I raised my cup of coffee and we toasted my unconditional surrender.
In just a couple of days I had given myself over to the peace and tranquillity of the vassal. Isabella awoke slowly and by the time she had emerged from her room, her eyes half closed, wearing a pair of my slippers that were much too big for her, I had breakfast ready, with coffee and the morning paper, a different one each day.
…
Routine is the housekeeper of inspiration. Only forty-eight hours after the establishment of the new regime, I discovered that I was beginning to recover the discipline of my most productive years. The hours of being locked up in the study crystallized into pages and more pages in which, not without some anxiety, I began to see the work taking shape, reaching the point at which it stopped being an idea and became a reality.
The text flowed, brilliant, electric. It read like a legend, a mythological saga about miracles and hardships, peopled with characters and scenes that were knotted around a prophecy of hope for the race. The narrative prepared the way for the arrival of a warrior savior who would liberate the nation of all pain and injustice in order to give it back the pride and glory that had been snatched away by its enemies, foes who had conspired since time immemorial against the people, whoever that people might be. The mechanics of the plot were impeccable and would work equally well for any creed, race, or tribe. Flags, gods, and proclamations were the jokers in a pack that always dealt the same cards. Given the nature of the work, I had chosen one of the most complex and difficult techniques to apply to any literary text: the apparent absence of technique. The language resounded plain and simple, the voice was honest and clean, a consciousness that did not narrate but simply revealed. Sometimes I would stop to reread what I’d written and, overcome with blind vanity, I’d feel that the mechanism I was setting up worked with perfect precision. I realized that for the first time in a long while I had spent whole hours without thinking about Cristina or Pedro Vidal. Life, I told myself, was improving. Perhaps for that very reason, because it seemed that at last I was going to get out of the predicament into which I’d fallen, I did what I’ve always done when I’ve got myself back on the rails: I ruined it all.
…
One morning, after breakfast, I donned one of my respectable suits. I stepped into the gallery to say good-bye to Isabella and saw her leaning over her desk, rereading pages from the day before.
“Are you not writing today?” she asked without looking up.
“I’m taking a day off for meditation.”
I noticed the set of pen nibs and the inkpot decorated with Muses next to her notebook.
“I thought you considered them corny,” I said.
“I do, but I’m a seventeen-year-old girl and I have every right in the world to like corny things. It’s like you with your cigars.”
The smell of eau de cologne reached her and she looked at me questioningly. When she saw that I’d dressed to go out, she frowned.
“You’re off to do some more detective work?” she asked.
“A bit.”
“Don’t you need a bodyguard? A Dr. Watson? Someone with a little common sense?”
“Don’t learn how to find excuses for not writing before you learn how to write. That’s a privilege of professionals and you have to earn it.”
“I think that if I’m your assistant that should cover everything.”
“Actually, there is something I wanted to ask you. No, don’t worry. It’s to do with Sempere. I’ve heard that he’s hard up and that the bookshop is at risk.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Unfortunately it is, but it’s all right because we’re not going to allow matters to get any worse.”
“Señor Sempere is very proud and he’s not going to let you … You’ve already tried, haven’t you?”
I nodded.
“That’s why I thought we need to be a little shrewder and resort to something more cunning.”
“Your speciality.”
I ignored her disapproving tone. “This is what I’ve planned: you drop by the bookshop, as if you just happened to be passing, and tell Sempere that I’m an ogre, that you’re sick of me—”
“Up to now it sounds 100 percent credible.”
“Don’t interrupt. You tell him all that and also tell him that what I pay you to be my assistant is a pittance.”
“But you don’t pay me a penny.”
I sighed. This required patience.
“When he says he’s sorry to hear it, and he will, make yourself look like a damsel in distress and confess, if possible with a tear or two, that your father has disinherited you and wants to send you to a nunnery. Tell him you thought that perhaps you could work in his shop for a few hours a day, for a trial period, in exchange for a 3 percent commission on what you sell. That way, you can carve out a future for yourself far from the convent, as a liberated woman devoted to the dissemination of literature.”
Isabella grimaced.
“Three percent? Do you want to help Sempere or fleece him?”
“I want you to put on a dress like the one you wore the other night, get yourself all dolled up, as only you know how, and pay him a visit while his son is in the shop, which is usually in the afternoons.”
“Are we talking about the handsome one?”
“How many sons does Señor Sempere have?”
Isabella made her calculations and, when she began to understand what was going on, she looked annoyed.
“If my father knew the kind of perverse mind you have, he’d buy himself that shotgun.”
“All I’m saying is that the son must see you. And the father must see the son seeing you.”
“You’re even worse than I imagined. Now you’re devoting yourself to the white slave trade.”
“It’s pure Christian charity. Besides, you were the first to admit that Sempere’s son is good-looking.”
“Good-looking and a bit slow.”
“Don’t exaggerate. Sempere junior is just shy in the presence of females, which does him credit. He’s a model citizen who, despite being aware of his enticing appearance, exercises extreme self-control out of respect for and devotion to the immaculate purity of Barcelona’s womenfolk. Don’t tell me this doesn’t bestow an aura of nobility that appeals to your instincts, both maternal and the rest.”
“Sometimes I think I hate you, Señor Martín.”
“Hold on to that feeling but don’t blame poor young Sempere for my deficiencies as a human being because, strictly speaking, he’s a saint.”
“We agreed that you wouldn’t try to find me a boyfriend.”
“I’ve said nothing about a boyfriend. If you’ll let me finish, I’ll tell you the rest.”
“Go on, Rasputin.”
“When the older Sempere says yes to you, and he will, I want you to spend two or three hours a day at the counter in the bookshop.”
“Dressed like what? Mata Hari?”
“Dressed with the decorum and good taste that is characteristic of you. Pretty, suggestive, but without standing out. As I’ve said, if necessary you can rescue one of Irene Sabino’s dresses, but it must be modest.”
“Two or three of them look fantastic on me,” Isabella said eagerly.
“Then wear whichever one covers you the most.”
“You’re a reactionary. What about my literary education?”
“What better classroom than Sempere & Sons? You’ll be surrounded by masterpieces from which you can learn in bulk.”
“And what should I do? Take a deep breath to see if something sticks?”
“It’s just for a few hours a day. After that you can continue your work here, as you have until now, receiving my advice, which is always priceless and will turn you into a new Jane Austen.”
“And where’s the cunning plan?”
“The cunning plan is that every day I’ll give you a few pesetas and every time you are paid by a customer and open the till you’ll slide them in discreetly.”
“So that’s your plan …”
“That’s the plan. As you can see, there’s nothing perverse about it.”
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.”
23
When 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:
Casa Marlasca
13
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.”
&n
bsp; “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.
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