She smiled at them, and one nun crossed herself at the sight of her. She continued navigating the river of walkers along a street bordering the walls of the cathedral.