The Labyrinth of the Spirits

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  Soon a waiter appeared with a tray and placed a few small dishes and a bit of bread on the table. Fermín and Vargas instantly attacked the offering, while Alicia slowly savored her glass of white wine, holding a cigarette between her fingers. Daniel stared at the table.

  “What do you think of the fare?” asked Fermín.

  “Tremendous,” Vargas agreed. “Enough to awaken the dead.”

  “Try this portion of fricandó, Captain—prime Catalan beef stew that will make you want to dance the sardana in your long johns.”

  Daniel observed this odd couple, who couldn’t have been more different from each other, frantically wolfing down everything that had been put in front of them. “How many dinners are you capable of eating, Fermín?” he asked.

  “As many as pop up within shooting distance. The youth of today who did not live through the war cannot understand it, my friend.”

  Vargas nodded, licking his fingers. Alicia, who was watching the show with the detached calm of someone waiting for the rain to die down, signaled to the waiter to bring her a second glass of white wine.

  “Doesn’t that go to your head if you don’t throw in something solid?” asked Fermín, mopping up the plate with a piece of bread.

  “It doesn’t worry me if it does,” replied Alicia. “So long as it stays up there.”

  Once the coffees were on the table, together with a succession of fine liqueurs, Fermín and Vargas leaned back in their chairs with a satisfied expression, and Alicia stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m all ears,” said Fermín.

  Alicia leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’m assuming you both know who the minister Mauricio Valls is.”

  “My friend Daniel has heard of him.” Fermín smiled craftily. “I’ve had my brushes with him as well.”

  “You will have noticed, then, if you’ve been paying attention, that for some time he’s barely been seen in public.”

  “Now you mention it . . . Although the expert here on Valls is Daniel. Whenever he has a spare moment, he goes down to the newspaper library at the Ateneo to investigate the life and miracles of the great man, an old family acquaintance.”

  Alicia glanced at Daniel.

  “About three weeks ago, Mauricio Valls disappeared from his residence in Somosaguas without leaving a trace. He left at dawn together with his main bodyguard in a car that was found abandoned in Barcelona a few days later. No one has seen him since.”

  Alicia studied the turbulent torrent of emotions lighting up Daniel’s eyes.

  “The police investigation suggests that Valls may have been the victim of a conspiracy, seeking to avenge some supposed fraudulent deals in connection with a number of bank shares.”

  Daniel was looking at her in bewilderment and growing indignation.

  “When you say ‘the investigation,’” Fermín intervened, “who are you referring to?”

  “The police department, and other law-enforcement agencies.”

  “I can see Captain Vargas in that role, but you, quite frankly . . .”

  “I work, or rather worked, for one of the services that have given their support to the police in this investigation.”

  “And does such service have a name?” asked Fermín skeptically. “Because you don’t look like a member of the Civil Guard’s women’s section.”

  “No.”

  “I see. And the deceased we’ve just had the pleasure of seeing floating tonight?”

  “An old colleague of mine.”

  “So I suppose what’s put you off your food is grief—”

  “All this is just a load of lies,” Daniel cut in.

  “Daniel . . . ,” said Alicia, placing a conciliatory hand on his.

  He pulled his hand away and faced her. “What’s all this about you being an old friend of the family, then? Visiting the bookshop, my wife, my son, sneaking into my family?”

  “Daniel, this is complicated. Let me—”

  “Is Alicia even your real name? Or did you borrow it from one of my father’s old memories as well?”

  It was now Fermín who had his eyes fixed on her, as if he were facing a ghost from the past.

  “Yes. My name is Alicia Gris. And I haven’t lied about who I am.”

  “Only about everything else,” Daniel shot back.

  Vargas kept silent, letting Alicia lead the conversation. She sighed, showing heartfelt embarrassment and guilt that he didn’t think for a second were genuine.

  “During the investigation we came across evidence that Mauricio Valls had been acquainted with your mother, Doña Isabella, and with an old inmate of Montjuïc Prison called David Martín. The reason I involved you in the matter was I needed to eliminate suspicions and make sure the Sempere family hadn’t had anything to do with—”

  “You must think I’m an idiot.” Daniel laughed bitterly, looking at Alicia with contempt. “And I must be, because until now I hadn’t realized what you were, Alicia, or whatever in hell your name is.”

  “Daniel, please . . .”

  “Don’t touch me.” Daniel stood and headed for the door.

  Alicia sighed and dropped her face in her hands. She sought Fermín’s eyes in search of support, but the little man was gazing at her as if she were a pickpocket caught in the act.

  “As a first attempt it looks rather lame to me,” he said. “I think you still owe us an explanation—even more so now, in view of the con you’ve tried to make us swallow. And that’s without counting the explanation you owe me. If you really are Alicia Gris.”

  She smiled, dejected. “Don’t you remember me, Fermín?”

  The little man was staring at her as if she were an apparition. “I no longer know what I remember. Have you come back from the dead?”

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “And what for?”

  “I’m only trying to protect you.”

  “I would never have guessed.”

  Alicia stood up and looked at Vargas.

  “Go after him,” said the policeman. “I’ll take care of Lomana, and inform you as soon as I can.”

  Alicia nodded and set off in search of Daniel. Fermín and Vargas were left alone, looking mutely at each other.

  “I think you’re too hard on Alicia,” Vargas said.

  “How long have you known her?” asked Fermín.

  “A few days.”

  “So you’re in a position to certify that she’s a living being, not a ghost?”

  “I think she only looks like one.”

  “She does drink like a sponge, there’s no denying that,” remarked Fermín.

  “You’ve no idea.”

  “A coffee with a dash of whisky before returning to the house of horrors?” Fermín offered.

  Vargas accepted.

  “Do you need company and logistical support to fish out the stiff?”

  “Thanks, Fermín, but it’s best that I do this on my own.”

  “Then tell me something, and please don’t lie to me—you and I have been through enough battles to know bullshit when we see it. Is it me, or is this business worse than it smells?”

  Vargas hesitated. “Much worse,” the policeman agreed at last.

  “Right. And that two-legged piece of excrement, Valls, is he still alive or is he pushing up poisoned daisies by now?”

  Vargas, who seemed suddenly overcome with the exhaustion of the last few days, looked at Fermín with an expression of defeat.

  “That, my friend, I think is the least of our worries now . . .”

  15

  Daniel’s figure was outlined in the distance, a shadow sheltering under the streetlamps of the Raval quarter. Alicia quickened her pace as much as she could. Soon the soreness in her hip returned. She struggled to shorten the distance separating her from Daniel, breathing with difficulty, a sharp pain searing through her bones.

  When Daniel reached the Ramblas, he turned around and saw her. He threw her an
angry look.

  “Daniel, please, wait for me,” called Alicia, holding on to a streetlamp.

  Ignoring her, he set off again at a brisk pace. Alicia somehow managed to drag herself after him. Sweat covered her forehead, and the whole of her side was now an open wound aflame.

  At the corner of Calle Santa Ana, Daniel looked over his shoulder. Alicia was still there, limping in a way that disconcerted him. He paused to watch her for a moment and saw her lifting a hand, trying to catch his attention. Daniel shook his head and mumbled under his breath. He was about to give up and go home when he saw her fall, as if something had broken inside her. He waited a few seconds, but Alicia didn’t get up. He hesitated, then walked toward her as she writhed on the ground. Her face under the streetlamp was drenched in sweat, and she was grimacing with pain. He felt the urge to leave her there to her fate, but drew a bit closer and knelt down beside her. Alicia was gazing at him, her face covered in tears.

  “Are you playacting?” asked Daniel.

  She stretched a hand out to him, and he helped her up. Her body shook with pain under his hands, and he felt a hint of remorse. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s an old wound,” Alicia said, panting. “I need to sit down, please.”

  Holding her by the waist, Daniel led her to a café at the start of Calle Santa Ana that always closed late. The waiter knew him, and Daniel was sure that the following day the entire neighborhood would be served with an exhaustively detailed account of his arrival there on the verge of midnight with a young lady of shadowy charms in his arms. He guided Alicia to a table by the entrance and helped her sit down.

  “Water,” she whispered.

  Daniel went up to the bar and spoke to the waiter. “Give me a bottle of water, Manuel.”

  “Just a bottle of water?” asked the man, winking knowingly.

  Daniel didn’t venture into detail. He returned to the table with a bottle of water and a glass. Alicia was holding a metal pillbox in her hand and trying to open it. He took it and opened it for her. She took two pills and swallowed them with a gulp of water, which dribbled down her chin and throat. Daniel was looking at her anxiously, not knowing what else to do.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him, trying to smile. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  “Maybe if you eat something it will kick in faster . . .”

  Alicia shook her head.

  “A glass of white wine, please . . .”

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea to mix alcohol with those?”

  She nodded, and Daniel went off in search of the wine. “Manuel. Give me a glass of white wine and something to nibble.”

  “I have some mouthwatering ham croquettes.”

  “Whatever.”

  Back at the table, Daniel persisted until he’d gotten Alicia to eat one and a half croquettes with her wine and whatever those two white pills were.

  Slowly she recovered her self-control, managing to smile as if nothing had happened. “I’m sorry you had to see me like this.”

  “Are you feeling better?”

  She nodded, although her eyes had taken on a glassy, liquid tinge. Part of her, it seemed, was miles away.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” Daniel warned her.

  “I understand.” Alicia spoke slowly, almost slurring her words.

  “Why did you lie to us?”

  “I didn’t lie to you.”

  “Call it what you like. You’ve only told me one part of the truth, which comes to the same thing.”

  “Even I don’t know the truth, Daniel. Not yet. However much I wanted to, I couldn’t give it to you.”

  Despite himself, Daniel felt tempted to believe her. Perhaps he was even stupider than Fermín thought.

  “But I’m going to find it,” said Alicia. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this matter, and I can assure you I’m not going to keep anything from you.”

  “In that case, let me help you. It’s in my own interest.”

  Alicia shook her head.

  “I know that Mauricio Valls murdered my mother,” said Daniel. “I have every right in the world to look into his face and ask him why. More than you and Vargas.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Then let me help you.”

  Alicia smiled tenderly. Daniel looked away.

  “You can help me by keeping yourself and your family safe,” she said. “Vargas and I are not the only ones following this trail. There are others. Very dangerous people.”

  “I’m not frightened.”

  “That’s what worries me, Daniel. Be frightened. Very frightened. And let me do what I know how to do.” Alicia looked for his eyes and took his hand. “I swear on my life that I’m going to find Valls and make sure you and your family are safe.”

  “I don’t want to be safe. I want to know the truth.”

  “What you want, Daniel, is revenge.”

  “That’s my business. And if you don’t tell me what’s really happening, I’m going to find out for myself. I’m serious.”

  “I know. May I ask you a favor?”

  Daniel shrugged.

  “Give me twenty-four hours. If in twenty-four hours I haven’t resolved this matter, I swear on whatever you want me to swear that I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. “Twenty-four hours,” he conceded at last. “I also have a favor to ask you in exchange.”

  “Name it.”

  “Tell me why Fermín says you owe him an explanation. An explanation about what?”

  Alicia lowered her eyes. “Many years ago, when I was a child, Fermín saved my life. It was during the war.”

  “Does he know?”

  “If he doesn’t, he suspects it. He’d given me up for dead.”

  “Is this wound you have from then?”

  “Yes,” she replied, in a way that made him think it was only one of many wounds Alicia was hiding.

  “Fermín has also saved me,” said Daniel. “Often.”

  She smiled, and made as if to get up. “Sometimes life sends us a guardian angel.”

  Daniel walked around the table to help her, but she stopped him. “I can manage on my own, thanks.”

  “Are you sure those pills haven’t left you a bit . . . ?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m a big girl. Come on, I’ll walk with you to your front door. It’s on my way.”

  They walked together to the door of the old bookshop, where Daniel pulled out the key. They looked at one another silently.

  “I have your word,” said Daniel.

  She nodded.

  “Good night, Alicia.”

  She remained there, motionless, watching him with that glazed look. Daniel didn’t know whether to attribute it to the drugs, or to the bottomless pit he could sense behind those green eyes. When he was about to go in, Alicia stood on her toes and brought her lips close to Daniel’s. He moved his face away, and the kiss brushed his cheek. Without saying a word, Alicia turned and walked away, her silhouette evaporating in the shadows.

  * * *

  Bea had been watching them from the window. She’d seen them come out of the café on the street corner and approach their front door when the midnight bells rang out over the city’s rooftops. The moment Alicia drew close to Daniel and he stood there, stock-still, lost in her eyes, Bea felt her stomach turn. She saw her get on her toes, ready to kiss his lips. Then she stopped looking.

  She went slowly back to the bedroom and stopped for a moment outside Julián’s bedroom. He was sound asleep. Bea closed his door and went on to her bedroom, then got back into bed and waited to hear the door. Daniel’s footsteps moved stealthily along the corridor. Bea lay there in the semidarkness, staring at the ceiling. She listened to Daniel undressing at the foot of the bed and putting on the pajamas she’d left for him on the chair. She felt his body slip in between the sheets. When she turned her head, she saw that Daniel had his back to her.

  “Where were you?” she asked.


  “With Fermín.”

  16

  Hendaya offered him a cigarette, but Fernandito refused it.

  “I don’t smoke, thanks.”

  “A wise man. That’s why I can’t understand why you don’t call your father so he can come and fetch you and bring your papers. Then all this could be resolved. Or are you hiding something?”

  The boy shook his head. Hendaya smiled amicably, and Fernandito remembered how he’d seen him blow the chauffeur’s knees off with his gun a couple of hours earlier. The dark stain on the shirt collar was still there.

  “I’m not hiding anything, sir.”

  “So . . . ?” Hendaya pushed the phone toward him. “One call, and you’ll be free.”

  Fernandito swallowed hard. “I’d like to ask you not to force me to make this call. For a good reason.”

  “A good reason? And what is that, dear friend Alberto?”

  “It’s because of my father, who is ill.”

  “Ah, is he now?”

  “It’s his heart. He had a heart attack a couple of months ago, and he spent six weeks at the Clínico. Now he’s home, recovering, but he’s very weak.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “My father is a good man, sir. A war hero.”

  “War hero?”

  “He entered Barcelona with the Nacionales. There’s a photograph of him, parading along Avenida Diagonal, on the cover of La Vanguardia. We have it framed in our dining room. He’s the third on the right. You should see it. They allowed him to march in the front row because of his bravery in the battle of the Ebro. He was a sergeant.”

  “You must all be very proud of him.”

  “We are, but the poor man hasn’t really been himself after what happened to my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “She died four years ago.”

  “My condolences.”

  “Thank you, sir. Do you know what the last thing my mother said to me before dying was?”

  “No.”

  “Promise me you’ll look after your father, and you won’t upset him.”

  “And have you lived up to that promise?”

  Fernandito lowered his eyes and looked contrite. He shook his head. “The truth is, I haven’t been the son my mother raised, or the one my father deserves. Believe it or not, I’m a good-for-nothing.”