‘Hello, Doña Paula. Sorry to bother you.’
‘Oh, Oscar my dear, you never bother me! Come in, come in . . .’
On the screen Joselito was belting out an ode to a baby goat under the benevolent and charmed gaze of a couple of Civil Guards. Next to the TV set a collection of small Madonna figures in a glass case shared a place of honour with old photographs of Doña Paula’s husband Rodolfo, sparkling with brilliantine and sporting a resplendent Falangist uniform. Despite her devotion to her deceased husband, Doña Paula was delighted with democracy because, she said, it meant television was now in colour, and one had to keep up with the times.
‘Hey, what a lot of noise the other night, eh? On the news they were telling us about the earthquake in Chile and, well, I don’t know, I just got so scared . . .’
‘Don’t worry, Doña Paula: Chile is very far away. Across the ocean, in another continent.’
‘I’m sure it is, but as they speak Spanish there too, I don’t know, well, I just think . . .’
‘Don’t you worry, there’s no imminent danger. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to spend Christmas with my family so you don’t need to trouble yourself with my room.’
‘Oh, Oscar, that’s wonderful!’
Doña Paula had practically watched me grow up and was convinced that whatever I did was right. ‘You’re really talented,’ she’d say, although she never explained very clearly in what way. She insisted that I drink a glass of milk and eat some biscuits she herself had baked. I complied, even though I wasn’t very hungry. I stayed with her for a while, watching the film and agreeing with all her comments. The kind woman talked nineteen to the dozen when she had company, which was very seldom.
‘He really was a handsome little boy, wasn’t he?’ she said, pointing at Joselito. According to Doña Paula, rumour had it that once his voice had broken and he’d lost his angelic looks and popularity he’d grown up to become a mercenary and a guerrilla fighter in the distant jungles of Central America.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised, Doña Paula. You know what they say: there’s no business like show business. Well, I’m going to have to leave you now . . .’
I said goodbye to her with a peck on the cheek and left. I went up to my room for a minute and hurriedly collected a few shirts, two pairs of trousers and clean underwear, packing it all into a bag without hanging about a second more than necessary. On my way out I stepped into the secretary’s office and, wearing a blank expression, repeated my story about spending the holidays with my family. I left the school wishing that everything were as easy as lying.
We had dinner in silence in the room with the portraits. Germán was uncommonly taciturn, lost in thought. Sometimes our eyes met, and he would smile at me purely out of politeness. Marina stirred her plate of soup without once lifting the spoon to her lips. The entire conversation was reduced to the sound of the cutlery scratching the plates and the spluttering of the candles. It wasn’t hard to imagine that the doctor’s observations on Germán’s health had not been good. I decided not to ask about what seemed evident. After dinner, Germán excused himself and retired to his bedroom. He looked older and more fatigued than ever. Since I’d met him this was the first time I’d seen him ignore the portraits of his wife, Kirsten. As soon as he’d disappeared, Marina pushed her plate away and sighed.
‘You haven’t touched your food.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Bad news?’
‘Let’s talk about something else, shall we?’ she snapped in a dry, almost hostile tone.
The sharpness of her words made me feel like a stranger in that house. As if she’d wanted to remind me that this was not my family, that this was not my home and these were not my problems, however much I tried to hold on to that dream.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured after a while, stretching a hand out towards me.
‘It’s OK,’ I lied.
I stood up to clear the plates and take them to the kitchen. She stayed there, sitting quietly and stroking Kafka, who meowed on her lap. I took longer than I needed, scrubbing the dishes until I could no longer feel my hands under the cold water. When I returned to the room, Marina had already gone up to bed. She’d left two lighted candles for me. The rest of the house lay in darkness and silence. I blew out the candles and went out into the garden. Black clouds were spreading slowly across the sky. An icy wind stirred the trees. I turned and saw a light shining in Marina’s window. I imagined her lying on her bed. A moment later the light went out. The large old house loomed darkly, like the ruin it had seemed to me on the first day. I considered going to bed myself to get some rest, but I was beginning to feel rather uneasy and foresaw a long sleepless night. I decided to go for a stroll to clear my mind, or at least exhaust my body. I’d only taken a few steps when it began to drizzle. It was an unpleasant night and there was nobody out on the streets. Thrusting my hands into my pockets I started to walk. I wandered about for almost two hours. Neither the cold nor the rain seemed to tire me out. Something was going round in my head, and the more I tried to ignore it, the more intensely it made its presence felt.
My steps took me to the Sarriá graveyard. The rain spat on faces of blackened stone and lopsided crosses. Beyond the entrance gates I could see rows of spectral forms. The damp earth reeked of dead flowers. I pressed my head against the bars. The metal was cold and a trickle of rust slid over my skin. I scanned the darkness as if expecting to find an explanation for all the things that were happening. All I could perceive was death and silence. What was I doing there? If I had any common sense left, I’d return to the house and sleep for a hundred hours without interruption. It was probably the best idea I’d had in three months.
I turned round and was about to head back along the narrow corridor between the cypress trees when I noticed the glow of a distant lamp in the rain. Suddenly the halo of light vanished and a dark shape invaded the path. I heard horses’ hoofs on the cobblestones and saw a black carriage approaching, slicing through the curtain of rain. The jet-black horses exhaled a ghostly cloud of breath. The figure of a coachman could be seen on the driver’s seat. I searched for a hiding place on one side of the path, but found only bare walls. The ground vibrated beneath my feet. I had just one option: to retreat. Soaking wet and almost unable to breathe, I climbed over the gates and jumped inside the holy enclosure.
CHAPTER 18
I FELL ON MUDDY GROUND THAT WAS SOFTENING under the pouring rain. Rivulets of dirty water dragged withered flowers among the tombstones. My feet and hands sank into the mud. I scrambled up and ran to hide behind the statue of a mourning angel, its arms raised to heaven. The carriage had stopped on the other side of the gates. The coachman got down. He carried a lamp and wore a cloak that covered him completely. A wide-brimmed hat and a scarf protected him against the rain and the cold, masking his features. I recognised the carriage. It was the same one the lady in black had climbed into that morning, outside the Estación de Francia. On one of the carriage doors I glimpsed the symbol of the black butterfly. Velvet curtains covered the windows. I wondered whether she was inside.
The coachman walked up to the gates and inspected the graveyard. I stood there without moving, glued to the statue. Then I heard the metallic tinkle of a bunch of keys and the click of a padlock. I cursed under my breath. The iron gates creaked. Footsteps in the mud. The coachman was heading towards my hiding place. I had to get out of there. I turned to look at the cemetery behind me. The mantle of black clouds parted for a moment and the moon sketched a path of shimmering light. Rows of tombs shone briefly in the darkness. I crept backwards through the tombstones, towards the depths of the cemetery, until I reached the foot of a mausoleum: it was sealed with gates of wrought iron and glass. The coachman was drawing closer. I held my breath and sank into the shadows. He was only two metres away from me now, holding the lamp high. He walked straight past me and I gave a sigh of relief. I saw him making his way towards the heart of the cemetery and instantly kn
ew where he was going.
I was probably more frightened than I cared to admit, but I followed him all the same. I hid behind one tombstone and then another until I reached the north sector of the enclosure. Once there, I climbed onto a platform that afforded a good view of the whole area. A few metres further along, the coachman’s glowing lamp rested on the nameless grave. The rain bled over the butterfly figure carved in the stone. I could see the shape of the coachman as he leaned over the grave. He pulled out a long object from his cloak, a metal bar, and wrestled with it. I gulped when I realised what he was trying to do. He wanted to open the grave. I wished I could get the hell out of there, but I couldn’t move. Using the bar as a lever the coachman managed to shift the stone a couple of centimetres. Slowly, the tomb’s black hole opened up until the stone slab fell heavily to one side and split in two with the impact. The ground shook under my feet. The coachman took the lamp and raised it above a pit two metres deep. A passage down to hell. The surface of a black coffin gleamed below. The coachman looked up at the sky and then, all of a sudden, jumped into the grave. He disappeared from view in an instant, as if the earth had swallowed him. After a few seconds I heard heavy blows and the sound of wood breaking. I jumped down and, creeping over the mud, inched my way to the edge of the grave and peered over.
The rain was bucketing down into the grave and the bottom of it was flooding. The coachman was still there, tugging at the lid of the coffin, which finally gave way with a tremendous crash. Rotten wood and frayed cloth were exposed to the light: the coffin was empty. The man stared at it and froze. I heard him murmur something. It was time for me to rush off, but as I did so, I kicked a stone. It fell into the grave and banged against the coffin. The coachman instantly turned towards me. In his right hand he held a gun.
I ran desperately towards the exit, weaving through tombstones and statues, hearing the coachman yelling at me as he climbed out of the grave. In the distance I glimpsed the gates and the coach on the other side of them, and I kept running in that direction. The coachman’s footsteps were now close behind and I realised he would catch up with me in a matter of seconds once I was out in the open. I remembered the weapon in his hand and looked frantically around me for a hiding place. My eyes alighted on the only possibility. I prayed that the coachman wouldn’t think of looking there: the luggage boot on the back of the carriage. I jumped onto the platform and dived into it head first. Seconds later I heard the coachman’s hurried footsteps reach the corridor of cypress trees.
I imagined what he must be seeing: the empty path in the rain. His steps halted. He walked round the coach. I was afraid I might have left footprints that would give me away. Then I felt him climbing onto the driver’s seat. I didn’t move. The horses neighed. The wait seemed endless. At last I heard the crack of the whip and a jolt knocked me to the bottom of the boot. We were moving.
The rattling soon turned into a dry brisk vibration that pounded my muscles, which were rigid with cold. I tried to peep over the opening of the boot, but I found it impossible to hold myself up with the swaying.
We left Sarriá behind. I weighed up the chances of breaking my neck if I tried to jump out of the moving carriage and thought better of it. I didn’t feel strong enough to try any more heroics and besides, deep down, I wanted to know where we were going, so I surrendered to the circumstances. I settled down in the bottom of the boot as best I could. I suspected that I’d need to recover my strength for later on.
The journey seemed endless. Lying there like a piece of luggage didn’t help. I felt as if we’d covered several kilometres in the rain. My muscles were stiffening under my wet clothes. From the sounds around me I could tell we’d left the busier avenues behind and were now driving through deserted streets. I sat up and raised myself as far as the opening to have a look. I saw dark narrow streets like gaps cut into rock. Street lamps and Gothic façades in the mist. I dropped down again, disconcerted. We were in the old town, in some part of the Raval quarter. A stench like the smell of fetid swamps rose from flooded sewers. We wandered through Barcelona’s heart of darkness for almost half an hour before coming to a stop. I heard the coachman jump down from the driver’s seat and, seconds later, the sound of a heavy door opening. The carriage advanced at a slow trot and we went into what I imagined, from the smell, must be an old stable. The door closed again.
I didn’t move. The coachman unhitched the horses, murmuring a few words to them which I wasn’t able to grasp. A strip of light fell through the opening of the boot. I heard the sound of running water and footsteps over straw. Finally, the light went out and the coachman’s steps faded away. I waited a couple of minutes, until all I could hear was the breathing of the horses, then I slipped out of the boot. A bluish half-light spread through the stable. I walked stealthily over to a side door and went through into a dark garage with tall ceilings supported with wooden beams. At the other end of the garage I could discern the outline of what looked like an emergency exit. I checked the door and discovered that it opened from the inside. I opened it carefully and finally was out in the street.
I found myself in a dark alleyway of the Raval quarter. It was so narrow that I could touch either side by just stretching out my arms. A foul-smelling trickle of water ran down the middle of it. The corner was only some ten metres away. I walked towards it. A wider street glowed under the foggy light of century-old street lamps. I saw the door to the stable on one side of the building – a miserable-looking grey structure. Over the door frame was the year of its construction: 1888. From where I stood I realised that this was the annexe of a much larger building, which occupied the entire block. The second structure had palatial dimensions. A wall of scaffolding and dirty tarpaulins masked it entirely: a cathedral could have been hiding beneath it. I tried, unsuccessfully, to make out what the building was. I couldn’t think of any such construction in that part of the Raval district.
As I drew closer, I peered through the wooden panels covering the scaffolding. A large art nouveau canopy was buried in thick shadows. I managed to make out a few columns and a row of windows decorated with an intricate wrought-iron design. Box offices. The arches of the main entrance, visible further along, made me think of the doorway to an enchanted castle. Everything was shrouded in a layer of debris, damp and abandonment. Suddenly I understood where I was. This was the Gran Teatro Real, the sumptuous monument Mijail Kolvenik had rebuilt for his wife Eva, who had never been able to grace its stage. The theatre stood there, a colossal catacomb in ruins, looking like a bastard son of the Paris Opéra and Gaudí’s Sagrada Familia, awaiting demolition.
I returned to the adjacent building housing the stables. The main entrance was little more than a black hole. The large wooden door had a smaller panel cut into it that reminded me of the doorway to a convent. Or a prison. The panel was open and I stepped into a hall. A ghostly interior courtyard rose up to a skylight of broken glass. A cobweb of clothes lines draped with rags flapped in the wind. The place smelled of poverty, of sewers, of disease. The walls oozed dirty water from burst pipes. The floor was covered in puddles. I noticed a row of rusty letter boxes and went over to examine them. They were mostly empty, broken and nameless. Only one of them seemed to be in use. I read the name beneath the grime: LLUÍS CLARET I MILÁ, 3 o.
The name sounded vaguely familiar, although I couldn’t place it. I wondered whether this was the coachman’s name. I repeated the name over and over again, trying to recall where I’d heard it. Suddenly something jogged my memory. Inspector Florián had told us that during Kolvenik’s last years only two people had access to him and to his wife Eva in the house by Güell Park: Shelley, his personal doctor, and a chauffeur named Lluís Claret, who refused to abandon his master. I felt in my pockets for the telephone number Florián had given us in case we needed to get in touch with him. I thought I’d found it when I heard voices and footsteps coming from the top of the stairs. I fled.
Once I was in the street, I ran round the corner into the alleyway to
hide. After a while, a figure stepped out of the door and set off beneath the drizzle. It was the coachman again, Claret. I waited for him to disappear and followed the echo of his footsteps.
CHAPTER 19
PURSUING CLARET’S TRAIL I BECAME A SHADOW among the shadows. The poverty and squalor of the forsaken Raval district could be smelled in the air. Claret’s long strides took me through streets I’d never been in before. I couldn’t locate where I was until I saw him turn a corner and I recognised Calle Conde del Asalto, the area’s main thoroughfare. When we reached the Ramblas, Claret turned left, heading for Plaza Cataluña.
A few night owls were wandering along the boulevard. The lit-up kiosks looked like ships stranded at low tide. When we reached the Liceo Opera House, Claret crossed over to the opposite pavement, then stopped in front of the building where Dr Shelley and his daughter María lived. Before he went in, I saw him pull out a shiny object from inside his cloak. His gun.
The building’s façade was a mask of reliefs and gargoyles spitting out thin rivulets of rainwater. A blade of golden light flashed in a window at the top. Shelley’s study. I imagined the old doctor in his armchair, unable to get to sleep. I ran to the door. It was locked from the inside. Claret had closed it. After inspecting the front, looking for some other way in, I walked round to the back of the building. There, a narrow fire-escape ladder rose up to a cornice encircling the structure – a stone ledge which ran round to the balconies at the front of the building. The glass-covered balcony of Shelley’s study was only a few metres away. I climbed the fire-escape stairs to the cornice. When I got there, I examined it again and realised it was only about a foot wide. The drop down to the street looked like an abyss. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the ledge.
Marina Page 13
