He let the icy breeze clear his conscience and went back inside, determined to wait, just as Alicia had asked him to do. His noble resolve lasted about five minutes. Soon he began to wander around the room, reading the titles of the books on the shelves, stroking the pieces of furniture as he walked by, studying objects he hadn’t noticed on previous visits and imagining Alicia following that same path and touching the same things. This isn’t good, Fernandito. Sit down.
The chairs avoided him. When he thought he couldn’t find any new routes around the sitting room, he ventured down a corridor at the end of which were two doors. One led to the bathroom. The other one had to be the door to Alicia’s bedroom. He suddenly felt himself blushing, a mixture of modesty, unease, and embarrassment. Before he reached the bathroom door, he turned and went back to the main room, where he sat on a chair and waited. A few heavy minutes dragged by, with no other comfort than the ticking of a grandfather clock. Time, Fernandito realized, always flows at the opposite speed to the needs of the person living through it.
He stood up again and went over to the window. No sign of Vargas. The world went by, distant and banal, five floors down. Without knowing how, he found himself again in the corridor. Outside the bathroom door. He stepped in and looked at his reflexion in the mirror. An open lipstick rested on a shelf. He picked it up and examined it. Blood red. He put it back again and walked out, feeling embarrassed. On the other side was the bedroom door. From the doorway, he could see that the bed was made. Alicia hadn’t slept there. A thousand ideas assaulted him, and he killed them off before they could reach his mouth.
He took a few steps into the room and gazed at the bed. He imagined her lying there and looked away. He wondered how many men had been there, lying by her side, exploring her body with their hands and lips. He walked over to the wardrobe and opened it. Alicia’s clothes were visible in the shadowy darkness. He brushed the hanging dresses with his fingertips, then closed the door. Opposite the bed stood a wooden chest of drawers. He opened the first drawer and found a whole stash of beautifully folded silk and lace garments. Black, red, and white. It took him a few seconds to realize what he was staring at. This was Alicia’s underwear. He gulped. His fingers paused two centimeters from the material. He pulled back his hand as if the lace might burn him and closed the drawer.
You’re an idiot, he told himself.
An idiot or not, he opened the second drawer. It contained silk stockings and some device with straps that had the look of something designed to hold them up and made him feel quite dizzy. He shook his head slowly and began to close the drawer. Just then the telephone started to ring with such fury that Fernandito thought his heart was coming unstuck, ready to shoot out of his mouth and crash against the wall. He slammed the drawer shut and ran panting back to the dining room. The telephone was hammering accusingly, like a fire alarm.
Fernandito approached it and watched it vibrate without knowing what to do. The bell rang incessantly for about a minute or more. When at last the boy placed his trembling hand on the receiver and lifted it, the bell stopped ringing. He let it drop back and took a deep breath, then sat down and closed his eyes. Something was pounding in his chest. It was his heart: it was throbbing, and seemed to have gotten trapped in his throat. He laughed at himself, finding comfort in his own foolishness. If Alicia could see him . . .
He was no good at this sort of thing. The sooner he bowed to the evidence, the better. The events of that night and his short experience at Alicia’s service had proved to him that he was not made for a life of intrigue but rather for trade and public service. As soon as Alicia returned, he would give her his notice. And he’d better forget his visit to the sanctuary of his boss’s undergarments. Worthier men had ruined themselves for much less, he told himself.
* * *
He was recovering his composure with these edifying thoughts when the telephone burst out ringing again. This time, in a reflex action, he picked it up and replied in a barely audible voice.
“Who’s that?” roared the voice at the other end of the line.
It was Vargas.
“It’s Fernandito,” he replied.
“Tell Alicia to come to the phone.”
“Señorita Alicia has gone out.”
“Where has she gone?”
“I don’t know.”
Vargas swore under his breath.
“And you? What are you doing there?”
“Señorita Alicia ordered me to wait for you and tell you what happened last night.”
“What happened?”
“I think it’s better if I tell you in person. Where are you?”
“At the Civil Registry. Did Alicia say when she would be back?”
“She didn’t say anything. She took a gun and left.”
“A gun?”
“Well, technically speaking it was a revolver, one of those with a cylinder that—”
“I know what it is,” Vargas cut in.
“Will you be coming?”
“In a while. I’ll go by my room to take a shower and change my clothes—I look a real mess. Then I’ll come by the apartment.”
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
“You’d better. Oh, and Fernandito . . .”
“Yes?”
“Don’t let me find out that you’ve been touching anything you shouldn’t touch.”
* * *
The blue tram slid along at the speed of tedium. Alicia had got to the stop just in time to jump on board when the driver was about to begin his ascent up Avenida del Tibidabo. The car was packed with a group of school kids, clearly just emerged from a boarding school. Two rather severe-looking priests guarded the boys on their journey, presumably an outing to the church at the top of Mount Tibidabo.
Alicia was the only woman in the tram. As soon as she sat down—in the seat a pupil had offered her at a signal from one of the priests—the raucous kids went so quiet one could hear their stomachs growl, or perhaps it was simply their hormones galloping through their veins. Alicia decided to look down and pretend she was traveling alone. The schoolboys, who seemed to be in their early teens, looked at her out of the corner of their eyes as if they’d never seen any creature like her. One of them, a red-haired brat riddled with freckles, who looked even more of a simpleton than most boys his age, was sitting right opposite Alicia and seemed to be hypnotized by her presence. His eyes had become fixed in a constant bouncing action between her knees and her face. Alicia looked up and held his gaze for a few seconds. The poor boy seemed to be choking, until one of the priests gave him a slap on the back of his neck. “Manolito, let’s not get into trouble,” warned the cleric.
The rest of the journey passed amid silence, furtive glances, and the occasional muffled giggle. The sight of bursting puberty is the best antidote to nostalgia, thought Alicia.
When they came to the end of the ride, she decided to stay seated while the two priests herded the boarders away as if they were cattle. She watched the mob file past and head for the funicular station, exchanging pushes and vulgar guffaws. The more excited ones turned to look at her and share comments with their mates. Alicia waited until the priests had led them all into the funicular station, as if they were herding them into a pen, and then stepped out of the tram. She crossed the small square, her eyes riveted on the imposing facade of El Pinar crowning the hill before her.
A couple of black cars were parked by the door of the restaurant called La Venta, just a few meters from the tram stop. Alicia knew it well; it was Leandro’s favorite restaurant in the whole of Barcelona, and more than once he’d taken her there to teach her table manners and the etiquette of eating out at fancy places. An elegant young lady doesn’t just hold her knife and fork, she caresses them. Alicia put her hand in her bag, felt her revolver, and unlocked the safety catch.
The vast property of El Pinar had two entrances. The main entrance, where cars drove in, was on Calle Manuel Arnús, just over a hundred meters from the square, following the ro
ad that wound its way around the hill toward the northern end of Carretera de las Aguas. The second entrance, an iron gate leading to a path with steps through the garden, was just a short distance from the tram stop. Alicia walked over to the gate and, as she had suspected, discovered that it was locked. She continued following the property wall toward the main entrance. There was a second house there, presumably the old living quarters of the property guards, which she imagined was being watched. As she proceeded around the hill, she noticed at least one figure standing at the top, guarding the outside of the house. Hendaya probably had more men dotted around, both outside and indoors.
She stopped halfway along, at an angle where she couldn’t be seen from the main entrance, and examined the wall. It didn’t take her long to work out where Fernandito had entered the property the night before. It didn’t seem practicable in daylight. It was obvious that she would need help.
She returned to the square, where the tram was already beginning its descent, then made her way to La Venta and stepped into the restaurant. It was deserted at that time of day, and the kitchen wouldn’t open for a few hours. She walked over to the bar and sat down on one of the stools. A waiter peered out from behind a curtain and approached her with a polite smile.
“A glass of white wine, please.”
“Any preference?”
“Surprise me.”
The waiter nodded and expertly took a wineglass, without making eye contact.
“May I use the phone?”
“Of course, miss. It’s over there, at the end of the bar.”
Alicia waited for the waiter to disappear again behind the curtain, took a sip of wine, and walked over to the telephone.
* * *
Fernandito was looking out of the window, trying to catch sight of Vargas among the pedestrians walking up Calle Aviñón, when the phone rang again behind him. This time he didn’t hesitate before picking it up. “Where on earth are you? Weren’t you coming?”
“Who was coming?” asked Alicia at the other end of the line.
“Sorry, I thought you were Captain Vargas.”
“Have you seen him?”
“He called to say he was on his way here.”
“How long ago?”
“About a quarter of an hour, more or less. He said he was at the Civil Registry.”
Alicia let a moment of silence go by. Fernandito interpreted it as a moment of bewilderment.
“Did he say what he was doing there?”
“No. Are you all right?”
“I’m all right, Fernandito. When Vargas arrives, you must first tell him what you told me and then tell him that I’ll be waiting for him in the bar next to the Tibidabo funicular station. La Venta.”
“That’s right next to El Pinar . . .”
“Tell him to hurry up.”
“Do you need help? Do you want me to come over?”
“Don’t even think of it. I need you to wait there until Vargas arrives, and do what I said. Have you understood?”
“Yes . . . Señorita Alicia?”
Alicia had hung up.
Fernandito was staring at the silent receiver when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye: a movement behind the windows of Vargas’s rooms, on the other side of the street. The policeman must have gone up while he was on the phone to Alicia. The boy went over to the window to make sure that he was right. Vargas was on the street, walking up to the Gran Café.
“Captain Vargas!” Fernandito called out.
The policeman disappeared through a doorway. Fernandito looked again at the windows on the other side of the street, just in time to glimpse a figure drawing the curtains. Suddenly he was seized by a dark, cold certainty. He went to the door and started running down the stairs as fast as he could.
25
Vargas noticed it right away. His room key slid into the lock with difficulty, as if it had come across sharp edges in the mechanism, and when he turned it, the spring barely offered resistance. The lock had been forced.
Pulling out his gun, he gently pushed the door inward with his foot. The apartment—just two rooms separated by a curtain—lay in semidarkness. The curtains were drawn, and Vargas clearly remembered having left them open.
He cocked the hammer. A silhouette stood motionless in a corner. Vargas raised the weapon and aimed.
“Please, don’t shoot! It’s me!”
Vargas took a few steps forward, and the figure stepped out with his hands in the air.
“Rovira! What the hell are you doing here? I was about to blow your brains out.”
The little spy, still wearing his shabby coat, was trembling as he looked at him.
“Put your hands down,” said Vargas.
Rovira nodded repeatedly and obeyed. “I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to wait for you downstairs, but someone was following me, I’m sure, so I thought—”
“Hold your horses, Rovira. What are you talking about?”
Rovira took a deep breath and waved his hands about, as if he didn’t know where to begin. Vargas closed the door and led him to an armchair.
“Sit down.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vargas grabbed a chair and sat facing Rovira.
“Start at the beginning.”
Rovira swallowed hard. “I have a message for you from Superintendent Linares.”
“Linares?”
Rovira nodded. “He was the one who ordered me to follow you and Señorita Alicia. Although I can assure you I’ve obeyed all the instructions you gave me and I’ve kept my distance so as not to bother you. And I’ve also reported the bare minimum.”
“What message?” snapped Vargas.
“When he arrived at police headquarters, Superintendent Linares received a call. Someone from Madrid. From very high up. He’s asked me to tell you that you’re in danger, that you’d both better leave town. You and Señorita Alicia. He told me to go and look for you at the morgue and tell you. At the morgue, I was told that you’d already left for the registry.”
“Go on.”
“Have you discovered anything interesting there?” asked Rovira.
“Nothing that concerns you. What else?”
“Well, I went to the registry but was also told that you’d left, so then I hurried over here to wait for you. And it was then that I noticed you were being watched.”
“Wasn’t that your job?”
“Someone else other than me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“And how did you get in here?”
“The door was open. I think someone has forced the lock. I made sure there was no one hidden inside, and I drew the curtains so nobody could see I was waiting for you here.”
Vargas looked at him for a long time, without saying a word.
“Have I done something wrong?” asked Rovira fearfully.
“Why didn’t Linares phone me at the morgue?”
“The superintendent said the telephones at headquarters weren’t safe.”
“And why didn’t he come in person?”
“He’s in a meeting with that officer they sent from the ministry. Someone called Alaya or something like that.”
“Hendaya.”
Rovira nodded. “That’s the one.”
The guy was still trembling like a puppy. “Can you give me a glass of water, please?” he begged.
Vargas hesitated for a moment. He walked over to the chest of drawers and filled a glass from a half-full pitcher.
“What about Señorita Alicia?” asked Rovira behind him. “Isn’t she with you?”
Rovira’s voice was suddenly much closer. Vargas turned, glass in hand, to find Rovira standing right next to him. He no longer trembled, and his frightened expression had fused into an impenetrable mask.
Vargas never got to see the blade of the knife.
He felt a brutal stab in his side, as if someone had bashed his ribs with a hammer, and realized that the cutting edg
e had sunk so deep, it had perforated his lung. Vargas thought he saw Rovira smile, and when he tried to grab his revolver, he was struck by a second blow. The blade penetrated his neck right up to the handle. Vargas staggered. His vision clouded over, and he held on to the chest of drawers. A third knifing hit his stomach. He collapsed, falling flat on the floor. A shadow hovered over him. While his body surrendered amid convulsions, Rovira snatched his weapon from him, examined it with indifference, then chucked it on the floor.
“Piece of junk,” he said.
Vargas searched those bottomless eyes. Rovira waited a few seconds and then dealt him two more stab wounds in the stomach, twisting the blade as he did so. The policeman spat out a surge of blood and tried to hit Rovira, or whoever that creature was who was tearing him apart. His fists barely touched the other man’s face. Rovira pulled out the knife, soaked in his blood, and showed it to him.
“You son of a bitch,” whispered Vargas.
“Look at me, you old shit. I want you to die knowing that with her, I’m not going to be so gentle. I’m going to make her last, and I swear she’s going to curse you for having failed her while I show her all the things I can do.”
Vargas felt a deep cold taking hold of him, paralyzing his limbs. His heart beat fast, and he could barely breathe. A tepid, slimy sheet was spreading under his body. His eyes filled with tears, and he was overcome by fear such as he’d never felt before. His murderer cleaned the knife on his lapels and put it away. He stayed there, squatting, looking into Vargas’s eyes and relishing his agony.
“Can you feel it now?” he asked. “What is it like?”
Vargas closed his eyes and conjured up the image of Alicia. He died with a smile on his lips, and when the man he’d known as Rovira noticed it, such was his anger that even knowing Vargas was dead, he started hitting his face with his fists until his knuckles were raw.
* * *
Hiding in the doorway, Fernandito listened. He’d run up the stairs, and when he reached Vargas’s door, he waited for a moment before calling. The sound of sharp blows on the other side stopped him. A rough voice was yelling furiously while those terrible punches landed on what sounded like flesh and bone. Fernandito wrestled with the door, but it was shut. After a while the blows stopped, and he heard footsteps approaching the door. Fear gripped him, and, swallowing his shame, he ran up the stairs to hide. Glued to the wall on the landing, Fernandito heard the door open. Footsteps began to descend. Fernandito stuck his head into the stairwell and saw a short man wearing a black coat. He hesitated a few moments, then went silently down to Vargas’s door. It was ajar. He peeped into the doorway and saw the policeman’s body, lying on a black sheet that looked like a liquid mirror. He didn’t know what it was until he stepped on it, slipped, and fell headlong next to the body. Vargas, white as a marble statue, was dead.
The Labyrinth of the Spirits Page 53
