“Yeah. Alcatraz, Sing Sing, or the Bastille. Daniel, that woman lied to you.”
“I suppose she did.”
“Don’t suppose; accept it.”
“So what now? Miquel Moliner is a dead end.”
“Or this Nuria is very crafty.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“At the moment we must explore other avenues. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to call on the good nanny in the story the priest foisted on us yesterday morning.”
“Don’t tell me you also suspect that the governess has vanished.”
“No, but I do think it’s time we stopped fussing about and knocking on doors as if we were begging for alms. In this line of business, one must go in through the back door. Are you with me?”
“You know that to me you walk on holy ground, Fermín.”
“Well, then, start dusting your altar-boy costume. This afternoon, as soon as we’ve closed the shop, we’re going to make a charitable visit to the old lady in the Hospice of Santa Lucía. And now tell me, how did it go yesterday with the young filly? Don’t be secretive. If you hold back, may you sprout virulent pimples.”
I sighed in defeat and made my confession, down to the last detail. At the end of my narrative, after listing what I was sure were just the existential anxieties of a moronic schoolboy, Fermín surprised me with a sudden heartfelt hug.
“You’re in love,” he mumbled, full of emotion, patting me on the back. “Poor kid.”
That afternoon we left the bookshop precisely at closing time, a move that earned us a steely look from my father, who was beginning to suspect that we were involved in some shady business, with all this coming and going. Fermín mumbled something incoherent about a few errands that needed doing, and we quickly disappeared. I told myself that sooner or later I’d have to reveal part of all this mess to my father; what part, exactly, was a different question.
On our way, with his usual flair for tales, Fermín briefed me on where we were heading. The Santa Lucía hospice was an institution of dubious reputation housed within the ruins of an ancient palace on Calle Moncada. The legend surrounding the place made it sound like a cross between purgatory and a morgue, with sanitary conditions worse than in either. The story was, to say the very least, peculiar. Since the eleventh century, the palace had housed, among other things, various residences for well-to-do families, a prison, a salon for courtesans, a library of forbidden manuscripts, a barracks, a sculptor’s workshop, a sanatorium for plague sufferers, and a convent. In the middle of the nineteenth century, when it was practically crumbling down in bits, the palace had been turned into a museum of circus freaks and atrocities by a bombastic impresario who called himself Laszlo de Vicherny, Duke of Parma and private alchemist to the House of Bourbon. His real name turned out to be Baltasar Deulofeu i Carallot, the bastard of a salted-pork entrepreneur and a fallen debutante, who was mostly known for his escapades as a professional gigolo and con artist.
The man took pride in owning Spain’s largest collection of humanoid fetuses in different stages of deformity, preserved in jars of embalming fluid, and somewhat less pride in his even larger collection of warrants issued by some of Europe’s and America’s finest law-enforcement agencies. Among other attractions, “The Tenebrarium” (as Deulofeu had renamed the palace) offered séances, necromancy, fights (with cocks, rats, dogs, big strapping women, imbeciles, or some combination of the above), as well as betting, a brothel that specialized in cripples and freaks, a casino, a legal and financial consultancy, a workshop for love potions, a stage for regional folklore and puppet shows, and parades of exotic dancers. At Christmas a Nativity play was staged, sparing no expenses and featuring the troupe from the museum and the whole collection of prostitutes. Its fame reached the far ends of the province.
The Tenebrarium was a roaring success for fifteen years, until it was discovered that Deulofeu had seduced the wife, the daughter, and the mother-in-law of the military governor of the province within a single week. The blackest infamy descended on the place and its owner. Before Deulofeu was able to flee the city and don another of his multiple identities, a band of masked thugs seized him in the backstreets of the Santa María quarter and proceeded to hang him and set fire to him in the Ciudadela Park, leaving his body to be devoured by wild dogs that roamed in the area. After two decades of neglect, during which time nobody bothered to remove the collection of horrors of the ill-fated Laszlo, the Tenebrarium was transformed into a charitable institution under the care of an order of nuns.
“The Ladies of the Final Ordeal, or something equally morbid,” said Fermín. “The trouble is, they’re very obsessive about the secrecy of the place (bad conscience, I’d say), which means we’ll have to think of some ruse for getting in.”
In more recent times, the occupants of the Hospice of Santa Lucía were being recruited from the ranks of dying, abandoned, demented, destitute old people who made up the crowded underworld of Barcelona. Luckily for them, they mostly lasted only a short time after they had been taken in; neither the conditions of the establishment nor the company encouraged longevity. According to Fermín, the deceased were removed shortly before dawn and made their last journey to the communal grave in a covered wagon donated by a firm in Hospitalet that specialized in meat packing and delicatessen products of doubtful reputation—a firm that occasionally would be involved in grim scandals.
“You’re making all this up,” I protested, overwhelmed by the horrific details of Fermín’s story.
“My inventiveness does not go that far, Daniel. Wait and see. I visited the building on one unfortunate occasion about ten years ago, and I can tell you that it looked as if they’d hired your friend Julián Carax as an interior decorator. A shame we didn’t bring some laurel leaves to stifle the aromas. But we’ll have enough trouble as it is just being allowed in.”
With my expectations thus shaped, we turned into Calle Moncada, by that time of day already transformed into a dark passage flanked by old mansions that had been turned into storehouses and workshops. The litany of bells coming from the basilica of Santa María del Mar mingled with the echo of our footsteps. Soon a penetrating, bitter odor permeated the cold winter breeze.
“What’s that smell?”
“We’ve arrived,” announced Fermín.
·30·
A FRONT DOOR OF ROTTED WOOD LET US INTO A COURTYARD guarded by gas lamps that flickered above gargoyles and angels, their features disintegrating on the old stone. A staircase led to the first floor, where a rectangle of light marked the main entrance to the hospice. The gaslight radiating from this opening gave an ocher tone to the miasma that emanated from within. An angular, predatory figure observed us coolly from the shadows of the door’s archway, her eyes the same color as her habit. She held a steaming wooden bucket that gave off an indescribable stench.
“Hail-Mary-Full-of-Grace-Conceived-Without-Sin!” Fermín called out enthusiastically.
“Where’s the coffin?” answered the voice from up high, serious and taciturn.
“Coffin?” Fermín and I replied in unison.
“Aren’t you from the undertaker’s?” asked the nun in a weary voice.
I wondered whether that was a comment on our appearance or a genuine question. Fermín’s face lit up at such a providential opportunity.
“The coffin is in the van. First we’d like to examine the customer. Pure technicality.”
I felt overpowered by nausea.
“I thought Mr. Collbató was going to come in person,” said the nun.
“Mr. Collbató begs to be excused, but a rather complicated embalming has cropped up at the last moment. A circus strongman.”
“Do you work with Mr. Collbató in the funeral parlor?”
“We’re his right and left hands, respectively. Wilfred the Hairy at your service, and here, at my side, my apprentice and student, Sansón Carrasco.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I rounded off.
The nun gave us a brief loo
king-over and nodded, indifferent to the pair of scarecrows reflected in her eyes.
“Welcome to Santa Lucía. I’m Sister Hortensia, the one who called you. Follow me.”
We followed Sister Hortensia without a word through a cavernous corridor whose smell reminded me of the subway tunnels. It was flanked by doorless frames through which one could make out candlelit halls filled with rows of beds, piled up against the wall and covered with mosquito nets that moved in the air like shrouds. I could hear groans and see glimpses of human shapes through the netting.
“This way,” Sister Hortensia beckoned, a few yards ahead of us.
We entered a wide vault, where I found no difficulty in situating the stage for the Tenebrarium described by Fermín. The darkness obscured what at first seemed to me a collection of wax figures, sitting or abandoned in corners, with dead, glassy eyes that shone like tin coins in the candlelight. I thought that perhaps they were dolls or remains of the old museum. Then I realized that they were moving, though very slowly, even stealthily. It was impossible to tell their age or gender. The rags covering them were the color of ash.
“Mr. Collbató said not to touch or clean anything,” said Sister Hortensia, looking slightly apologetic. “We just placed the poor thing in one of the boxes that was lying around here, because he was beginning to drip, but that’s done.”
“You did the right thing. You can’t be too careful,” agreed Fermín.
I threw him a despairing look. He shook his head calmly, indicating that I should leave him in charge of the situation. Sister Hortensia led us to what appeared to be a cell with no ventilation or light, at the end of a narrow passage. She took one of the gas lamps that hung from the wall and handed it to us.
“Will you be long? I’m rather busy.”
“Don’t worry about us. You get on with your things, and we’ll take him away.”
“All right. If you need anything I’ll be down in the basement, in the gallery for the bedridden. If it’s not too much bother, take him out through the back door. Don’t let the others see him. It’s bad for the patients’ morale.”
“We quite understand,” I said in a faltering voice.
Sister Hortensia gazed at me for a moment with vague curiosity. When I saw her more closely, I noticed that she was quite an age, almost an elderly woman. Few years separated her from the hospice’s guests.
“Listen, isn’t the apprentice a bit young for this sort of work?” she asked.
“The truths of life know no age, Sister,” remarked Fermín.
The nun nodded and smiled at me sweetly. There was no suspicion in that look, only sadness.
“Even so,” she murmured.
She wandered off into the shadows, carrying her bucket and dragging her shadow like a bridal veil. Fermín pushed me into the cell. It was a dismal room built into the walls of a cave that sweated with damp. Chains ending in hooks hung from the ceiling, and the cracked floor was broken up by a sewage grating. In the center of the room, on a grayish marble table, was a wooden crate for industrial packaging. Fermín raised the lamp, and we caught a glimpse of the deceased between the straw padding. Parchment features, incomprehensible, jagged and frozen. The swollen skin was purple. The eyes were open: white, like broken eggshells.
The sight made my stomach turn, and I looked away.
“Come on, let’s get down to work,” ordered Fermín.
“Are you mad?”
“I mean we have to find this Jacinta woman before we’re found out.”
“How?”
“How do you think? By asking.”
We peered into the corridor to make sure Sister Hortensia had vanished. Then we scurried back to the hall we had previously crossed. The wretched figures were still observing us, with looks that ranged from curiosity to fear and, in some cases, to greed.
“Watch it, some of these would sink their teeth in you if they could, to become young again,” said Fermín. “Age makes them all look as meek as lambs, but there are as many sons of bitches in here as out there, or more. Because these are the ones who have lasted and buried the rest. Don’t feel sorry for them. Go on, begin with the ones in the corner—they look toothless.”
If those words were meant to give me courage for the mission, they failed miserably. I looked at the group of human remains that languished in the corner and smiled at them. It occurred to me that their very presence was testimony to the moral emptiness of the universe and the mechanical brutality with which it destroys the parts it no longer needs. Fermín seemed able to read these profound thoughts and nodded gravely.
“Mother Nature is the meanest of bitches, that’s the sad truth,” he said. “Be courageous, and go for it.”
My first round of inquiries as to the whereabouts of Jacinta Coronado produced only empty looks, groans, burps, and ravings. Fifteen minutes later I called it a day and joined Fermín to see whether he’d had better luck. His discouragement was all too obvious.
“How are we going to find Jacinta Coronado in this shithole?”
“I don’t know. This is a cauldron of idiots. I’ve tried the Sugus candy trick, but they seem to think they’re suppositories.”
“What if we ask Sister Hortensia? We tell her the truth and have done with it.”
“Telling the truth should be kept as a last resort, Daniel, even more so to a nun. Let’s use up all our powder first. Look at that little group over there. They seem quite jolly. I’m sure they’re very articulate. Go and question them.”
“And what are you planning to do?”
“I’ll keep watch in the rear guard, in case the penguin returns. You get on with your business.”
With little or no hope of success, I went up to a group of patients occupying another corner of the room.
“Good evening,” I said, realizing instantly how absurd my greeting was, because in there it was always nighttime. “I’m looking for Señora Jacinta Coronado. Co-ro-na-do. Do any of you know her, or could you tell me where to find her?”
I was confronted by four faces corrupted by greed. There’s something here, I thought. Maybe all’s not lost.
“Jacinta Coronado?” I insisted.
The four patients exchanged looks and nodded to one another. One of them, a potbellied man without a single hair to be seen on his body, seemed to be their leader. His appearance and manner made me think of a happy Nero, plucking his harp while Rome was rotting at his feet. With a majestic gesture, the Nero figure smiled at me playfully. I returned the smile, hopefully.
The guy gestured at me to come closer, as if he wanted to whisper something in my ear. I hesitated, then leaned forward.
I lent my ear to the patient’s lips—so close that I could feel his fetid, warm breath on my skin. “Can you tell me where I can find Señora Jacinta Coronado?” I asked for the last time. I was afraid he’d bite me. Instead he emitted a violently loud fart. His companions burst out laughing and clapped with joy. I took a few steps back, but it was too late: the flatulent vapors had already hit me. It was then I noticed, close to me, an old man, all hunched up, with a prophet’s beard, thin hair, and fiery eyes, who leaned on a walking stick and gazed at the others with disdain.
“You’re wasting your time, young man. Juanito only knows how to let off farts, and those who are with him can only laugh and sniff them. As you see, the social structure here isn’t very different from that of the outside world.”
The ancient philosopher spoke in a solemn voice and with perfect diction. He looked me up and down, taking the measure of me.
“You’re looking for Jacinta, I think I heard?”
I nodded, astounded by the appearance of intelligent life in that den of horrors.
“And what for?”
“I’m her grandson.”
“And I’m the Marquis of Crèmebrûlée. You’re a terrible liar, that’s what you are. Tell me what you want to see her for or I’ll play the madman. It’s easy here. And if you intend to ask these poor wretches one by one, you’ll soon
see what I mean.”
Juanito and his gang of inhalers were still howling with laughter. The soloist then gave off an encore, more muted and prolonged than the previous one. It sounded like a hiss, emulating the puncture of a tire, and proved that Juanito’s control over his sphincter verged on virtuosity. I yielded to the facts.
“You’re right. I’m not a relative of Señora Coronado, but I need to speak to her. It’s a matter of the utmost importance.”
The old man came up to me. He had a wicked, catlike smile, the smile of a mischievous child, and his eyes were branded with cunning.
“Can you help me?” I begged.
“That depends on how much you can help me.”
“If it’s in my power, I’ll be delighted to help you. Would you like me to deliver a message to your family?”
The old man laughed bitterly. “It’s my family who’s stuck me in this hole. They’re a load of leeches, likely to steal my underpants while they’re still warm. Hell can take them—or the city hall. I’ve kept them and put up with them for long enough. What I want is a woman.”
“Excuse me?”
The old man looked at me impatiently.
“Being young is no excuse for slow wit, kid. I’m telling you I want a woman. A female, a maid, or a young filly of a top breed. Young—under fifty-five, that is—and healthy, with no sores or fractures.”
“I’m not sure if I understand….”
“You understand me perfectly. I want to have it off with a woman who has teeth and won’t pee on me, before I depart for the other world. I don’t mind whether she’s good-looking or not; I’m half blind, and at my age any girl who has anything to hold onto is a Venus. Am I making myself clear?”
“Crystal. But I don’t see how I’m going to find a woman for you….”
“When I was your age, there was something in the service sector called ladies of easy virtue. I know the world changes, but never in essence. Find one for me, plump and fun-loving, and we’ll do business. And if you’re asking yourself about my ability to enjoy a lady, I want you to know I’m quite content to pinch her backside and feel up her bumpers. That’s the advantage of experience.”
The Shadow of the Wind Page 26