The Labyrinth of the Spirits

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  Daniel hung his head in defeat. “Any other secret you don’t know about me?”

  “Haven’t you wondered why the hell it is there’s been no sign of Valls for so long?”

  “Every single day,” Daniel admitted.

  “Or where Salgado’s booty ended up, the one he’d hidden in the baggage locker?”

  Daniel nodded.

  “Who says this fox isn’t another one of Valls’s minions? Possibly the worst one . . .”

  Daniel closed his eyes. “You win, Fermín. What do we do?”

  * * *

  When she reached her apartment, Alicia noticed the strip of light under the door and recognized the smell of Vargas’s cigarettes in the air. She went in without saying a word, leaving her bag and coat on the dining-room table. Facing the window, with his back to the door, Vargas was smoking. He too was silent. She poured herself a glass of white wine and collapsed on the sofa. In her absence, Vargas had pulled out the box with the documents stolen from Brians’s warehouse from under the sofa. Isabella’s notebook lay on the table.

  “Where have you been all day?” asked Alicia finally.

  “Wandering around,” Vargas replied. “Trying to clear my head.”

  “Any luck?”

  He turned and looked at her warily. “Are you going to forgive me for telling Leandro everything?”

  Alicia took a sip of wine and shrugged. “If you’re looking for a confessor, there’s a church just before you get to the Ramblas. I believe they do shifts until midnight.”

  Vargas lowered his eyes. “If it’s any consolation, I got the impression that Leandro already knew most of what I told him. That he only needed confirmation.”

  “That’s what always happens with Leandro,” said Alicia. “One never reveals anything to him, just clarifies some detail or other.”

  Vargas sighed. “I had no choice. He could sense something. If I hadn’t told him what we’d found, I would have shown you up.”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation, Vargas. What’s done is done.”

  The silence grew thicker.

  “What about Fernandito?” asked Alicia. “Hasn’t he come back?”

  “I thought he’d be with you.”

  “What else are you not telling me, Vargas?”

  “Sanchís . . .”

  “Out with it.”

  “He’s dead. A cardiac arrest while they were taking him from police headquarters to the Hospital Clínico. That’s what the report says.”

  “Motherfuckers . . . ,” murmured Alicia.

  The policeman slumped down on the sofa next to her. They gazed at one another. She filled her glass of wine again and offered it to him. Vargas downed it in one gulp.

  “When must you go back to Madrid?”

  “I’ve been given five days’ leave,” said Vargas. “And a five-thousand-peseta voucher.”

  “Congratulations. Perhaps you’d like to burn it all on a pilgrimage with me to see the Virgin of Montserrat. They say she works wonders for the troubled conscience.”

  Vargas smiled sadly. “I’m going to miss you, Alicia. Even if you don’t believe it.”

  “Of course I believe it. But don’t get your hopes up. I won’t miss you.”

  Vargas smiled to himself. “What about you? Where have you been?”

  “Visiting the Semperes.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “A birthday party. Long story.”

  Vargas nodded, as if that made all the sense in the world.

  Alicia pointed at Isabella’s notebook. “Have you been reading while you waited?”

  Again Vargas nodded.

  “Isabella Gispert died knowing that bastard Valls had poisoned her,” said Alicia.

  The cop put his hands on his face and pushed his hair back. He looked as if every year of his life was weighing on his soul. “I’m tired,” he said at last. “I’m tired of all this shit.”

  “Why don’t you go back home?” asked Alicia. “Make them happy. Take your pension and retire to your country house in Toledo to read Lope de Vega. Wasn’t that the plan?”

  “And do like you? Live off literature?”

  “Half the country lives off make-believe. I don’t think two more will make much of a difference.”

  “How was it with the Semperes?”

  “Good people.”

  “I see. And you’re not used to it. Right?”

  “No.”

  “That used to happen to me, too. You’ll get over it. What are you planning to do with Isabella’s notebook? Are you going to give it to them?”

  “I don’t know,” Alicia admitted. “What would you do?”

  Vargas considered the question. “I would destroy it,” he declared. “The truth isn’t going to do anyone any good. And it might put them in danger.”

  Alicia nodded. “Unless . . .”

  “Think this through before saying it, Alicia.”

  “I think I’ve already thought it through.”

  “I thought we were going to let it pass, and just be happy.”

  “You and I are never going to be happy, Vargas.”

  “Put like that, woman, how can I refuse?”

  “You don’t need to tag along. It’s my problem.”

  Vargas smiled at her. “You’re my problem, Alicia. Or my salvation, even if the thought makes you laugh.”

  “I’ve never saved anyone.”

  “It’s never too late to begin.”

  He stood up, collected her coat, and handed it to her. “What do you say? Shall we screw up our lives forever, or would you rather let the years go by, only to find out that you haven’t a shred of talent for writing, and for me to accept that Lope only works when performed onstage?”

  Alicia slipped her coat on.

  “Where would you like to begin?” asked Vargas.

  “By the entrance to the labyrinth . . .”

  * * *

  Daniel shivered with cold in his doorway hideout. Fermín, despite being as thin as a rake and sporting a build mainly composed of cartilage, seemed happy as a clam, passing the time by humming a son montuno while he lightly swayed his hips in his tropical style.

  “I can’t understand how you’re not cold, Fermín. I’m frozen shitless.”

  Fermín undid a couple of buttons to reveal the folded newspaper lining he wore under his clothes.

  “Applied science,” he explained. “This and a few well-chosen memories of the little mulatto girl I had in Havana in my younger days.”

  “Holy Mary . . .”

  Daniel was considering walking over to the Gran Café to ask for a piping-hot coffee with a generous dash of brandy when they heard a creak from the door to Alicia’s building and saw her come out, accompanied by a solidly built guy with a military look about him.

  “Look at the Tarzan our minx has found herself,” remarked Fermín.

  “Stop calling her a minx. Her name is Alicia.”

  “It’s time you got over your puberty. You’re a family man and a father now. Let’s go.”

  “And what do we do about the other one?”

  “The spy? Don’t worry. I’m formulating a devastating strategy as we speak.”

  Alicia and the big fellow, who clearly belonged to the forces of law and order, turned into Calle Fernando toward the Ramblas. Following Fermín’s plan, they walked casually past the spy, who had buried himself in the shadows of the street corner without acknowledging their presence. At that time of night the street was more lively than usual, thanks to a contingent of sailors on the hunt for a cultural exchange and the odd rake from the better part of town, come down to the city’s bowels to satisfy his illicit bedroom urges. Fermín and Daniel used each gaggle of pedestrians as a curtain until they reached the arches leading to Plaza Real.

  “Look, Daniel, this is where we met. Remember? The years go by, but it still smells of piss. It’s the eternal Barcelona that never fades away . . .”

  “Don’t get all mushy, now.”

&nb
sp; Alicia and the policeman were crossing the square toward the exit that led to the Ramblas.

  “They’re going to catch a taxi,” Fermín deduced. “The show’s beginning.”

  They turned and caught sight of the spy peeping through the arches.

  “Can you elaborate?” asked Daniel.

  “Go up to him and kick him in the gonads as hard as you can. He’s just a weakling, and I’m sure he’ll oblige.”

  “Do you have an alternative plan?”

  Fermín sighed, exasperated. He then noticed a local policeman calmly patrolling the square, staring in amazement at the generous cleavage of a couple of tarts posted outside the main door of the Hostal Ambos Mundos.

  “Make sure you don’t lose sight of your darling angel and the big guy,” ordered Fermín.

  “What about you? What are you going to do?”

  “Look and learn from the master.”

  Fermín shot off in the direction of the policeman, whom he saluted, military style, and with great ceremony. “Chief,” he said. “I find it my painful duty to report a crime against decorum and decency.”

  “And what crime might that be?”

  “Can Your Excellency make out the tadpole over there, hiding lustfully under that cheap and smelly coat and pretending to pass for a model citizen?”

  “You mean that kid?”

  “That’s no kid, boss. It is with a heavy heart that I certify, so help me God, that beneath that stinky coat he’s as naked as a newborn baby. What’s more, he’s been disgracefully swinging his dick at some ladies, and spewing language I wouldn’t dare repeat to a crew of sailors.”

  The policeman grabbed his billy club energetically. “Are you sure?”

  “As God is my witness. There he goes, a pig through and through, in search of new opportunities to strike again.”

  “Well, then, he’s in for a rude awakening.” The policeman pulled out his whistle and pointed at the suspect with his club. “Hey, you there! Stop!”

  Realizing the fix he’d been put into, the spy ran off, the policeman trailing behind him. Fermín, satisfied with his distracting ploy, hurried over to join Daniel, who was waiting by the taxi rank.

  “Where are they?”

  “They just got into a cab. There they go.”

  Fermín pushed Daniel into the second taxi. The driver, a master juggler of the toothpick in the mouth, looked at them through his rearview mirror. “I’m not going to Pueblo Nuevo,” he warned.

  “That’s your loss. See the taxi over there?”

  “Cipriano’s cab?”

  “That’s the one. Follow it and don’t lose him. It’s a matter of life and death, and a good tip.”

  The taxi driver set the meter running and smiled acidly. “I thought these things only happened in American movies.”

  “Your prayers have been answered. Step on it, and eyes on the prize.”

  11

  The twenty minutes it took them to reach the police station felt like twenty years. Fernandito traveled in the back seat, next to Hendaya, who was smoking in silence and every now and then offered him a smile and a “Relax, don’t worry” that curdled his blood. Two of Hendaya’s men sat in the front. Neither of them spoke a word during the entire journey. It was a cold night, but although the car was freezing inside, Fernandito could feel the sweat trickling down his sides. He watched the city file past behind the car windows as if he were bidding farewell to a place to which he would never return. Pedestrians and cars went by just meters away, unreachable. When they came to the crossing of Calle Balmes and Gran Vía and stopped at a red light, he felt the urge to open the door and break into a run, but his body didn’t respond. Seconds later, when the car started off again, he realized that the doors were locked.

  Hendaya gave him a friendly pat on the knee. “Relax, Alberto, it will only take a minute.”

  When the car stopped in front of the police station, a couple of officers in uniform who were guarding the entrance approached the car. After opening the door for Hendaya and nodding to the orders he murmured, they grabbed Fernandito by the arm and led him indoors. The officer sitting in the passenger seat, who didn’t get out, watched as they were taking him away. Fernandito saw him say something to his colleague in the driver’s seat and smile.

  Fernandito had never been inside Central Police Headquarters on Vía Layetana. He was one of the many inhabitants of Barcelona who, if by chance they found themselves in the area and needed to walk past the ominous building, would cross over to the other side of the street and hurry on. He found the interior as dark and cavernous as legend had it. Once the light from the street faded behind him, he noticed a vague smell of ammonia. The two officers held both his arms, and his feet responded with a mixture of slow steps and just letting himself be dragged along. As passages and corridors multiplied, Fernandito felt as if something was nibbling at his guts. An echo of voices and footsteps floated in the air, and a cold, gray semidarkness permeated everything. Furtive looks settled on him for an instant, then turned away with indifference. He was pulled along a flight of stairs, but couldn’t tell whether they were going up or down. The lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling flickered every now and then, as if the power were being supplied in dribs and drabs. They went through a door on which the words social investigation brigade were engraved on frosted glass.

  “Where are we going?” he mumbled.

  The two officers ignored his words, just as they’d ignored his presence during the entire journey, as if they were transporting a bundle. They led him through a somber hall populated with metal tables, all of them empty except for a reading lamp that shed a yellow bubble of light on each one. At the far end, an office with glass walls awaited. Inside the office was a hardwood desk facing two chairs.

  One of the officers opened the door and told him to go in. “Sit down there,” he said without looking him in the eye. “And keep still.”

  Fernandito ventured forward a few steps. The door closed behind him. He sat down meekly and took a deep breath. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the two officers had sat down at one of the tables in the hall. One of them offered the other a cigarette. They were smiling.

  At least you’re not in a cell, he told himself.

  * * *

  A long hour went by during which Fernandito’s greatest display of bravery was, after forty minutes of despair, to move from one chair to the other. Then, incapable of continuing any longer anchored to those seats, which seemed to shrink with every minute he sat in them, he stood up and, arming himself with something that was not quite bravery—something, in fact, much closer to panic—he was about to knock on the glass wall to claim his innocence and demand that the officers guarding him let him go when a door opened behind him, and Hendaya’s figure stood out against the light. “I’m sorry about the delay, Alberto. I was held up by a small administrative matter. Have you been offered a cup of coffee?”

  Had he been able to, Fernandito would have swallowed ages ago, but his mouth was like sandpaper. He sat down again without waiting to be told.

  “Why am I here?” he demanded. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Hendaya smiled calmly, as if the boy’s state of nerves had touched him. “Nobody is saying you’ve done anything wrong, Alberto. Are you sure you don’t want a coffee? Water?”

  “What I want is to go home.”

  “Of course. Right away.”

  Hendaya picked up a phone that was on his desk and pushed it toward Fernandito. He took the receiver off the hook and handed it to him.

  “Go on, Alberto, call your father. Ask him to bring your ID card and come here to fetch you. I’m sure your family must be worried about you.”

  12

  A ring of clouds was sliding down the hillside. The taxi’s headlights revealed the outlines of grand mansions peeking through the trees along the road up to Vallvidrera.

  “I can’t go into Carretera de las Aguas,” said the taxi driver. “Since last year access has been restricted
to residents and municipal vehicles. You just have to stick your nose in, and one of them ticket fairies hidden between those bushes will jump out with his notebook and hand you a prescription. But I can leave you at the entrance . . .”

  Vargas showed him a fifty-peseta note. The taxi driver’s eyes rested on the vision like flies on honey. “Listen, I don’t have change for that . . .”

  “If you wait for us, we won’t need it. And the city council can go suck themselves.”

  The taxi driver grumbled but concurred with the monetary logic. “I guess I see your point,” he concluded.

  When they reached the entrance to the road—just a narrow unpaved ribbon that bordered the amphitheatre of hills guarding Barcelona—the taxi driver drove on with care. “Are you sure it’s this way?”

  “Just keep going a bit further.”

  The old house of the Mataixes stood about three hundred meters from the start of the Carretera de las Aguas. Soon the taxi’s headlights fell on a half-open spiked gate on one side of the dirt road. Farther in, one could just about make out the jagged outline of dormer windows and towers peering through the ruins of a garden that had been abandoned for far too long.

  “It’s here,” said Alicia.

  The taxi driver glanced quickly at the place and then looked at them unenthusiastically in the rearview mirror. “You sure this is the place? Looks abandoned to me . . .”

  Alicia ignored his words and got out of the car.

  “You wouldn’t have a flashlight on you, by any chance?” asked Vargas.

  “Extras aren’t included in the initial fare. Are we still talking ten duros?”

  Vargas pulled out the fifty-peseta note again and showed it to him. “What’s your name?”

  The hypnotic effect of the dough in all its glory dazzled the taxi driver. “Cipriano Ridruejo Cabezas, at your service.”

  “Cipriano, this is your lucky night. Could we find a flashlight for the young lady? We wouldn’t want her to trip over and twist her ankle.”

  The man bent down and delved into his glove compartment, emerging with a sizable long flashlight. Vargas grabbed it and got out of the taxi, but first he tore the note in two and handed the driver one half. “The other half when we return.”