“As if three years hadn’t gone by, right?”
“As if thirty had gone by,” replied Alicia.
“How long are you staying?”
“I still don’t know.”
Jesusa nodded.
“Well, you must be tired. You’ll find something for your dinner in the kitchen. Fernandito filled your larder. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Thank you so much, Jesusa.”
The caretaker looked away. “I’m glad you’re home again.”
“Me too.”
Jesusa closed the door, and Alicia heard her footsteps fading down the stairs. She drew back the curtains and opened the windows to take a look at the street. Below spread the ocean of terraced rooftops covering Barcelona’s old town, and in the distance rose the towers of the cathedral and the basilica of Santa María del Mar. She scanned the outline of Calle Aviñón and caught sight of a figure withdrawing into the dark doorway of La Manual Alpargatera, the espadrille shop on the other side of the street. Whoever it was, the person was smoking, and the smoke ascended in silvery spirals up the building’s facade. Alicia kept her eyes fixed on that point for an instant but then gave up. It was too soon to start imagining threatening shadows. There would be enough time for that.
She closed the windows and, although she wasn’t hungry, sat at the kitchen table and ate a little bit of bread and cheese and some dried fruit and nuts. Then she opened a bottle of white wine she’d found on the table, tied with a red ribbon. The gesture had all the hallmarks of Fernandito, who still remembered her weaknesses. She poured herself a glass and sipped the wine with her eyes closed.
“Let’s hope it’s not poisoned,” she said. “To your health, Fernandito.”
The wine was excellent. Alicia poured herself a second glass and huddled up in the sitting-room armchair. She discovered that her radio still worked. Slowly she sipped the wine, a good vintage Penedès, and after a while, tired of the news bulletins that reminded the listeners, in case they’d forgotten, that Spain was the envy and the light of all nations in the world, she turned off the radio and decided to unpack the suitcase she’d brought. After dragging it into the middle of the dining room, she opened it on the floor. Looking at the contents, she wondered why she’d bothered to burden herself with clothes that seemed like remnants from another life, with possessions that, in fact, she had no intention of ever using again. She was tempted to close the suitcase and ask Jesusa, in the morning, to donate it to the Sisters of Charity. The only thing she pulled out was a revolver and two packets of bullets. The firearm had been a gift from Leandro in her second year of service, and Alicia suspected it had a past history her mentor had preferred not to mention.
What’s this? The Great Captain’s gun?
If you’d rather, I can find you a gun for young ladies, with an ivory grip and two golden barrels.
And what do I do with this, aside from using it to practice shooting poodles?
Make sure nobody practices on you.
In the end Alicia had accepted that heavy piece as she’d done with so many of Leandro’s offerings, in a tacit agreement of submission and pretense, where the unmentionable was sealed with a cold smile of politeness and a veil of silence, allowing her to look in the mirror and carry on deceiving herself on the purpose of her life. She held the weapon in her hands and felt its weight, then opened the cylinder. Seeing that it was unloaded, she emptied one of the bullet boxes on the floor and inserted all six bullets, taking her time. She stood up and walked over to the packed bookcase covering one of the walls. Jesusa and her army of feather dusters had left not a speck of dust or a trace of her three-year absence anywhere. She pulled a leather-bound copy of the Bible out from its place next to a French translation of Doctor Faustus and opened it. The pages had been hollowed out with a knife, making a perfect case for her private artillery. After hiding the gun in the Bible, she slipped it back on the bookshelf. “Amen,” she intoned.
She closed her suitcase and went to the bedroom. Freshly ironed and perfumed sheets welcomed her; tiredness from the train journey and the warmth of the wine in her bloodstream did the rest. She closed her eyes and listened to the murmur of the city whispering in her ear.
That night Alicia again dreamed that it was raining fire. She was jumping over the rooftops of the Raval quarter, fleeing from the roar of the bombs while buildings collapsed all around her in columns of fire and black smoke. Swarms of aircraft overflew at a low altitude, machine-gunning those running through the narrow streets as they tried to reach the shelters. When she peeped over a cornice of Calle Arco del Teatro, she saw a woman and four children fleeing in panic toward the Ramblas. A torrent of missiles swept the street, and their bodies burst into pools of blood and entrails as they ran. Alicia closed her eyes, and that is when the explosion happened. She felt it before hearing it, as if a train had charged against her in the dark. A stabbing pain shot through her side, and the flames lifted her up in the air and flung her against a skylight through which she fell, wrapped in blades of red-hot glass. She plunged into the void.
A few seconds later, something broke her fall. She’d landed on a wooden balcony suspended at the top of a huge structure. She crawled over to the edge and, looking down into the darkness, thought she saw the outline of a spiral framework in the faint reddish glow reflected by the clouds.
Alicia rubbed her eyes and looked down again into the shadowy space. Below her lay a fantastically designed citadel made entirely of books. After a while she heard footsteps approaching up one of the staircases of the labyrinth. A man with thinning hair knelt down beside her and examined the wounds covering her body. Holding her in his arms, he took her through tunnels, down stairs, and under bridges until they reached the base of the structure. There he laid her on a bed and saw to her wounds. Holding her tight, he kept her from death’s door while the bombs went on falling furiously. A fiery light filtered through the dome, allowing the child Alicia to gaze at the flickering images of that place, the most marvelous she had ever seen: a basilica made of books hidden in a palace that had never existed, a place she could only return to in dreams. Somewhere like that could only belong to the other side, to the place where her mother, Lucía, waited for her, and where her own soul had remained imprisoned.
At dawn the man with the sparse hair picked her up in his arms again, and together they walked through the streets of Barcelona, streets filled with blood and flames. At last they came to an orphanage. There a doctor covered in ashes looked at them and shook his head, muttering under his breath.
“This doll is broken,” he said, turning his back on them.
And then, as she had so often dreamed, Alicia looked at her own body and recognized it as a scorched wooden puppet, still smoking, its strings cut off and dangling. Nurses with no eyes came off the walls, snatched the doll from the hands of the good Samaritan, and dragged it to a vast hangar. There stood a colossal mountain, made up of bits and pieces of hundreds, even thousands, of dolls like her. The nurses threw her onto the pile and went away, laughing.
4
Alicia was woken by the wintry sun rising above the rooftops. This would be her first and last day of freedom in Barcelona, she thought as she opened her eyes. Vargas would probably show his face there that very evening.
She decided that her first stop of the day would be Gustavo Barceló’s bookshop, which was nearby, on Calle Fernando. Remembering Virgilio’s advice about the bookseller and his soft spot for young women of a suggestive appearance, she decided to dress up for the occasion. When she opened her old wardrobe she found that, in preparation for her arrival, Jesusa had washed and ironed all her clothes and left them smelling of lavender. Alicia brushed her old fighting colors with her fingertips, feeling the texture of the dresses that seemed smart enough for her mission. Then, to celebrate the fact that during her absence a new boiler had been installed in the building, she took a shower that flooded the apartment with steam.
Wrapped up in a to
wel, she stepped into the dining room, tuning the radio to a station that always played Count Basie music. Any civilization capable of producing that sound surely had a future. Back in her bedroom she threw off the towel and pulled on a pair of seamed stockings she had bought in one of her self-rewarding expeditions to La Perla Gris. She chose a pair of low-heeled shoes that would have earned Leandro’s disapproval and slipped into a black wool dress she had never worn, which showed off her figure perfectly. She made herself up without rushing, caressing her lips with blood-red lipstick. The icing on the cake was her red coat. Then, just as she had done every morning when she lived in Barcelona, she went down to breakfast in the Gran Café.
Miquel, the veteran waiter, famous in the neighborhood because he never forgot a face, a name, or an outstanding bill, recognized her as soon as she came through the door, waving from behind the bar as if three years hadn’t passed since her last visit. Alicia sat down at one of the tables by the large window and looked around the old coffee shop, deserted at that time of the morning. There was no need for her to order anything. Miquel came over with a tray and served her usual breakfast: a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast with butter and strawberry jam, next to a copy of the morning paper, hot off the press.
“I see you haven’t forgotten, Miquel.”
“We haven’t seen you around here for a while, but it hasn’t been that long, Doña Alicia. Welcome home.”
Alicia ate her breakfast unhurriedly while she leafed through the newspaper. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed starting the day like this, taking in the endless pantomime of Barcelona’s public life as reflected in the pages of La Vanguardia, licking the strawberry jam off her lips, and letting half an hour go by as if she had all the time in the world.
Once the ritual was over, she went up to the bar, where Miquel was polishing wineglasses in the muted light of morning. “What do I owe you, Miquel?”
“I’ll put it on your bill. See you tomorrow at the same time?”
“God willing.”
“You’re looking very elegant. A formal meeting?”
“Even better. A book meeting.”
5
It was one of those steely winter Barcelona mornings, when a sprinkle of powdery sunshine invites you to take a stroll. Gustavo Barceló’s bookshop was opposite the arches of Plaza Real, just a couple of minutes’ walk from the Gran Café. Alicia set off, escorted by a brigade of street sweepers armed with brooms and hoses. The pavements on Calle Fernando were flanked by emporiums that looked more like sanctuaries than ordinary retailers: sweet shops that made one think of a silversmith’s workshop, tailor’s shops straight out of an opera scene, and Barceló’s bookshop, a museum in which one felt tempted to live, rather than just browse around. Before crossing the threshold, Alicia paused to enjoy the sight of the beautifully displayed glass cabinets and bookshelves beyond the shop window. Inside, a young shop assistant in blue overalls was standing on a stepladder, dusting the top shelves. She pretended not to have seen him and walked straight into the shop.
“Good morning!” hailed the shop assistant.
Alicia turned and offered him a smile that could have opened a safe.
The young man scurried down the ladder and planted himself behind the counter, hanging the rag over his shoulder. “What can I do for you, madam?”
“Miss,” Alicia corrected him as she calmly pulled off her gloves.
The young man nodded, spellbound. The simplicity of these situations never ceased to surprise her. Blessed be the silliness of men of goodwill on this earth.
“Could I speak to Don Gustavo Barceló, please?”
“Señor Barceló is not here at present . . .”
“Would you know when I might find him?”
“Let me see. . . . The truth is that Don Gustavo no longer comes by the shop unless he has a meeting with a client. Don Felipe, the manager, has gone to Pedralbes to value a collection, but he’ll be back at noon.”
“What’s your name?”
“Benito, at your service.”
“Look, Benito, I can see you’re smart. I’m sure you’ll be able to help me.”
“Certainly.”
“You see, it’s a rather delicate subject. I need to speak to Señor Barceló as a matter of urgency. As it so happens, a close relative of mine, a great collector, has recently acquired a unique piece that he would be very interested in selling, and he’d like Don Gustavo to act as middleman and adviser in the transaction in order to maintain his anonymity.”
“I see,” said the young man, his voice faltering.
“The piece in question is a copy in perfect condition of one of the books of The Labyrinth of the Spirits, by someone called Víctor Mataix.”
The young man looked at her with eyes like saucers. “Mataix, you said?”
Alicia nodded. “Does that ring a bell?”
“If you would be so kind as to wait a minute, miss, I’ll try to contact Don Gustavo right away.”
Alicia smiled meekly. The shop assistant disappeared behind a curtain into the back room, and a few seconds later Alicia heard him dialing a number, then speaking hurriedly in a hushed voice.
“Don Gustavo, excuse me if I . . . Yes, I know this is not the time . . . No, I haven’t gone . . . Yes, sir, yes sir, I beg you . . . Of course I like my job . . . No, please . . . One second, just one second . . . Thank you.” The young man paused to recover his breath. “There’s a young lady here who says she has a Víctor Mataix in perfect condition for sale.”
A long silence.
“No, I’m not making this up. What? No. I don’t know who she is. No, I’d never seen her before. I don’t know. Young, very elegant . . . Well yes, I’d say so . . . No, they don’t all seem to me . . . Yes, sir, right away, sir . . .”
The young man appeared in the doorway to the back room, all smiles. “Don Gustavo wants to know when would be a good time for you to meet him.”
“First thing this afternoon?”
The young man nodded and disappeared again. “She says this afternoon. Yes. I don’t know. I’ll ask her . . . Then I won’t ask her . . . Whatever you say, Don Gustavo. Yes, sir. Right away. Rest assured. Yes, sir. You too.”
When the assistant reappeared, he looked relieved.
“Everything all right, Benito?” Alicia inquired.
“Never better. Excuse the manners. Don Gustavo is a saint, but he has his quirks.”
“I understand.”
“He said he’d be delighted to meet you this afternoon at the Equestrian Club, if that would suit you. He’s having lunch there today and will be there all afternoon. Do you know where it is? Casa Pérez Samanillo, Balmes, on the corner of Avenida Diagonal?”
“I know it. I’ll tell Don Gustavo you’ve been a great help.”
“Most grateful.”
Alicia was about to leave when the young man, perhaps wishing to prolong her visit a few more moments, walked around the counter and offered to accompany her to the exit.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he improvised, sounding rather nervous. “It’s been years since anyone has seen a single book of the Labyrinth series, and this month, so far, you’re the second person who has come to the bookshop to talk about Mataix.”
Alicia stopped. “You don’t say. And who was the other person, if I may ask?”
Benito assumed a serious expression, as if he’d talked too much.
Alicia put her hand on his arm and pressed it affectionately. “Don’t worry, it will remain between us. I’m just curious.”
The assistant looked doubtful. Alicia leaned slightly toward him.
“He was a man from Madrid who looked like a policeman. He showed me some sort of badge,” he said.
“Did he tell you his name, perhaps?”
Benito shrugged. “Right now I don’t remember . . . I remember him because he had a cut on his face.”
Alicia’s smile made Benito feel even more agitated.
“On the right cheek? The scar?”
&
nbsp; The boy turned pale.
“Was the name Lomana, perhaps?” asked Alicia. “Ricardo Lomana?”
“It might be . . . I’m not sure, but—”
“Thanks, Benito. You’re a star.”
Alicia was already walking down the street when the shop assistant stuck his head out of the door and called out, “Miss? You haven’t told me your name . . .”
Alicia turned around and threw Benito a smile that left its mark on him all day and part of the night.
6
After her visit to Barceló’s bookshop, Alicia allowed herself to be tempted by the old haunts as she meandered through the rambling Gothic quarter, bound for the second stop of her day. She walked slowly, her thoughts focused on Ricardo Lomana and his strange disappearance. Deep down, it didn’t surprise her that she’d already run across his trail. Time had taught her that quite often she and Lomana were hot on each other’s heels when following the same track. Nine times out of ten she was the one who got there first. The only remarkable thing on this occasion was that only a few weeks ago Lomana—who, as Gil de Partera had explained when he entrusted them with the mission, had started investigating the case of Valls’s anonymous letters—should have been asking questions about the Víctor Mataix books. Lomana might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. The good news in all that was that if Lomana had arrived at the Labyrinth books on his own, Alicia could take that as evidence that her instinct was not failing her. The bad news was that, sooner or later, she was going to bump into him. And their encounters rarely ended well.
According to rumors in the unit, Ricardo Lomana had been an old disciple of the ill-fated Inspector Fumero in Barcelona’s political branch, and the most sinister of all the creatures Leandro recruited over the years—and there were quite a few. During her years in Leandro’s pay, Alicia had had more than one brush with Lomana. The most recent had taken place a couple of years back when Lomana, fired up with brandy and resentment because Alicia had solved a case in which he’d been stuck hopelessly for months, had followed her one night to her room in the Hispania and sworn that one day, when Leandro wasn’t there to protect her, he’d find the right moment and place to hang her from the ceiling and take his time to work her over, making good use of his toolbox.
The Labyrinth of the Spirits Page 21