The Labyrinth of the Spirits

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  You’re not the first or the last classy tart Leandro comes up with, darling, and when he tires of you, I’ll be waiting. And I promise we’re going to have a great time, especially you, with that flesh of yours made for the irons . . .

  From that meeting Lomana had obtained a kneeing to his pride that left him on sick leave for two weeks, a double fracture to his arm, and a cut on his cheek that required eighteen stitches. For her part, the encounter cost Alicia a couple of weeks of insomnia, staring at the door of her hotel room in the dark, with the revolver on her bedside table and an ominous foreboding that the worst still lay ahead in the return match.

  She decided to banish Lomana from her thoughts and enjoy that first morning in the streets of Barcelona. As she continued her leisurely stroll in the sun, she measured each step, pausing to window-shop at the slightest hint of pressure on her hip. Over the years she had learned to read the signs and avoid, or at least postpone, the inevitable. She and her pain were old rivals, veterans who know one another well, exploring one another mutually and sticking to the rules of the game. Even so, that first walk without the harness clinging to her body was well worth the price she knew she would pay later.

  It wasn’t even ten o’clock when she walked up Puerta del Ángel and, as she turned the corner into Calle Santa Ana, saw the shop window of the old bookshop, Sempere & Sons. Across the street from the bookshop was a small café. Alicia decided to go in and take one of the tables by the window. A rest would do her good.

  “What will it be, miss?” asked a waiter who looked as if he hadn’t left the premises for at least twenty years.

  “An espresso. And a glass of water.”

  “House tap water, or bottled mineral water?”

  “What would you recommend?”

  “That depends on how much calcium is already in your bloodstream.”

  “I’ll have bottled water. Room temperature, please.”

  “On its way.”

  * * *

  A couple of coffees and half an hour later, she hadn’t seen a single person stop by the bookshop, not even to glance at the shop window. Sempere’s ledgers must be gathering cobwebs at the speed of light. The temptation to cross the street, enter that enchanted bazaar, and spend a fortune was strong, but it was not the right moment. What she had to do now was observe. Another half hour went by, with nothing much happening. She was beginning to consider whether or not to weigh anchor when she saw him. He looked distracted as he walked, his head in the clouds, a half smile on his lips, with that calm expression of one who is lucky enough not to know how the world works. She had never seen a photograph of him, but she knew who he was before he approached the shop door.

  Daniel.

  Alicia smiled unconsciously. When Daniel Sempere reached the bookshop, its door opened outward, and a young woman who didn’t look a day older than twenty came out to meet him. Hers was one of those fresh beauties, the sort that writers of radio soaps would describe as coming from within, the sort of beauty that makes love-prone saps addicted to stories about golden-hearted angels drool and sigh. She had the touch of innocence, or modesty, of a girl from a good family, and she dressed as if she suspected the type of chassis she carried under her clothes but didn’t dare acknowledge it. The famous Beatriz, Alicia told herself, a Snow White, perfumed with innocence, in the land of the dwarves.

  Beatriz stood on her toes and kissed her husband’s lips. A chaste kiss, a quick brush of joined lips. Alicia couldn’t help noticing that Beatriz was the type of woman who closed her eyes when she kissed, even if this was her lawful little husband, letting him put his arm around her waist. Daniel, on the other hand, still kissed like a schoolboy. An early marriage hadn’t yet taught him how to hold a woman, where the hands should go, and what to do with his lips. Clearly nobody had taught him. Alicia felt her smile vanish, and a streak of malice invaded her. “Will you bring me a glass of white wine?” she asked the waiter.

  On the other side of the street, Daniel Sempere said good-bye to his wife and stepped into the bookshop. Beatriz, in her tasteful but low-budget clothes, set off toward Puerta del Ángel, mingling with the crowd. Alicia studied her waist and the undulations described by her hips. “God, if I could dress you, my princess,” she murmured.

  “You were saying, miss?”

  Alicia turned to find the waiter standing there with the glass of white wine, looking at her with a mixture of enthrallment and apprehension. “What was your name?” she asked.

  “Mine?”

  Alicia looked all around the café, confirming that they were alone. “Do you see anyone else?”

  “Marcelino.”

  “Why don’t you sit down with me, Marcelino? I don’t like to drink alone. Well, that’s a lie. But I like it less.”

  The waiter gulped.

  “If you like, I could buy you a drink,” offered Alicia. “A beer?”

  Marcelino looked at her, stiff as a ramrod.

  “Sit down, Marcelino. I don’t bite.”

  The young man sat down opposite her. Alicia smiled at him sweetly. “Do you have a girlfriend, Marcelino?”

  The waiter shook his head.

  “Some girls don’t know what they’re missing. Tell me something. Does this place have any other way out, apart from the main door?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was asking, do you have any other way out to an alleyway, or to the entrance hall of the next-door building . . .”

  “There’s a door to a patio that leads to Bertrellans. Why?”

  “I’m asking you because someone is following me.”

  Marcelino glanced at the street in alarm. “Do you want me to call the police?”

  Alicia put her hand on his. The waiter was about to turn into a statue of salt.

  “There’s no need. It’s nothing serious. But I’d rather use a more discreet exit, if that’s not a problem for you.”

  Marcelino shook his head.

  “You’re a darling. Now, what do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Marcelino gave a quick nod.

  “It’s what I said. There’s a whole lot of young girls out there who don’t know what’s good . . . Tell me, do you have a telephone?”

  “Behind the bar.”

  “Do you mind if I make a call? It’s long-distance, but I’ll pay for it, all right?”

  “Make as many calls as you wish . . .”

  Alicia made her way to the bar and found an old telephone attached to the wall. Marcelino, who had remained stuck to the table, was looking at her. She waved at him while she dialed. “Put me through to Vargas, please.”

  “You’re Gris, aren’t you?” asked a rather sarcastic voice on the other end of the line. “The captain was expecting your call. I’ll put you through.”

  She heard the receiver being left on a table as the voice summoned her colleague. “Vargas, it’s Doña Inés . . . ,” she heard one of the police officers say, while another sang the refrain of “Green Eyes.”

  “Vargas here. How’s it going? Have you been dancing sardanas?”

  “Who is Doña Inés?”

  “You. We’ve been given nicknames here. I’m Don Juan . . .”

  “Your pals are so witty.”

  “You have no idea. There’s an abundance of talent here. What news?”

  “I just thought you’d be missing me.”

  “I’ve been stood up by more promising dates, and I’ve managed to get over it.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re coping so well. I thought you’d already be on your way here.”

  “If it was up to me, I’d be happy for you to stay there on your own until you retired.”

  “And what do your bosses say?”

  “They’re telling me to get into a car and drive all day and part of the night to be there with you tomorrow.”

  “Speaking of cars—any news on Valls’s?”

  “No news. They found it abandoned in . . . let
me look at the note . . . Carretera de las Aguas, in Vallvidrera. Is that in Barcelona?”

  “Above Barcelona, to be precise.”

  “Above? As in the sky?”

  “Something like that. Any trace of Valls, or of his driver, Vicente?”

  “Drops of blood on the passenger seat. Signs of violence. Not a trace of either man.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it. What about you? What do you have to tell me?”

  “That I’m the one missing you,” said Alicia.

  “This business of returning to Barcelona has gone to your head. Where are you now? On a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Montserrat?”

  “Almost. Right now I’m staring at the shop window of Sempere & Sons.”

  “Very productive. Have you spoken to Leandro, by any chance?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because he’s been pursuing me all morning, asking after you. Please phone him and wish him a Merry Christmas. He’s not going to get off my back otherwise.”

  Alicia sighed. “I will. By the way, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Apparently that’s the new purpose of my life.”

  “It’s a rather delicate subject.”

  “My specialty.”

  “I need you to use all your contacts in headquarters to find out in a discreet way what someone called Ricardo Lomana was up to before he vanished into thin air.”

  “Lomana? The one who disappeared? Bad type.”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him. Nothing good. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s all I’m asking.”

  On the other end of the phone, Vargas sighed. “I guess I’ll be there tomorrow morning. If you like, we can have breakfast together, and I’ll let you know what I’ve found out about your friend Lomana—if I do discover anything, that is. Will you behave yourself and keep out of trouble until I arrive?”

  “I promise.”

  7

  Marcelino was still watching her from afar, mixing his morbid fascination with quick glances to the street in search of her mysterious follower. Alicia winked at him and made a sign with her forefinger. “Another quick call, and that’s it . . .”

  She dialed the direct number of the hotel suite. The phone didn’t even ring once. He must have been sitting next to the phone, waiting, thought Alicia.

  “It’s me,” she murmured.

  “Alicia, Alicia, Alicia,” Leandro’s voice intoned sweetly. “I don’t like you to avoid me. You know that.”

  “I was going to call you right now. There was no need to send a chaperone after me.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Somebody is. Haven’t you set someone up to shadow me?”

  “If I had, it wouldn’t have been someone you could detect that easily on your first morning. Who is it?”

  “I don’t know yet. I was hoping it was one of yours.”

  “Well, it isn’t. Unless it’s something to do with our friends at the central police station in Barcelona.”

  “The local supply must have dried up, for them to have sent me this whiz kid.”

  “It’s not easy to find good people. I should know. Would you like me to make a call and get him off your back?”

  Alicia thought about it. “Maybe not. I just had an idea.”

  “Don’t be cruel to him. I don’t know who they’ve assigned to you, but it might have been the most inexperienced guy they’ve found.”

  “Am I that easy?”

  “On the contrary. What I’m thinking is that nobody would have wanted the job.”

  “Are you suggesting that I left a bad impression?”

  “I’ve always told you it’s important to mind your manners. If you don’t, this is what happens. Have you spoken to Vargas?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re up-to-date about the car? Everything all right in your flat?”

  “Yes. Señora Jesusa left everything spotless. She even ironed my first communion dress. Thanks for organizing that.”

  “I want you to have everything you need.”

  “Is that why you’re sending Vargas?”

  “That must have been on his own initiative. Or Gil de Partera’s. I told you they didn’t trust us.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “What are your plans for today?”

  “I’ve been going around the bookshops, and this afternoon I have an appointment with someone who will be able to clarify a few things about Víctor Mataix.”

  “So you’re still on about that book . . .”

  “Even if only to rule it out.”

  “Do I know him? The person you’re meeting?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a bookseller. Gustavo Barceló?”

  The pause was almost imperceptible, but Alicia noticed it.

  “It doesn’t ring a bell. Call me if you find out anything. And if you don’t.”

  Alicia was trying to think of a sharp reply when she heard Leandro hang up. She left a few coins on the bar to cover the drinks and the two phone calls and blew Marcelino a kiss good-bye.

  “We keep all this between us, eh, Marcelino?”

  The waiter nodded enthusiastically and accompanied Alicia to the back door, which led to an open patio. From there, through a maze of corridors between various buildings in the block, she came to one of those gloomy alleyways, trademark of Barcelona’s old town, that are as tight and narrow as the space between a seminarist’s buttocks.

  The alley went uphill from Calle Canuda to Calle Santa Ana. Alicia walked around the block, and at the corner stopped to take in the scene. A lady was pushing a shopping cart with one hand and with the other trying to drag a child who seemed to have his shoes glued to the ground. A young man wearing a suit and a scarf was standing in front of a shoe-store window, throwing sidelong glances at two pretty young girls with seamed stockings who laughed as they walked past him. A local policeman ambled down the middle of the street, casting suspicious looks here and there. And farther on, stuck to the side of a doorway like a poster, Alicia noticed a short man of such unremarkable appearance that he bordered on invisibility. This specimen was smoking a cigarette and watching the café door nervously while he checked his watch. He wasn’t a bad choice, thought Alicia. He looked so insignificant that even boredom wouldn’t have noticed him passing by.

  She walked up to him and stopped just a few centimeters from the pale nape of his neck. Then she formed an O with her lips and blew.

  He jumped and almost lost his balance. When he turned around and saw Alicia, he lost what little color he had left.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” she asked.

  If the little man had a voice, he didn’t find it. His eyes swiveled around a hundred times before settling on Alicia.

  “If you run off, I’ll stick a bodkin in your guts. Are we clear?”

  “Yes,” said the guy.

  “That was a joke.” Alicia smiled. “I don’t do that sort of thing.”

  The poor wretch was wearing a coat that could have been found in a trash bin, and looked like a cornered rodent. Some spy she’d been assigned. She grabbed him by his lapel and led him quietly to the street corner. “What’s your name?”

  “Rovira,” he muttered.

  “Were you the one standing in the doorway of the espadrille shop last night?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Never smoke against the light of a streetlamp.”

  Rovira nodded, cursing under his breath.

  “Tell me, Rovira, how long have you been in the Force?”

  “It would have been two months tomorrow, but if they find out at the police station that you spotted me—”

  “There’s no need for them to find out.”

  “No?”

  “No. Because you and I, Rovira, are going to help one another. Do you know how?”

  “I don’t follow, miss.”

  “Yes, that’s the idea, but call me Alicia. We’re on the same si
de, after all.”

  Alicia searched Rovira’s coat pockets and found a packet of cigarettes, the sort they sold in cheap bars and that went well with a carajillo coffee. She lit one and put it in the man’s mouth. She let him take a couple of puffs and gave him a friendly smile. “A bit calmer now?”

  He nodded.

  “Tell me, Rovira, why exactly have they chosen you to follow me?”

  The man hesitated. “Don’t take this the wrong way, miss, but nobody else wanted the job.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Rovira shrugged.

  “Come on, don’t be shy, now that we’ve been introduced. Spill it out.”

  “They say you screw people up, and you’re bad news.”

  “I see. Obviously that didn’t deter you.”

  “I tried, but I wasn’t given a choice.”

  “Poor baby. And what does your mission consist of, exactly?”

  “I’m to follow you from afar and inform on your whereabouts and what you’re doing without you noticing. I told them this wasn’t my kind of thing.”

  “Clearly. So why did you join the police?”

  “I wanted to go into the printing business, but my father-in-law is a captain at the central police station.”

  “I see. And the missus likes uniforms, right?” Alicia placed a maternal hand on Rovira’s shoulder. “Rovira, there are times when a man has to have some balls, and if you’ll forgive my French, show the world that he was born to pee standing up. And just so you know that you’re far more capable than you think, I’m going to give you the chance to prove it: to me, to the police force, to your father-in-law, and to the little wife. Once she sees the stud she has at home, she’s going to need to sniff some smelling salts to keep her undies on.”

  Rovira stared at her, on the verge of a seizure.

  “From now on, you’ll follow me as you’ve been ordered to do, but never less than a hundred meters away and trying your best not to let me see you. And when they ask you where I’ve been and what I’ve done, you’ll tell them what I ask you to tell them.”