The Labyrinth of the Spirits

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  “And there was I thinking you were a good kid.”

  “Not at all. A lost cause, that’s me. All I do is give my poor father grief, as if he didn’t have enough to cope with already. One day I’m chucked out of my job, the next I forget my ID card. See for yourself. A war-hero father and a useless idiot of a son.”

  Hendaya studied him cautiously. “Am I to understand from all this that if you call your father and tell him you’ve been held in the police station because you didn’t have your ID on you, you’ll upset him again?”

  “That would finish him off, I’m sure. If a neighbor has to bring him here to fetch me in his wheelchair, I think he’d die of shame and grief to see what a disastrous son he’s got.”

  Hendaya thought about the matter. “I understand, Alberto, but you must understand me too. You put me in a difficult position.”

  “Yes, sir, and you’ve already been very patient with me. I really don’t deserve it. If it depended on me, I’d ask you to throw me in jail with all the worst scum, just to teach me a lesson. But I beg you to reconsider on account of my poor father. I’ll write down my name, surnames, and address, and tomorrow you can come and ask any of our neighbors—if possible in the morning, as that’s when my father is asleep, because of his medication.”

  Hendaya took the piece of paper Fernandito was handing him. “Alberto García Santamaría, Calle Comercio number thirty-six, fifth floor, door one,” he read out. “What if some police officers come with you now?”

  “If my father, who spends his nights awake looking out of the window and listening to the radio, sees me arriving with the police, he’ll throw me out, which I would deserve, and then he’d have a massive coronary.”

  “And we don’t want that to happen.”

  “No, sir.”

  “So how do I know that if I let you go, you won’t go back to your old ways?”

  Fernandito turned solemnly to face the official portrait of Franco hanging on the wall. “Because I’m going to swear to you before God and before the Generalissimo, cross my heart and hope to die.”

  For a few moments Hendaya looked at him with curiosity and a pinch of sympathy. “I see you’re still standing, so you must be telling the truth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look here, Alberto. I like you, and the truth is that it’s very late, and I’m tired. I’m going to give you an opportunity and cut you loose. I shouldn’t, because rules are rules, but I’ve been a son too, and not always the best. You can go.”

  Fernandito looked toward the office door in disbelief.

  “Go on, before I change my mind.”

  “A million thanks, sir.”

  “Thank your father. And don’t do it again.”

  Quick as a flash, Fernandito stood up and left the office, mopping the sweat off his brow. He walked unhurriedly through the long hall of the political police, and when he passed the two officers who were observing him in silence, he greeted them: “Have a good evening.”

  As soon as he reached the corridor, he quickened his pace and hurried on toward the wide stairs leading to the ground floor. It wasn’t until he’d walked through the main door and was on Vía Layetana that he allowed himself a deep breath and blessed the heavens, hell, and everything in between for his good fortune.

  * * *

  Hendaya watched Fernandito cross Vía Layetana and set off down the road. Behind him, he heard the approaching footsteps of the two officers who had guarded the boy.

  “I want to know who he is, where he lives, and who his friends are,” he said without turning around.

  17

  The mist flooding the streets of Vallvidrera left a trace of dew on Vargas’s clothes. He watched the taxi pull away and walked toward the lights of the bar next to the funicular station. The place was deserted at that time of night, and a closed notice hung on the door. Vargas looked through the glass front and scanned the interior. A waiter was drying glasses behind the counter, with only the radio and a mutt that a flea wouldn’t have touched to save its life for company. Vargas rapped on the glass with his knuckles. The waiter looked up from his boredom. He glanced at Vargas, then shook his head slowly. Vargas pulled out his badge and knocked again, louder. The waiter sighed and walked around the bar and over to the door. The dog, woken from its stupor, limped along, acting as his bodyguard.

  “Police,” announced Vargas. “I need to use your telephone.”

  The waiter opened the door and let him in. He pointed to the phone by the entrance gate to the counter. “Shall I serve you anything, while we’re at it?”

  “A cortado, if it’s not too much bother.”

  While the waiter was getting the coffee machine ready, Vargas picked up the phone and dialed the number for police headquarters. The dog planted itself next to him and observed him with dozing eyes and a feeble wag of the tail.

  “Chusco, don’t bother him,” warned the waiter.

  As Vargas waited for a reply, he and Chusco sized each other up, comparing their degrees of seniority and general wear and tear.

  “How old is the dog?” asked the policeman.

  The waiter shrugged. “When I bought the bar he was already here, and he couldn’t even hold back his farts. And that was ten years ago.”

  “What breed is it?”

  “Tutti-frutti.”

  Chusco flopped down onto one side and showed Vargas a bare pink belly. On the other end of the line someone cleared his throat.

  “Get me Linares. Vargas here, from Central Police Headquarters.”

  Shortly afterward he heard a click on the line and the slightly mocking voice of Linares. “I thought you’d be back in Madrid by now, Vargas, collecting medals.”

  “I’ve stayed on a few days longer so I can catch one of those processions with papier-mâché giants and big-heads.”

  “Don’t get too excited—all the seats are gone already. How can I help you at this time of night? Don’t tell me you have bad news.”

  “That depends. I’m in Vallvidrera, in the bar next to the funicular station.”

  “The best views in all Barcelona.”

  “You can say that! A while ago I saw a corpse in a house on Carretera de las Aguas.”

  Vargas enjoyed Linares’s reaction.

  “Holy shit,” Linares grunted. “Was that necessary?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me who the deceased is?”

  “You weren’t going to tell me anyhow.”

  “I would if I knew.”

  “Maybe you could tell me what the hell you were doing at such a late hour up there. Walking in your sleep?”

  “Tying up loose ends. You know how it is.”

  “Sure. And I suppose you expect me to get a judge out of bed now to sign it off.”

  “If it’s not too much to ask.”

  Linares huffed again. Vargas heard him voicing instructions. “Give me an hour, or an hour and a half,” he said to Vargas. “And do me a favor: don’t find any more stiffs, if you don’t mind.”

  “Will do.”

  Vargas put down the phone and lit a cigarette. A steaming cortado awaited him on the counter. The waiter looked at him, vaguely curious.

  “You haven’t heard anything,” Vargas advised him.

  “Don’t worry, I’m as deaf as Chusco.”

  “Can I make another call?”

  The waiter shrugged. Vargas dialed the number of the flat on Calle Aviñón. He had to wait a few minutes for an answer. At last he heard the receiver being picked up and the sound of soft breathing on the other end.

  “It’s me, Alicia. Vargas.”

  “Vargas?”

  “Don’t say you’ve forgotten me already.”

  A long pause. Alicia’s voice sounded as if it was coming from inside a fish tank. “I thought it would be Leandro,” she said at last, dragging her words.

  “You sound odd. Have you been drinking?”

  “When I drink I don’t sound odd, Vargas.”

  “What did you take?�
��

  “A little glass of warm milk before saying my prayers and going to bed.”

  “Where were you?” he asked.

  “I was having a drink with Daniel Sempere.”

  Vargas was silent for a while.

  “I know what I’m doing, Vargas.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In Vallvidrera, waiting for the police and the judge to come and remove the body.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That I went to Mataix’s house, trying to finish tying up loose ends, and I came across a surprise.”

  “And they bought that?”

  “Of course not, but I still have good friends in the force.”

  “What are you going to tell them about the body?”

  “That I don’t recognize him because I’d never seen him before. Which is technically true.”

  “Does your friend know you’ve been taken off the case?”

  “He probably found out before I did. He’s always ahead of the game.”

  “As soon as the body is identified, the news will reach Madrid. And Leandro.”

  “Which gives us a few hours’ leeway,” Vargas said. “With luck, that is.”

  “Did Fermín tell you anything?”

  “Pearls of wisdom. And that you two have a pending conversation.”

  “I know. Did he say what it was about?”

  “We’ve become close, but not that close. I have a feeling Fermín thinks you’re someone from his past.”

  “So what now?”

  “Once the judge has signed the warrant for the body to be removed, I’ll accompany the body to the morgue, arguing that it might be part of my investigation. I know the pathologist from my years in Leganés. He’s a good man. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “You’ll be there at least until sunrise.”

  “At least. I’ll take a nap in the morgue. I’m sure they’ll lend me a nice table,” joked Vargas halfheartedly.

  “Take care. And call me as soon as you know anything.”

  “Don’t worry. You try to get some rest.”

  Vargas put down the phone and went over to the counter. He drank his coffee, which was lukewarm by now, swallowing it in one gulp.

  “Shall I serve you another?”

  “Perhaps I’d rather a large coffee with milk.”

  “A pastry to go with it? It’s on the house. I’ll have to chuck them tomorrow.”

  “All right, then.”

  Vargas pulled a horn off the dry croissant and examined it against the light, debating whether swallowing that thing was a good idea. Chusco, with the low-scruple threshold peculiar to the species, was watching him attentively and licking his lips in anticipation. Vargas let the piece of pastry fall, and Chusco captured it in mid-flight. The dog proceeded to devour the prize avidly and then panted at Vargas in eternal gratitude.

  “Watch out, or you’ll never get rid of him,” warned the waiter.

  Vargas exchanged another glance with his new best friend. He gave him the rest of the croissant, and Chusco swallowed it in one gulp. In this dog-eat-dog world, he thought, when you get old and even common sense hurts, a crumb of kindness or pity is a dish fit for the gods.

  The ninety minutes promised by Linares turned into two long hours. When Vargas saw the headlights of the police car and the morgue van cutting through the mist as they came up the road, he paid for his coffees, adding a generous tip, and went out into the street to wait, cigarette in hand. Linares didn’t get out. He rolled down the window and signaled to Vargas to get into the car and sit next to him in the back seat. One of his men was driving. A chubby individual wrapped in a coat and bearing a sullen expression sat in the passenger seat.

  “Your Honor,” Vargas greeted him.

  The judge didn’t bother to reply or acknowledge his presence. Linares threw him a sharp glance and smiled, shrugging. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Close by. On Carretera de las Aguas.”

  While they drove down toward the entrance to the road, Vargas looked at his old colleague out of the corner of his eye. Twenty years in the force had taken their toll, and more. “You’re looking well,” he lied.

  Linares chuckled. Vargas met the judge’s look in the rearview mirror.

  “Old friends?” asked the judge.

  “Vargas doesn’t have friends,” said Linares.

  “Wise man.”

  Vargas guided the driver through the dark track described by the road until the headlights outlined the iron gates of the Mataixes’ house. The van from the morgue followed close behind. They got out of the car, and the judge took a few steps forward to look at the outline of the house through the trees.

  “The body is in the basement,” Vargas explained. “In a swimming pool. It’s probably been there two or three weeks.”

  “No shit,” said one of the assistants from the mortuary, who looked like a beginner.

  The judge drew up to Vargas and looked him in the eye. “Linares says you discovered it during the course of an investigation?”

  “That’s right, Your Honor.”

  “And you haven’t been able to identify it?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  The judge turned to look at Linares, who was rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

  The second mortuary assistant, older and with an impenetrable expression, walked over to the group and tried to catch Vargas’s eye. “One or several pieces?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The deceased.”

  “One. I believe.”

  The man nodded. “Manolo, the large bag, the boat hook, and a couple of shovels,” he said to his apprentice.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, while the morgue men were loading the corpse into the van and the judge was filling out forms on the police car’s hood under the beam of a flashlight held by Linares’s subordinate, Vargas noticed his old colleague standing next to him. Together, they silently watched the men struggle to lift the corpse, which was heavier than they’d expected, into the van. As they got on with the job, they bashed what must have been the corpse’s head a couple of times, quarreling among themselves and swearing under their breath.

  “Earth to earth,” murmured Linares. “One of ours?”

  Vargas checked that the judge was out of earshot. “Something like that. I’m going to need a bit of time.”

  Linares looked down. “Twelve hours, maximum. I can’t give you any more.”

  “Hendaya . . . ,” said Vargas.

  Linares nodded.

  “Is Manero in the morgue?”

  “Waiting for you. I’ve already told him you were going there.”

  Vargas smiled in gratitude.

  “Anything I need to know?” asked Linares.

  Vargas shook his head. “How’s Manuela?”

  “Fat as a hog, just like her mother.”

  “That’s how you like them.”

  Linares nodded solemnly.

  “I don’t suppose she remembers me,” Vargas said.

  “Not by name, but she still refers to you as ‘that son of a bitch.’ Fondly.”

  Vargas offered his friend a cigarette, but he declined. “What’s happened to us, Linares?”

  Linares shrugged. “Spain, I suppose.”

  “It could be worse. We could be in the bag.”

  “All in due time.”

  18

  He knew he was being followed without needing to look behind him. As he turned the corner and headed up toward the cathedral, Fernandito glanced over his shoulder and saw them: two figures that had been trailing him since he left the police station. He quickened his pace, adjusting his course to keep close to the shadows of the front doors until he reached the end of the esplanade. There he paused for a moment, hiding under the canopy of a closed café, and saw that Hendaya’s two henchmen hadn’t lost him. He had no intention of leading them to his home, much less to Alicia’s, so he decided to d
rag them along on a night tour of Barcelona, hoping he would eventually either tire them or shake them off by sheer good luck or an unlikely stroke of genius.

  He set off toward Puertaferrisa, sticking to the middle of the road, as visible as a target in a firing range. The road was practically deserted at that time of night, and Fernandito wandered unhurriedly, passing the occasional drunk, a nightwatchman on duty, and the usual contingent of lost souls who prowled the streets of Barcelona into the early hours. Every time he looked back, Hendaya’s hounds were there, keeping the same distance whether he walked faster or slower.

  When he reached the Ramblas, he considered breaking into a run and trying to lose them in the narrow streets of the Raval, but that would give him away, and given his followers’ patent skill, his chances would be slim. He decided to continue down the Ramblas until he reached the entrance to the Boquería market.

  A cortege of vans had congregated outside the market doors, where, beneath a garland of lightbulbs, a large group of workers were unloading crates, supplying the stalls for the following day. Without thinking twice, Fernandito slipped between the columns of crates, his silhouette melting into those of the dozens of workers moving through the market’s corridors. As soon as he felt he was out of sight of his pursuers, he scuttled off toward the rear of the enclosure. As he ran, the huge market with its vaulted ceiling opened up before him like a cathedral devoted to the art of fine foods, where the smells and colors of the universe conspired to form a great bazaar to meet the city’s appetites.

  He dodged heaps of fruit and vegetables, mounds of spices and canned food, boxes packed with ice and jelly-like creatures that were still moving, avoiding bleeding carcasses hanging from hooks and receiving curses and shoves from butchers, young hands, and women in rubber boots at the greengrocer stalls. When he reached the back of the building, he found himself in a square full of empty wooden crates. He darted behind a pillar of boxes, his eyes riveted on the market’s back exit. Thirty seconds ticked by without any sign of the two police officers. Fernandito took a deep breath and allowed himself a smile of relief.