I had other plans for Ramiro Alvar. Introducing him to Estíbaliz, for example. I wanted her to judge for herself.
The third call.
“Estí, I’m in Laguardia. I’m going to Nograro Tower, and I’d like you to come with me. I want to show you something.”
“Pick me up in Vitoria in an hour,” she said.
* * *
—
We parked next to the moat, crossed the drawbridge, and found the huge wooden door wide open. The tower was taking visitors. The guide’s voice filtered down from upstairs, and by the time we walked in, we saw her propelling a group of older people down the first-floor hallway. I waved at her and motioned that I was going to use the intercom to call Ramiro Alvar’s apartment.
“What is it you want to show me, Unai?” asked Estíbaliz. She sounded slightly uneasy.
“You’ll see in a minute.”
“Come on up, come on up.” The arrogant voice rang out from the speaker.
Goddamn it, I don’t believe this, I said to myself.
But it was true. Alvar had tricked me. He had answered my call earlier, pretending to be Ramiro Alvar.
He was waiting for us in the tapestry room, immaculately groomed, sporting a green-and-gold embroidered dalmatic.
“Aestibalis, I was sure we would meet again,” he said, smiling beatifically.
“Hello, Alvar,” I said, greeting him, although he scarcely acknowledged me. He only had eyes for my colleague.
“Nice to see you again, too,” said Estíbaliz. “We’re here to check some facts that we’ve recently uncovered during our investigation.”
“I’ve already told you that I’m at your disposal.”
“I know,” she replied. “We were wondering if you have or have had any dealings with the Natural Science Museum.”
“Why on earth would I want to visit a fake medieval tower when I live in a real one?” he declared, astonished. And his astonishment was genuine, there was something rather childlike about his response.
“I’m asking whether you’ve ever worked with the museum, as a donor for instance,” she explained.
“You’ve come to my house to bombard me with tedious details about which I know nothing,” he replied coldly.
“Let’s talk about your family, then,” I interjected. “Do you remember the Dominican nun’s habit that was in one of the display cabinets on the first floor?”
“It belonged to my great-aunt, Magdalena de Nograro. She took the veil at the Quejana convent. You’re boring me again.”
Alvar turned his back and stared out the window at the overcast sky. I watched him, wondering if he could see the stand of golden poplars below or if they were a blur without the glasses he wore as Ramiro Alvar.
“Aestibalis, can you ride?” he asked.
“Yes, I was brought up on a farm at the foot of Mount Gorbea,” she responded buoyantly. Estí loved riding. She often spent her weekends at the equestrian center. “We had cart horses, not thoroughbreds, but—”
“We have several magnificent animals in our stables,” his mellifluous voice cut in. “And the weather is perfect for riding. Would you honor me with your company once more?”
There it was again. The brush of their hands, the penetrating gaze. Neither one seemed to notice when I announced my departure. I left the room with the distinct feeling that I had become the invisible man.
* * *
—
I crossed the moat and decided to look around the village of Ugarte. It was just over a half mile away, along a stretch of road that had only an occasional building. The one nearest to the tower was an abandoned outhouse, the entrance opening onto a side path overgrown with weeds.
I kept walking until my ear picked up something that sounded utterly incongruous with the surroundings. Albinoni’s Adagio. I glanced around, puzzled.
I followed the trail of the violins and came to a charming villa with an enormous garden. A woman in her fifties was pruning some shrubs. She wore gardening gloves. A slightly older man carried two pails of water out of the garage.
“Hello,” said the woman, removing a glove and smoothing her short burgundy hair. “Are you lost?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I was planning to take a stroll around the village. Is that music coming from your house?” I asked.
“Yes. My Fidel and I keep a few free-range hens at the bottom of the garden. The music calms them. We play it when we feed them outside.”
“Lucky hens,” I said. “I’ve just visited the tower. What a strange place. Did you know the Nograro family?”
“If you mean the parents, Inés and Lorenzo Alvar, they died twenty years ago,” said the woman, turning the pruning shears over in her hands.
“How did the locals feel about them?”
“The father? He had many faces, so I suppose it depends on whom you ask,” said the husband, shrugging and looking away.
“They had money. In our house, we never had a bad word to say about them,” the woman added hurriedly. “Of course, they didn’t live in the village; they had the tower. But they employed a lot of locals, in the forge and at the mill, and, of course, some families in Ugarte were tenant farmers. The Alvars were polite, educated people, and the mother was charming. Inés was her name, like I said. Good people, and they adored those children.”
“Children? The guide only mentioned Lord Nograro, Ramiro Alvar?”
“He’s the younger brother. Alvar was the elder, but he died young. Such a handsome lad. He went to Vitoria for his studies. He returned after his parents were killed in a car accident. His brother was still a minor, so Alvar took care of him, although he was already quite ill by that point. Come to think of it, we never saw him. We heard that he’d died, but they didn’t hold a funeral or even have a Mass here in Ugarte.” She finished explaining and looked up at me. “My name’s Fausti, Fausti Mesanza, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you, Fausti. Tell me, do you know if the two brothers got along?”
“They adored each other. Ramiro Alvar was such a polite, charming lad. Very timid, even then. But nobody ever lays eyes on him now. There was a lot of love in that family. Lorenzo Alvar couldn’t have been prouder of his firstborn, Alvar. The boy managed all his father’s affairs. If the illness hadn’t taken him the way it did—”
“You only saw his good side, just like all the other women,” her husband snorted.
“Don’t you start; he couldn’t help being handsome,” Fausti said, elbowing her husband in the ribs. “Besides, you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“How old was Ramiro Alvar when his brother died?” The Adagio the hens had been listening to gave way to Pachelbel’s solemn Canon.
“I believe it was in 1999,” said Fausti, “so Ramiro Alvar must have just turned eighteen, because he went to Vitoria on his own. He was a responsible boy, grown-up for his age. He’s been in charge of the estate since then, and he seems to be doing a good job. I never hear any complaints from those who rent his land. He continues to employ locals one way or another, even using local boys as stable hands or gardeners. And the old forge is now used for agritourism and as a glassmaking workshop.”
“What about the abandoned outhouse?” I asked.
“You mean the old bodega,” said Fidel.
“Bodega? But there are no vineyards around here. Did the Nograro family own it?”
“Yes, but they used it solely for their own consumption,” explained Fausti. “They used to bring truckloads of grapes from La Rioja Alavesa, but that was years ago. All that remains of the old bodega are bits of machinery and some other equipment. Would you like to see it? There’s a path at the back of our chicken coop that leads through the poplar grove. It’s very pretty.”
“I’d love to,” I said.
We walked past the hens, who were pecking at the gra
in strewn on the ground in time to Pachelbel, and ended up on a path bordered on either side by tall poplars.
The contrasting yellow leaves and silvery bark instilled a feeling of serenity that I hadn’t experienced in days. The poplars’ perfect symmetry infused the decades-old plantation with a mystical atmosphere.
It was an immersive woodland experience, a place for calming the nerves, where you could stop and listen to the breeze murmuring through the autumn leaves. My companions smiled sympathetically when they saw the effect it had on me. Unconsciously I felt for my red-silk wristband. I needed to bring Deba and Alba here so they, too, could see this little time capsule.
No matter how relaxed I felt, I reminded myself that I was working.
“Fidel, why did you describe Lorenzo Alvar as a man of many faces?”
“He was a polite fellow—and yet, during Carnival, he often appeared in the village dressed in his mother’s or grandmother’s clothing. He was a laughingstock—”
“Not every year,” his wife cut in. “Sometimes he dressed as a soldier.”
“A soldier,” I repeated.
“Yes, in one of his ancestor’s uniforms. You can still see them on display at the museum. He came fully decked out with a shotgun and a haversack.”
“Like I said, he was the life of the party during Carnival,” her husband went on. “Everyone would try to guess what costume Lorenzo Alvar Nograro would wear next. Some folks claimed they saw him sneak out of the tower, in disguise, at other times as well. Apparently his exploits weren’t limited to Carnival.”
“That was just village gossip,” insisted Fausti.
“Yes, from a village full of bastards,” he said under his breath.
“Sorry, what did you say?” I asked.
“Don’t mind him, he got up on the wrong side of bed this morning, that’s all,” Fausti said quickly, giving her husband another obvious jab. “Did you know the people of Ugarte used to be known as the frog silencers? Not anymore, of course, but we like to tell villagers the old story.”
“I’m all ears,” I said, pretending not to notice her clumsy attempt at changing the subject.
“Many years ago, back when Lorenzo Alvar Nograro’s great-grandparents ruled over the land, the lords of the tower would summon the inhabitants of Ugarte to the moat to silence the frogs with sticks, because the croaking annoyed them. And the nickname stuck, although I’ve never seen anyone do anything like that to a frog.”
We now emerged on the other side of the poplar wood. A sagging fence ringed the old building.
“Here we are. As you can see, it’s just a derelict old building,” said Fausti. “I’m afraid I have to go; I have a book club this evening.”
“Sounds interesting. I’m an avid reader, too.”
“So is everyone in the village. A group of us meets in the bar on Wednesday and Friday evenings.”
“Which book are you reading right now?”
“The Lords of Time. It’s all the rage. Have you read it?”
“I’m in the middle of it,” I lied. I had spent hours poring over the text, and practically knew the story by heart. “Actually, I’d love to have the chance to discuss it with other readers.”
“You should join us. Our book club is open to everybody. We’re very informal.”
“Maybe another day,” I nodded. “Thanks for the walk; I’m going to stroll around the woods for a while.”
We said our goodbyes, and I waited for the couple to disappear before taking a look around. The old bodega was a long white building with a gray slate roof. It wasn’t inviting, and the last thing I wanted to do was venture into the surrounding area, but I nudged open the metal door anyway.
Light slanted through the high windows and illuminated the dust particles suspended in the air. At first, I was overwhelmed by the strong odor of musty wood and fermented wine.
Hundreds of big wooden casks were stacked on either side of me. Some were sealed; others had no lids.
I walked up to a barrel that caught my eye. I had seen one just like it before. But that wasn’t the only thing I found. Piled in a corner were some plastic bags. They were white with a red stripe along the bottom.
I took out my cell phone and called Peña.
“Tell forensics to come to the old outhouse near the Nograro Tower. I think I’ve found out where MatuSalem’s killer got that damned barrel. I found one just like it, as well as some plastic bags that are identical to the ones the Nájera sisters were put in.”
24
CARNESTOLENDAS
DIAGO VELA
Winter, the Year of Our Lord 1192
Despite our resolve, there was nothing we could do to protect her sisters.
In any case, there was much to lament that Maundy Thursday.
I waited for Héctor outside the town gates. The fruit vendors had been setting up their stalls there for weeks, directly opposite Rúa de la Pellejería, Rúa de la Çapatería, and Rúa de la Ferrería. It was their way of letting the Mendozas know that they refused to pay the increasingly exorbitant levies being demanded for permission to sell produce inside the town walls.
The sounds of rattles, mortars and pestles, and cowbells soared above the ramparts. Early-morning Mass at Santa María had ended, and the townsfolk, dressed in their costumes, came in carts from their barns.
It was tradition to greet friends and kinsmen from the outlying settlements at the town gates, so when I spotted an impressive woolly mammoth, I set off down the hill.
Héctor was wearing a long brown cloak of unspun wool; a tiny skull with two curved tusks sat on his head. Nagorno had gifted it to him after returning from his travels in the far north, beyond even Gunnarr’s birthplace. The Dicastillo coat of arms was a mammoth in an ocher field. The celebration of Carnestolendas—carnis tollendus in Latin, or abstaining from meat—was a perfect excuse for each family to display its crest. Nagorno, however, usually wore a cape made from the skin of a gigantic serpent, which he’d purchased from the barbarians living south of the Saracens.
Glancing around uneasily, Héctor said, “I’d heard rumors that the fruit market had moved outside the walls. Is the rift in town really this great?”
“Victoria has become a town of walls, gates, and boundaries. Since Ruiz’s execution, his kinsmen have been stirring up trouble during late-night meetings at Portal Oscuro. I fear the Mendozas, the Isunzas, and the Ortiz de Zárate brothers are plotting something. Keep your eyes open, Héctor, and warn me if the atmosphere of this Carnestolendas appears more heated than before.”
“I will,” he said, nodding. We entered the South Gate in search of our kinsmen.
Carnestolendas was a time for mockery. Artisans dressed up as noblemen, their coats of arms painted on coarse sackcloth. We passed one mimicking the limp of the Mendoza family patriarch, another the hunchback of the youngest Ortiz de Zárate, and a third the bulk of Johannes de Isunza.
Alix de Salcedo did not escape ridicule, either. A young lad wearing a charred robe and a three-coned wimple carried a sack embellished with a skull and filled with traps.
We saw Nagorno arrive in his snakeskin cape, his face painted with red scales. Beside him walked Gunnarr, wearing a snow-white bearskin on his head like a berserker. He had also removed his shirt and daubed his body. He’d tried covering himself in white chalk as part of the disguise, but his sheer size immediately gave him away.
Onneca was dressed as a lamia. Her dark tresses were concealed beneath a flaxen wig held in place with a golden comb that Nagorno had surely made for her. A robe of green moss and webbed feet completed her otherworldly costume. Sitting atop Olbia, she was as beautiful as a sunset. I had been avoiding her for some time.
I wanted nothing more to do with Onneca.
She had chosen my brother.
And I had little respect for anyone who could make such a b
ad decision.
We entered Rúa de la Astería. A group of young men, merry with wine, were throwing air-filled pigs’ bladders at small children.
“Have you come disguised as…an old man?” Onneca asked me, puzzled.
“As the old man and the old woman, in fact.” A few disguises were common during Carnestolendas. The Bear and the Judas were most popular, but it wasn’t uncommon to see a youth dressed as an old crone carrying a straw effigy of an old man on their back.
“And where’s the old woman? Haven’t you forgotten her?”
“I’m on my way to fetch Grandmother Lucía now. She’s waiting for me to give her a ride. Have you ever known her to miss a bacchanalia?”
I headed toward the corner of Rúa de las Pescaderías.
What I saw as I went worried me. The townsfolk were throwing handfuls of flour at all and sundry. Some were dressed as herdsmen, with bells around their necks, their faces blackened like sheep. It was hard to tell who anybody was, and many seemed to be using their anonymity to mock others; one youth rode on the back of his companion and pummeled those near him with an inflated pig’s bladder. His wig of carrot fronds imitated the unruly locks of Mendieta, the executioner.
What gave me most cause for concern, however, was the straw effigy of Judas that the Mendozas had erected on their cart. The figure dressed in black was surrounded by a string of apples, turnips, carrots, chestnuts, and other produce rather than with the traditional eggshells. A group of nobles amused themselves by pelting the figure with rotten leeks. It was a crude reminder of the animosity they felt toward the fruit and vegetable vendors who’d refused to bow their heads and pay the excessive tariffs.
The noblemen had dressed up as cutlers, ironmongers, and bakers. Some nobles sported hunched backs, blackened teeth, or fake bellies in a mockery of the poorest townsfolk. I stood outside Grandmother Lucía’s house, ill at ease as I watched the crowd. Alix de Salcedo was leaping and prancing at the head of her band of blacksmiths, who were wearing dresses and capes with eguzkilores pinned to the front. They gave out buns stuffed with chorizo that the local children wolfed down with gusto. I drew near as she came past me.
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