CARLOS RUIZ ZAFÓN
Translated by Lucia Graves
Contents
Cover
Title Page
A note from the author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
About the Author
Also By Carlos Ruiz Zafón
More on W&N
Copyright
A note from the author
Dear Reader,
I’ve always believed that all writers, whether they will admit it or not, have a few favourites among their published books. These preferences are seldom related to the intrinsic literary value of the work or the success it might have achieved, if any. The naked truth is, one just tends to feel closer to some of one’s offspring than to others. Of all the books I’ve published ever since I picked up this odd business of the novelist trade back in prehistoric 1992, Marina remains one of my favourites.
I wrote the novel in Los Angeles between 1996 and 1997. I was then in my early thirties and was beginning to suspect that what romantics used to refer to as my ‘first youth’ was, slowly but surely, starting to slip through my fingers. By then I had already published three novels for young adults but soon after embarking on Marina I knew that this would be the last I’d write in the genre. As the writing advanced, everything in the story began to acquire a shade of farewell, and by the time I’d finished it, I sensed that something inside me, something that even today I cannot explain, but that I still miss every single day, was forever left among its pages.
Maybe, as Marina once told Oscar, we are doomed to remember what never really happened.
Safe passage,
CRZ
Prologue
Marina once told me that we only remember what never really happened. It would take me a lifetime to understand what those words meant. But I suppose I’d better start at the beginning, which in this case is the end.
In May 1980 I disappeared from the world for an entire week. For seven days and seven nights nobody knew my whereabouts. Friends, companions, teachers and even the police embarked on a futile search for a fugitive whom they suspected dead or at best lost in the wastelands of the wrong side of town, suffering from amnesia or something worse.
By the end of that week a plain-clothes policeman thought he had recognised the boy: he seemed to fit my description. The suspect was spotted wandering around Barcelona’s Estación de Francia like a lost soul in a cathedral hammered out of iron and mist. The policeman ambled up to me just like a character of his ilk would in a crime novel. He asked me whether my name was Oscar Drai and whether I was the boy from the boarding school who had vanished without a trace. I nodded but didn’t say a word. I still remember the reflection of the station’s vaulted ceiling on his spectacle lenses.
We sat on one of the platform benches. The policeman lit a cigarette, taking his time, and let it continue to burn without once raising it to his lips. He informed me that there were a whole lot of people waiting to ask me a load of questions for which I’d better have some good answers. I nodded again. Then he looked me straight in the eye, scrutinising me, and said, ‘Sometimes telling the truth is not such a good idea, Oscar.’ He handed me a few coins and suggested I call my tutor at the boarding school. So I did. The policeman waited for me to finish my call, gave me money for a cab and wished me luck. I asked him how he knew I wasn’t going to disappear again. After observing me for a while, he replied, ‘People only disappear when they have somewhere to go.’ He walked with me as far as the street and said goodbye without asking me where I’d been. I watched him saunter up Paseo Colón, the smoke from his untouched cigarette following him like a faithful dog.
That day Gaudí’s ghost had sculpted impossible clouds across the shimmering blue skies of Barcelona. I took a taxi to the school, where I expected to be met by the firing squad.
For the next four weeks an army of teachers, clueless counsellors and child psychologists bombarded me with questions, trying to prise out my secret. I lied like the best of them, giving each exactly what they wanted to hear or what they were able to accept. In due time they all made an effort to pretend they’d forgotten the whole episode. I followed suit and never told anyone the truth about where I had been during those seven days.
I didn’t realise then that sooner or later the ocean of time brings back the memories we submerge in it. Fifteen years on, the remembrance of that day has returned to me. I have seen that boy wandering through the mist of the railway station, and the name Marina has flared up again like a fresh wound.
We all have a secret buried under lock and key in the attic of our soul. This is mine.
CHAPTER 1
IN THE LATE 1970S BARCELONA WAS A MIRAGE OF avenues and winding alleys where one could easily travel thirty or forty years into the past by just stepping into the foyer of a grand old building or walking into a café. Time and memory, history and fiction merged in the enchanted city like watercolours in the rain. It was there, in the lingering echo of streets that no longer exist, that cathedrals and age-old palaces created the tapestry into which this story would be woven.
I was then a fifteen-year-old boy languishing in a boarding school named after some half-forgotten saint, on the lower slopes of the hill to Vallvidrera. In those days the district of Sarriá still looked like a small village stranded on the shores of an art nouveau metropolis. My school stood at the top end of a narrow street that climbed up from Paseo de la Bonanova. Its monumental façade was more reminiscent of a castle than a school and its angular red-brick silhouette formed a dark maze of turrets, arches and wings.
The school was surrounded by a sprawling citadel of gardens, fountains, muddy ponds, courtyards and shadowy pinewoods. Here and there sombre buildings housed swimming pools enveloped in a ghostly vapour, eerily silent gyms and gloomy chapels where images of long-fingered angels grinned in the flickering candlelight. The main building was four storeys high, not counting the two basements and an attic set apart as an enclosed residence for the few aging priests who still worked as teachers. The boarders’ rooms were located along the cavernous corridors of the fourth floor. These endless galleries lay in perpetual darkness, always shrouded in a spectral aura.
I spent my days lost in hopeless reverie in the cold classrooms of that huge castle, waiting for the miracle that took place every afternoon at twenty minutes past five. At that magical hour, when the setting sun drenched the tall windows with liquid gold, the bell rang announcing the end of lessons and we boarders were allowed almost three free hours before dinner was served in the vast dining hall. The idea was that we should devote this time to studying and to meditation, but in all honesty I don’t remember having applied myself even once to either of those noble pursuits the whole time I was there.
It was my favourite moment of the day. Slipping past the porter’s lodge, I’d go out and explore the city. I made an art of getting back to the school just in time for dinner, having wandered through old streets and avenues in the darkening twilight. During those long walks I felt an exhilarating sense of freedom. My im
agination would take wing and soar high above the buildings. For a few hours the streets of Barcelona, the boarding school and my gloomy room on the fourth floor seemed to vanish. For those few hours, with just a couple of coins in my pocket, I was the luckiest person in the world.
My route would often take me through what in those days was still known as the Desert of Sarriá – no sandy dunes or anything remotely desert-like about it; it was, in fact, just the remains of a forest lost in a no-man’s-land. Most of the old mansions that had once populated the top end of Paseo de la Bonanova, though still standing, were in an incipient state of ruin, and all the streets surrounding the boarding school were developing the eerie atmosphere of a ghost town. Ivy-clad walls blocked the way into wild gardens where huge residences loomed: derelict weed-choked palaces over which memory seemed to drift like a perpetual mist. Some of these decaying properties awaited demolition; others had been ransacked over the years. Some, however, were still inhabited.
Their occupants were members of dying dynasties, long forgotten – families whose names had filled entire pages of the local papers in the old days when trams were still regarded with scepticism as a modern invention. Now they were the hostages of a rapidly fading era who refused to abandon their sinking ships. Fearing perhaps that if they dared step outside their withered homes they might turn to ashes and be blown away in the wind, they wasted away like prisoners entombed in the relics of their lost glory. Sometimes, as I hurried past rusty gates and ghostly gardens peopled by worn faceless statues, I could sense their owners’ suspicious looks from behind faded shutters.
One afternoon, towards the end of September 1979, I decided to venture down one of those streets studded with art nouveau mansions that I hadn’t noticed before. It curved round, and at the end of it stood an ornate iron gate, no different to many others in the area. Beyond this entrance lay the remains of a garden marked by years of neglect. Through the weeds I glimpsed the outline of a two-storey home, its sombre façade rising behind a fountain with a stone mermaid whose face time had covered with a veil of moss.
It was beginning to get dark and I thought the place looked rather sinister, even for my taste. A grave silence enveloped it; only the breeze seemed to whisper a mute warning. I realised I’d walked into one of Sarriá’s ‘dead’ spots and decided I’d better retrace my steps and return to the boarding school. I was hovering between the morbid fascination of that forgotten place and common sense when I noticed two bright yellow eyes in the shadows, fixed on me like daggers. I swallowed hard.
The motionless silhouette of a cat with velvety grey fur stood out against the gate of the old manor. In its mouth it held a tiny half-dead sparrow, and a silver bell hung from its neck. The cat studied me coldly for a few seconds then turned and slid under the metal bars. I watched as it disappeared into the immensity of that lost paradise, carrying the sparrow on its last journey.
I was struck by the sight of the haughty, defiant little beast. Judging by its shiny fur and its bell, I surmised that it had an owner. It looked well fed. Perhaps this building was home to something more than the ghosts of a Barcelona long gone. I walked up to the gate and put my hands on the iron bars. They felt cold. The last gleam of sunset lit up the shiny trail of blood left by the sparrow through that jungle. Scarlet pearls marking a path through the labyrinth. I swallowed again. Or rather I tried to swallow. My mouth was dry. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my temples as if it knew something I didn’t know. Just then I felt the gate yielding under my weight and realised it was open.
As I stepped into the garden, the moon lit up the veiled face of the mermaid emerging from the black waters of the fountain. She was observing me. I stood there, transfixed, expecting her to slither out of the pond and spread her wolfish grin, revealing a serpent’s tongue and long fangs. None of that happened. Taking a deep breath, I considered reining in my imagination or, better still, giving up my timid exploration of the property altogether. Once again someone took the decision for me. A celestial sound wafted across the shadows of the garden like a perfume. I could make out traces of its soft tones carving out the notes of an aria to the accompaniment of a piano. It was the most beautiful voice I had ever heard.
The melody was familiar, though I couldn’t put a name to it. It came from inside the house. I followed its hypnotic trail. Sheets of diaphanous light filtered through the half-open door of a glass conservatory, above which I recognised the cat’s eyes, fixed on mine from a windowsill on the first floor. I drew closer to the illuminated glasshouse from which the alluring sound was issuing. It was a woman’s voice. The faint halo of a hundred candles twinkled inside, revealing the golden horn of an old gramophone spinning a record. Without thinking what I was doing, I found myself walking into the conservatory, bewitched by the music from the gramophone. Sitting next to it on the table was a round shiny object: a pocket watch. I picked it up and examined it in the candlelight. The hands had stopped and the dial was cracked. It looked like gold and as old as the house itself. A bit further away stood a large armchair with its back to me, facing a fireplace over which hung an oil portrait of a woman dressed in white. Her large grey eyes, sad and profound, presided over the room.
Suddenly the spell was shattered. A figure rose from the armchair and turned to look at me. A head of long white hair and eyes burning like red-hot coals shone in the dark. The only other thing I managed to see were two huge pale hands reaching out towards me. As I scrambled off in a panic, heading for the door, I bumped into the gramophone and knocked it over. I heard the needle scratch the record and the heavenly voice broke off with a hellish scream. Those hands brushed my shirt as I rushed out into the garden with wings on my feet and fear burning in every pore of my body. I didn’t pause for a moment. I ran and ran without looking back, until a sharp pain tore through my side and I realised I could hardly breathe. By then I was bathed in cold sweat and could see the school lights shining some thirty metres ahead.
I slipped in through one of the kitchen doors that was rarely guarded and crept up to my room. The other boarders must have gone down to the dining room a good while ago. I dried the sweat off my forehead and slowly my heart recovered its normal rhythm. I was beginning to feel calmer when someone rapped on my door.
‘Oscar, time to come down to dinner,’ chimed the voice of one of my tutors, a freethinking Jesuit called Seguí who disliked having to play the policeman.
‘I’ll be right down, Father,’ I replied. ‘Just a second.’
I hurriedly put on the jacket required for dinner and turned off the light. Through the window the moon’s spectre hovered over Barcelona. Only then did I realise that I was still holding the gold watch in my hand.
CHAPTER 2
FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS THAT DAMNED WATCH and I became inseparable companions. I took it everywhere with me; I even slept with it under my pillow, fearful that someone might find it and ask me where I’d got it from. I wouldn’t have known what to answer. ‘That’s because you didn’t find it; you stole it,’ whispered the accusing voice in my head. ‘The technical term is breaking and entering leading to grand larceny – and goodness knows what other malfeasance you may be liable for,’ the voice added. For some odd reason, it sounded suspiciously like the voice of Perry Mason on the old TV series.
Every night I waited patiently for my friends to fall asleep so that I could examine my forbidden treasure. When silence reigned, I studied the watch with my torch. All the remorse in the world could not have diminished the fascination produced by the booty of my first adventure in ‘disorganised crime’. It was a heavy watch and appeared to be made of solid gold. The glass had probably been cracked as a result of a knock or a fall. The same impact must have ended the life of its mechanism, I imagined, freezing the hands at six twenty-three for all eternity. On the back was an inscription:
It occurred to me that the watch must be worth a fortune and soon I was assailed by pangs of guilt. Those engraved words made me feel that I’d become not just a thief of o
ther people’s valuables, but one who also stole their most precious memories.
One rainy Thursday I decided to unload my guilty conscience and share my secret. My best friend at school was a boy with penetrating eyes and a nervous temperament who insisted on being called JF, though those initials had little or nothing to do with his real name. JF had the soul of an avant-garde poet and such a sharp wit he often cut his own tongue on it. He suffered from a weak constitution and had only to hear the word germ being mentioned within a one-kilometre radius to think he was coming down with some deadly infection. Once I looked up ‘hypochondriac’ and copied out the definition for him.
‘You might be interested to know you’ve been mentioned in the Dictionary of the Royal Academy,’ I announced.
JF glanced at the note and threw me a scathing look.
‘Try looking under ‘i’ for ‘idiot’ and you’ll see I’m not the only famous one,’ he replied.
That day, during our lunch break, JF and I sneaked into the gloomy assembly hall. Our footsteps down the central aisle conjured up the echo of tiptoeing shadows. Two harsh shafts of light fell on the dusty stage. We sat in a pool of light, facing rows of empty seats that melted away into the darkness. Rain scratched at the first-floor windows.
‘Well,’ JF spat out. ‘What’s all the mystery about?’
Without saying a word, I pulled out the watch and showed it to him. JF raised his eyebrows and appraised the object carefully for a few moments before handing it back to me with a questioning look.
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
‘I think it’s a gold watch,’ replied JF. ‘Who is this fellow Germán?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest.’
‘How typical of you. Spill the beans.’
I went on to recount in detail my adventure a few days earlier in the old dilapidated mansion. JF listened to my story with his characteristic patience and quasi-scientific attention. When I’d finished, he seemed to weigh up the matter before offering his first impressions.
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