Clinging to the wall, I advanced a centimetre at a time. The surface was slippery and some of the slabs underfoot were loose. I had the feeling that the ledge was getting narrower with every step I took. The wall I was holding on to seemed to be leaning outwards and was covered with figures of fauns grinning like devils. I stuck my hand into one of the open mouths, wondering whether its jaws might clamp down and snap off my fingers. Using the figures as handholds, I finally reached the wrought-iron handrail surrounding the covered balcony of Shelley’s study.
I managed to climb onto the metal platform outside the French windows. The windowpanes were misted up. By pressing my face against the glass I was able to see inside. The window wasn’t bolted, so I pushed it gently until it opened a fraction. A breath of warm air carrying the smell of burned wood from the fireplace hit my face. The doctor was sitting in his armchair facing the fire as if he’d never moved from there. Behind him the study doors opened. Claret. I was too late.
‘You have betrayed your oath,’ I heard Claret say.
It was the first time I’d heard his voice clearly. Grave, broken, like the voice of Diego, one of the gardeners at school, whose larynx had been destroyed by a bullet during the war. The doctors had reconstructed his throat, but it was ten years before the poor man was able to speak again. When he did, the sound that came out of his lips was like Claret’s voice.
‘You said you’d destroyed the last flask,’ said Claret, drawing closer to Shelley.
The other man didn’t bother to turn round. I saw Claret raise his revolver and aim at the doctor.
‘You’re wrong about me,’ said Shelley.
Claret walked around the old man and stood in front of him. Shelley looked up. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it. Claret pointed the gun at his head.
‘You’re lying. I ought to kill you right away . . .’ said Claret, forcing out each syllable as if it hurt him.
He placed the barrel of the gun between Shelley’s eyes.
‘Go on. You’ll be doing me a favour,’ said Shelley calmly.
I swallowed hard. Claret cocked the hammer.
‘Where is he?’
‘Not here.’
‘Where, then?’
‘You know where,’ replied Shelley.
I heard Claret sigh. Crestfallen, he pulled the gun away and let his arm drop.
‘We’re all cursed,’ said Shelley. ‘It’s only a matter of time . . . You never understood him and now you understand him less than ever.’
‘You’re the one I don’t understand,’ said Claret. ‘I’ll go to my death with a clear conscience.’
Shelley laughed bitterly.
‘Death doesn’t care much about consciences, Claret.’
‘But I do.’
Suddenly María Shelley appeared in the doorway.
‘Father . . . are you all right?’
‘Yes, María. Go back to bed. It’s only our friend Claret. He was leaving.’
María hesitated. Claret was staring fixedly at her and for a moment I felt I could see a vague complicity passing between them.
‘Do as I tell you. Leave.’
‘Yes, Father.’
María left the room. Shelley’s eyes were drawn to the fire again.
‘You can worry about your conscience. I have a daughter to worry about. Go home. There’s nothing you can do. Nothing anybody can do. You saw how Sentís ended up.’
‘Sentís got what he deserved,’ Claret pronounced.
‘You’re not thinking of going to meet him?’
‘I don’t abandon my friends.’
‘But they’ve abandoned you,’ said Shelley.
Claret made for the doors, but stopped when he heard Shelley call out.
‘Wait . . .’
Shelley stood up and walked over to a cupboard next to his desk. He groped around his neck for a chain with a small key hanging from it. He then opened the cupboard, took something out and handed it to Claret.
‘Take them,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t have the courage to use them. Or the faith.’
I strained my eyes, trying to see what he was offering Claret. It was a case; it looked as if it contained silvery capsules. Bullets.
Claret accepted them and examined them carefully. His eyes met Shelley’s.
‘Thank you,’ murmured Claret.
Shelley shook his head silently, as if he didn’t want to be thanked. I saw Claret empty the gun and fill it with the bullets Shelley had given him. As he did so, Shelley watched him nervously, rubbing his hands.
‘You’re not . . .?’ Shelley begged.
The other man closed the chamber and turned the drum.
‘I have no choice,’ he replied, walking to the doors.
As soon as he disappeared, I slid back onto the cornice. The rain had eased off. Hoping I wouldn’t lose track of Claret, I hurriedly retraced my steps back to the fire escape, clambered down, then ran round the building just in time to catch sight of him walking down the Ramblas. I quickened my pace, narrowing the gap between us. He didn’t turn off until he reached Calle Fernando, from where he headed towards Plaza San Jaime. I glimpsed a public telephone booth among the arches of Plaza Real. I knew I had to call Inspector Florián as soon as possible to let him know what was happening, but to stop now would have meant losing Claret.
When he entered the Gothic quarter I went in after him. Soon his silhouette was lost under bridges stretching between palaces. Elaborate arches projected dancing shadows on the walls. We had reached the enchanted Barcelona, the labyrinth of spirits, where streets had mythical names and the ghosts of time walked behind us.
CHAPTER 20
I FOLLOWED CLARET UNTIL I REACHED AN ALLEYWAY tucked away behind the cathedral. A shop selling masks stood on the corner. I sidled up to the shop window and was met by the vacant gaze of paper faces. Then I peered around the corner to have a look. Claret had stopped about twenty metres further on, next to a manhole that led down to the sewers. He was struggling with the heavy metal lid. When at last it opened he stepped into the hole. Only then did I move closer. I heard footsteps going down the metal stairs and saw the reflection of a beam of light. I sneaked over to the mouth of the sewer and looked down. Stagnant air surged up the hole. I waited there until Claret’s footsteps were no longer audible and the darkness had swallowed the light he was carrying.
It was time to phone Inspector Florián. I noticed the lights of a bar that either closed very late or opened very early. The place – a dive that stank of cheap wine – occupied the lower ground floor of a building that looked at least three centuries old. The bartender had a sour complexion, minute eyes, and sported what looked like a military cap. He raised his eyebrows and looked at me in disgust. The wall behind him was decorated with the fascist pennants of the Blue Division, postcards of Franco’s Valley of the Fallen memorial and a portrait of Mussolini.
‘Get out,’ he snapped. ‘We’re not open until five.’
‘I just need to make a phone call. It’s an emergency.’
‘Come back at five.’
‘If I could come back at five it wouldn’t be an emergency . . . Please. I need to call the police. It’s important.’
The bartender studied me carefully and at last pointed to a telephone on the wall.
‘Wait till I connect you. You’ve got money on you to pay me, haven’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I lied.
The receiver was dirty and greasy. Next to the phone, in a glass saucer, were matchboxes with the name of the bar and an imperial eagle printed on them. THE PATRIOT, it said. While the bartender had his back to me I filled my pockets with them. When he turned round, I smiled innocently. I dialled the number Florián had given me and heard the ringing tone over and over again, but no answer. I was beginning to fear that the inspector’s insomniac friend had fallen asleep to the sound of the BBC news bulletins when someone picked up the receiver at the other end.
‘Good evening, forgive me for disturbing you at this time of nigh
t,’ I said. ‘I need to speak urgently to Inspector Florián. It’s an emergency. He gave me this number in case—’
‘Who’s calling?
‘Oscar Drai.’
‘Oscar who?’
I had to spell my name out patiently.
‘Just a moment. I don’t know whether Florián is home. I can’t see any lights on from here. Can you wait?’
I looked at the owner of the bar, who was drying glasses at a military tempo beneath Il Duce’s gallant gaze.
‘Yes,’ I replied boldly.
The wait seemed endless. The bartender kept his eyes trained on me as if I were Karl Marx’s grandson. I tried smiling at him. He seemed unmoved by my friendly demeanour.
‘Could you serve me a white coffee?’ I asked. ‘I’m frozen.’
‘Not until five o’clock.’
‘Could you tell me the time, please?’ I asked.
‘It’s not five yet,’ he replied. ‘Have you really called the police?’
‘The glorious Civil Guard, pride of the land, to be precise,’ I improvised.
At last I heard Florián’s voice. He sounded awake and alert.
‘Oscar, where are you?’
‘In some kind of Gestapo watering hole called The Patriot.’
I gave him the essentials as fast as I could. When I told him about the sewer tunnel, his voice grew tense.
‘Listen to me carefully, Oscar. I want you to wait for me where you are and not move until I get there. I’m grabbing a cab in a second. If anything should happen, just start running. Don’t stop until you reach the police station on Vía Layetana. There you ask for Mendoza. He knows me and you can trust him. But whatever happens – do you understand? – whatever happens, don’t go down into those tunnels. Is that clear?’
‘Crystal clear.’
‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
I was cut off.
‘That’s sixty pesetas,’ the bartender immediately pronounced behind me. ‘Night rates.’
‘I’ll pay you at five, my general,’ I shot back calmly.
The bags under his eyes turned the colour of Rioja wine.
‘Watch it, you little creep, or I’ll smash your head in!’ he threatened furiously.
I made a dash for it before he was able to get out from behind the bar with his regulation riot truncheon. I’d wait for Florián next to the mask shop. He couldn’t be long, I thought.
The cathedral bells struck four o’clock. Signs of exhaustion were beginning to haunt me like famished wolves. I walked in circles to fight off the cold and the drowsiness. After a while I heard footsteps on the cobbled paving. I turned round expecting to see Florián, but the silhouette I saw didn’t match that of the old policeman. It was a woman. I instinctively hid, fearing that the lady in black had come to find me. The woman’s shadow fell on the street and she crossed over in front of me without seeing me. It was María, Dr Shelley’s daughter.
She walked up to the mouth of the tunnel and leaned over to peer into the chasm. In her hand she held a glass flask. Her face shone in the moonlight, transfigured. She was smiling. I knew instantly that something was wrong, out of place. It even occurred to me that she was in some sort of trance and had sleepwalked to this place. It was the only explanation I could think of. I preferred that hypothesis to considering other alternatives. I thought of going up to her, calling her by name, anything. I plucked up courage and took a step forward. No sooner had I done so than María spun round with the agility and speed of a cat, as if she’d smelled my presence in the air. She stood in the alleyway, her eyes blazing, and the grin that appeared on her face froze my blood.
‘Go away,’ she murmured in an unknown voice.
‘María?’ I uttered, disconcerted.
A second later she jumped into the tunnel. I rushed over to the edge, expecting to see María Shelley’s shattered body. A beam of moonlight flicked over the well and lit up her face at the bottom of the pit.
‘María!’ I shouted. ‘Wait!’
I ran as fast as I could down the steps. A penetrating fetid smell hit me after I’d covered a couple of metres. The circle of light from the street above grew smaller. I fumbled for one of the matchboxes and struck a match. The sight it revealed was uncanny.
A circular tunnel stretched into the darkness. Damp and rot. The squeal of rats and the endless rumbling from the maze of tunnels that spread beneath the city. An inscription on the wall, covered in grime, read: SGAB/1881 COLLECTOR SECTION IV/LEVEL 2 – STRETCH 66.
On the other side of the tunnel the wall had collapsed. The subsoil had invaded part of the sewage channel. You could see different layers of the city’s past, piled up one on top of the other.
I gazed at the corpses of older Barcelonas over which the new city had emerged. This was the place where Sentís had met his death. I lit another match. Trying to hold back the nausea rising in my throat, I advanced a few metres, following the sound of the footsteps.
‘María?’
My voice became a blood-curdling spectral echo; I decided to keep my mouth shut. I noticed dozens of tiny red spots moving like insects on a pond. Eyes. The eyes of rats observing me. The flame from the matches I kept lighting held them at a prudent distance.
I was trying to decide whether to go further into the tunnels or not when I heard a faraway voice. I took one last look at the entrance to the street high above, a world away. There was no sign of Florián. I heard that voice again. With a sigh I headed into the darkness.
The tunnel I was walking along made me think of the guts of an animal. A stream of faecal water covered the floor. I pressed forward with only the matches to guide me. I’d light each one from the previous one, never allowing the gloom to envelop me completely. As I moved deeper into the labyrinth I became used to the smell of the sewers. I also noticed that the temperature was rising. A sticky dampness clung to my skin, clothes and hair.
A few metres further on I sighted a cross gleaming on the wall, painted crudely in red. There were other similar crosses drawn on the walls. Then I thought I could see something shining on the ground. I knelt down to have a closer look and realised it was a photograph. I recognised it instantly. It was one of the pictures from the album we’d found in the greenhouse. There were more photographs on the floor of the tunnel, all from the same place. Some were torn. Twenty paces further on I found the album, practically destroyed. I picked it up and leafed through the empty pages. It seemed as if someone had been searching for something and, when they hadn’t found it, had torn the album up in anger.
I was at a crossroads, a sort of distribution chamber or hub. I looked up and saw the mouth of another passageway that began right above the spot where I was standing. I thought I could see a grating. I lifted the match towards it but a gust of swampy air from one of the sewers blew out the flame. Just then I heard something moving slowly, slithering along the walls. I felt a shiver down the back of my neck. I searched for another match in the dark and fumbled about trying to strike it but it wouldn’t light. This time I was certain: something was moving in the tunnels, something alive, and it wasn’t the rats. I was suffocating. An overpowering stench invaded my nostrils. Finally I managed to light a match. At first I was blinded by the flame, then I saw something creeping towards me. From all the tunnels. Shapeless figures crawling like spiders. The match fell from my trembling fingers. I wanted to start running but my muscles had seized up.
Suddenly a beam of light sliced through the shadows and I thought I caught sight of an arm reaching out to me.
‘Oscar!’
Inspector Florián was rushing towards me. In one hand he held a torch. In the other a gun. Florián reached me and swept every corner with the beam from his torch. We both listened to the spine-chilling sound of those shapes scuttling away, fleeing from the light. Florián held his gun up high.
‘What was that?’
I wanted to reply, but my voice failed me.
‘And what the hell are you doing down here?’
> ‘María . . .’ I managed to say.
‘What?’
‘While I was waiting for you, I saw María Shelley throw herself into the sewers and . . .’
‘Shelley’s daughter?’ asked Florián, disconcerted. ‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Claret?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been following a trail of footprints . . .’
Florián inspected the walls surrounding us. A rusty iron door closed off one end of the chamber. He frowned and approached it slowly. I stuck close to him.
‘Are these the tunnels where Sentís was found?’
Florián nodded, pointing to the other end of the tunnel.
‘This sewer network extends right up to the old Borne Market. That’s where Sentís was discovered, but there were signs that his body had been dragged there.’
‘Isn’t that where the old Velo-Granell factory is?’
Again Florián nodded.
‘Do you think someone is using these passageways to move beneath the city, from the factory to—’
‘Here, hold the torch,’ Florián interrupted me. ‘And this.’
‘This’ was his revolver. I held it while he struggled with the metal door. The gun weighed more than I’d imagined. I put my finger on the trigger and examined it in the light. Florián threw me a murderous look.
‘It’s not a toy, be careful. Keep fooling around and a bullet will blow your head open like a watermelon.’
The door gave way. The stink that issued from inside was indescribable. We took a few steps back, fighting our nausea.
‘What the hell is in there?’ cried Florián.
He pulled out a handkerchief and covered his mouth and nose with it. I handed him the gun and held the torch. Florián kicked the door open and I shone the light on what lay behind it. The atmosphere was so thick you could barely see anything. Florián cocked the gun and walked towards the open door.
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