The Angel's Game (33 page)

Isabella frowned again.

“It won’t work. He’ll notice there’s something wrong. Señor Sempere is nobody’s fool.”

“It will work. And if Sempere seems puzzled, you tell him that when customers see a pretty girl behind the counter they let go of the purse strings and become more generous.”

“That might be so in the cheap haunts you frequent, not in a bookshop.”

“I beg to differ. If I were to go into a bookshop and come across a shop assistant as pretty and charming as you are, I might even be capable of buying the latest national book award winner.”

“That’s because your mind is as filthy as a henhouse.”

“I also have—or should I say we have—a debt of gratitude to Sempere.”

“That’s a low blow.”

“Then don’t make me aim even lower.”

Every self-respecting persuasive ploy must first appeal to curiosity, then to vanity, and lastly to kindness or remorse. Isabella looked down and slowly nodded.

“And when were you planning to set this plan of the bounteous goddess in motion?”

“Don’t put off for tomorrow what you can do today.”

“Today?”

“This afternoon.”

“Tell me the truth. Is this a strategy for laundering the money the
boss pays you and for purging your conscience, or whatever it is you have where there should be one?”

“You know my motives are always selfish.”

“And what if Señor Sempere says no?”

“Just make sure the son is there and you’re dressed in your Sunday best, but not for Mass.”

“It’s a degrading and offensive plan.”

“And you love it.”

At last Isabella smiled, catlike.

“What if the son suddenly grows bold and allows his hands to wander?”

“I can guarantee the heir won’t dare lay a finger on you unless it’s in the presence of a priest waving a marriage certificate.”

“That sounds a bit extreme.”

“Will you do it?”

“For you?”

“For literature.”

W
hen I stepped outside I was greeted by an icy breeze sweeping up the streets, and I knew that autumn was tiptoeing its way into Barcelona. In Plaza Palacio I got on a tram that was waiting there, empty, like a large steel rat trap. I sat by the window and paid the conductor for my ticket.

“Do you go as far as Sarriá?” I asked.

“As far as the square.”

I leaned my head against the window and soon the tram set off with a jerk. I closed my eyes and succumbed to one of those naps that can be enjoyed only on board some mechanical monstrosity, the sleep of modern man. I dreamed that I was traveling in a train made of black bones, its coaches shaped like coffins, crossing a deserted Barcelona that was strewn with discarded clothes, as if the bodies that had occupied them had simply evaporated. A wasteland of abandoned hats and dresses, suits and shoes that covered the silent streets. The engine gave off a trail of scarlet smoke that spread across the sky like spilled paint. A smiling boss traveled next to me. He was dressed in white and wore gloves. Something dark and glutinous dripped from the tips of his fingers.

What has happened to all the people?

Have faith, Martín. Have faith.

As I awoke, the tram was gliding slowly into Plaza de Sarriá. I jumped off before it reached the stop and made my way up Calle Mayor de Sarriá. Fifteen minutes later I arrived at my destination.

…

Carretera de Vallvidrera started in a shady grove behind the red-brick castle of San Ignacio’s school. The street climbed uphill, bordered by solitary mansions, and was covered with a carpet of fallen leaves. Low clouds slid down the mountainside, dissolving into puffs of mist. I walked along the pavement and tried to work out the street numbers as I passed garden walls and wrought-iron gates. Behind them, barely visible, stood houses of darkened stone and dried-up fountains beached between paths that were thick with weeds. I walked along a stretch of road beneath a long row of cypress trees and discovered that the numbers jumped from eleven to fifteen. Confused, I retraced my steps in search of number 13. I was beginning to suspect that Señor Valera’s secretary was cleverer than she had seemed and had given me a false address, when I noticed an alleyway leading off the pavement. It ran for about fifty meters toward some dark iron railings that formed a crest of spears atop a stone wall.

I turned into the narrow cobbled lane and walked down to the railings. A thick, unkempt garden had crept toward the other side and the branches of a eucalyptus tree passed through the spearheads like the arms of prisoners pleading through the bars of a cell. I pushed aside the leaves that covered part of the wall and found the letters and numbers carved in the stone:

As I followed the railings that ran round the edge of the garden, I tried to catch a glimpse of the interior. Some twenty meters along I discovered a metal door fitted into the stone wall. A large door knocker rested on the iron sheet, which was streaked with rust. The door was ajar. I pushed with my shoulder and managed to open it just enough to pass through without tearing my clothes on the sharp bits of stone that jutted out from the wall. The air was infused with the intense stench of wet earth.

A path of marble tiles led through the trees to a clearing covered with white stones. On one side stood a garage, its doors open, revealing the remains of what had once been a Mercedes-Benz and now looked like a hearse abandoned to its fate. The house was a three-story building in the Modernist style with curved lines and a crown of dormer windows coming together in a swirl beneath turrets and arches. Narrow windows opened on its façade, which was covered with reliefs and gargoyles. The glass panes reflected the silent passing of the clouds. I thought I could see the outline of a face behind one of the first-floor windows.

Without quite knowing why, I raised my arm and smiled faintly. I didn’t want to be taken for a thief. The still figure remained there watching me. I looked down for a moment and when I looked up again it had disappeared.

“Good morning!” I called out.

I waited for a few seconds and when no reply came I proceeded slowly toward the house. An oval-shaped swimming pool flanked the eastern side, beyond which stood a glass conservatory. Frayed deck chairs surrounded the pool. A diving board, overgrown with ivy, was poised over the sheet of murky water. I walked to the edge and saw that it was littered with dead leaves and algae rippling over the surface. I was looking at my own reflection in the water when I noticed a dark figure hovering behind me.

I spun round and met with a pointed, somber face, examining me nervously.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“My name is David Martín and Señor Valera, the lawyer, sent me.”

Alicia Marlasca pressed her lips together.

“You’re Señora de Marlasca? Doña Alicia?”

“What’s happened to the one who usually comes?” she asked.

I realized that Señora Marlasca had taken me for one of the articled clerks from Valera’s office and had assumed I was bringing papers to sign or some message from the lawyers. For a moment I considered adopting that identity, but something in the woman’s face told me that she’d heard enough lies to last a lifetime.

“I don’t work for the firm, Señora Marlasca. The reason for my visit is a personal matter. I wonder whether you would have a few minutes to speak about one of the old properties belonging to your deceased husband, Don Diego.”

The widow turned pale and looked away. She was leaning on a stick and I noticed a wheelchair in the doorway of the conservatory. I assumed she spent more time in it than she would care to admit.

“None of the properties belonging to my husband remain, Señor …”

“Martín.”

“The banks kept everything, Señor Martín. Everything except for this house, which, thanks to the advice of Señor Valera’s father, was put in my name. The rest was taken by the scavengers.”

“I’m referring to the tower house, in Calle Flassaders.”

The widow sighed. I reckoned she was somewhere between sixty and sixty-five. The echo of what must once have been a dazzling beauty had scarcely faded.

“Forget that house. It’s cursed.”

“Unfortunately I can’t. I live there.”

Señora Marlasca frowned.

“I thought nobody wanted to live there. It stood empty for years.”

“I’ve been renting it for some time. The reason for my visit is that, while I was doing some renovations, I came across a few personal items that I think belonged to your deceased husband and, I suppose, to you.”

“There’s nothing of mine in that house. Whatever you’ve found must belong to that woman …”

“Irene Sabino?”

Alicia Marlasca smiled bitterly.

“What do you really want to know, Señor Martín? Tell me the truth. You haven’t come all this way to return some old things belonging to my husband.”

We gazed at each other in silence and I knew that I couldn’t, and didn’t want to, lie to this woman, whatever the cost.

“I’m trying to find out what happened to your husband, Señora Marlasca.”

“Why?”

“Because I think the same thing may be happening to me.”

…

Casa Marlasca had the feel of an abandoned mausoleum that characterizes large houses sustained on absence and neglect. Far from its days of fortune and glory, when an army of servants kept it pristine and full of splendor, the house was now a ruin. Paint was peeling off the walls, the floor tiles were loose, the furniture was rotten and damp, the ceilings sagged, and the large carpets were threadbare and discolored. I helped the widow into her wheelchair and, following her instructions, pushed her to a reading room that contained hardly any books or pictures.

“I had to sell almost everything to survive,” she explained. “If it hadn’t been for Señor Valera, who still sends me a small pension every month on behalf of the firm, I wouldn’t have known what to do.”

“Do you live here alone?”

The widow nodded.

“This is my home. The only place where I’ve been happy, even though that was many years ago. I’ve always lived here and I’ll die here. I’m sorry I haven’t offered you anything. It’s been so long since I last had visitors that I’ve forgotten how to treat a guest. Would you like a coffee or a tea?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Señora Marlasca smiled and pointed to the armchair in which I was sitting.

“That was my husband’s favorite. He used to sit by the fire and read until late. I sometimes sat here, next to him, and listened. He liked telling me things, at least he did back then. We were very happy in this house …”

“What happened?”

The widow stared at the ashes in the hearth.

“Are you sure you want to hear this story?”

“Please.”

“T
o be honest, I’m not quite certain when my husband, Diego, met her. I just remember that one day he began to mention her in passing and that soon not a day went by without him saying her name, Irene Sabino. He told me he’d been introduced to her by a man called Damián Roures who organized séances somewhere on Calle Elisabets. Diego knew a great deal about religions and had gone to a number of séances as an observer. Irene Sabino was very popular in the Paralelo in those days. She was beautiful, I will not deny it. Apart from that, I think she was just about able to count up to ten. People said she’d been born in the shacks of Bogatell beach, that her mother had abandoned her in the Somorrostro shantytown and she’d grown up among beggars and fugitives. At fourteen she started to dance in cabarets and nightclubs in the Raval and the Paralelo. Dancing is one way of putting it. I suppose she began to prostitute herself before she learned to read and write, if she ever did learn, that is … For a while she was the main star at La Criolla, or that’s what people said. Then she went on to fancier places. I think it was at the Apolo that she met a man called Juan Corbera, whom everyone called Jaco. Jaco was her manager and probably her lover. It was Jaco who came up with the name Irene Sabino and the legend that she was the secret offspring of a famous Parisian cabaret star and a prince of European nobility. I don’t know what her real name was, or whether she ever had one. Jaco introduced her to the séances, at Roures’s suggestion,
I believe, and the two men split the profits of selling her supposed virginity to wealthy, bored men who went along to those shams to kill the monotony. Her speciality was couples, they say.

“What Jaco and his partner, Roures, didn’t suspect was that Irene was obsessed with the sessions and really believed she could make contact with the world of spirits. She was convinced that her mother sent her messages from the other side, and even when she became famous she continued attending the séances to try to establish contact with her. That is where she met Diego. I suppose we were going through a bad patch, like all marriages do. Diego had been wanting to leave the legal profession for some time to devote himself to writing. I admit that he didn’t find the support he needed from me. I thought that if he did it, he would be throwing his life away, although probably what I really feared losing was all this—the house, the servants … I lost everything anyhow, and my husband too. What ended up separating us was the loss of Ismael. Ismael was our son. Diego was crazy about him. I’ve never seen a father so dedicated to his son. Ismael was his life, not I. We were arguing in the bedroom on the first floor. I began to reproach him for the time he spent writing and for the fact that Valera, tired of having to shoulder Diego’s work as well as his own, had sent him an ultimatum and was thinking about dissolving their partnership and setting himself up independently. Diego said he didn’t care, he was ready to sell his share in the business so that he could dedicate himself to his vocation. That afternoon we couldn’t find Ismael. He wasn’t in his room or in the garden. I thought that when he’d heard us arguing he must have been frightened and left the house. It wasn’t the first time he’d done that. Some months earlier he’d been found on a bench in Plaza de Sarriá, crying. We went out to look for him as it was getting dark, but there was no sign of him anywhere. We went to our neighbors’ houses, to hospitals … When we returned at dawn, after spending all night looking for him, we found his body at the bottom of the pool. He’d drowned the previous afternoon and we hadn’t heard his cries for help because we were too busy shouting at each other. He was seven years old.