The Labyrinth of the Spirits

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  “Fermín!” Bea shouted.

  Fermín performed a military salute and winked at Alicia. “Well, my dear vamp, I leave you in good hands. Try not to bite anyone. I’ll be back in the morning. Pay attention to everything Señora Bea tells you, and if possible try not to die.”

  “I’ll do my best. Thanks for everything, Fermín. Once again.”

  “Don’t remind me. Come on, Daniel. Looking dumbfounded won’t speed up the healing process.”

  Fermín left, dragging Daniel behind him.

  “All clear, then,” said the doctor. “Now, how does one get out of here? ”

  “I’ll see you out,” said the keeper.

  * * *

  They were left alone. Bea pulled up a chair and sat down next to Alicia. They regarded one another without uttering a word. Alicia ventured a smile of gratitude. Bea gazed at her, inscrutable.

  After a while the keeper poked his head in and sized up the situation. “Doña Beatriz, should you need anything, you know where to find me. I’ve left you a few blankets and the medicines with the doctor’s instructions on the shelf.”

  “Thanks, Isaac. Good night.”

  “Good night, then. Good night, Alicia,” said the keeper. His footsteps faded away down the corridor.

  “Everyone seems to know me here,” said Alicia.

  “Yes, everyone seems to know you. A pity nobody knows for certain who you really are.”

  Alicia nodded, giving Bea another meek smile, which Bea again didn’t return. A long, heavy silence fell between them. Alicia’s eyes roamed over the walls, which were covered with books from floor to ceiling. She knew Bea’s gaze was still fixed on her.

  “Can you tell me what you’re simpering about?” asked Bea.

  “Oh, just something silly. A while ago I dreamed that I was kissing a very handsome man, and I don’t know who he was.”

  “Do you have a habit of kissing strangers, or is that only when you’re under anesthetic?”

  Bea’s tone of voice cut like a knife blade, and as soon as the words had left her mouth she regretted them. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Don’t be. I deserve it,” said Alicia.

  “In just over three hours, it will be time for the antibiotic. Why don’t you try to sleep a bit, as the doctor ordered?”

  “I don’t think I could. I’m frightened.”

  “I thought nothing frightened you.”

  “I’m good at pretending.”

  Bea was about to say something, but she bit her tongue.

  “Bea?”

  “What?”

  “I know I have no right to ask you to forgive me, but—”

  “Forget about that for the moment. I don’t have to forgive you for anything.”

  “But would you, if I asked you to?”

  “Your friend Fermín says that if someone wants to be forgiven, he should go to the confessional, or buy himself a dog. For once, and because he can’t hear me, I’ll admit he’s right.”

  “Fermín is a wise man.”

  “He has his moments. But don’t tell him, or he’ll become unbearable. Now try to get some sleep.”

  “May I hold your hand?” asked Alicia.

  Bea hesitated, but in the end accepted Alicia’s hand. They were silent for a long time. Alicia closed her eyes and began to breathe slowly. Bea looked at that strange creature who made her feel fear and compassion at the same time. Soon after she arrived, when Alicia was still delirious, the doctor had examined her, and Bea had helped him undress her. She still had that image engraved on her mind: the horrifying wound that mauled her side.

  “Daniel is a lucky man,” murmured Alicia.

  “Are you trying to flatter me?”

  “A married woman and a mother? I would never dare.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be asleep,” said Bea.

  “So did I.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Do you mean the wound?”

  Bea didn’t reply.

  Alicia still had her eyes closed. “Just a bit,” she said. “The anesthetic has numbed it.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “It was during the war. In the bombings.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Alicia shrugged.

  “It helps me keep suitors away.”

  “I bet you have loads.”

  “None worth the candle. The best men fall in love with women like you. They only want me to fantasize about.”

  “If you’re trying to make me feel sorry for you, forget it.”

  Alicia smiled.

  “Don’t think they don’t fantasize about me,” ventured Bea with a chuckle.

  “I haven’t the slightest doubt.”

  “Why are they so stupid sometimes?” asked Bea.

  “Men? Who knows. Perhaps it’s because nature is a mother, though a cruel one, and she leaves them silly at birth. But some of them aren’t that bad.”

  “That’s what Bernarda says.”

  “And your Daniel?”

  Bea sharpened her eyes. “What about my Daniel?”

  “Nothing. He seems to be a nice guy. A good soul.”

  “He has his dark side, believe me.”

  “Because of what happened to his mother? To Isabella?”

  “What do you know about Isabella?”

  “Very little.”

  “You were a much better liar without the anesthetic.”

  “Can I trust you?”

  “I can’t see you have much choice. The question is whether I can trust you.”

  “Do you doubt it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “There are things about Isabella, about her past . . . ,” Alicia began. “I think Daniel has a right to know them, but I’m not sure whether in fact it would be better if he never did.”

  “Alicia?”

  Alicia opened her eyes and found Bea’s face almost touching hers. She felt her pressing her hand tightly.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to ask one thing of you. I’ll only tell you once.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Don’t ever think of harming Daniel or my family.”

  Alicia held that gaze, which became so commanding she hardly dared to breathe.

  “Swear you won’t.”

  Alicia gulped. “I swear.”

  Bea nodded and sat back in her chair again. Alicia saw her half close her eyes.

  “Bea?”

  “What is it now?”

  “There’s something . . . The other night, when I walked with Daniel to your front door . . .”

  “Shut up and go to sleep.”

  7

  The passing storm had given Barcelona that electric-blue tinge that can only be enjoyed on certain winter mornings. The sun had kicked away the clouds, and a clean light floated in the air, so liquid it could have been bottled. Señor Sempere, who had woken up with unalloyed optimism and, ignoring the doctor’s advice, downed a large cup of black coffee that tasted wonderfully rebellious, decided that it was going to be a memorable day.

  “We’re going to have more takings than a Molino variety show during Lent,” he announced. “You’ll see.”

  While he was removing the closed notice from the bookshop door, he noticed that Fermín and Daniel were whispering in a corner.

  “What are you two scheming?”

  They turned around with that stupid expression on their faces that indicated a budding conspiracy. They looked as if they hadn’t slept for a week, and if the bookseller’s memory served him correctly, they were wearing exactly the same clothes as the day before.

  “We were remarking on the fact that every day you look younger and more dashing,” said Fermín. “Young women of a marriageable age must be throwing themselves at your feet.”

  Before the bookseller was able to reply, the doorbell tinkled. A gentleman with crystal-clear eyes and impeccable business attire walked up to the counter and smiled placidly.

  “Good morning,
sir, how may we help you?”

  The visitor began to remove his gloves unhurriedly. “I was hoping you’d be able to answer a few questions,” said Hendaya. “Police.”

  The bookseller frowned and shot a quick look at Daniel, who had gone so pale he’d acquired the color of Bible paper, the sort used to print the complete works of universal classics.

  “Go ahead.”

  Hendaya smiled politely and pulled out a photograph that he left on the counter. “If you’d be so kind as to come over and have a look.”

  The three congregated behind the counter and proceeded to examine the photograph. It was a picture of Alicia Gris, looking about five years younger, smiling at the camera and putting on an air of innocence even a babe in arms wouldn’t have swallowed.

  “Do you recognize this young lady?”

  Señor Sempere picked up the photograph and looked at it carefully. He shrugged and passed it on to Daniel, who repeated the ritual. The last person to inspect it was Fermín, who, after lifting it up against the light, as if it were a counterfeit note, shook his head and handed it back to Hendaya.

  “I’m afraid we don’t know this person,” said the bookseller.

  “I must say, she does look a bit roguish, but her face doesn’t ring a bell,” Fermín corroborated.

  “No? Are you sure?”

  All three denied in unison.

  “You’re not sure, or you haven’t seen her?”

  “Yes we are, and no we haven’t,” Daniel replied.

  “I see.”

  “May I ask who that is?” asked the bookseller.

  Hendaya put the photograph back. “Her name is Alicia Gris, and she’s a fugitive from justice. She has committed three murders, that we know of, in the last few days. The most recent was yesterday, when she killed a police captain named Vargas. She’s very dangerous and may be armed. She’s been seen in this part of town during the last few days, and some of your neighbors say she came into the bookshop. One of the shop assistants in the bakery on the corner is quite sure she saw her with one of the employees from this bookshop.”

  “She must have made a mistake,” replied Señor Sempere.

  “That’s possible. Does anyone else work here, apart from you three?”

  “My daughter-in-law.”

  “Maybe she’ll remember her?”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  “If you remember anything, or if your daughter-in-law does, please call this telephone number. It doesn’t matter what time it is. The name is Hendaya.”

  “We’ll do that.”

  The policeman gave a friendly nod and headed for the door. “Thank you for your help. Have a nice day.”

  They stayed behind the counter without saying a word, watching Hendaya cross the street slowly and stop by the café on the other side. There an individual in a black coat came up to him, and the two talked for about a minute. The individual nodded, and Hendaya set off down the street. The man in the black coat glanced briefly at the bookshop and stepped into the café. He sat at the table by the window and remained there, vigilant.

  “Can someone tell me what’s going on?” asked Señor Sempere.

  “It’s complicated,” ventured Fermín.

  Just then the bookseller caught sight of his niece, Sofía, who was returning from taking Julián to the park. She was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Who was that handsome hunk who just left?” she asked from the door. “What’s the matter? Has someone died?”

  * * *

  The conclave took place in the back room. Fermín broached the subject without further delay.

  “Sofía, I know you adolescents keep your brains on the back burner while you wait for the hormonal tsunami to abate, but if the handsome snake you’ve just seen leaving the bookshop, or any other individual using any old pretext, appears and asks you whether you’ve seen, know, have heard of, or have the faintest idea of the existence of Señorita Alicia Gris, you’re going to lie with that Neapolitan grace God has given you and say no, you’ve never seen her in your life, and you’ll say so looking as dumb as your neighbor Merceditas, or I swear that, even though I’m not your father, or your legal guardian, I’ll stick you in a cloistered convent from which you’ll not be allowed out until you find Sir Winston Churchill devilishly handsome. Are you with me?”

  Sofía nodded remorsefully.

  “Now go to the counter and pretend you’re doing something useful.”

  Once they’d gotten Sofía out of the way, Señor Sempere confronted his son and Fermín.

  “I’m still waiting for you to explain what the hell is going on.”

  “Have you taken your blood pressure medication?”

  “With my coffee.”

  “What a grand idea. All you need to do now is to dunk a dynamite cartridge in it, as if it were a sponge finger, and then we can all pat you on the back.”

  “Don’t change the subject, Fermín.”

  Fermín pointed at Daniel. “I’ll take charge of this. You go out there and behave as if you were me.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Keep your eyes peeled. Those dickheads are staking out the shop and will be waiting for us to make a wrong move.”

  “I was going to take over from Bea . . .”

  “Take over from Bea?” asked Señor Sempere. “Take over from what?”

  “A number of issues,” Fermín cut in. “Daniel, don’t leave the premises. I’ll go. I have experience in matters of military intelligence, and I can slip out like an eel. Go on, beat it. It mustn’t look as if we’re scheming.”

  Daniel walked through the back-room curtain reluctantly, leaving them alone.

  “Well?” asked Señor Sempere. “Are you going to tell me once and for all what’s going on here?”

  Fermín smiled meekly. “Do you fancy a Sugus?”

  8

  The day proved endless for Daniel. The hours dragged by as he waited for Bea and let his father tend to the customers. Fermín had left, shortly after palming off one of his byzantine tales on Señor Sempere, consisting of monumental fibs whispered in confidential tones, which he hoped would silence the man’s questions, for a few hours at least, and appease his alarm.

  “We must appear more normal than usual, Daniel,” he’d said shortly before sneaking out through the back-room window into the square of the church of Santa Ana, to avoid detection by the officer Hendaya had left watching the bookshop.

  “And when have we ever been normal?”

  “Don’t get all existential now. As soon as I see that the coast is clear, I’ll slip out and take over from Bea.”

  Bea appeared at last around noon, when Daniel’s hair was beginning to gray and he’d bitten his nails up to his elbows.

  “Fermín has told me everything,” she said.

  “Did he get there all right?”

  “Apparently he stopped on the way to buy some sweet biscuits he couldn’t resist because he says they’re called ‘nun’s farts,’ and some white wine.”

  “White wine?”

  “For Alicia. Which Dr. Soldevila has confiscated.”

  “How is she?”

  “Stable. The doctor says she’s still weak, but there’s no infection and she doesn’t have a fever.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “What about?”

  “Why do I have the feeling that everyone is trying to hide something from me?”

  Bea stroked his cheek. “Nobody is hiding anything from you, Daniel. Where’s Julián?”

  “At the nursery school. Sofía took him.”

  “I’ll go and collect him this afternoon. We have to keep up an appearance of normality. Where’s your father?”

  “Back there, fuming.”

  Bea lowered her voice. “What did you tell him?”

  “Fermín foisted one of his epic poems on him.”

  “I see. I’m off to the Boquería market to get a few things. Do you want anything?”

  “A normal life.
”

  * * *

  Halfway through the afternoon, Daniel’s father left him alone in the shop. Bea hadn’t returned yet, and Daniel, worried and in a filthy mood because he felt duped, had decided to go up to the apartment with the excuse that he was going to take a nap. For days now he’d harbored the suspicion that Alicia and Fermín were keeping something from him. And now, it seemed, Bea had joined them.

  He spent a couple of hours mulling over the matter, winding himself up and gnawing away at his soul. Experience had taught him that in such cases it was better to act dumb and pretend not to have noticed. After all, that was the role he was always given in the show. Nobody expected good old Daniel, the poor motherless boy, the perpetual adolescent with nothing on his conscience, to find things out. That’s what the others were there for, to bring him the answers written down and even the questions to boot. Nobody seemed to have noticed that he hadn’t been wearing short trousers for years. Sometimes even little Julián looked at him out of the corner of his eye and laughed, as if his father had come to the world to play the fool and look like a simpleton while the others revealed life’s mysteries to him.

  I’d laugh at myself too if I could, thought Daniel. Not that long ago he’d been able to make fun of his own shadow, to humor Fermín and his jibes, to embody the eternal naive boy adopted by his quixotic guardian angel. It had been a good part to play, and he’d felt comfortable with it. He would have loved to continue being the Daniel that all the others around him saw, and not the Daniel who, in the early hours, when Bea and Julián were fast asleep, would grope his way down to the bookshop, take shelter in the back room, and push the plaster panel hidden behind a broken old radiator.

  There, at the very bottom of a box, covered by a thick pile of dusty old books, was the scrapbook filled with the press clippings about Mauricio Valls he’d been stealing from the newspaper library in the Ateneo. The public life of the minister was recorded in those pages, year after year. He knew every one of those news items and press releases by heart. The last one, the one about his death in a traffic accident, was the most painful.