Jonan Etxaide had never let rain intimidate him. In fact, walking in a downpour without an umbrella was one of his favourite things and, in Pamplona, he would go for a walk with his anorak hood pulled up whenever he could, the only one walking slowly as everyone else hurriedly fled to the nearest cafés or lined up under buildings’ treacherous eaves which dripped huge drops on them, making them even wetter. He walked the streets of Elizondo admiring the smooth curtain of water that seemed to fall across the roads wherever it would, producing a curious effect like a slanting wedding veil. The car headlights pierced the darkness, drawing watery ghosts in front of them, and the red light of the traffic lights seemed to spill out as if it were a solid, forming a pool of red water at his feet. In contrast with the deserted pavements, there was a steady flow of traffic at that hour, when it seemed like everyone was in a rush to get somewhere, like lovers on their way to a tryst. Jonan walked along Calle Santiago to the square, fleeing the noise with rapid steps which slowed as soon as he drew near enough to make out the clean outlines of the buildings that immediately transported him to another era.
He admired the façade of the town hall and the casino beside it, built at the start of the twentieth century, a meeting place for the wealthier residents. Many business and political decisions had been made behind those windows, probably more than in the town hall itself, in a time when social position and its exploitation had been even more important than they were now.
He went down Calle Jaime Urrutia, captivated by the rain and the evocative architecture of the beautiful houses. At number 27 there was a passage way or belena to Calle Santiago which provided a link between the houses and the fields, stables and vegetable gardens, some of which had disappeared long ago as a result of the construction of the current A road. Opposite the gorapes, or porticoes beneath the houses, which were occupied by shops on one side of the square, was Elizondo’s old mill, which had been converted into the electricity plant half way through the twentieth century. The architecture of a town reveals as much about its inhabitants’ lifestyles and preferences as a man’s habits do about his future behaviour. Places can show character traits, like being of good family and upbringing, and this one spoke of pride, valour and endeavour, of honour and glory achieved not by pure force, but also by ingenuity and skill; it was not for nothing that the town’s shield was a chessboard, which the inhabitants of Elizondo displayed with the pride of those who have earned their place in the world through honour and loyalty.
And in the middle of that place of honour and pride, an assassin dared to display his extraordinary macabre work, like a despotic black king advancing implacably across the board and devouring white pawns. The same boastfulness, the same showiness and vanity as all the other serial killers who had come before him.
For Jonan predicting, outlining, discerning the profile of a killer in the darkness had almost become an obsession, a kind of game of chess in which progressing to the next move was paramount. It was a case of a single move defining how the rest of the game would develop and which of the opponents would be defeated. He would have given anything to attend one of those courses Inspector Salazar had been on. But in the meantime he would have to content himself with being near her, working at her side and contributing to the investigation through his suggestions and ideas, which she seemed to hold in high regard.
14
Rosaura Salazar was feeling the cold, a horrible cold that gripped her both inside and out, making her walk bolt upright and with her jaw so tightly clenched it gave her the strange sensation of biting down on rubber. She walked along the river bank under her umbrella, trying to use the freezing temperature of the almost deserted streets to alleviate her pain, the pain she was carrying inside her and which threatened to become a scream at any moment. Unable to contain the tears that were burning in her eyes, she let them fall, aware that her misery was not as intense and visceral as it would have been only a few months earlier. She felt angry with herself even so, and at the same time secretly relieved to realise that back then she had felt as if the pain might destroy her. But not now. Not anymore. The tears suddenly stopped, leaving her with the sensation of wearing a warm mask on her frozen face that was gradually cooling and hardening on her skin.
She was ready to go home, now that she knew those tears would not betray her bitterness. Dodging the puddles, she passed the ikastola and automatically dried the rest of her tears with the back of her hand when she saw a woman coming towards her. She sighed with relief when she saw that it was a stranger so she wouldn’t have to stop and chat or even say hello. But then the woman stopped and looked her in the face. Slightly confused, Rosaura came to a halt. It was one of the girls who lived in the town whom she knew by sight although she couldn’t remember her name. It might have been Maitane. The girl looked at her, giving her such an enchanting smile that, albeit timidly, Rosaura smiled back at her without really knowing why. The girl started laughing, just a soft hint of a laugh at first, then gradually louder, until her cackling filled the night. Rosaura wasn’t smiling anymore; she swallowed and looked around to find the reason for the girl’s laughter. And when she looked back at the girl, she saw that her mouth had twisted into a sneer as disdainful as her gaze as she continued laughing. Rosaura opened her mouth to say something, to ask, to … But it wasn’t necessary, because she saw everything clearly, as if someone had removed the blindfold from her eyes. As the realisation sank in, Rosaura was assailed by the waves of disdain, evil and arrogance that seemed to radiate from the little witch. They surrounded her and made her feel sick while the laughter ringing in her ears left her so ashamed she wanted to die. She felt faint and cold, and, just as she came to the conclusion that this could only be a nightmare, the girl stopped laughing and continued walking, keeping her cruel eyes fixed on Rosaura until she had gone by. Rosaura walked another fifty metres without daring to look behind her, then she went over to the wall at the edge of the river and threw up.
15
The merry gang had been meeting up to play poker on winter afternoons for years. Engrasi was the youngest of the group at over seventy and Josepa was the oldest at about eighty. Engrasi and three of the others were widows; only two of the women in the group still had their husbands. Anastasia’s husband had turned out to be afraid of the winter cold in the Baztan Valley and refused to leave the house during those months and Miren’s would be doing the rounds of the bars drinking txikitos with his cronies.
When they got up from the gaming table and said goodbye until the next day they would leave the room full of vibrant energy, like the tension in the air before a thunderstorm. Amaia liked the women, really liked them, because they had the air of assurance and enviable contentment of someone who’s on their way home and has enjoyed their journey. She was aware that not all of them had had easy lives. Illnesses, dead husbands, abortions, unruly children, family issues and yet, in spite of all this, they had left all resentment and bitterness towards life behind them and they arrived each day as cheerful as a teenager coming to dance outdoors at a verbena on a summer’s evening, as wise as the Egyptian queens. If she was lucky enough to be an old lady one day, she would like to be like that, like they were, independent but at the same time deeply aware of their roots, energetic and vital, exuding a sense of triumph over life that you see in those elderly men and women who make the most of every day without thinking about death. Or perhaps thinking about it in terms of stealing another day or hour from it.
After gathering up their scarves and bags, demanding a rematch the following day and distributing kisses, hugs and appreciative comments about what a nice young man James was, they finally left, leaving the living room full of the black and white energy of a coven.
‘Old witches,’ murmured Amaia with a grin.
She looked down at the envelope she was still holding and her face fell. Goatskin, she thought. She looked up, met James’s inquisitive gaze and tried to smile without succeeding in the slightest.
‘Amaia, the Lenox
Clinic called, they want to know whether we’ll make it to the appointment this week or whether we’ll need to postpone it again.’
‘Oh, James, you know I can’t think about that right now, I’ve got enough to worry about.’
James’s expression became one of annoyance.
‘Well, we’ll have to tell them something in any case, we can’t keep postponing forever.’
She noticed the irritation in his voice and turned towards him and took his hand.
‘It won’t be forever, James, but I can’t think about that right now, I really can’t.’
‘You can’t or you don’t want to?’ he asked, pulling his hand away in a gesture of rejection that he seemed to regret immediately. He looked at the envelope she was holding.
‘I’m sorry. Can I help at all?’
She looked at the envelope and her husband again.
‘Oh, no, it’s just a puzzle we need to solve, but not now. Make me a coffee and then come and sit down with me and tell me what you’ve been up to all day.’
‘I’ll tell you but without the coffee, I can see you’re jittery enough without caffeine. I’ll make you a herbal tea.’
She sat down next to the fire in one of the winged armchairs that faced the hearth. She slipped the envelope down the side while she listened to Aunt Engrasi, who was busy in the kitchen, chatting to James. She turned her gaze to the flames that were dancing as they licked at a log and when James handed her the cup of steaming tea she knew that she’d lost several minutes to the fire’s hypnotic heat.
‘It looks like you don’t need me to relax,’ exclaimed James, pulling a face.
She turned to him with a smile.
‘I always need you, to help me relax and for other things … It’s the fire …’ she said, looking around, ‘and this house. I’ve always felt good here. I remember when I was little and I used to come and take refuge here when I’d argued with my mother, which happened quite often. I’d sit in front of the fire and stay there until my cheeks were burning or I fell asleep.’
James put a hand on her head and stroked it very slowly down to her neck, pulled out the band that was holding her hair up and spread it out like a fan so that it hung below her shoulders.
‘I’ve always felt as if this were my true home. When I was eight I even used to pretend that Aunt Engrasi was my real mother.’
‘You never told me that.’
‘No, it’s a long time since I’ve thought about it and, furthermore, it’s a part of my past I don’t like. And being here again seems to stir up all those feelings again, like resurrecting old ghosts.’ She sighed. ‘I’m also very worried about this case …’
‘You’ll catch him, I’m sure of it.’
‘So am I. But I don’t want to talk about the case now, I need a break. Tell me what you got up to while I was out.’
‘I went for a walk around town. I bought some of that delicious bread they sell in the bakery on Calle Santiago, the one that makes such good madeleines. Then I took your aunt to the supermarket on the edge of town, we bought enough food to feed an army, we ate some amazing black beans at a bar in Gartzain and in the afternoon I kept your sister Ros company while she went to her house to collect some things. The car is packed with cardboard boxes full of clothes and papers, but I won’t know what to do with them until Ros gets here, I don’t know where she wants to put them.’
‘And where’s Ros now?’
‘Well, that’s the bit you’re not going to like. Freddy was home. He was slumped on the sofa surrounded by beer cans when we went in and he looked like he hadn’t showered for several days. His eyes were red and swollen and he was snuffling away wrapped in a blanket and with used tissues scattered all round him; at first I thought he had flu, but then I realised he’d been crying. The rest of the house was just as bad, it looked like a pigsty and, believe me, it smelled like one too. I waited by the door and he didn’t look too pleased when he saw me, but he said hello; then your sister started gathering together clothes and papers … he was following her from room to room like a whipped dog. I heard them whispering and, when I’d already loaded up the car, Ros told me that she was going to stay for a while, that she needed to talk to him.’
‘You shouldn’t have left her alone.’
‘I knew you were going to say that, but what could I do, Amaia? She insisted, and the truth is that his attitude didn’t seem at all threatening, in fact he seemed quite the opposite, he was depressed and sulky like a little boy.’
‘Like the badly brought up little boy he is,’ she com-mented. ‘But we can’t trust him; in lots of cases violence occurs at the moment when the woman announces the end of the relationship. It’s not easy breaking up with those lowlifes. They tend to resist with pleading, tears and begging, because they know perfectly well that they’re nothing without their women. And if all that doesn’t work, they resort to violence, which is why you shouldn’t leave a woman alone when she’s going to break up with the sponger of the moment.’
‘If I’d seen a single sign of any cockiness I wouldn’t have left her, and in fact I did hesitate, but she assured me she’d be fine and she’d be home in time for dinner.’
Amaia looked at her watch. In Aunt Engrasi’s house they ate supper at around eleven.
‘Don’t worry, if she’s not here in half an hour I’ll go and get her, OK?’
She nodded, pursing her lips. They heard the sound of the door almost at the same time as they felt the wave of intense cold that arrived in the house along with Ros. They heard her moving things around in the hall, suspected that she was taking longer than necessary to hang up her jacket, and when she finally came into the living room she seemed drained, her face grim and ashen but serene, like someone who has come to terms with pain. She greeted James and Amaia noticed a slight tremble in her cheek when her sister leant over to kiss her. Then Ros went over to the sideboard and picked up a small packet wrapped in silk and sat down at the gaming table.
‘Aunt Engrasi …’ she whispered.
Engrasi came in from the kitchen drying her hands on a piece of kitchen roll and sat down opposite her.
It wasn’t necessary to ask what they were doing or even to watch, she had seen that deck of cards wrapped in its black silk thousands of times. They were the cards her aunt used for the Tarot of Marseilles, which she had seen her shuffle, deal and cut, arranging them in crosses or circles. She had even consulted them herself. But that had been a long, long time ago.
Spring 1989
She was eight years old, it was May and she had just made her First Communion. Her mother had been unusually attentive to her in the days before the ceremony, showering her with affection to which she was not accustomed. Rosario was a proud woman and deeply preoccupied with presenting an image of the luxurious lifestyle expected of people during that era, doubtless influenced by the fact that she had always felt herself to be the outsider who had come in and married the most sought after bachelor in Elizondo. The business was doing well, but almost all the money was being reinvested in improvements. Even so, when the moment had come, each of the girls had had a new dress for her First Communion in a sufficiently different style from the ones her sisters had worn that no-one could mistake it for a hand-me-down. She had been taken to the hairdresser where they styled the mane of blonde hair which hung almost to her waist, teasing it into pretty curls that seemed to spring from beneath the tiara of little white flowers that crowned her head. She couldn’t remember when she had ever felt so happy either before or after.
On the day after her First Communion, her mother made her sit on a bench in the kitchen, plaited her hair and cut it off. The little girl didn’t know what was happening until she saw the thick plait of hair on the table that her mother was trying to tie up and which she thought was some strange little animal. She remembered feeling violated when she touched her head and being blinded by her boiling tears.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ her mother spat at her, ‘it’s almost summer and you’
ll be nice and cool, and when you’re older you can make yourself an elegant hairpiece like the ladies in San Sebastián wear.’
Even now she could remember her father’s exact words when he came in, alerted by the sounds of her crying.
‘For the love of God! What have you done to her?’ he groaned, picking her up and carrying her out of the kitchen as if they were fleeing from a fire. ‘What have you done, Rosario? Why do you do these things?’ he whispered while he rocked the little girl in his arms and his tears wet her head. He settled her on the sofa as if she were made of glass and went back into the kitchen. She knew what would happen next, a litany of reproaches whispered by her father, her mother’s contained shouts, which sounded like an animal struggling below the surface of the water and which would give way to his entreaties as he tried to convince, persuade, trick her mother into agreeing to take those little white pills that stopped her despising Amaia. She asked herself whether it was in any way her fault that she looked so little like her mother and so like her dead grandmother, her father’s mother. Was that a reason for not loving your daughter? Her father would explain to her that her mother wasn’t well, that she took pills so as not to behave that way towards her, but the little girl felt worse and worse.
She put on a jacket with a hood and fled into the blessed silence of the street. She ran through the deserted town, rubbing her eyes furiously in an attempt to control the seemingly endless salty flow of tears. She arrived at Aunt Engrasi’s house and, as usual, didn’t knock at the door. She climbed up onto a huge pot of coleus plants as tall as she was and took the key down from the door lintel. She didn’t call out to her aunt, she didn’t run through the house looking for her. Her tears stopped as soon as she saw the small bundle of black silk lying on the table. She sat down in front of it, opened it and started to shuffle the cards as she had seen her aunt do hundreds of times.
The Invisible Guardian Page 10