The Angel's Game (30 page)

33

When I left the shop I returned home, wondering what to do next. I was approaching the entrance to Calle Moncada when I saw him. Inspector Grandes was leaning against a wall and enjoying a cigarette. He smiled at me and waved and I crossed the street towards him.

‘I didn’t know you were interested in magic, Martín.’

‘Nor did I know that you were following me, inspector.’

‘I’m not following you. It’s just that you’re a difficult man to find and I decided that if the mountain wouldn’t come to me, I’d go to the mountain. Do you have five minutes to spare, for a drink? It’s on police headquarters.’

‘In that case . . . No chaperones today?’

‘Marcos and Castelo stayed behind doing paperwork, but if I’d told them I was coming to see you, I’m sure they’d have volunteered.’

We walked through the canyon of old palaces until we reached the Xampañet Tavern, where we found a table at the far end. A waiter, armed with a mop that stank of bleach, stared at us and Grandes asked for a couple of beers and a
tapa
of Manchego cheese. When the beers and the snack arrived, the inspector offered me the plate. I declined.

‘Do you mind? I’m always starving at this time of day.’

‘Bon appétit.’

Grandes wolfed down the cubes of cheese and licked his lips.

‘Didn’t anyone tell you that I came by your house yesterday?’

’I didn’t get the message until later.’

‘I understand. Hey, she’s gorgeous, the girl. What’s her name?’

‘Isabella.’

‘You rascal, some people have all the luck. I envy you. How old is the little sweetheart?’

I threw him a toxic look. The inspector smiled, obviously pleased.

‘A little bird told me you’ve been playing at detectives lately. Aren’t you going to leave anything to the professionals?’

‘What’s your little bird’s name?’

‘He’s more of a big bird. One of my superiors is a close friend of Valera, the lawyer.’

‘Are you also on the payroll?’

‘Not yet, my friend. You know me. I’m of the old school. Honour and all that shit.’

‘A shame.’

‘And tell me, how is poor Ricardo Salvador? Do you know? I haven’t heard that name for over twenty years. Everyone assumed he was dead.’

‘A premature diagnosis.’

‘And how is he?’

‘Alone, betrayed and forgotten.’

The inspector nodded slowly. ‘Makes one think of the future in this job, doesn’t it?’

‘I bet that in your case things will be different, and your promotion to the top is just a question of a couple of years. I can just imagine you as chief commissioner before the age of forty-five, kissing the hands of bishops and generals during the Corpus parade.’

Grandes ignored my sarcasm.

‘Speaking of hand-kissing, have you heard about your friend Vidal?’

Grandes never started a conversation without having an ace hidden up his sleeve. He watched me with a smile, relishing my anxiety.

‘What about him?’ I mumbled.

‘They say his wife tried to kill herself the other night.’

‘Cristina?’

‘Of course, you know her . . .’

I didn’t realise that I’d stood up and my hands were shaking.

‘Calm down. Señora de Vidal is all right. Just a fright. It seems that she overdid it with the laudanum. Will you sit down, Martín? Please.’

I sat down. My stomach was a bag of nails.

‘When was this?’

‘Two or three days ago.’

My mind filled with the image of Cristina in the window of Villa Helius a few days earlier, waving at me while I avoided her eyes and turned my back on her.

‘Martín?’ the inspector asked, waving a hand in front of my face as if he feared I’d lost my mind.

‘What?’

The inspector seemed to be genuinely worried.

‘Have you anything to tell me? I know you won’t believe me, but I’d like to help you.’

‘Do you still think it was me who killed Barrido and his partner?’

Grandes shook his head.

‘I’ve never believed it was you, but there are others who would like to.’

‘Then why are you still investigating me?’

‘Calm down. I’m not investigating you, Martín. I never have. The day I do investigate you, you’ll know. For the time being I’m only observing you. Because I like you and I’m concerned that you’re going to get yourself into a mess. Why won’t you trust me and tell me what’s going on?’

Our eyes met and for an instant I was tempted to tell him everything. I would have done so, had I known where to begin.

‘Nothing is going on, inspector.’

Grandes nodded and looked at me with pity, or perhaps it was only disappointment. He finished his beer and left a few coins on the table. He gave me a pat on the back and got up.

‘Look after yourself, Martín. And watch how you go. Not everyone holds you in the same esteem as I do.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

It was almost midday when I got home, unable to stop thinking about what the inspector had told me. When I reached the tower house I climbed the steps slowly, as if my very soul was weighing me down. I opened the door of the apartment, fearing I’d find Isabella in the mood for conversation. The house was silent. I walked up the corridor until I reached the gallery and there I found her, asleep on the sofa, an open book on her chest - one of my old novels. I couldn’t help but smile. The temperature inside the house had dropped considerably during those autumn days and I was afraid Isabella might catch a chill. Sometimes I’d see her wandering about the apartment wrapped in a woollen shawl she wore over her shoulders. I went to her room to find the shawl, so that I could quietly cover her with it. Her door was ajar. Although I was in my own home, I’d rarely entered that room since Isabella had installed herself there and now felt uneasy doing so. I saw the shawl folded over a chair and went to fetch it. The room had Isabella’s sweet, lemony scent. The bed was still unmade and I leaned over to smooth out the sheets and blankets. I knew that when I applied myself to these domestic chores my moral standing rose in the eyes of my assistant.

It was then that I noticed there was something wedged between the mattress and the base of the bed. The corner of a piece of paper stuck out from under the folded sheet. When I tugged at it I realised it was a bundle of papers. I pulled it out completely and found that I was holding what looked like about twenty blue envelopes tied together with a ribbon. My whole body felt cold. I untied the knot in the ribbon and took one of the envelopes. It had my name and address on it. Where the return address should have been, it simply said: Cristina.

I sat on the bed with my back to the door and examined the envelopes, one by one. The first letter was a few weeks old, the last had been posted three days ago. All of the envelopes were open. I closed my eyes and felt the letters falling from my hands. I heard her breathing behind me, standing motionless in the doorway.

‘Forgive me,’ whispered Isabella.

She walked over slowly and knelt down to pick up the letters. When she’d gathered them together she handed them to me with a wounded look.

‘I did it to protect you,’ she said.

Her eyes filled with tears and she placed a hand on my shoulder.

‘Leave,’ I said.

I pushed her away and stood up. Isabella collapsed onto the floor, moaning as if something were burning inside her.

‘Leave this house.’

I left the apartment without even bothering to close the door behind me. Once outside, I faced a world of buildings and faces that seemed strange and distant. I started to walk aimlessly, oblivious to the cold and the rain-filled wind that was starting to lash the town with the breath of a curse.

34

The tram stopped by the gates of Bellesguard, a mansion standing on the edge of the city, at the foot of the hill. I walked on towards the entrance to San Gervasio Cemetery, following the yellowish beam projected through the rain by the tram lights. The walls of the graveyard rose some fifty metres ahead, a marble fortress from which emerged a mass of statues the colour of the storm. I found a cubicle next to the entrance where a guard, wrapped in a coat, was warming his hands over a brazier. When he saw me appear in the rain he looked startled and stood up. He examined me for a few seconds before opening the cubicle door.

‘I’m looking for the Marlasca family vault.’

‘It’ll be dark in less than half an hour. You’d better come back another day.’

‘The sooner you tell me where it is, the sooner I’ll leave.’

The guard checked a list and showed me the site by pointing a finger to a map of the graveyard hanging on the wall. I walked off without thanking him.

It wasn’t difficult to find the vault among the citadel of tombs and mausoleums crowded together inside the walls of the cemetery. The structure stood on a marble base. Modernist in style, the mausoleum was shaped like an arch formed by two wide flights of steps that spread out like an amphitheatre. The steps led to a gallery held up by columns, inside which was an atrium flanked by tombstones. The gallery was crowned by a dome, and the dome, in turn, by a marble figure sullied by the passage of time. Its face was hidden by a veil, but as I approached I had the impression that this sentinel from beyond the grave was turning its head to watch me. I went up one of the staircases, and when I reached the entrance to the gallery, I stopped to look behind me. The distant city lights were just visible in the rain.

I stepped into the gallery. In the centre stood a statue of a woman in prayer, embracing a crucifix. The face had been disfigured and someone had painted the eyes and lips black, giving her a wolfish aspect. That was not the only sign of desecration in the vault. The tombstones seemed to be covered in what looked like markings or scratches made with a sharp object, and some had been defaced with obscene drawings and words that were almost illegible in the failing light. Diego Marlasca’s tomb was at the far end. I went up to it and put my hand on the tombstone. Then I pulled out the photograph of Marlasca Salvador had given me and examined it.

At that moment I heard footsteps on the stairway to the vault. I put the photograph back into my coat pocket and turned, facing the entrance to the gallery. The footsteps stopped and all I could hear now was the rain beating against the marble. I went towards the entrance and looked out. The figure had its back to me and was gazing at the city in the distance. It was a woman dressed in white, her head covered by a shawl. Slowly she turned and looked at me. She was smiling. Despite the years, I recognised her instantly. Irene Sabino. I took a step towards her and only then did I realise there was someone else behind me. The blow to the back of my neck fired off a spasm of white light. I felt myself falling to my knees. A second later I collapsed on the flooded marble. A dark silhouette stood over me in the rain. Irene knelt down beside me; I felt her hands surrounding my head and feeling the place where I’d been hit. I saw her fingers emerging, covered in blood. She stroked my face. The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was Irene Sabino pulling out a razor and opening it, silvery drops of rain sliding across the blade’s edge as it drew towards me.

I opened my eyes to the blinding glare of an oil lamp. The guard’s face was watching me impassively. I tried to blink as a flash of pain shot through my skull from the back of my neck.

‘Are you alive?’ the guard asked, without specifying whether the question was directed at me or was purely rhetorical.

‘Yes’, I groaned. ‘Don’t you dare stick me in a hole.’

The guard helped me to sit up. Every time I moved I felt a stab of pain in my head.

‘What happened?’

‘You tell me. I should have locked this place up over an hour ago, but as I hadn’t seen you leave, I came to investigate and found you sleeping it off.’

‘What about the woman?’

‘What woman?’

‘There were two.’

‘Two women?’

I sighed, shaking my head.

‘Can you help me get up?’

With the guard’s assistance I managed to stand. It was then that I felt a burning sensation and noticed that my shirt was open. There were a number of superficial cuts running in lines across my chest.

‘Hey, that doesn’t look good . . .’

I closed my coat and felt the inside pocket. Marlasca’s photograph had disappeared.

‘Do you have a telephone in the booth?’

‘Sure, it’s in the room with the Turkish baths.’

‘Can you at least help me reach Bellesguard, so that I can call from there?’

The guard swore and held me by the armpits.

‘I did tell you to come back another day,’ he said, resigned.

35

A few minutes before midnight I finally reached the tower house. As soon as I opened the door I knew that Isabella had left. The echo of my footsteps down the corridor sounded different. I didn’t bother to turn on the light. I went further into the apartment and put my head round the door of what had been her room. Isabella had cleaned and tidied it. The sheets and blankets were neatly folded on a chair and the mattress was bare. Her smell still floated in the air. I went to the gallery and sat at the desk my assistant had used. She had sharpened the pencils and arranged them in a glass. The pile of blank sheets had been carefully stacked in a tray and the pen and nib set I had given her had been left on one side of the table. The house had never seemed so empty.

In the bathroom I removed my wet clothes and put a bandage with surgical spirit on the nape of my neck. The pain had subsided to a mute throb and a general feeling that was not unlike a monumental hangover. In the mirror, the cuts on my chest looked like lines drawn with a pen. They were clean, superficial cuts, but they stung a great deal. I cleaned them with surgical spirit and hoped they wouldn’t become infected.

I got into bed and covered myself up to the neck with two or three blankets. The only parts of my body that didn’t hurt were those that the cold and the rain had numbed to the point that I couldn’t feel them at all. I lay there slowly warming up, listening to that cold silence, a silence of absence and emptiness that smothered the house. Before leaving, Isabella had left the pile of Cristina’s letters on the bedside table. I stretched out my hand and took one at random, dated two weeks earlier.

Dear David,

The days go by and I keep on writing letters to you which I suppose you prefer not to answer - if you even open them, that is. I’ve started to think that I write them just for myself, to kill the loneliness and to believe for a moment that you’re close to me. Every day I wonder what has happened to you, and what you’re doing.

Sometimes I think you’ve left Barcelona, and won’t return, and I imagine you in some place surrounded by strangers, beginning a new life that I will never know. At other times I think you still hate me, that you destroy these letters and wish you had never known me. I don’t blame you. It’s curious how easy it is to tell a piece of paper what you don’t dare say to someone’s face.

Things are not simple for me. Pedro couldn’t be kinder and more understanding, so much so that sometimes his patience and his desire to make me happy irritate me, which only makes me feel miserable. He has shown me that my heart is empty, that I don’t deserve to be loved by anyone. He spends most of the day with me and doesn’t want to leave me alone.

I smile every day and I share his bed. When he asks me whether I love him I say I do, and when I see the truth reflected in his eyes I feel like dying. He never reproaches me. He talks about you a great deal. He misses you. He misses you so much that sometimes I think you’re the person he loves most in this world. I see him growing old, on his own, in the worst possible company - mine. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but if there’s one thing I wish for in this world, it is for you to forgive him. I’m not worth depriving him of your friendship and company.

Yesterday I finished one of your books. Pedro has them all and I’ve been reading them because it’s the only way I can feel that I’m with you. It was a sad, strange story, about two broken dolls abandoned in a travelling circus that come alive for one night, knowing they are going to die at dawn. As I read it I felt you were writing about us.

A few weeks ago I dreamed that I saw you again: we passed in the street and you didn’t remember me. You smiled and asked me what my name was. You didn’t know anything about me. You didn’t hate me. Every night when Pedro falls asleep next to me, I close my eyes and beg heaven or hell that I might dream the same dream again.

Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, I’ll write again to tell you that I love you, even if it means nothing to you.

CRISTINA

I let the letter fall to the floor, unable to read any more. Tomorrow would be another day, I told myself. It could hardly be worse than this one. Little did I imagine the delights in store. I must have slept for a couple of hours at the most when, all of a sudden, I awoke. It was still long before dawn. Somebody was banging on the door of my apartment. I spent a couple of seconds in a daze, looking for the light switch. Again, the knocking on the door. I must have forgotten to lock the main entrance to the street. I turned on the light, got out of bed and walked along to the entrance hall. I slid open the spyhole. Three faces in the shadows of the landing. Inspector Grandes and, behind him, Marcos and Castelo. All three with their eyes trained on the spyhole. I took two deep breaths before opening.

‘Good evening, Martín. I’m sorry about the time.’

‘And what time is this supposed to be?’

‘Time to move your arse, you son-of-a-bitch,’ muttered Marcos, which drew from Castelo a smile so cutting I could have shaved with it.

Grandes looked at them disapprovingly and sighed.

‘A little after three in the morning,’ he said. ‘May I come in?’

I groaned but let him in. The inspector signalled to his men to wait on the landing. Marcos and Castelo agreed reluctantly, throwing me reptilian looks. I slammed the door in their faces.

‘You should be more careful with those two,’ said Grandes, wandering up the corridor as if he owned the place.

‘Please, make yourself at home . . .’ I said.

I returned to the bedroom and dressed any old how, putting on the first things I found - dirty clothes piled on a chair. When I came out, there was no sign of Grandes in the corridor.

I went over to the gallery and found him there, gazing through the windows at the low clouds that crept over the flat roofs.

‘Where’s the sweetheart?’

‘In her own home.’

Grandes turned round, smiling.

‘Wise man, you don’t keep them full board,’ he said, pointing at the armchair. ‘Sit down.’

I slumped into the chair. Grandes remained standing, his eyes fixed on me.

‘What?’ I finally asked.

‘You don’t look so good, Martín. Did you get into a fight?’

‘I fell.’

‘I see. I understand that today you visited the magic shop owned by Señor Damián Roures in Calle Princesa.’

‘You saw me coming out of the shop at lunchtime. What’s all this about?’

Grandes was gazing at me coldly.

‘Fetch a coat and a scarf, or whatever. It’s cold outside. We’re off to the police station.’

‘What for?’

‘Do as I say.’

A car from police headquarters was waiting for us in Paseo del Borne. Marcos and Castelo pushed me unceremoniously into the back, posting themselves on either side.

‘Is the gentleman comfortable?’ asked Castelo, digging his elbow into my ribs.

The inspector sat in the front, next to the driver. None of them opened their mouths during the five minutes it took to drive up Vía Layetana, deserted and buried in an ochre mist. When we reached the central police station, Grandes got out and went in without waiting. Marcos and Castelo took an arm each, as if they were trying to crush my bones, and dragged me through a maze of stairs, passages and cells until we reached a room with no windows that smelled of sweat and urine. In the centre stood a worm-eaten table and two dilapidated chairs. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling and there was a grating over a drain in the middle of the room, where the two inclines of the floor met. It was bitterly cold. Before I realised what was happening, the door was shut behind me with a bang. I heard footsteps moving away. I walked round that dungeon a dozen times until I collapsed on one of the shaky chairs. For the next hour, apart from my breathing, the creaking of the chair and the echo of water dripping, I didn’t hear another sound.

An eternity later I heard footsteps approaching and shortly afterwards the door opened. Marcos stuck his head round and peered into the cell with a smile. He held the door open for Grandes, who came in without looking at me and sat on the chair on the other side of the table. Grandes nodded to Marcos and the latter closed the door, but not without first blowing me a silent kiss. The inspector took a good thirty seconds before deigning to look me in the eye.

‘If you were trying to impress me, you’ve done so, inspector.’

He ignored my irony and fixed his eyes on me as if he’d never seen me before in his life.

‘What do you know about Damián Roures?’ he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘Not much. He owns a magic shop. In fact, I knew nothing about him until a few days ago, when Ricardo Salvador mentioned him. Today, or yesterday - I’ve lost track of the time - I went to see him in search of information about the previous occupier of the house in which I live. Salvador told me that Roures and the owner—’

‘Marlasca.’

‘Yes, Diego Marlasca. As I was saying, Salvador told me that Roures had had dealings with him some years ago. I asked Roures a few questions and he replied as best he could. There’s little else.’

Grandes inclined his head.

‘Is that your story?’

‘I don’t know. What’s yours? Let’s compare and perhaps I’ll finally understand what the hell I’m doing here in the middle of the night, freezing to death in a basement that smells of shit.’

‘Don’t raise your voice to me, Martín.’

‘I’m sorry, inspector, but I think you could at least have the courtesy to tell me why I’m here.’

‘I’ll tell you why you’re here. About three hours ago, one of the residents of the apartment block in which Señor Roures’s shop is located was returning home late when he found that the door of the shop was open and the lights were on. He was surprised, so he went in, and when he did not see the owner or hear him reply to his calls, he went into the back room, where he found Roures, his hands and feet bound with wire to a chair, over a pool of blood.’

Grandes paused, his eyes boring into me. I imagined there was more to come. Grandes always liked to end on something dramatic.

‘Dead?’ I asked.

Grandes nodded.

‘Quite dead. Someone had amused himself by pulling out the man’s eyes and cutting out his tongue with a pair of scissors. The pathologist believes he died by choking on his own blood about half an hour later.’

I felt I needed air. Grandes was walking around. He stopped behind my back and I heard him light a cigarette.

‘How did you get that bruise? It looks recent.’

‘I slipped in the rain and hit the back of my neck.’

‘Don’t treat me like an idiot, Martín. It’s not advisable. Would you rather I left you for a while with Marcos and Castelo, to see if they can teach you some manners?’

‘All right. Someone hit me.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘This conversation is beginning to bore me, Martín.’

‘Well, just imagine what it’s doing to me.’

Grandes sat down in front of me again and offered a conciliatory smile.

‘Surely you don’t believe I had anything to do with the death of that man?’

‘No, Martín. I don’t. What I do believe is that you’re not telling me the truth, and that somehow the death of that poor wretch is related to your visit. Like the death of Barrido and Escobillas.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Call it a hunch.’

‘I’ve already told you I don’t know anything.’

‘And I’ve already warned you not to take me for an idiot, Martín. Marcos and Castelo are out there waiting for an opportunity to have a private conversation with you. Is that what you want?’

‘No.’

‘Then help me get you out of this so that I can send you home before your sheets get cold.’

‘What do you want to hear?’

‘The truth, for example.’

I pushed the chair back and stood up, exasperated. I was chilled to the bone and my head felt as if it was going to burst. I began to walk round the table in circles, spitting out the words as if they were stones.

‘The truth? I’ll tell you the truth. The truth is I don’t know what the truth is. I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know why I went to see Roures, or Salvador. I don’t know what I’m looking for or what is happening to me. That’s the truth.’

Grandes watched me stoically.

‘Stop walking in circles and sit down. You’re making me giddy.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Martín, you’re not telling me anything. All I’m asking you to do is to help me so that I can help you.’

‘You wouldn’t be able to help me even if you wanted to.’

‘Then who can?’

I dropped back into the chair.

‘I don’t know . . .’ I murmured.

I thought I saw a hint of pity, or perhaps it was just tiredness, in the inspector’s eyes.

‘Look, Martín. Let’s begin again. Let’s do it your way. Tell me a story, and start at the beginning.’

I stared at him in silence.

‘Martín. Don’t think that because I like you I’m not going to do my work.’

‘Do whatever you have to do. Call Hansel and Gretel, if you like.’

At that moment I noticed a touch of anxiety on his face. Footsteps were advancing along the corridor and something told me the inspector wasn’t expecting them. I heard voices and nervously Grandes went up to the door. He tapped three times with his knuckles and Marcos, who was on guard, opened up. A man dressed in a camel-hair coat and a matching suit came into the room, looked around him in disgust, and then gave me a sweet smile while he calmly removed his gloves. I watched him in astonishment. It was Valera, the lawyer.