Marina

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  ‘Teufel?’

  ‘It’s Germán,’ said Marina. ‘It means devil.’

  ‘It’s also the name of Kolvenik’s symbol,’ Florián revealed.

  ‘The black butterfly?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Why is it called that?’ asked Marina.

  ‘I’m not an entomologist,’ he said. ‘I only know that Kolvenik collected them.’

  It was getting close to midday and Florián invited us to lunch in a small café near the station. We all felt like getting out of that house.

  The café owner seemed to be a friend of Florián. He led us to a table set aside in a corner by the window.

  ‘A visit from the grandchildren, boss?’ he asked smiling.

  Florián only nodded without attempting to explain. A waiter served us three generous slices of Spanish omelette and some bread rubbed with tomato and oil and sprinkled with salt. While we enjoyed the meal, which was delicious, he continued with his account.

  ‘When I started investigating Velo-Granell Industries I discovered that Mijail Kolvenik didn’t have a very clear past . . . There was no record of his birth or nationality in Prague. I suspect Mijail was probably not his real name.’

  ‘Who was he then?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve been asking myself that same question for thirty years. In fact, when I got in touch with the police in Prague, I did discover there was one person named Mijail Kolvenik, but he appeared in the registers of the WolfterHaus.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘An asylum. But I don’t think Kolvenik was ever there. He simply adopted the name of one of the patients. Kolvenik wasn’t mad.’

  ‘Why would Kolvenik steal the identity of a mental-hospital patient?’ asked Marina.

  ‘It wasn’t that unusual at the time,’ Florián explained. ‘When there’s a war going on, changing identities can amount to being reborn, leaving an inconvenient past behind. You’re very young and you haven’t lived through a war. You don’t really get to understand people until you’ve lived through one . . .’

  ‘Did Kolvenik have anything to hide?’ I asked. ‘If the Prague police had information about him, there must have been a reason . . .’

  ‘Pure coincidence, matching surnames. Bureaucracy. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about,’ said Florián. ‘Supposing the Kolvenik of their files was our Kolvenik, he left only a thin trail behind him. His name was mentioned in the investigation into the death of a surgeon in Prague, a man called Antonin Kolvenik. The case was closed and the death attributed to natural causes.’

  ‘Why then did they take that Mijail Kolvenik to a mental hospital?’ Marina now asked.

  Florián hesitated for a few moments, as if he didn’t dare reply.

  ‘It was suspected he’d done something with the dead man’s body . . .’

  ‘Something?’

  ‘The Prague police didn’t explain what it was,’ Florián answered dryly, lighting a cigarette.

  We fell into a long silence.

  ‘What about the story Dr Shelley told us? About Kolvenik’s twin brother, the degenerative illness and—’

  ‘That’s what Kolvenik told him. Kolvenik could lie just as easily as he breathed. And Shelley had good reasons to believe him without asking any questions,’ Florián said. ‘Kolvenik financed his medical institute and his research, down to the last céntimo. Shelley was almost like an employee at Velo-Granell Industries. A henchman . . .’

  ‘So, Kolvenik’s twin brother was another invention?’ I was disconcerted. ‘His existence might justify Kolvenik’s obsession with people afflicted with deformities and—’

  ‘I don’t think the brother was an invention,’ Florián cut in. ‘In my opinion.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘I think the child he spoke about was in fact himself.’

  Marina and I exchanged glances.

  ‘One more question, Inspector . . .’

  ‘I’m no longer an inspector, young lady.’

  ‘Víctor then. You’re still Víctor, aren’t you?’

  That was the first time I saw Florián smile in a relaxed and open way.

  ‘What’s the question?’

  ‘You’ve told us that when you investigated the alleged Velo-Granell fraud you discovered there was something else . . .’

  ‘Yes. At first we thought it was a typical ploy: expense accounts with non-existent payments to avoid tax – payments made to hospitals, to shelters for the homeless and so on – until one of my men found it odd that some sets of expenses that bore Dr Shelley’s signature and approval had been invoiced by the autopsy centres of various hospitals in Barcelona. In other words, by the mortuaries,’ the ex-policeman explained. ‘The morgue.’

  ‘Kolvenik sold corpses?’ Marina suggested.

  ‘No. He was buying them. By the dozen. Tramps. People who died without family or acquaintances. Men or women who had committed suicide or drowned, old people who’d been abandoned . . . The city’s forgotten dead.’

  In the background the murmur of a radio drifted through the air like the echo of our conversation.

  ‘And what did Kolvenik do with those corpses?’

  ‘Nobody knows,’ Florián replied. ‘We never managed to find them.’

  ‘But you have a theory, don’t you, Víctor?’ Marina continued.

  Florián gazed at us.

  ‘No.’

  Even though he was a policeman – albeit a retired one – lying didn’t suit him. Marina didn’t insist. The inspector looked tired, consumed by shadows that poisoned his memories. All his fierceness had collapsed. The cigarette was shaking in his hands and it was hard to tell who was doing the smoking – Florián or the cigarette.

  ‘As for the greenhouse you’ve told me about . . . don’t go back there. Forget the whole business. Forget the photograph album, the nameless grave and the lady who visits it. Forget Sentís, Shelley and myself – I’m only a foolish old man who doesn’t even know what he’s saying. This matter has already destroyed enough lives. Leave it alone.’ He signalled to the waiter to add the bill to his account and concluded, ‘Promise you’ll do as I say.’

  I wondered how we were going to stop pursuing the matter when in fact it was the matter that was pursuing us. After what had happened the night before, his advice sounded like wishful thinking.

  ‘We’ll try,’ said Marina on behalf of both of us.

  ‘Try hard. The road to hell is paved with good intentions,’ Florián replied.

  The inspector accompanied us to the funicular station and gave us the telephone number of the café.

  ‘They know me here. If you need anything, call them and they’ll pass on the message. Any time of day or night. Manu, the owner, suffers from chronic insomnia and spends the night listening to the BBC, to see if he can learn languages. So you won’t bother him.’

  ‘We don’t know how to thank you . . .’

  ‘Thank me by following my advice and keeping out of this mess,’ Florián cut in.

  We nodded in agreement. The funicular car opened its doors.

  ‘What about you, Víctor?’ asked Marina. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What all old people do: sit down and remember, and ask myself what would have happened if I’d done everything differently. Go on, off you go . . .’

  We stepped into the car and sat by the window. It was starting to get dark. A whistle blew and the doors closed. The funicular began its descent with a jolt. Slowly, the lights of Vallvidrera were left behind, as was the figure of Florián, standing immobile on the platform.

  Germán had prepared a delicious Italian dish with a name that sounded like the title of an opera. We had dinner in the kitchen, listening to his account of the chess tournament with the priest, who as usual had beaten him by dubious means. Marina was uncommonly quiet during the meal, leaving the weight of the conversation to Germán and me. I even wondered whether I’d said or done anything that might have annoyed her. After dinner Germán chall
enged me to a game of chess.

  ‘I’d love to, but I think it’s my turn to wash up,’ I explained.

  ‘I’ll do the washing-up,’ said Marina weakly, behind my back.

  ‘No, really . . .’ I objected.

  Germán was already in the other room, singing softly to himself and lining up the rows of pawns. I turned towards Marina, who looked away and started to wash the dishes.

  ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘No . . . Go in there with Germán. He’ll be pleased.’

  ‘Are you coming, Oscar?’ came Germán’s voice from the other room.

  I gazed at Marina in the light of the candles burning on the windowsill. I thought she looked pale, tired.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She turned round and smiled. Marina had a way of smiling that made me feel small and insignificant.

  ‘Go on. And let him win.’

  ‘That’s easy.’

  I took her advice and left her alone, joining her father in the sitting room. There, under the quartz chandelier, I sat at the chessboard ready to let him enjoy the pleasant interlude his daughter wished for him.

  ‘Your move, Oscar.’

  I moved. He cleared his throat.

  ‘May I remind you that pawns can’t jump like that, Oscar?’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘That’s all right. It’s the fire of youth. Believe me, I envy you. Youth is like a fickle girlfriend. We can’t understand or value her until she goes off with someone else, never to return . . . Dear me! I don’t know where all that came from. Let’s see . . . pawn . . .’

  At midnight a sound pulled me out of a dream. The house was in darkness. I sat up in the bed and listened. A cough – muffled, distant. Feeling uneasy, I got up and went out into the corridor. The sound came from the ground floor. I went past the door of Marina’s bedroom. It was open, and the bed was empty. I felt a pang of fear.

  ‘Marina?’

  There was no reply. I tiptoed down the cold steps. Kafka’s eyes shone at the bottom of the staircase. The cat meowed softly and led me along a dark corridor. At the end of it a thread of light glowed beneath a closed door. The cough came from inside. Painful. Agonising. Kafka walked up to the door and stopped there, meowing. I rapped gently.

  ‘Marina?’

  A long silence.

  ‘Go away, Oscar.’

  Her voice was a groan. I let a few seconds go by and then opened the door. A candle on the floor barely lit the white-tiled bathroom. Marina was kneeling, her forehead leaning against the washbasin. She was trembling and her perspiration made her nightdress cling to her skin like a shroud. She covered her face, but I could see she was bleeding through her nose and a few scarlet stains covered her chest. I was paralysed, unable to react.

  ‘What’s the matter . . .?’ I whispered.

  ‘Close the door,’ she said firmly. ‘Close it.’

  I did as I was told and went to her side. She was burning with fever. Her hair was stuck to her face, which was drenched in ice-cold sweat. I was so scared I turned to rush out in search of Germán. But her hand gripped me with unbelievable strength.

  ‘No!’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not fine!’

  ‘Oscar, I beg you, don’t call Germán. He can’t do anything. It’s over now. I’m feeling better.’

  The calmness in her voice was terrifying. Her eyes searched mine. Something in them forced me to obey. Then she stroked my face.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m better.’

  ‘You’re pale as death . . .’ I stammered.

  She took my hand and placed it on her chest. I could feel her heart beating against her ribs. I pulled my hand away, not knowing what to do.

  ‘Alive and kicking. See? You must promise you won’t say anything about this to Germán.’

  ‘Why?’ I protested. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  She lowered her eyes, infinitely tired. I shut up.

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘You must see a doctor.’

  ‘Promise, Oscar.’

  ‘If you promise to see a doctor.’

  ‘That’s a deal. I promise.’

  She dampened a towel and began to clean the blood off her face. I felt useless.

  ‘Now you’ve seen me like this, you’re not going to fancy me any more.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s funny.’

  She went on wiping her face quietly, without taking her eyes off me. Her body, swathed in the damp, almost transparent cotton, looked fragile and brittle. I was surprised not to feel any embarrassment, seeing her like that. Nor did she seem at all shy in my presence. Her hands were shaking as she dried the sweat and the blood off her body. I found a clean bathrobe hanging on the door and held it out for her. She covered herself with it and sighed with exhaustion.

  ‘What can I do?’ I murmured.

  ‘Stay here with me.’

  She sat in front of the mirror, picked up a brush and tried in vain to untangle the mess of hair that fell over her shoulders. She didn’t have the strength.

  ‘Let me,’ I said, taking the brush from her.

  I brushed her hair without uttering another word, our eyes locking together in the mirror. As I did so, Marina gripped my hand tightly and pressed it against her cheek. I could feel her tears on my skin and I didn’t find the courage to ask her why she was crying.

  I took Marina back to her room and helped her get into bed. She wasn’t trembling now and the colour had returned to her cheeks.

  ‘Thanks . . .’ she mumbled.

  I decided that the best thing to do was to let her rest, so I returned to my room. I lay on my bed again and tried unsuccessfully to fall asleep. I was restless, lying there in the dark, listening to the old house creaking while the wind clawed the trees. A blind anxiety was gnawing at me. Too many things were happening too fast. My brain couldn’t take them all in at once. In the darkness of the early hours everything seemed to become confused. I realised I was scared stiff. No wonder: I had seen so many disturbing things in the last few weeks. But nothing scared me more than not being able to understand my own feelings for Marina. Morning was breaking when I finally fell asleep.

  In dreams I found myself walking through the halls of a shadowy deserted palace of white marble, filled with hundreds of statues. They opened their stony eyes as I walked past them and murmured words that I didn’t comprehend. Then, in the distance, I thought I saw Marina and I ran towards her. A silhouette of white light, shaped like an angel, was leading her by the hand down a corridor whose walls were oozing blood. I was trying to catch up with them when one of the doors in the corridor opened and the figure of María Shelley emerged, floating above the floor and dragging a tattered shroud behind her. She was crying, although her tears never reached the ground. She stretched her arms out towards me, and when she touched me, her body dissolved into ashes. I was screaming Marina’s name, begging her to return, but she didn’t seem to hear me. I ran and ran, but the corridor kept growing longer. Then the angel of light turned towards me and revealed its true face. Its eyes were empty sockets, its hair a mass of white snakes. The hellish angel laughed cruelly and, spreading its white wings over Marina, walked away. In the dream I smelled a fetid breath touching the back of my neck. It was the unmistakable stench of death, whispering my name. I turned and saw a black butterfly resting on my shoulder.

  CHAPTER 17

  I AWOKE FEELING BREATHLESS AND EVEN MORE tired than when I’d gone to bed. My temples were pounding as if I’d drunk two entire jugs of black coffee. I didn’t know what the time was, but judging by the sun it was probably about noon. The hands of the alarm clock confirmed my guess. Twelve thirty. I hurried downstairs, but the house was empty. Breakfast – now cold – had been laid out for me on the table, together with a note.

  Oscar:

  We had a doctor’s appointment. We’ll be out all day. Don’t forget to feed Kafka. See you at dinner time.

/>   Marina

  I reread the note, examining the writing as I ate my breakfast. Kafka deigned to make an appearance a few minutes later and I filled his bowl with milk. I didn’t know what to do until dinner time. I decided to go over to the school to pick up some clothes and tell Doña Paula not to bother cleaning my room because I was going to spend the holidays with my family. The walk to the school did me good. I went in through the main door and made my way up to Doña Paula’s apartment on the third floor.

  Doña Paula was a good woman who always had a kind smile for the boarders. She’d been widowed for thirty years and on a diet for heaven knows how many more. She suspected that the source of her weight issues was not related to chocolate and sponge fingers, as her doctor argued, but to advanced mathematics.

  ‘It all comes down to my metabolism not knowing how to count the calories, you see?’ she would say.

  ‘You look fine to me, Doña Paula.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. The problem is, or so that wretched doctor says, my blood doesn’t look as good as I do. But what does he know anyway?’

  She’d never had children and, even now, close to sixty-five, she still looked longingly at the babies she saw going by in prams on her way to the market. She lived alone. Her sole companions were two canaries and a huge Zenith television set which she didn’t turn off until the national anthem and the portraits of the royal family sent her to bed. Bleach had ruined her hands. It pained you just to look at the veins on her swollen ankles. The only luxuries she allowed herself were a visit to the hairdresser’s once a fortnight and ¡Hola! magazine – she loved reading about the lives of princesses and admiring the dresses worn by stars of the screen. When I knocked on her door, Doña Paula was watching a repeat of The Nightingale of the Pyrenees, part of a nostalgic cycle of kitsch musicals dragged up from the hidden depths of the Franco years. It featured a forgotten child star and former official songbird of fascist days, the one and only Joselito. As if the sugar content of the epic wasn’t enough, Doña Paula was fortifying herself with slices of buttered toast covered in condensed milk and chocolate spread.