“What if they call from Madrid?”
“Not a word until we find her. Let’s make as little noise as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
35
It was the best dream she’d ever had.
Alicia woke up in a room with white walls that smelled of camphor. A distant murmur of voices rose and fell in a tide of whispers. The first thing she noticed was the absence of pain. For the first time in twenty years, she wasn’t suffering. The pain had vanished completely, taking with it that world she’d inhabited almost all her life. In its place she found a space where light traveled through the air like a dense liquid, colliding with specks of dust that floated in the atmosphere, forming iridescent sparks.
Alicia laughed. She could breathe and feel her body resting. There was no more agony in her bones, and her spirit was rid of that biting metal clamp that had always imprisoned her. The face of an angel leaned over her and looked into her eyes. The angel was very tall; he wore a white coat, and had no wings. He barely had any hair either, but he carried a hypodermic syringe, and when she asked him whether she was dead, and whether this was hell, the angel smiled and said it depended how one looked at it, but she shouldn’t worry. She felt a small prick, and a torrent of liquid happiness spread through her veins, leaving a warm trail of peace.
A small devil appeared behind the angel. He was lean and had a huge nose, a nose that could have inspired Molière to write a comedy or Cervantes to invent an epic tale.
“Alicia, we’re going home,” the little devil announced in a voice that seemed strangely familiar.
A spirit with jet-black hair stood next to him. His features were so perfect that Alicia felt like kissing his lips, running her fingers through that fairy-tale hair, and falling in love with him, even if only for a while, enough for her to think she was awake and had bumped into the happiness that some careless person had dropped along the way.
“May I caress you?” she asked him.
The dark prince, for surely he was at least a prince, looked at the little devil uncertainly.
The devil made a gesture to indicate he need pay no attention to her. “That’s my blood running through her veins: it’s made her forget her decorum momentarily and left her on the wrong side of immodesty. It’ll pass.”
At a sign from the prince, a whole gang of dwarfs materialized, except that they weren’t dwarfs and were all dressed in white. Between the four of them, they lifted her off the bed by tugging at the sheets, and placed her on a stretcher. The prince took her hand and squeezed it. He would make a wonderful father, thought Alicia. The way he squeezed her hand and his velvety touch very much confirmed it.
“Would you like to have a child?” she asked.
“I’ve got seventeen, my dear,” said the prince.
“Go to sleep, Alicia, you’re embarrassing me,” said the little devil.
But she didn’t sleep. Holding her beau’s hand and riding aboard the magic stretcher, she went on dreaming as she rode through endless corridors decorated with a crest of white lights. They sailed through elevators and rooms haunted with laments, until Alicia felt that the air was getting colder and the pale ceilings changed into a celestial vault of clouds, stained red by the touch of a cotton-wool sun. The little devil placed a blanket over Alicia, and, following instructions from the prince, the dwarfs lifted her into an incongruous-looking carriage—incongruous, considering this was a fairy tale, because it had no steeds to pull it, nor was it decorated with copper spirals but only a cryptic message on the side:
LA PONDEROSA
COLD MEATS
Wholesale
and Home Delivery
The prince was closing the carriage doors when Alicia heard voices, someone ordering them to stop and shouting threats at them. For a few minutes she was left alone while her champions confronted a posse of peasants, for the air was filled with the unmistakable echo of blows with fists and clubs. When the little devil returned to her side, his hair stood on end, his lip was split, and he wore a victorious smile. The vehicle set off with a rattling movement, and Alicia had the strange impression that she could smell cheap spicy sausage.
* * *
The ride seemed endless. They plowed through avenues and lanes, following the twisted map of the labyrinth, and when the doors opened and the dwarfs, who had grown and now looked like ordinary men, pulled her out on the stretcher, Alicia noticed that the carriage had miraculously turned into a van and they were in a narrow, dark street that cut a swath through the shadows. The little devil, who suddenly bore Fermín’s unmistakable features, told her she was very nearly safe and sound. They carried her up to a large carved oak door, behind which a man with sparse hair and vulturine eyes peeked out. The man looked at both sides of the street and whispered, “Come in.”
“This is where I say good-bye,” announced the prince.
“Give me a kiss, at least,” Alicia murmured.
Fermín rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, kiss her, or we’ll never be done.”
And with all his dark grace, Prince Armando kissed her. His lips tasted of cinnamon, and by any reckoning he knew how to kiss a woman: with art, composure, and the long experience of an artist who takes pride and pleasure in his work. Alicia allowed a chill to run through her and stir forgotten corners of her body, and then she closed her eyes, sealing off the tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Unbelievable,” said Fermín. “Anyone would say she was fifteen. Thank goodness her father isn’t here to see it.”
What sounded like the mechanism for a cathedral clock sealed the door behind them. They went down a long, palatial corridor peopled with frescoes of fabulous creatures that appeared and disappeared in the light of the oil lamp carried by the keeper of the place. The air smelled of paper and magic, and when the passageway opened up into a large hall with a vaulted ceiling, Alicia saw it.
A labyrinth of shimmering forms ascended toward an immense glass dome. Moonlight, split into a thousand blades, poured down from up high and threw into relief the seemingly impossible geometry of a spell made up of all the books, all the stories, and all the dreams in the world. Recognizing the place she had dreamed of so often, Alicia stretched out her arms to touch it, fearing it would vanish in the air. Next to her appeared the faces of Daniel and Bea.
“Where am I? What is this place?”
Isaac Montfort, the keeper who had opened the doors for them and whom Alicia recognized after so many years, knelt down beside her and stroked her face.
“Alicia, welcome back to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books.”
36
Valls was beginning to suspect that he had imagined it. The visions faded, and he was no longer sure whether he’d dreamed about the woman who had come down the stairs to the door of his cell and asked him whether he was Minister Valls. At times he doubted that it had actually happened. Perhaps he’d dreamed it. Perhaps he was just another wreck of humanity rotting in the cells of Montjuïc Castle who, overcome by delirium, had come to believe that he was his jailer and not who he really was. He seemed to remember a case like that—Mitjans, his name was. Mitjans had been a famous playwright during the years of the Republic, and Valls had felt enormous contempt for him because life had given him everything that he, Valls, had longed for and had been unable to achieve. Mitjans, who like so many others had been the object of his envy, had ended his days in the castle, no longer knowing who he was, in cell 19.
But Valls knew who he was, because he remembered. And as that bedeviled David Martín had once told him, one is what one remembers. That is why he knew that that woman, whoever she was, had been there, and that one day she, or someone like her, would return to free him. He wasn’t like Mitjans, or all those other wretches who had died under his command. He, Mauricio Valls, would not die in that place. He owed it to his daughter Mercedes, the person who had kept him alive all that time. Perhaps that was why, every time he heard the door to the basement open and footsteps coming d
own the darkened stairs, he would look up, his eyes full of hope. Because this could be the day.
It must have been early morning—he’d learned to tell the time of day in relation to the cold. He knew there was something different, because they never came down so early. He heard the door and heavy footsteps. Slow footsteps. A figure materialized in the dark. He carried a tray that gave off the most delicious aroma he had ever smelled.
Hendaya left the tray on the floor and lit a candle that he placed in a candlestick. “Good morning, Minister,” he announced. “I’ve brought you your breakfast.”
Hendaya pushed the tray until it was close to the metal bars, then lifted the lid covering a plate. A vision appeared: a juicy fillet steak in a creamy pepper sauce, with roast potatoes and sautéed vegetables. Valls could feel his mouth salivating and his stomach turning.
“Medium rare,” said Hendaya. “Just as you like it.”
On the tray there was a basket with small bread rolls, silver cutlery, and linen napkins. The drink, an exquisite Rioja, nestled in a Murano wineglass.
“Today is a great day, Minister. You deserve it.” Hendaya slipped the tray under the bars.
Valls ignored the cutlery and the napkin and grabbed the piece of meat with his hand. He shoved it into his toothless mouth and began to devour it with a ferocity he didn’t recognize in himself. He wolfed down the meat, the potatoes, and the bread. He licked the plate until it shone and drank that delicious wine until there wasn’t a drop left in the glass.
Hendaya observed him nonchalantly, with a pleasant smile, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “You must excuse me: I ordered a dessert, but they haven’t delivered it.”
Valls pushed the tray to one side and grabbed the metal bars, his eyes fixed on Hendaya.
“You seem very surprised, Minister. I don’t know whether it’s because of the festive menu or because you were expecting someone else.”
The pleasures of the feast were beating a retreat. Valls slumped down again in the far end of the cell. Hendaya stayed where he was for a few minutes, leafing through a newspaper while he finished his cigarette. When he was done, he threw the butt away and folded the paper. Noticing that Valls was looking intently at the newspaper, he remarked, “Perhaps you would like some reading material? A man of letters like you must miss his daily reading.”
“Please,” Valls implored.
“But of course!” said Hendaya, walking over to the bars.
Valls stretched out his remaining hand, a plea on his face.
“In fact it brings good news today. To tell you the truth, it was when I read it this morning that I thought you deserved a proper celebration.” Hendaya flung the newspaper inside the cell and headed up the stairs. “All yours. You can keep the candle.”
Valls fell upon the paper and grabbed it. The pages had gotten all tangled when Hendaya threw it, and it took him a while to put it back in order with a single hand. When he’d managed to do so, he drew the candle closer and skimmed over the front page.
At first he couldn’t make out the letters. His eyes had been confined to that place far too long. What he did recognize was the full-page photograph. It was a snapshot taken in El Pardo Palace. He was posing in front of a large mural, wearing the navy pinstripe suit he’d had tailored in London three years before. It was the last official photograph Mauricio Valls’s ministry had distributed. The words emerged slowly, like a shimmering image underwater.
Breaking News
A Great Spaniard Dies
DEATH OF MINISTER MAURICIO VALLS IN TRAFFIC ACCIDENT
The Generalissimo Declares Three Days of Official Mourning
Mauricio Valls was a shining light in the firmament of a new, large and free Spain, reborn from the glory of the war’s ashes. He embodied the highest values of the Regime and took Spanish letters and culture to unforeseen heights.
—Press Agency/Editorial Office, Madrid, January 9, 1960
Spain has awoken in shock at the news of the immeasurable loss of one of its favorite sons, Don Mauricio Valls y Echevarría, minister for national education. The tragedy happened late last night, when the car in which he was traveling with his driver and bodyguard crashed on kilometer 4 of Carretera de Somosaguas, on his way back to his private residence after a late meeting in El Pardo with other members of the cabinet. The first reports suggest that the accident happened when a tanker truck, traveling in the opposite direction, punctured one of its wheels. The driver lost control and swerved onto the wrong side of the road, crashing against the minister’s car, which was traveling at high speed. The tanker was carrying a load of fuel, and the crash caused a huge explosion that was heard by residents in the area, who immediately informed the authorities. Minister Valls and his driver died on the spot.
The driver of the tanker, Rosendo M. S., from Alcobendas, passed away before emergency services could resuscitate him. A huge blaze resulted from the collision, and the bodies of both the minister and his bodyguard were badly burned.
The government has called an emergency meeting of the cabinet this morning, and the head of state has announced that he will issue an official communiqué later in the day, in person, from El Pardo Palace.
Mauricio Valls was fifty-nine years old, and had devoted over two decades to serving the regime. His loss leaves a big void in Spanish letters, on account of both his work at the head of his ministry and his distinguished career as publisher, author, and academic. Senior officials of all the public institutions and the most renowned figures in our letters and culture have visited the ministry to express their condolences and mark the admiration and respect Don Mauricio inspired in all those who knew him.
Don Mauricio Valls leaves a wife and daughter. Government sources have informed us that the funeral chapel will be open to all members of the public who wish to pay their last respects to this universal Spaniard, from five o’clock this afternoon in Oriente Palace. The editorial board and the entire staff of this newspaper also wish to express the same profound shock and grief felt by all at the loss of Don Mauricio Valls, a shining example of the highest levels to which a citizen of our country can aspire.
¡Viva Franco! ¡Arriba España! Don Mauricio Valls: ¡presente!
Agnus Dei
January 1960
1
Victoria Sanchís awoke between linen sheets, ironed and perfumed with lavender. She was wearing beautifully tailored silk pajamas. She touched her face and noticed that her skin smelled of bath salts, and her hair was clean, although she didn’t remember having washed it. She couldn’t remember anything.
She sat up, far back enough to be leaning on the velvet headboard, and tried to work out where she was. The bed, large, with pillows that invited surrender, presided over an ample bedroom decorated in a plush, elegant style. A soft light filtered through a large window with white curtains, revealing a chest of drawers adorned with a vase full of fresh flowers. Next to the chest of drawers stood a dressing table, placed under a mirror. There was also a desk. The walls were covered with embossed paper, and there were a number of watercolors of pastoral scenes, ostentatiously framed.
She drew the sheet to one side and sat on the edge of the bed. The pastel colors in the carpet at her feet matched the rest of the room’s decor to perfection. The setting had been put together with professional taste by an expert hand. It was both warm and impersonal. Victoria wondered whether this was hell.
She closed her eyes and tried to understand how she had gotten here. The last thing she remembered was the house in El Pinar. The images came back to her little by little. The kitchen area. She was tied hand and foot to a chair with bits of wire. Hendaya had knelt down next to her and was interrogating her. She spat in his face. A brutal blow knocked her onto the floor. One of Hendaya’s men lifted the chair. Two other men were bringing in Morgado and tying him to a table. Hendaya was questioning her again. She kept silent. Then the policeman took a gun and blew off Morgado’s knee, shooting at point-blank range. The chauffeur’s screams we
re breaking her heart. She had never heard a man howl with pain like that. Hendaya questioned her again, calmly. Struck dumb, she shook with terror. Hendaya shrugged and walked around the table, placing the barrel of the gun on the chauffeur’s other knee. One of the captain’s thugs held her head so that she couldn’t look away. “Look what happens to people who try to fuck with me, you whore.” Hendaya pulled the trigger. A cloud of blood and pulverized bone splashed his face. Morgado’s body was going into spasms as if some high-voltage current was running through it, but no more sound came out of his mouth. Victoria closed her eyes. Moments later came the third shot.
Nausea suddenly hit her, and she jumped out of bed. A half-open door led to the bathroom. She collapsed on her knees by the toilet and vomited bile. She went on retching until she could no longer bring out a drop of saliva, then leaned against the wall, sitting on the floor, panting. She looked around her. The bathroom, a creation made of pink marble, was pleasantly warm. On the wall, a built-in loudspeaker exuded the murmur of a string orchestra performing a sugary version of a Bach adagio.
Victoria recovered her breath and stood up, leaning on the walls. Her head was spinning. She walked over to the sink and let the water run. After washing her face and getting rid of the bitter aftertaste in her mouth, she dried herself with a thick, soft towel, which she dropped by her feet. She staggered back to the room and slumped back onto the bed. Although she tried to erase the images from her mind, Hendaya’s blood-spattered face seemed branded with a hot iron on her retinas.
Victoria looked around at this strange place in which she had awoken. She didn’t know how long she had been here. If this was hell, and it deserved to be, it looked more like a luxury hotel. Soon she fell asleep again, praying she would never wake up.
The Labyrinth of the Spirits Page 59
