The Labyrinth of the Spirits

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  In the middle of the night, key in hand, Mercedes would slip into the dressing room in the west wing, an isolated, spacious room smelling of dust, mothballs, and neglect. Holding a candle in one hand, she would walk down the aisles bordered by glass cabinets packed with shoes, jewelry, dresses, and wigs. Cobwebs dangled over the corners of that mausoleum of garments and memories, and little Mercedes, who had grown up in the wealthy solitude of a privileged princess, imagined that all those marvelous outfits and precious stones belonged to a broken, ill-fated doll confined to a cell at the end of the first-floor corridor, who would never be able to show them off.

  Sometimes Mercedes would leave the candle on the floor, put on one of those dresses, and dance to the sound of an old wind-up music box that tinkled out the melody of Scheherazade. A sudden feeling of pleasure would seize her as she imagined her father’s hands on her waist, swirling her around the large dance hall while everyone looked on with envy and admiration. When the first lights of dawn began to filter through the chinks in the curtain, Mercedes would return the key to the chest of drawers and hurry back to her bed, where she pretended to sleep until a maid roused her just before seven.

  The night of the masked ball, nobody imagined that the dress hugging her figure so impeccably could have been made for anyone but her. As she slid around the dance floor to the strains of the orchestra in the arms of one or another partner, Mercedes felt the eyes of hundreds of guests upon her, caressing her with lust and longing. She knew her name was on everyone’s lips, and she smiled to herself as she picked up snatches of conversation in which she was the protagonist.

  It was almost nine o’clock of that long-anticipated evening when Mercedes, much against her will, abandoned the dance floor and headed toward the staircase of the main house. She had hoped to be able to dance at least one number with her father, but he hadn’t turned up, and nobody had seen him yet. Don Mauricio had made her promise—it was his condition for allowing her to go to the dance—that she would return to her room at nine o’clock, and Mercedes was not going to upset him. “Next year.”

  * * *

  On the way she heard a couple of her father’s government colleagues talking, two senior gentlemen who hadn’t stopped staring at her with their glazed eyes all night. They were muttering that Don Mauricio had been able to buy everything in life with the fortune of his poor wife, including a strangely springlike evening in the middle of Madrid’s autumn, in which to show off his little tart of a daughter before the cream of society. Intoxicated by champagne and the twirls of the waltz, Mercedes turned to answer back, but a figure came out to meet her and gently held her arm.

  Irene, the governess who had been her shadow and her solace for the past ten years, smiled warmly at her and pecked her on the cheek. “Pay no attention to them,” she said, taking her arm.

  Mercedes smiled and shrugged.

  “You’re looking gorgeous. Let me have a good look.”

  The girl lowered her eyes.

  “This dress is stunning and fits you like a glove.”

  “It was my mother’s.”

  “After tonight it will always be yours and nobody else’s.”

  Mercedes gave a little nod, blushing at the compliment, though it came tinged with the bitter taste of guilt. “Have you seen my father, Doña Irene?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “It’s just that everyone is asking after him . . .”

  “They’ll have to wait.”

  “I promised him I’d only stay until nine. Three hours less than Cinderella.”

  “In that case we’d better hurry before I turn into a pumpkin,” the governess joked halfheartedly.

  They followed the path across the garden under a festoon of lamps that lit up the faces of strangers; strangers who smiled when she went by as if they knew her, their champagne flutes shining like poisoned daggers.

  “Is my father going to come down to the dance, Doña Irene?” asked Mercedes.

  The governess waited until she was far enough away from indiscreet ears and prying eyes before replying. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all day.”

  Mercedes was about to answer when they heard some sort of commotion behind them. They turned to discover that the band had stopped playing and that one of the two gentlemen who had muttered maliciously when Mercedes walked by was about to address the guests. Before Mercedes could ask who the man was, the governess whispered in her ear: “That’s Don José María Altea, minister of the interior.”

  A young official handed a microphone to the politician, and the murmuring of the guests dropped to a respectful silence. The musicians adopted a solemn expression and looked up at the minister, who smiled as he gazed at the compliant and expectant audience. Altea surveyed the hundreds of faces observing him, nodding to himself. Finally, in a slow, deliberate manner, and with the calm and authoritarian composure of a preacher who knows the meekness of his flock, he drew the microphone to his lips and began his homily.

  3

  “Dear friends, it is for me a great pleasure and honor to be able to say a few words before such a distinguished audience—an audience gathered here today to pay a heartfelt and well-deserved tribute to one of the great men of this new Spain, reborn from the ashes of war. And it is all the more gratifying for me to make this address in a year that marks the twentieth anniversary of the glorious triumph of the national crusade of liberation, a triumph that has placed our country at the very acme of world nations. A Spain led by the Generalissimo with God’s help, and wrought with the valor of men like the one who welcomes us to his home and to whom we owe so much. A key man in the development of this great nation—which today fills us with pride and is the envy of the West—and a key man in its immortal culture. A man that I am proud and grateful to count as one of my best friends: Don Mauricio Valls y Echevarría.”

  A flood of applause ran through the crowd from one end of the garden to the other. Even the servants, the bodyguards, and the musicians joined in. Altea weathered the ovations and bravos with a benevolent smile, nodding his head paternally and calming the enthusiasm of those gathered around him rather like a cardinal blessing the congregation.

  “What can one say about Don Mauricio Valls that has not been said already? His irreproachable and exemplary career goes back to the very origins of our movement and is carved into our history in gold letters. But it has perhaps been in this field, that of arts and letters, if I may be so bold, where our admired and beloved Don Mauricio has distinguished himself in an outstanding manner, bestowing on us achievements that have taken this country’s culture to new heights. Not content with having contributed to building the solid foundations of a regime that has brought with it peace, justice, and prosperity to the Spanish people, Don Mauricio has also been aware that man cannot live on bread alone and has established himself as the shining star in our cultural Olympus. Illustrious author of immortal titles; founder of the Instituto Lope de Vega, which has taken our literature and our language to all corners of the world, and which this year alone has opened offices in twenty-two world capitals; tireless and superb publisher; discoverer and champion of great literature and of the most sublime culture of our time; architect of a new way of understanding and realizing arts and ideas . . . Words cannot describe our host’s enormous contribution to the formation and education of today’s and tomorrow’s Spaniards. His work at the head of the Ministry of National Education has promoted the fundamental structures of our knowledge and creativity. It is therefore only fair to declare that without Don Mauricio Valls, Spanish culture would not have been what it is. His hallmarks and his brilliant vision will accompany us for generations, and his everlasting works will remain standing on the highest point of the Spanish Parnassus for all time.”

  An emotional pause gave rise to a new round of applause, during which quite a number of people were beginning to look around for the honored absentee, the man of the moment whom nobody had seen all evening.

  “I could go on, but do
n’t wish to extend myself, as I know many of you will wish to express your thanks and admiration to Don Mauricio personally, and I add myself to that number. I would only like to share with you the message of personal affection, gratitude, and heartfelt homage to my cabinet colleague and dearest friend Don Mauricio Valls that was sent to me only a few minutes ago by the head of state, Generalissimo Franco, from El Pardo Palace, where urgent matters of state have kept him from attending.”

  A sigh of disappointment, glances exchanged between those present, and a solemn silence served as introduction to the reading of the note Altea pulled out of his pocket.

  “My dear friend Mauricio, universal Spaniard and indispensable collaborator, who has done so much for our country and our culture: Doña Carmen and I send you our warmest wishes and would like to express our gratitude in the name of all Spaniards for twenty years of exemplary service . . .”

  Altea raised his eyes and his voice to round off his performance with a “Viva Franco!” and “Arriba España!” chorused enthusiastically by the audience and generating a forest of arms raised in salute and not a few tearful eyes. Altea himself joined in the thunderous applause inundating the garden. Before leaving the stage, the minister made a sign to the bandleader, who, ensuring the ovation did not die down into murmurings, took it into a waltz that promised to maintain the elation in the air for the rest of the evening. Yet by the time it became clear that the Generalissimo was not coming, many of the guests dropped their masks on the floor and began to make their way to the exit.

  4

  Valls heard the distant ripples of the applause that had closed Altea’s speech as it merged into the orchestra’s next number. Altea, “his great friend and esteemed colleague,” who for years had been trying to stab him in the back: that message from the Generalissimo excusing his absence must have been music to his ears. Valls cursed Altea and his bunch of hyenas, that pack of new centurions already called “the poisoned flowers” by more than one: they had sprouted in the regime’s shadows and were beginning to fill key positions in the administration. Most of them were prowling about the garden right now, drinking his champagne and nibbling his canapés. Sniffing his blood. Valls put the cigarette he was holding to his lips, but there was just a hint of ash left on it. Vicente, his chief personal bodyguard, was observing him from the other end of the corridor and walked over to offer him one of his own.

  “Thanks, Vicente.”

  “Congratulations, Don Mauricio,” his loyal guard dog intoned.

  Valls nodded, smiling bitterly to himself. Vicente, ever faithful and respectful, returned to his place at the end of the passage, where, if one didn’t look carefully, he seemed to melt into the wallpaper.

  Valls took a first drag and observed the wide corridor that opened before him through the curtain of his cigarette smoke. Mercedes called it “the portrait gallery.” The corridor circled the entire third floor and was filled with paintings and sculptures that lent it an air of a grand museum bereft of viewers. Lerma, the curator of the Prado Museum, who took care of Valls’s collection, was always reminding him that he shouldn’t smoke there and that sunlight could damage the paintings. Valls took a second drag on his cigarette to Lerma’s health. He realized that what Lerma was trying to say, though he didn’t have the nerve, was that those pieces deserved better than to be confined in a private home, however splendid the setting, or however powerful its owner; their natural place was a museum where they could be admired and enjoyed by the public, those insignificant souls who clapped in ceremonies and queued up in funerals.

  Valls sometimes enjoyed sitting on one of the plush armchairs dotted around the portrait gallery to admire his treasures. Many of the works had been lent to him, or simply seized from the private collections of citizens who had ended up on the wrong side of the conflict. Others came from museums and palaces under his ministry’s jurisdiction, by way of a permanent loan. He liked to recall those summer afternoons when little Mercedes—who wasn’t even ten at the time—sat on his knees and listened to the stories hidden behind each one of those marvels. Valls took refuge in those memories, in his daughter’s look of fascination when she heard him talk about Sorolla and Zurbarán, about Goya and Velázquez.

  * * *

  More than once Valls had wanted to believe that while he could sit there, ensconced in the light and dreamlike quality of the paintings, those days shared with Mercedes, days of glory and fulfillment, would never slip away. For some time now Mercedes hadn’t come to spend the afternoon with him and listen to his masterly accounts of the golden age of Spanish painting, but the very act of seeking refuge in that gallery still comforted him: it made him forget that Mercedes was now a woman he had not recognized in her formal dress, dancing under the gaze of greed and desire, suspicion and malice. Soon, very soon, he would no longer be able to protect her from that world of shadows that didn’t deserve her, a world that lurked, baring its teeth, beyond the walls of the house.

  He quietly finished his cigarette and stood up. The hum of the band and of the voices in the garden could just be made out behind the drawn curtains. Without turning his head, he walked over to the staircase leading to the tower. Vicente, emerging from the dark, followed him, his footsteps barely audible behind Valls’s back.

  5

  As soon as he inserted the key in the office keyhole, Valls knew the door was open. He paused, his fingers still holding the key, and turned around. Vicente, who was waiting at the foot of the stairs, read his eyes and crept up, pulling out a revolver from inside his jacket. Valls moved aside a few steps, and Vicente signaled to him to lean against the wall. Once Valls was safe, Vicente cocked the revolver’s hammer and very slowly turned the doorknob. Pushed by its own weight, the panel of carved oak moved gently toward the dim interior.

  Keeping the revolver pointed, Vicente scanned the shadows. A bluish halo filtered through the windows, outlining Valls’s office. His eyes scanned the large desk, the admiral’s armchair, the oval library, and the leather sofa on the Persian carpet covering the floor. Nothing moved in the shadows. Vicente felt the wall, searching for the switch, and turned on the light. There was no one there. He lowered his weapon, putting it back inside his jacket as he took a few more steps into the room. Behind him, Valls watched from the entrance. Vicente turned and shook his head.

  “Perhaps I forgot to lock up when I left this afternoon,” said Valls, without much conviction.

  Vicente stood in the middle of the office and looked around him carefully as Valls stepped into the room and walked over to his desk. Vicente was checking the locks on the windows when the minister noticed it. The bodyguard heard him stop dead. He turned to look over his shoulder.

  The minister’s eyes were glued to the desk. A cream-colored folio-sized envelope rested on the leather sheet covering the central part of the table. Valls felt the hairs on his hands stand on end, as if a blast of ice-cold air were assailing his body.

  “Everything all right, Don Mauricio?” asked Vicente.

  “Leave me alone.”

  Valls was still staring at the envelope. For a few seconds the bodyguard hesitated. “I’ll be outside if you need me,” he said at last.

  Valls nodded. Vicente walked reluctantly toward the door. When he closed it behind him, the minister stood motionless in front of his desk, looking at that piece of parchment as if it were a viper about to leap at his neck.

  He walked around the desk and sat in his chair, crossing his fists under his chin. Almost a minute went by before he placed his hand on the parcel. He felt the contents and then, his pulse racing, inserted his finger under the gummed flap and opened it. The strip was still moist, so it came unstuck easily. He picked the envelope up by one of its bottom corners and raised it. The contents slipped onto the desk. Valls closed his eyes and sighed.

  The book was bound in black leather and had no title on the cover, only a design that suggested the image of a descending spiral staircase viewed from above.

  Valls’s hand sh
ook: he closed it into a fist, pressing hard. A note peeped out of the pages of the book, and he pulled it out. It was a yellowish piece of paper, torn out of a ledger, with two columns of red horizontal lines. In each column there was a list of numbers. At the bottom of the page, these words were written in red ink:

  Your time is coming to an end.

  You have one last chance.

  At the entrance to the labyrinth.

  Valls felt he needed air. Before he realized what he was doing, his hands were rummaging around in the main drawer of the desk, grabbing the revolver he kept there. He put the barrel into his mouth, his finger tensed on the trigger. The gun tasted of oil and gunpowder. A wave of nausea swept over him, but he held the revolver with both hands and kept his eyes closed to hold back the tears falling down his face. Then he heard her footsteps and her voice on the stairs. Mercedes was talking to Vicente by the office door. Valls put the revolver back in the drawer and dried his tears on the sleeve of his dinner jacket. Vicente tapped at the door with his knuckles. Valls took a deep breath and waited a moment. The bodyguard knocked again. “Don Mauricio?” he called. “It’s your daughter.”

  “Let her in,” said Valls in a faltering voice.