The Whispering City

by Sara Moliner

  ‘Good. He’s a dangerous bloke.’

  ‘The ones who nabbed me are too. Look.’

  He showed her a gap in his teeth.

  ‘From the last time?’

  The Spider nodded his head.

  ‘You need to give me the address so I can see whether it’s a house I know how to get into or not.’

  She gave it to him. The Spider screwed up his face and Ana realised that he was travelling through the city in his head. She waited in silence until The Spider looked at her again and said, ‘Piece of cake, Señorita Ana. When do you want me to send the little message?’

  ‘Could it be tonight?’

  ‘Of course. Can I ask you something in return?’ The Spider pulled an envelope out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘I got a letter from my girlfriend.’

  Ana took the letter and began to read it very slowly. They brought their heads together so that only he could hear what it said.

  Dear José,

  I hope this finds you in good health…

  70

  The room was suddenly bathed in red. Rage escalated within him so powerfully that it plugged up his ears and he had to shout because he was afraid he would explode.

  ‘That son of a bitch!’

  He scanned the letter again.

  That swine had dared to break into his house to leave this carrion on his desk. This stinking letter that reeked of arrogance and, above all, of betrayal. How dare he threaten him? Him!

  Joaquín Grau went through his study, sullied by the presence of that letter filled with veiled warnings. Before his eyes everything he had done for Fernando passed like the pages in a family photo album. Every step, every conversation, every recommendation, until he had him in Barcelona, preparing to fly even higher. It was like having taught a son to walk only for him to stamp all over his father.

  ‘Bastard!’

  And that mocking envelope impudently rested beneath a lit lamp, as if it were a love letter.

  It was all so degrading.

  He had to do something. Right away.

  He dialled the home number. ‘Hello, Dolores. I want to speak to Fernando.’

  ‘He isn’t back yet. I think he had a meeting with some businessmen. He’ll be back for dinner.’

  So he was still at the office.

  ‘Is it something urgent, Joaquín?’

  ‘No, don’t worry about it. It can wait until tomorrow.’

  He said goodbye to her. Then he called one of his men.

  ‘Juanito, get the car out. Bring it to Ernesto so that he can drive; I need you in the back seat.’

  Juanito had worked for him for fifteen years. He was large, strong and obedient.

  They left soon after and parked the car near the Civil Government building.

  They waited in silence. Neither of his two men dared open their mouths without permission, and he wasn’t in the mood for talking.

  During the long wait, the possibility of pardoning him, if he handed over the papers, ran through his head, but he ruled it out. He had had them in his hands, he had seen them, he was contaminated.

  Only one thing could save him: if he knew nothing of the matter, if the letter was a fake. But that was a preposterous idea. Who would do something like that, and why?

  ‘Start the engine, Ernesto.’

  The car began to move. Soon they had caught up with him.

  Grau lowered the window and called out to him. Fernando’s face twisted when he saw him.

  ‘What’s going on, Joaquín?’

  ‘I need to speak to you.’

  ‘They’re expecting me at home.’

  ‘It’s important. It won’t take long.’

  Fernando had already stopped. Grau saw him glance at the street, as if looking for someone to ask for help. Meanwhile, Juanito had already got out of the front passenger seat and opened the rear door, inviting Fernando to climb in. Grau moved across. Fernando got into the car.

  ‘Come closer, Fernando. That way Juanito can fit in too.’

  ‘But wasn’t he in the front?’

  Fernando tried to get out of the car, but hulking Juanito blocked his path while pushing him towards Grau. Juanito sat down and closed the door.

  ‘Let’s go, Ernesto.’

  Grau noticed that Fernando’s breathing was panicky. He turned towards him.

  ‘What? Now that you have me face to face, you have nothing to say?’

  ‘What am I supposed to say?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent with me. I know you better than your own mother.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s strange how suddenly you have such trouble understanding. Your letter, on the other hand, was very easy to grasp.’

  ‘What letter are you talking about?’

  ‘A letter in which you refer to certain papers.’

  It was only a second, a flickering glance down towards his jacket pocket. It was so brief that perhaps not even he himself was aware he’d done it, but Grau saw it.

  ‘Juanito,’ he said. ‘See what he has in that pocket.’

  Fernando, with terror in his eyes, made an instinctive gesture to protect it. A grave mistake. He struggled with Juanito, whose physical superiority won out. Juanito pulled out some papers that were crumpled from the skirmish.

  Grau glanced at them. Then he looked at Fernando.

  ‘I wasn’t going to do anything with them, Joaquín. If you want I’ll give them to you. It’s not what it looks like.’

  ‘Of course; nothing is what it seems.’

  Joaquín Grau stepped out of the car.

  ‘I’ll walk home. Air the car well before leaving it in the garage.’

  He could still hear Fernando’s pleading voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then he heard a dull blow. Perhaps it was the door slamming. He didn’t know; he didn’t turn around.

  EPILOGUE

  There was nothing in the papers about Fernando Sánchez-Herranz’s body showing up in the Somorrostro dressed in women’s clothing. Such a deplorable and shameful fact couldn’t be seen amid the pomp and pageantry of the Eucharistic Congress that filled the newspaper pages, newsreels and radio hours.

  The public prosecutor’s office, ‘out of respect for the family’s honour’, ordered that the investigation be conducted with the utmost discretion, which Castro clearly took as an order to do nothing at all.

  Grau, who had given the order, didn’t know that the First Class Inspector had also grasped that he’d used the same method on Sánchez-Herranz that he’d utilised to avoid the investigation of Mendoza’s death.

  Two days after the ill-fated encounter between Grau and Sánchez-Herranz, a call from Isidro Castro informed them that they were ‘out of danger’. They didn’t feel happy, merely relieved. Sánchez-Herranz, the instigator of the murders, was dead, his body battered. They had brought on his death, by pitting one giant against the other. Although it was in self-defence, as Pablo had argued. But that didn’t absolve them. The result had been that one giant had killed the other. Had they really not considered that possibility when they came up with their plan? They wondered if, deep down, they had even wished for it.

  ‘What about the material killers of Mariona, Mendoza and Encarni?’ Ana asked the policeman.

  ‘They’re retiring Burguillos. He was left deaf in one ear and unfit for service. Since his injury occurred in the line of duty, they’re going to give him the concession for a tobacconist’s in Albacete, I think. They sent the other one, Costa, to Melilla.’

  Far away. Very far away from Barcelona. Just as they heard his name for the first time, they knew they would never see him again.

  Relief; that was what they felt.

  They were able to attend Encarni’s funeral. Beatriz gave her a place in the family mausoleum; Encarni’s mother had accepted because that way she would be close to the slum where the family lived.

  After saying goodbye to her relatives, they separated at the cemetery gates.

  ‘I have to get
on with sorting through my things,’ said Beatriz.

  And making noise in the house, which was too silent without Encarni. She wanted to get back to her work and try to fill the void with the chatter of her books.

  Pablo had to go back to the firm. He still didn’t know what to do with what he’d found out. Use it or keep it quiet. Beatriz knew him well enough to be able to read the dilemma in his eyes.

  ‘If I had wanted an honourable profession, I wouldn’t have become a lawyer, Tieta,’ he had told her at one point during their enforced confinement, when they scarcely dared to make plans for the future.

  Ana told him that Sanvisens hadn’t wanted to cause a commotion and so he’d got rid of the bitter journalist, Belda, by promoting him to Madrid correspondent, near the Ministries, at the centre of power. He’d offered Ana a staff position at the newspaper, ‘Belda’s desk’.

  ‘I’d prefer my own, if you don’t mind.’

  Beatriz watched Ana and Pablo walk down the slope of Montjuïc. Maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her, but she thought she saw them holding hands.

  She knew that, while everything went on as normal, nothing would ever be the same again.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The research for this novel was not only nourished by reading, but also by the stories many people generously shared with me. I won’t attempt an exhaustive list; the task would be doomed to failure. So instead I want to thank Juan Ribas and Montserrat Moliné, whose vivid memories impregnate the entire text; Professor Isabel de Riquer, a wonderful narrator who allowed me to relive the period; and Marga Losantos from the National Library of Catalonia, who introduced me to the ins and outs of one of this novel’s most important settings.

  The manuscript had the privilege of being read by Társila Reyes, Pilar Montero and Karin Hopfe, whom I thank for their comments, criticisms and enthusiasm.

  I am indebted to Klaus Reichenberger for the most generous form of critique I know.

  Finally, I would like to end by remembering Celia Jaén Rodrigo, who was by my side from the initial idea for this novel until its final full stop. Celia accompanied me by reading, commenting, critiquing, encouraging and correcting. My appreciation is infinite, so I will close by repeating the dedication of the novel here: to you, Celia, forever in my memory.

  Sara Moliner is the pseudonym for the writing duo Rosa Ribas and Sabine Hofmann. Rosa Ribas was born in 1963 in Barcelona, and since 1991 has lived in Frankfurt, where she teaches at the university. She is the author of six previous novels. Sabine Hofmann was born in 1964 and is a former lecturer in philology at Frankfurt University. The Whispering City is their first novel together. Highly acclaimed in Spain, it has been translated into several languages.