by Sara Moliner
‘A few days ago a woman got in touch with us. She told us she had been deceived by a man she met through one of your friendship advertisements. The man, after asking for her hand in marriage, had carnal contact with her, and…’
‘She’s pregnant.’
‘That’s it. How did you know?’
‘Why else would she be looking for him?’
‘That’s true. I wanted to ask for some information about this individual: his name, his address…’
‘She doesn’t know his name?’
‘She knows the name he gave her, but who knows if it’s real, seeing that he’s disappeared? He said his name was Octavian.’
‘And did he use some sort of code name? That’s usually the case.’
‘The Knight of the Rose.’
‘Miss, what did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t, but I’m Ana María Martí.’
‘Look, Señorita Martí, as you yourself said, I am a man who’s seen something of the world, even though I’ve ended up here. Don’t think you can fool me.’
Ana shot an alarmed glance to the right. The eyes of Bette Davis, beneath high, thin brows, interrogated her in return.
‘You write for the society pages, don’t you? And you aren’t here as a journalist for La Vanguardia, are you? This is a private matter and, correct me if I’m wrong, the person you are talking about, if it’s not you, is someone very close to you. Or am I wrong?’
The sigh that Ana couldn’t contain was understood by the director of Mujer Actual as an expression of relief at finally being able to tell the truth.
‘You’re right. It’s my sister. I’m sorry to have to resort to that trick, but she’s desperate.’
‘Not another word! We journalists have to stick together. What was his name?’
‘The Knight of the Rose.’
Muñárriz got up and left. He seemed to have grown several centimetres. When he returned a few minutes later, he still seemed tall but he’d lost some of his heroic height.
‘Here it is, but unfortunately I can only give you the number of a post office box.’
‘Here in Barcelona?’
‘In Martorell.’
‘Well, it’s something, at least.’
She thanked him. Muñárriz accompanied her to the door. The secretary, an older woman with an old-fashioned updo, a style called the ‘Arriba España’, stopped writing when she saw them come out. Before saying goodbye, Muñárriz told her, ‘If you are ever looking for work, I want you to know that our doors are always open for someone as honourable as you.’
‘Thank you very much.’
She suddenly felt mean. She decided to leave the doors to Mujer Actual closed behind her.
She went downstairs. The receptionist was still absorbed in his Merciless Duel in Carson City.
25
The ringing of the telephone echoed in the flat and the silent Sunday afternoon shattered like a crystal goblet hitting the floor. Beatriz put down her fountain pen and picked up the receiver. She heard a crackling and her cousin’s lively voice.
‘You were right.’
She needed a moment to remember what she was referring to.
‘And I’ve found out more things,’ she heard from the other end of the line.
‘Really?’
She heard herself and thought she sounded like Mercè, one of her aunts, in some never-ending cocktail conversation: ‘Really? So he has a lover and keeps her in a flat on the Diagonal?’ Really? The novel is the hit of the season? Her Aunt Mercè always seemed friendly and interested, but an hour later she didn’t even remember what the conversation had been about.
‘Beatriz, are you still there?’
‘Of course.’
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line.
‘Do you have some time this evening?’
The truth was that she didn’t have time. On her desk was a half-written article in which the ideas were just starting to come together. On the other hand, she wanted to know what Ana had found out.
‘Goodness gracious! Señora Sauret, must you mop right here, right now?’
Although she could tell that Ana was covering the receiver with her hand, Beatriz heard her irritable exclamations and the sound of a metal bucket clanging against the floor tiles. Then a disagreeable voice whose words she couldn’t make out. A pause, and Ana picked up their conversation in the same friendly tone she’d had at the start.
‘I’m going to have to go. Can we get together this afternoon? That way I can tell you all about it.’
She didn’t respond. She was still considering whether to beg off with some excuse when Ana spoke again.
‘Come on, my treat. To thank you for your help, all right? You know Pastís? It’s at the end of the Ramblas, on the second to last street on the right.’
Beatriz hesitated. Then her cousin added, ‘At nine thirty?’
If she didn’t want to go, she should probably say something.
‘I really have a lot to do, Ana…’
‘Would you prefer to meet later?’
Beatriz sighed.
‘No. Nine thirty is fine.’
‘Brilliant.’
Again, crackling was heard in the receiver and finally Ana hung up.
Beatriz was peeved. Ana could have told her over the phone. Now she would have to meet up with her to find out what parts of the mosaic she had unearthed. And in a bar with a reputation for being bohemian.
The bar was small, not to say minuscule. It was one room, more or less half the size of Beatriz’s study. There was little light, and on the walls hung paintings by the owner himself, besides many photographs. The paintings were so gloomy that they were barely distinguishable from the dark walls.
Ana was already sitting at a table by the wall and waved to her.
She could barely wait for Beatriz to take a seat before she started telling her, ‘You were completely right. Mariona Sobrerroca answered a lonely hearts ad.’
She was clearly very satisfied, proud of her findings.
In tribute to the name of the bar, they ordered pastis. The waiter left the glasses and the jug of water for them to mix it themselves.
Ana took her first sip and related how she had found the advertisement. Her procedure wasn’t exactly what you’d call systematic, but it had been successful. Beatriz finished off her drink and gestured to the waiter for a refill. The owner of the bar had changed the record. The sound of a saxophone filled the place. It was a little warm, and the alcohol relaxed her shoulders.
She smiled at Ana and asked, ‘And now? What are you planning on doing?’
Ana furrowed her brow.
‘I don’t know yet.’
Again. Did she always have to play it by ear?
Ana traced the edge of the glass with her finger.
‘I suppose, first, I should talk to Inspector Castro, who is in charge of the case. I imagine he’d be able to find out the Knight of the Rose’s address from the central post office. If he deigns to consider what I tell him.’
Beatriz didn’t have the slightest idea about how collaborations between journalists and the police worked. Maybe ‘collaboration’ wasn’t the right word. It was clear that Ana was in a patently hierarchical situation and that she was on a lower rung. On the other hand, perhaps it was a game of deceiving and being deceived. Or some mix of the two.
‘Does this Castro expect you to tell him what you’ve discovered?’
‘Of course.’
‘Does he know that you’ve been investigating on your own?’
Ana took another small sip of her anise and said, ‘No. But I’m a journalist, not the police; I’m not accountable to him. He’s not my boss.’
Despite the force of her words, Ana didn’t sound terribly convinced by what she was saying. ‘Accountable’. Another expression Beatriz wasn’t entirely sure was apt.
‘You’re not so sure about that, are you?’
Before Ana could respond, the wa
iter filled their glasses again.
‘Not really. Castro doesn’t take me very seriously; I think I amuse him, so he lets me carry on. I find it…’
She searched for the word. Beatriz wanted to lend her a hand: ‘Degrading, humiliating, offensive, insulting…’
‘Stop, stop! That’s enough. Yes. All of those things. More or less. But I would like to show him my worth, even though I know that’s a childish reaction. On the other hand, I’m afraid that if I go too far, he’ll take me off the case completely. To tell you the truth, I’m afraid of him too. He’s a violent guy, coldly violent, the kind that punches you without warning, you know?’
Beatriz saw Ana’s left hand close into a fist on the table. She tapped it a few times with her index finger and said, ‘You’ve got something.’
Ana opened her hand. Her empty palm shone despite the dim light in the bar. Ana’s gaze, already somewhat muddied by the alcohol, showed confusion.
‘What do I supposedly have?’ She turned her hand over and looked at the back of it.
‘You know things that could be useful to him. Bits of information. You could swap them.’
Ana looked at her before answering. ‘Do you mean I should swap information instead of handing it over?’
Beatriz shrugged. ‘More than swapping, I would present it so that it seems as if you are offering it to him generously. I don’t know how journalists collaborate with the police in this country; I don’t know this Castro; really, I know precious little about all of this. Which is why I am not going to give you any advice; I don’t even dare make any suggestions. I simply wanted to point out a possibility.’
‘Pointing out possibilities to someone isn’t very different from giving them advice.’
She wasn’t wrong. Sometimes Beatriz got lost in hair-splitting speculation. But Ana didn’t seem to mind too much. Her thoughts had already moved on. ‘So, it’s better to give him the whole story, and not just the beginning. Don’t you think? I have to find out who the post office box in Martorell belongs to. There must be some way of knowing.’
Let’s see what her cousin would come up with now, after the stunt at Mariona’s house and the visit to the magazine.
‘I have a plan,’ she said, after polishing off her drink and making a sign to the waiter to fill them both up again, prompting Beatriz to finish hers. ‘The best thing would be to go to Martorell, to see him.’
Clearly she and her cousin didn’t mean the same thing when they talked about having a plan.
Martorell was about two hours by car from Barcelona. Perhaps Ana had the rather innocent idea of going to the post office and asking. Beatriz didn’t say anything.
‘Maybe they’ll give me the address at the post office.’
That was unlikely. Especially since she wouldn’t be going there with a police escort. Once again, Beatriz kept her musings to herself.
‘They aren’t just going to give it to me.’
Beatriz remained silent. Ana kept talking.
‘I have the day off tomorrow.’
She could see her face perfectly, but the wall behind was blurry. Was it because of the increasingly dense smoke? Or was it the pastis?
Meanwhile, the waiter had changed the music. Edith Piaf was singing ‘La Vie en Rose’. The record had been played so many times that the music emerged amid much crackling. The waiter approached and refilled their glasses. Beatriz mixed the anise with water while murmuring along with Piaf. The liquid turned a milky colour; both women contemplated it as if they hadn’t already repeated the ritual several times that night.
‘It’s really an aperitif, and it’s typical of Marseille,’ said Beatriz.
‘You are a bit of a Francophile, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, you could say that.’
‘Have you been to Paris?’
‘Yes, a couple of —’
‘Well, I want to go to New York. France is fine, but America is the future.’
Hearing Ana’s somewhat condescending tone, it suddenly dawned on Beatriz how young she was.
‘Do you speak English?’
‘When I have some money, I’m going to do a correspondence course. With records, for the pronunciation.’
She was having more and more trouble with her Spanish pronunciation with each drink. Ana’s eyes rolled as she tried to speak over Piaf’s singing. ‘I could go to Martorell tomorrow. Are you coming?’
The question didn’t surprise her as much as hearing herself reply, ‘We could go in my car. We’d get there faster, and we wouldn’t be dependent on the train.’
‘You have a car? You drive? Brilliant!’ Ana was slurring slightly. ‘What time should we leave?’
‘When did you want to go? You do want to go, don’t you?’
‘Pick me up at my house tomorrow at nine.’
She ordered another drink.
26
Muffled sounds at the door. Rustling, voices. Then a dull thud, as if a sack had been dropped against the door. Encarni sat up in bed. No one had ever tried to break into the house. Besides, one imagined that burglars didn’t make such a racket. Unless they were new to the job. Clumsy and nervous. The kind that end up killing you simply because they are so nervous.
‘Bed is the worst place to die,’ her grandfather used to say. So she forced her feet out from under the covers. The floor was freezing. She felt around for her slippers. They had been her employer’s, and were lined with sheepskin, with a ridiculous pink pom-pom. But they were warm. The bad thing was that the heels made a noise as you walked. If she wanted to move stealthily along the hallway, she’d better not put them on.
The tiles seemed colder with every step. She got to the door without making any noise. On the other side she could hear the voices more clearly, and the metallic jangle of keys. They weren’t thieves. Two women’s voices, one speaking loudly, the other in whispers. She knew the one speaking loudly. She opened the door. A gust of anise entered the house. Sweet, intoxicating, repugnant. On the threshold was the missus and a taller woman with dark hair and the keys in her hand, although she still hadn’t made contact with the lock. The missus was staggering and leaning on the doorframe.
Encarni had never seen her in such a state. She’d have to see how she handled her alcohol. She had experience with drunkenness. Sometimes it made people aggressive, like her father, who would curse the Caudillo and his riff-raff, then he cursed the treacherous anarchists and wished them the plague, cholera and impotence, and finally he beat his wife and children. When her mother was drunk she got weepy: ‘Holy Mother of God, what have I done to deserve this life?’ Although she had to admit that she was right. The Mother of God hadn’t treated her too well, despite all her prayers and offerings.
The woman with dark hair glanced at Encarni’s bare feet; the maid looked her in the face. Then the woman turned towards the missus and said, ‘Beatriz, we don’t need the keys any more.’ Then she turned to Encarni again. ‘I don’t think she’s feeling very well.’
‘I understand.’
She took Beatriz by the shoulders. She murmured, ‘I had a lot of fun, cousin. Maybe we could do it again sometime. I’d really like that.’
The woman with the dark hair responded very seriously, ‘Of course, but now you need to rest a little bit. Come on, two more little steps and you’ll be home.’
The missus obeyed. The young woman, it seemed, was her cousin. Of course; that was why she spoke to her like that.
‘I can take care of putting her to bed,’ said Encarni.
‘Do you need help?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Very well. Good night, then. Good night, Beatriz.’
The missus was leaning against the wall. She lifted her right hand in a farewell, but quickly let it drop, as if it were too heavy.
The woman grabbed the doorknob and addressed her, ‘Do you want me to…?’
Encarni nodded and the woman closed the door behind her.
Señora Beatriz took two steps and knocked
into a sideboard; the pieces inside crashed together. She had hit one of the corners; it must have hurt, but she didn’t react. Encarni saw that she was struggling to walk upright. It would be best to get her into bed straight away.
With gentle prods she guided her towards the bedroom.
‘Encarni, I’m afraid I’m not feeling very well.’
That was obvious. And tomorrow she’d be feeling even worse.
‘You have to go to bed, Missus Professor.’
‘I’ll be the one to decide that.’
‘As you wish,’ said Encarni, as she sat her on the edge of the bed with a last shove, gentle but resolute.
It would be enough to take off her shoes and her suit jacket. Then she could go back to her own bed, nice and warm. Her feet were frozen. She stood on one of the little rugs. Much better.
‘Come on, missus, take off your clothes, I’ll hang them up for you.’
‘Why?’
‘So they won’t wrinkle. Tomorrow I don’t have time to iron.’
‘Well, you can do it the day after tomorrow.’
‘Fine, you can sleep in your clothes if you want. I’ve heard that the elegant ladies in Paris do that too.’
Her employer’s gaze was murky when she tried to focus on Encarni.
Encarni turned to leave. It worked; she saw out of the corner of her eye that the missus was taking off her shoes, and that she had started to pull down her skirt with difficulty. Encarni helped her to get her jacket off. The missus lay down on the bed and, with her last bit of strength, she pulled the sheet and blankets to cover herself up to the shoulders.
Now all she needed was the pail. Encarni dragged over the enamelled metal bucket with barely a sound and put it to one side of the bed’s headboard.
27
She was awakened by the carousel that turned squeakily inside her head. Every turn was a stab of pain. Some furry animal had got inside her mouth. Her face felt rigid; surely some of the nerves that moved the muscles of her face were paralysed. The French call that feeling gueule de bois, wooden face. It was reassuring that there was a name for it. That had to mean it occurred frequently, that it wasn’t a singular case of facial paralysis that had just struck her and that at some point it would pass.