The Labyrinth of the Spirits

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  There she walked under the papier-mâché Gothic bridge, letting herself be enveloped, as the tourists were, by the charm of that medieval-looking citadel, a set design most of which was barely ten years older than her. Past the bridge, a photographer on the hunt for liquid shadows had mounted a fabulous Hasselblad on a tripod and was framing the perfect composition and exposure for the fairy-tale image. He was a severe-looking individual with shrewd eyes hiding behind enormous square glasses, which conferred on him the air of a wise, patient turtle.

  The photographer became aware of her presence and gazed at her with curiosity. “Would you like to look through the lens, mademoiselle?”

  Alicia nodded timidly. The photographer showed her how to do it. She peeped into the artist’s eyes and laughed at the perfect artifice of shadows and perspectives he’d created, reinventing a corner she had passed by hundreds or thousands of times in her life.

  “The eye sees; the camera observes,” the photographer explained. “Like it?”

  “It’s astonishing,” Alicia admitted.

  “This is just the composition and the perspective. The secret is in the light. You must look through the lens, imagining there will be a liquid glow. The shadow will be tinged by a soft, evanescent layer, as if it had been raining light . . .”

  The photographer had all the hallmarks of a true professional, and Alicia wondered where that image would end up.

  The turtle of the magic light read her thoughts. “It’s for my book,” he explained. “What’s your name?”

  “Alicia.”

  “Don’t be alarmed, but I’d like to take a picture of you, Alicia.”

  “Of me? Why?”

  “Because you’re a creature of light and shadow, like this city. What do you say?”

  “Here? Now?”

  “No. Not now. Something on your mind is weighing you down today, and doesn’t allow you to be yourself. And the camera would pick that up. At least, mine would. I want to take a picture of you when you’ve taken that load off your mind and the light can see you as you are, not as you’ve been made to be.”

  Alicia blushed for the first and last time in her life. She had never felt so naked as she did, facing the eyes of that peculiar character.

  “Think about it,” said the photographer. He pulled a card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her with a smile.

  FRANCESC CATALÁ-ROCA

  Photographic Studio since 1947

  Calle Provenza 366, Ground Floor. Barcelona

  Alicia put the card away and hurried off, leaving the master alone with his art and his keen eye. Hiding among the crowds teeming around the cathedral area, she pressed on, walking straight up Puerta del Ángel until she reached Calle Santa Ana and could see the window of the Sempere & Sons bookshop.

  You’re still in time not to ruin everything. Walk past and keep walking.

  She positioned herself on the other side of the street, taking shelter in a doorway from which she could see inside the shop. The somber blue evening of a Barcelona winter was falling over the city, an invitation to defy the cold and wander through the streets.

  Leave this place. What do you think you can do?

  She caught sight of Bea helping a customer. Next to her stood an older man who Alicia guessed must be her father-in-law, Señor Sempere. Little Julián was sitting on the counter, leaning on the cash register, engrossed in a book that he held over his knees, a book almost bigger than him. Alicia smiled.

  Suddenly Daniel emerged from the back room, carrying a pile of books that he left on the counter. Julián raised his head and looked at his father, who ruffled his hair. The boy said something, and Daniel laughed. He leaned over and kissed the boy’s forehead.

  You have no right to be here. This is not your life, and this isn’t your family. Clear off and crawl back to the hole you came out of.

  She observed Daniel as he sorted out the books he’d left on the counter. He was separating them into three different piles, almost stroking them as he dusted them and lined them up neatly. She wondered what the touch of those hands and those lips would be like. She forced herself to turn her head and move away a few steps. Was it indeed her duty, or her right, to reveal what she knew to people who surely would live more happily in blissful ignorance? Happiness, or the closest to it any moderately intelligent creature can aspire to, spiritual peace, is what evaporates on the way between belief and knowledge.

  One last look. To say good-bye. Good-bye forever.

  Before she even realized it, she was standing opposite the shop window again. She was about to leave when she noticed that little Julián was watching her, as if he’d smelled her presence. Alicia stood motionless in the middle of the street, the people walking past dodging her as if she were a statue. With considerable skill, Julián clambered off the counter, using a stool as a step. Without his parents noticing—Daniel was wrapping up the books, and Bea, together with her father-in-law, was still with the customer—Julián walked across the shop to the door and opened it. He stood in the doorway looking at Alicia, grinning from ear to ear. Alicia shook her head. Julián started to walk over to her. By then Daniel had realized what was happening, and his lips formed his son’s name. Bea turned around and rushed into the street. Julián had reached Alicia’s feet and was hugging her. She took him in her arms, and that is how Bea and Daniel found them.

  “Señorita Gris?” asked Bea, midway between surprise and alarm. All the kindness and warmth Alicia had perceived in Bea the day they’d met seemed to have disappeared the moment Bea saw that stranger with her son in her arms.

  Alicia handed the boy to Bea and swallowed hard. Bea hugged Julián tightly and took a deep breath. Daniel, who was looking at Alicia with a mixture of fascination and hostility, took a step forward and stood between her and his family.

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s Señorita Alicia Gris,” Bea explained behind him. “She’s a customer.”

  Daniel gave a nod, but a shadow of a doubt fell on his face.

  “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. The boy must have recognized me, and . . .”

  Julián was still staring at her, mesmerized, unaware of his parents’ concern. To make matters worse, Señor Sempere looked out of the shop door. “Have I missed something?” he said.

  “Nothing, Dad, just that Julián almost got away . . .”

  “It’s my fault,” said Alicia.

  “And you are . . .”

  “Alicia Gris.”

  “The lady who placed the big order? But please, come in, it’s cold outside.”

  “In fact, I was just leaving . . .”

  “I won’t hear of it. Besides, I see you’ve already made friends with my grandson. Don’t imagine he’ll go off with just anyone. Not at all.”

  Señor Sempere held the door open and invited Alicia in. She exchanged glances with Daniel, who nodded, looking calmer now.

  “Come in, Alicia,” Bea agreed.

  Julián held a hand out to her.

  “As you can see, you have no choice now,” said Granddad Sempere.

  Alicia smiled and stepped into the shop. The perfume of books enveloped her. Bea had put Julián down on the floor. The child grabbed her hand and led her to the counter.

  “He’s quite taken with you,” remarked the grandfather. “Tell me, have we met before?”

  “I used to come here when I was a child, with my father.”

  Sempere gazed at her. “Gris? Juan Antonio Gris?”

  Alicia nodded.

  “Good heavens! I can’t believe it. . . . It must be years since I last saw him and his wife! They used to come by almost every week. . . . Tell me, how are they?”

  Alicia felt her mouth go dry. “They died. During the war.”

  Grandfather Sempere sighed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Alicia tried to smile.

  “So you have no family left?”

  Alicia shook her head. Daniel noticed the young woman’s eyes shinin
g with tears. “Dad, don’t interrogate her,” he said.

  Granddad Sempere looked crestfallen. “Your father was a great man. And a good friend.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Alicia, barely able to speak. An overlong silence ensued.

  Daniel came to the rescue. “Would you like a drink? It’s my father’s birthday today, and we’re inviting all our customers to a glass of liqueur from Fermín’s vintage cellar.”

  “I don’t recommend it,” whispered Bea behind Alicia’s back.

  “By the way, where’s Fermín gone?” asked the granddad. “Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

  “He should be,” said Bea. “I sent him to get the champagne for the dinner, but since he refuses to go to Don Dionisio’s grocery, he’s wandered off to some dive near the Borne. He says that Dionisio mixes rancid church wine with soda and a few drops of cat pee to give it color. And I’m tired of arguing with him.”

  “Don’t be alarmed,” said the grandfather, turning to Alicia. “Our Fermín is like that. When he was young, Dionisio was a member of the Falangist Party, and Fermín is always having a go at him. He’d rather die of thirst than buy a bottle of anything from him.”

  “Happy birthday.” Alicia smiled.

  “Listen, I’m sure you’ll say no, but . . . why don’t you stay and have dinner with us? There’ll be a big group, but . . . for me it would be an honor to have the daughter of Juan Antonio Gris among us tonight.”

  Alicia looked at Daniel, who smiled weakly.

  “Thank you so much, but—”

  Julián gripped her hand.

  “As you can see, my grandson insists. Go on, say you’ll stay. We’ll be among family.”

  Alicia looked down and shook her head slowly. She felt Bea’s hand on her back and heard her whisper, “Stay.”

  “I don’t know what to say . . .”

  “Don’t say anything. Julián, why don’t you show Señorita Alicia your first book? Wait till you see this . . .”

  Julián ran off to look for a notebook he had smudged with drawings, scribbles, and incomprehensible inscriptions. He showed it to her enthusiastically.

  “His first novel,” said Daniel.

  Julián looked at her expectantly.

  “It looks great . . .”

  The child clapped, happy with the critical reception. Grandfather Sempere, who must have been the same age her father would have been had he lived, glanced at Alicia with the sad look that seemed to have followed him through life. “Welcome to the Sempere family, Alicia.”

  8

  The blue tram climbed slowly, a small raft of golden light making its way like a ship through the night mist. Fernandito traveled on the back platform. He’d left his Vespa parked next to the Hotel La Rotonda. He saw it fade in the distance and then looked out to face the long avenue of mansions that flanked the route, deserted castles sheltered by small woods, fountains, and gardens of statues, where nobody was ever to be seen. Great fortunes are never at home.

  At the top of the avenue loomed the silhouette of El Pinar through slivers of low clouds. Towers, gables, and lines of serrated dormer windows crowned a forbidding vision resting on a hill from which the whole of Barcelona could be seen. On a clear day you could probably make out the island of Mallorca from that hilltop, thought Fernandito. That night, however, a thick blanket of darkness shrouded the house.

  Fernandito gulped. The mission Alicia had entrusted him with was beginning to make him apprehensive. According to an uncle of his who had lost an arm and an eye in the war, one can only be a hero when one is genuinely afraid. Someone who faces danger fearlessly is just an idiot. Fernandito wasn’t sure whether Alicia was expecting him to be a hero or a simpleton. Perhaps a subtle combination of both, he concluded. The salary was unbeatable, granted, but the image of Alicia weeping inconsolably in his arms would have been enough to make him tiptoe into hell, and even pay for it.

  * * *

  The tram dropped him off at the top of the avenue and vanished again in the mist, its lights fading on the downward journey like a hazy mirage. The small square was deserted at that late hour. A solitary streetlamp barely revealed the shape of two black cars parked outside the La Venta restaurant. Police, thought Fernandito. He heard the drone of an approaching vehicle and rushed to find a dark spot near the funicular station. Soon he caught sight of headlights cutting through the night. The car, which he identified as a Ford, stopped only a few meters from where he was hiding.

  Out of the car emerged one of the two men he’d seen that very morning arresting Sanchís, the banker. Something made him different from the rest. He exuded a classy air, a dash of high breeding and refined manners. He was dressed like a gentleman at a fine cigar club, in the sort of formal attire one saw in shop windows such as Gales or Gonzalo Comella. It didn’t fit in with the more modest, everyday garments worn by the other plainclothes policemen who accompanied him. His cuff links shone in the gloom and his shirt cuffs looked as if they’d been pressed at the dry cleaner’s. It was only when the man walked under the streetlamp’s halo that Fernandito was able to see that these were dotted with dark stains. Blood.

  The policeman stopped and turned toward the car. For a second, Fernandito thought he’d noticed him, and his stomach shrank to the size of a marble. But the policeman only addressed the driver of the Ford, smiling politely.

  “Luis, I’ll be here a while. If you like you can leave. Remember to clean the back seat. I’ll let you know when I need you.”

  “Very good, Captain Hendaya.”

  Hendaya pulled out a cigarette and lit it, savoring it unhurriedly as he watched the car driving off down the avenue. He seemed possessed by a strange calm, as if no concern in the world could spoil that moment alone with himself. Buried in the shadows, afraid of even breathing, Fernandito observed him. The man called Hendaya smoked like a movie star, transforming the act into a show of style and poise. He turned his back on Fernandito and walked over to the vantage point, a balcony from which one could view the city. After a while, taking his time, he dropped his stub on the ground, put it out cleanly with the tip of one patent-leather shoe, and made his way toward the entrance of the house.

  As soon as Hendaya had rounded the corner of the street that bordered El Pinar and disappeared, Fernandito emerged from his hiding place. His forehead was drenched with cold sweat. Some hero Alicia had got herself. He hurried after Hendaya, who had entered the property through an archway in the wall that fenced off the estate. On the entry lintel, above a pair of metal gates, were inscribed the words el pinar. Beyond the gates Fernandito saw what appeared to be a path of stone steps that climbed through the garden up to the house. He peeped in and glimpsed the silhouette of Hendaya, leaving a trail of smoke behind him as he moved gradually up the steps.

  Fernandito waited until Hendaya had reached the top of the path. A couple of police officers had come out to meet him, and seemed to be giving him an account of events. After a brief exchange Hendaya went into the villa, followed by one of the men. The other remained posted at the top of the steps, guarding the front door.

  Fernandito weighed his options. He couldn’t take that path without being seen, and the sight of the blood on Hendaya’s cuffs didn’t exactly encourage him to pull any heroic stunts. He took a few steps back and studied the wall surrounding the grounds. The street, a narrow road that snaked along the mountainside, was deserted. Fernandito walked along it until he caught sight of what looked like the back of the house. He climbed carefully up the wall and from there managed to grab a branch, lowering himself into the garden. It suddenly occurred to him that if there were dogs, they would detect his scent in a matter of seconds, but after a few moments he established something even more disquieting. There was no sound at all. Not a leaf shook among the trees, no murmur of birds or insects stirred the air. The place was dead.

  The house’s elevated position on the top of a hill created the illusion that it was closer to the street than it actually was. Fernandito had to clamber
up the slope between trees and paths overrun by bushes until he reached the paved lane that circled around from the main entrance. Once on the path, he followed it to the villa’s rear facade. All the windows were dark except for a couple of small casements in a corner hidden between the house and the top of the hill, which he guessed must be the kitchen window. Fernandito crept up to it and, keeping his face away from the dim light spreading out through the glass, peered inside.

  He recognized her immediately: the woman he’d seen coming out of Sanchís’s house with the chauffeur. She lay slumped on a chair, strangely still, her face to one side, as if she were unconscious. Yet her eyes were open.

  Only then did he notice that she was bound, hand and foot, to the chair. A shadow fell across her. Hendaya and the other policeman had come in. Hendaya pulled up a chair and sat facing the woman. He spoke to her for a couple of minutes, but Señora Sanchís showed no signs of hearing him. She looked away, as if Hendaya wasn’t there. After a while the policeman shrugged and placed his fingers gently on the banker’s wife’s chin, turning her face toward him. He’d begun speaking to her again when the woman spat in his face. Hendaya instantly slapped her so hard he knocked her onto the floor, where she remained, collapsed, tied to the chair. The officer with Hendaya, and another one Fernandito hadn’t noticed before—he must have been leaning against the wall under the window Fernandito was spying through—approached her and pulled the chair upright again.

  Hendaya wiped the spit off his face with his hand and then smeared it on Señora Sanchís’s blouse.