“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.”
24
“To 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.
“Diego never forgave me, or himself. Soon we were unable to bear each other’s presence. Every time we looked at each other, every time we touched, we saw our dead son’s body at the bottom of that damned pool. One day I woke up and knew that Diego had abandoned me. He left the law firm and went to live in a rambling old house in the Ribera quarter that he had been obsessed with for years. He said he was writing and he’d received a very important commission from a publisher in Paris, so I didn’t need to worry about money. I knew he was with Irene, even if he didn’t admit it. He was a broken man and was convinced that he had only a short time to live. He thought he’d caught some illness, a sort of parasite that was eating him up. All he ever spoke about was death. He wouldn’t listen to anyone. Not to me, not to Valera—only to Irene and Roures, who poisoned his mind with stories about spirits and extracted money from him by promising to put him in touch with Ismael. On one occasion I went to the tower house and begged him to open the door. He wouldn’t let me in. He told me he was busy, said he was working on something that was going to enable him to save Ismael. I realized then that he was beginning to lose his mind. He believed that if he wrote that wretched book for the Parisian publisher our son would return from the dead. I think that between the three of them—Irene, Roures, and Jaco—they managed to get their hands on what little money he had left, we had left … He no longer saw anybody and spent his time locked up in that horrible place.
“Months later they found him dead. The police said it was an accident, but I never believed it. Jaco had disappeared and there was no trace of the money. Roures maintained he didn’t know anything. He declared that he hadn’t had any contact with Diego for months because Diego had gone mad, and he scared him. He said that in his last appearances at the séances, Diego had frightened the customers with stories of accursed souls so Roures had not allowed him to return. Diego said there was a huge lake of blood under the city, that his son spoke to him in his dreams, that Ismael was trapped by a shadow with a serpent’s skin who pretended to be another boy and played with him … Nobody was surprised when they found him dead.
“Irene said Diego had taken his own life because of me; she said that his cold and calculating wife, who had allowed his son to die because she didn’t want to give up her life of luxury, had pushed him to his death. She said she was the only one who had truly loved him and that she’d never accepted a penny from him. And I think, at least in that respect, she was telling the truth. I’m sure Jaco used her to seduce Diego in order to rob him of everything. Later, when matters came to a head, Jaco left her and fled without sharing a single thing. That’s what the police said, or at least some of them. I always felt that they didn’t want to stir things up and the suicide version of events turned out to be very convenient. But I don’t believe Diego took his own life. I didn’t believe it then and I don’t believe it now. I think Irene and Jaco murdered him. And not just for the money. There was something else. I remember that one of the policemen assigned to the case, a young man called Salvador, Ricardo Salvador, thought the same. He said there was something that didn’t add up in the official version of events and that somebody was covering up the real cause of Diego’s death. Salvador tried very hard to establish the facts but he was removed from the case and was eventually thrown out of the police force.
“Even then he continued to investigate on his
own. He came to see me sometimes and we became good friends. I was a woman on my own, ruined and desperate. Valera kept telling me I should remarry. He, too, blamed me for what had happened to my husband and even insinuated that there were plenty of unmarried shopkeepers around who wouldn’t mind having a pleasant-looking widow with aristocratic airs warm their beds in their golden years. Eventually even Salvador stopped visiting me. I don’t blame him. By trying to help me he had ruined his own life. Sometimes I think that the only thing I’ve ever managed to do for others is destroy their lives … I hadn’t told anybody this story until today, Señor Martín. If you want some advice, forget that house; forget me, my husband, and this whole story. Go away, far away. This city is damned. Damned.”
25
I left Casa Marlasca in low spirits and wandered aimlessly through the maze of lonely streets that led to Pedralbes. The sky was covered with a mesh of clouds that barely allowed the sun to filter through. Needles of light perforated the gray shroud and swept across the hillside. I followed them with my eyes and saw how, in the distance, they caressed the enameled roof of Villa Helius. The windows shone in the distance. Ignoring common sense, I set off in that direction. As I drew near, the sky darkened and a cutting wind lifted the fallen leaves into spirals. I stopped when I reached Calle Panamá. Villa Helius rose before me. I didn’t dare cross the road and approach the wall surrounding the garden. Instead, I stood there for God knows how long, unable to leave or to go over to the door and knock. Then I saw her through one of the large windows on the second floor, walking across a room. An intense cold invaded me. I was about to leave when she turned and stopped. She went up to the window and I felt her eyes resting on mine. She raised her hand as if she were about to greet me but didn’t spread her fingers. I didn’t have the courage to hold her gaze: I turned round and walked off down the street. My hands were shaking and I thrust them into my pockets. Before turning the corner I looked back and saw that she was still there, watching me. I tried to hate her, but I couldn’t find the strength.
I arrived home feeling chilled to the bone. As I walked through the front door I noticed the top of an envelope peeping out of the letter box. Parchment and sealing wax. News from the boss. I opened it while I dragged myself up the stairs. His elegant handwriting summoned me to a meeting the following day. When I reached the landing, the door was already ajar and Isabella was waiting for me with a smile.
“I was in the study and saw you coming,” she said.
I tried to smile back at her but can’t have been very convincing. She looked me in the eye and her face took on a worried expression.
“Are you all right?”
“It’s nothing. I think I’ve caught a bit of a chill.”
“I have some broth on the stove. It’ll work wonders. Come in.”
Isabella took my arm and led me to the gallery.
“I’m not an invalid, Isabella.”
She let go of me and looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
I didn’t feel like a confrontation with anybody, least of all my obstinate assistant, so I allowed her to guide me to one of the gallery armchairs, which I fell into limply. Isabella sat opposite me and looked at me with alarm.
“What happened?”
I smiled reassuringly.
“Nothing. Nothing has happened. Weren’t you going to give me a bowl of soup?”
“Right away.”
She shot off toward the kitchen and I heard her rushing about. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes until I heard her footsteps approaching.
She handed me an enormous steaming bowl.
“It looks like a chamber pot,” I said.
“Drink it and don’t be so rude.”
I sniffed at the broth. It smelled good, but I didn’t want to seem too docile.
“It smells odd,” I said. “What’s in it?”
“It smells of chicken because it’s made of chicken, salt, and a dash of sherry. Drink it.”
I took a sip and gave the bowl back to Isabella. She shook her head.
“All of it.”
I sighed and took another sip. It was good, whether I wanted to admit it or not.
“So, how was your day?” Isabella asked.
“It had its moments. How did you get on?”
“You’re looking at the new star shop assistant of Sempere & Sons.”
“Excellent.”
“By five o’clock I’d already sold two copies of The Picture of Dorian Gray and a set of the complete works of Kipling to a very distinguished gentleman from Madrid who gave me a tip. Don’t look at me like that; I put the tip in the till.”
“What about Sempere’s son? What did he say?”
“He didn’t actually say very much. He was like a stuffed dummy the whole time, pretending he wasn’t looking, but he couldn’t take his eyes off me. I can hardly sit down my bum’s so sore from him staring at it every time I went up the ladder to bring down a book. Happy?”
I smiled and nodded.
“Thanks, Isabella.”
She looked straight into my eyes.
“Say that again.”
“Thank you, Isabella. From the bottom of my heart.”
She blushed and looked away. We sat placidly for a while, enjoying that camaraderie which doesn’t even require words. I drank my broth until I could barely swallow another drop and then showed her the empty bowl. She nodded.
“You’ve been to see her, haven’t you? That woman, Cristina,” said Isabella, trying not to meet my eyes.
“Isabella, the reader of faces …”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I only saw her from a distance.”
Isabella looked at me cautiously, as if she were debating whether or not to say something that was stuck in her conscience.
“Do you love her?” she finally asked.
For a moment there was silence.
“I don’t know how to love anybody. You know that. I’m a selfish person and all that. Let’s talk about something else.”
Isabella’s eyes settled on the envelope sticking out of my pocket.
“News from the boss?”
“The monthly call. His Excellency Señor Andreas Corelli is pleased to ask me to attend a meeting tomorrow at seven o’clock in the morning by the entrance to the Pueblo Nuevo cemetery. He couldn’t have chosen a better place.”
“And you plan to go?”
“What else can I do?”
“You could take a train this very evening and disappear forever.”
“You’re the second person to suggest that to me today. To disappear from here.”
“There must be a reason.”
“And who would be your guide through the disasters of literature?”
“I’d go with you.”
I smiled and took her hand in mine.
“With you to the ends of the earth and back, Isabella.”
Isabella withdrew her hand suddenly and looked offended.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Isabella, if I ever decide to make fun of you, I’ll shoot myself.”
“Don’t say that. I don’t like it when you talk like that.”
“I’m sorry.”
My assistant turned to her desk. I watched her going over her day’s pages, making corrections and crossing out whole paragraphs with the pen set I had given her.
“I can’t concentrate with you looking at me.”
I stood up and went past her desk.
“Then I’ll leave you to work and after dinner you can show me what you’ve written.”
“It’s not ready. I have to correct it all and rewrite it and—”
“It’s never ready, Isabella. Get used to it. We’ll read it together after dinner.”
“Tomorrow.”
I gave in.
“Tomorrow.”
I walked away, leaving her alone with her words. I was just closing the door of my bedroom when I heard her voice calling me.
“Dav
id?”
I stopped on the other side of the door but didn’t say anything.
“It’s not true. It’s not true that you don’t know how to love anyone.”
I closed the door, lay down on the bed, curled up, and closed my eyes.
26
I left the house after dawn. Dark clouds crept over the rooftops, stealing the color from the streets. As I crossed Ciudadela Park I saw the first drops hitting the trees and exploding on the path like bullets, raising eddies of dust. On the other side of the park a forest of factories and gas towers multiplied toward the horizon, the soot from the chimneys diluted in the black rain that plummeted from the sky like tears of tar. I walked along the uninviting avenue of cypress trees leading to the gates of the cemetery, the same route I had taken so many times with my father. The boss was already there. I saw him from afar, waiting patiently in the rain, at the foot of one of the large stone angels that guarded the main entrance to the graveyard. He was dressed in black, and the only thing that set him apart from the hundreds of statues on the other side of the cemetery railings was his eyes. He didn’t move an eyelash until I was a few meters away. Not quite sure what to do, I raised my hand to greet him. It was cold and the wind smelled of lime and sulfur.
“Visitors naïvely think that it’s always sunny and warm in this town,” said the boss. “But I say that sooner or later Barcelona’s ancient, murky soul will be reflected in the sky.”
“You should publish tourist guides instead of religious texts,” I suggested.
“It comes to the same thing, more or less. How have these peaceful, calm days been? Have you made progress with the work? Do you have good news for me?”
I opened my jacket and handed him a sheaf of pages. We entered the cemetery in search of a place to shelter from the rain. The boss chose an old mausoleum with a dome held up by marble columns and surrounded by angels with sharp faces and fingers that were too long. We sat on a cold stone bench. The boss gave me one of his canine smiles, his shining pupils contracting to a black point in which I could see the reflection of my uneasy expression.
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