by Sara Moliner
The cemetery, with its profusion of angel sculptures, irritated her. On a tomb to the right of the path one angel lay drooping over the headstone. It seemed overcome by immense grief, its long hair covering its face and its bare arms lifted in a final gesture of entreaty. Beatriz turned away. But soon her eyes came across another angel with fallen wings and its gaze lifted up to heaven. Frankly, I prefer the dogs of hell in the medieval representations of purgatory, thought Beatriz. Doomed souls fighting against emaciated demons; sinning bodies devoured by snakes; nameless winged monsters – that is how grief and pain should look. Grief when her mother died. Grief when Jakob disappeared from her life. Furious beasts, not gloomy angels with languid robes dragging their wings along the ground.
Beatriz called herself to order. If she kept carrying on like this, she’d turn into a bitter old lady hauling around her permanent inventory of losses. Her mother, Jakob, lost friends, missed opportunities. A bitter, old, resentful woman. In a word, unbearable. Not even she would be able to put up with herself. She knew of only one antidote. Getting on with work, and not thinking about things too much.
She decided to listen to the conversations going on in whispers around her.
‘Poor woman, in the end she was a shadow of her former self.’
‘And so alone, in that enormous house. And no relative to take care of her.’
Beatriz went over to her brother Salvador, whose wife had begged off with a migraine. On the other side of Salvador was their cousin Bernardo.
Bernardo was trying to extract information from Salvador about the division of their aunt’s assets. He was particularly interested in some properties on the Costa Brava.
‘I’ll tell you one thing, in a couple of years half of Europe will be coming to sunbathe on our beaches. They’ll come in hordes; they’ll rent rooms en masse to be able to tan their pale skins.’
Felipe, the husband of another cousin, turned round to join the conversation.
‘And don’t forget the Americans. They’re going to need land for their military bases.’
Salvador sketched a smile.
‘Not only that. They will need food, alcohol and women,’ added Bernardo.
Felipe chuckled silently and whispered over his shoulder, ‘You want to invest in a brothel in the Barrio Chino? And in English classes for the girls?’
‘I don’t think they’ll need to talk much.’
Both men laughed quietly.
Bernardo wouldn’t let the matter drop. He pulled on Salvador’s sleeve and murmured, ‘So you don’t know who’s going to inherit Blanca’s properties?’
Salvador shrugged and whispered, ‘No idea. Maybe Joan.’
‘Not Joan, I already asked him.’
Salvador nodded pensively.
‘Well, I can’t think of anyone else. Maybe the Brotherhood of the Holy Cross.’
Beatriz smiled. Blanca had never been a religious person. Going to church had been a social duty for her that she had fulfilled when it seemed necessary. At family parties she had taken her revenge for those dutiful church visits by making fun of the intellectual poverty of the sermons. In her youth, Blanca had read Freud avidly and made good use of her reading when expounding her observations and hypotheses about the hidden passions of the local clergy. The representatives of God on earth were a band of neurotics and criminals, according to Blanca. Which was why Beatriz thought it highly unlikely that she had left anything to a religious brotherhood. Bernardo sounded offended: ‘But Aunt Blanca couldn’t stand priests!’
Beatriz assumed that her brother knew full well who the happy heir was. He was probably already pondering how he himself could close some advantageous deal with him.
By the looks of it, Bernardo had come to the burial to do business, and he was not going to be deterred. Since Salvador wasn’t giving him any information about Blanca’s estate, he moved on to the other recently deceased woman of note.
‘Weren’t you in charge of Sobrerroca’s affairs?’
He didn’t wait for a reply, just continued with his offensive: ‘Who’s getting the house on Tibidabo? That’s worth a fortune. Must be going to her brother. But what’s he going to do with it, when he lives in Madrid? With that location, it’s a gold mine.’
Salvador reacted to these questions with the same show of ignorance as before; Bernardo slowed his pace and was left behind, a cyclist returning to the peloton after an attempt to take the lead. Maybe he was searching for a new source of information towards the rear of the funeral procession.
Just behind them walked an older woman whom Beatriz only vaguely remembered. A cousin of Blanca’s. She had been reproaching her daughter in a low voice for some time: ‘Where have you come from? You’re late again! Why aren’t you wearing a veil?’ The young woman seemed to take the scolding calmly, but then she launched into her counter-offensive: ‘Mama, we are at a funeral. Be quiet, people are starting to stare.’
It was true that Beatriz had turned to glance at the mother and daughter. She had greeted them with a friendly nod. The young woman was in her twenties, very pretty, with a slightly square chin and a lively gaze. When her mother tried to start on again with her reproaches, Beatriz listened to what she said.
‘Please, Mama, let’s accompany Aunt Blanca with dignity on her final walk.’
That somewhat pitiful tone was effective and the conversation behind Beatriz ceased.
A minute later, Pablo appeared by her side. It seemed he had been making his way from the rear of the procession towards the front.
‘Good morning, Aunt Beatriz. Good morning, Papa.’
Pablo kissed her first and then his father.
‘It’s nice to see you again after so long, Tieta, even though it’s at a funeral.’
Beatriz understood. His father shouldn’t find out about the problems he was having.
So she asked him, ‘How are things going?’
‘Well, I’m learning a lot at the new firm.’
He sounded perfect: the obedient son and promising lawyer. The boy was a chameleon. Beatriz saw that her brother was eyeing his son suspiciously.
‘Something new every day,’ said Pablo without batting an eyelid.
That was another sign for her; she understood that there was new information. Then Salvador intervened, ‘Glad to hear it. What are you working on at the moment?’
‘A very interesting case. Listen, Papa.’
Beatriz smiled. Even as a child his father had forced Pablo to give spontaneous speeches on every possible subject. Pulling a case from up his sleeve was the easiest of exercises for him.
But then he was interrupted from behind by one of Blanca’s cousins, the woman who had been scolding her daughter earlier.
‘Silence, please. We are going to accompany Blanca with dignity on her final journey.’
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Blanca belonged to the wealthy branch of the family. They had a mausoleum halfway up Montjuïc, in front of which the bearers placed her coffin. When her turn came, Beatriz set her crown of flowers on top of it. She stood in front of the coffin for a moment and murmured her words of farewell. As she moved to one side to make room for other mourners, Pablo whispered to her.
‘Come, Tieta, I have the letter.’
Beatriz nodded.
20
Pablo led Beatriz to one of the benches that stood in front of an ostentatious mausoleum and they sat down. He drew the letter and a cigarette case from his suit coat pocket.
‘How did you get it?’
He was very proud of how he’d made off with the letter, so he indulged in a small prologue.
‘Partly thanks to Maribel, Pla’s secretary. She’s the perfect secretary, who always tries to remove all obstacles from her boss’s path. If possible, even before Pla has realised they’re there. Maribel even keeps Pla’s family’s birthdays in her diary so he won’t forget them. She got them out of his wife and wrote them down so that she can remind him in time. She told me that once.’
He and Maribel were alone in the anteroom to Pla’s office, which smelled faintly of her perfume. He had complimented her, and in the conversation that followed…
‘And?’
His Aunt Beatriz didn’t leave him time for daydreaming, interrogating him with her gaze. Pablo continued.
‘This morning I went to the firm very early and I copied out the dates in Maribel’s diary. Later, when she had arrived, I told her that I had to go into Pla’s office to gather some papers that I needed for the early appointment in court. I searched a little,’ he sketched a smile, ‘and then the phone rang. Maribel’s mother calls her every morning. She lives in Santander. Maribel calls her back, and that way they can talk at the firm’s expense until Pla arrives. That was how I had time to try the safe combination using all of his family’s birthdays. I opened it with his eldest daughter’s. And here you have the letter.’
He saw that Beatriz was rummaging through her handbag. First she pulled out a book and put it on the bench. Pablo turned it over so he could read the title. Something about French dialects.
‘Leave the book alone. I don’t want the notes to fall out.’
There were little pieces of paper in his aunt’s fairly illegible hand sticking out from between the book’s pages. So many that the cover was already buckled and some pages had large gaps between them. Pablo withdrew his hand. Beatriz was still searching. The book was followed by a packet of cigarettes, an elegant powder compact, a small perfume vaporiser, a bit of chewed pencil and a silver-plated case. Finally she also found her glasses.
After reading the letter, she put it down on her knees and turned to Pablo.
‘I think you should find another firm.’
He looked at her, confused.
‘This letter wasn’t written by the person they’ve led you to believe wrote it.’ She paused briefly. Pablo waited in silence. Surely she would follow her thesis with an explanation. ‘The way a person speaks, the way he writes, the way he expresses himself, all of these give us pieces of information about that person. We can hear where he comes from; we can often also hear what his social class is. Your Spanish, Pablo, is the Spanish typical of Barcelona, as it is spoken in the wealthy neighbourhoods. Your vowels are nasal…’
‘But Tieta —’
Beatriz interrupted him, answering his objection before he had a chance to formulate it.
‘In written texts you can’t hear any voice, but there are obvious signs.’ His aunt peered at him over her glasses. ‘The way someone formulates their thoughts, what words they choose, how they connect sentences and what expressions they prefer. All this reveals a lot about the person. It’s like a fingerprint. Look here, where he writes: ‘a group of posch young men came in’. Is there anything about this that raises a red flag for you?’
Beatriz scrutinised him expectantly. It was his turn. At least he had to try.
‘It sounds a bit odd. I wouldn’t write it like that.’
‘Exactly. Would you call yourself a “posh young man”?’
‘You’re asking whether I would choose that expression?’
Beatriz nodded.
‘Of course not. Marisa, our old cook, would say I’m a “posh young man”. That was actually how she spoke about my parents. She worked for “posh people”. The servants speak that way. And other people who don’t include themselves among the “posh”.’
It seemed he had given the correct response. Beatriz continued, ‘Very good. And look: “Were – sic – will we end up”. It sounds more like spoken speech. On the other hand, he writes “the aforesaid Pablo Noguer”. It’s another, completely different style, the type of expression found in police reports or juridical texts.’
‘Perhaps he thought that he should express himself like that when writing to the police.’
Beatriz gave him an approving glance.
‘A good observation. And it would be correct, too, if not for the fact that the text as a whole contradicts it. Look at the spelling.’
Pablo read the letter again and commented, ‘A catastrophe.’
‘Well, not really.’
Pablo stared at her uncertainly.
‘Look here. He often leaves off the s’s; he writes that he is going to denounce you to the “proscecutor” instead of the “prosecutor”. He writes the way he speaks. That one is a plausible error, but look here: “rough place” instead of “rough places”, “plenty whore” instead of “plenty of whores”.’
‘Where is the problem? That’s how they pronounce it as well.’
‘Yes, but when you learn to write, one of the first things you learn is that plurals are written with an s.’
Beatriz gave him another owlish glare over the top of her glasses. He decided it was better to say nothing, and just waited. So that was what he did, and she continued: ‘It’s a very simple rule that is taught very early. And the author of this letter learned to write.’
She points to the text.
‘There are a lot of errors, including some very typical ones. But notice that most of the punctuation is in the right place, and he wrote a word like “brothel” correctly, even though it is much less common than “whores” or “places”. That indicates that the author learned to write, and if he has,’ Beatriz paused and pointed with the pencil, ‘if he has, there is no reason to leave off all the s’s at the ends of the plurals, even though he does when speaking. The person who wrote this letter wrote it the way authors write their Andalusian characters to identify them as such by their vernacular.’
‘So who wrote the letter? I’m sure it wasn’t a novelist.’
‘I can’t give you the name. Definitely a well-educated person. Perhaps someone with some juridical knowledge.’
Beatriz was pensive for a moment as she chewed on the pencil.
‘Well, for the moment that is all I can tell you. And that you should look for a new firm.’
She rose. Pablo followed suit.
Then they both noticed the scrolls of smoke coming from the other side of the mausoleum. Out of curiosity, she went around the stone construction. On the other side there was another bench. Beatriz could only see the back of a young woman who had also been in the funeral party. She trotted quickly away and disappeared around a corner. She had left her cigarette on the edge of the stone bench. Beatriz put it out against the naked foot of a grieving angel.
21
As was to be expected, her father hadn’t attended the funeral. Her father didn’t set foot in cemeteries, much less in churches. Perhaps if he had been able to bury Ángel… but her older brother lay in some mass grave in Aragón; they had refused to hand over his body. Her paternal grandmother rested in the cemetery of Pals, too far away for someone like her father, whose blacklisted state forced him to work long hours to survive. Where had he got the money he had sent her? The stew she’d had on Tuesday at her parents’ house was made with good meat. Her mother knew how to haggle, but that only went so far. That cow wasn’t some old cow sacrificed because the cost of feeding it outweighed the profits it brought in. Now that her disappointment at how little fuss he’d made over her article was partly forgotten, she could remember how the stewed meat, which she in turn hadn’t praised sufficiently, had been tender and juicy.
She watched her mother talking to a group of women, all in black, all with veils. Relatives, surely. Her mother had four siblings and Ana couldn’t even say how many cousins, uncles and other relatives. Some of the women wore very expensive clothes; even in mourning the differences were clear. Her mother’s clothes had been good. Years ago. Observing the crowd of mourners, she came to the realisation that, in her mother’s family, beauty was unequally distributed between the genders: the women were far better-looking than the men. So that it didn’t sound like she was praising her own appearance, she formulated the theory for herself by saying th
at the men were uglier.
‘Hideous,’ she said, appraising two of her male cousins from a distance.
‘Homely,’ she corrected herself, recalling with a pang her brother’s ‘monkfish mouth’, as he himself used to say to make her laugh.
She wanted desperately to leave the cemetery, but she couldn’t go without saying goodbye to her mother and she preferred not to approach the group in order to avoid introductions and comments. At least other groups were heading towards the exit, but the one her mother was in seemed to have their shoes nailed to the ground.
The cigarette she had sneaked off to smoke in secret after the ceremony hadn’t sat well with her. Even though she didn’t know the dead woman, or at least didn’t remember her, she had needed it to shake off the sadness inherent to funerals.
Just then, the young man she had heard speaking behind the mausoleum walked past. They gave each other the once-over. She noticed he wore fine black leather gloves. She guessed they must be about the same age and, because she found him quite handsome, she came to the conclusion that he wasn’t a member of the family. Or perhaps he was the exception to the rule that she had formulated, and the only attractive male Noguer.
Patricia Noguer finally broke away from the circle of women.
‘Do you know what I could do right now?’ her mother asked her as they walked towards the exit.
‘What?’
‘Eat a nice dish of whipped cream with walnuts. How about you?’
Ana accepted, despite the signals her body was sending her. They took a taxi to the city centre and then walked to the Dulcinea Café on Petritxol Street, a side street in the Gothic Quarter so narrow that the sun never reached it.
As they opened the café door they were enveloped in an aroma of coffee and warm milk.
‘Order whatever you’d like, darling.’
‘Really? Have you and Papa won the lottery?’ she said, instead of asking directly where the money for the veal and the treats had come from.