“It was all a bit of a rush, from one day to the next.”
“I understand.” Matías placed the glass plate between one of the spotlights and a magnifying glass. The beam of light outlined the marks on the page. “Numbers,” he remarked.
Adjusting the angle of the magnifying glass, he studied the page with great care. “I could apply a contrast to the paper, but that would probably damage it and we might lose some of the digits . . .”
Vargas went up to a desk in a corner of the room, picking up a couple of blank pieces of paper and a pencil.
“May I?” he asked.
“Of course. Feel free.”
The policeman came over to the table and, his eyes fixed on the magnifying lens, began to copy the numbers.
“They look like numbers in a series,” suggested Matías.
“Why do you say that?” Alicia asked.
“They’re correlated,” Matías replied. “If you observe the first three digits of the column on the left, they seem to be part of a series. The rest is also in a sequence. The last two digits only change every three or four numbers.”
Matías paused to look at them both with a note of irony. “I suppose it’s not worth my asking you what your job is?”
“I’m just an errand boy,” Vargas replied, still copying down the numbers.
Matías nodded and gazed at Alicia. “I wanted to send you a wedding invitation, but I didn’t know where to send it.”
“I’m sorry, Matías.”
“It doesn’t matter. Time is a great healer, isn’t it?”
“That’s what they say.”
“What about you? Happy?”
“Over the moon.”
Matías laughed. “Same old Alicia . . .”
“Unfortunately. I hope Serafina doesn’t mind that I’ve come here.”
Matías sighed. “Well, I imagine she has some idea of who you are. There’ll be a bit of trouble at dinnertime, but that’s all. Serafina seems a bit surly when you don’t know her well, but she has a good heart.”
“I’m glad you’ve found someone who deserves you.”
Matías looked into her eyes but said nothing. Then he turned around and patted Vargas on the back. “Have you got it all?”
“I’m working on it,” said Vargas. He’d been trying to keep out of that hushed conversation, playing the role of the uninvited guest as he copied down the numbers on a piece of paper, barely daring to speak.
“Perhaps we could clip the paper onto a cellophane sheet and place it on the projector.”
“I think I’ve got it all,” said Vargas.
Alicia had risen and was wandering around the room as if she were in a museum. Matías watched her, his head lowered. “You’ve known each other for a while?” he asked Vargas.
“Just a few days. We’re working together on an administrative job, that’s all.”
“Quite a character, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“Alicia.”
“Yes, she does have her ways.”
“Does she still use the harness?”
“Harness?”
“I made it for her, you know. Made to measure. A masterpiece, though I shouldn’t say so myself. I used whalebone and tungsten tapes. It’s what we call an exoskeleton. So fine, so lightweight and articulated it’s almost like a second skin. She’s not wearing it today. I know because of the way she moves. Remind her that she must use it. It’s for her own good.”
Vargas nodded, as if he understood what the taxidermist was talking about, and finished taking down the last numbers. “Thank you, Matías,” he said. “You’ve been a great help.”
“My pleasure.”
The policeman stood and cleared his throat. Alicia turned, and they exchanged glances. Vargas nodded. She approached Matías and gave him a smile that Vargas thought must have hurt him like a stab.
“Well,” said Matías tensely. “I hope we won’t have to wait another few years to meet again.”
“I hope not.” Alicia hugged him and whispered something in his ear. Matías nodded, although he left his arms hanging, not putting them around Alicia’s waist. After a bit she walked off toward the front door without saying another word.
Matías waited to hear her leave the workshop. Only then did he turn around. Vargas held out his hand, and the taxidermist shook it.
“Take good care of her, Vargas, because she’s not going to take care of herself.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Matías smiled weakly and nodded. He was a man who seemed young, Vargas thought, until you looked into his eyes and saw a soul aged by sadness and remorse.
As Vargas walked across the exhibition hall, past the animals posing in the dark, Serafina came out to meet him. “Don’t bring her here again,” she warned. Her eyes burned with anger, and her lips trembled.
Outside, Alicia was leaning on the edge of the fountain in the square, rubbing her right hip and grimacing with pain. Vargas walked over and sat beside her.
“Why don’t you go home and rest?” he said. “Tomorrow’s another day.”
One look at Alicia was all he needed to offer her a cigarette, and they sat smoking in silence.
“Do you think I’m a bad person?” she asked at last.
Vargas stood and held out his arm. “Come on, lean on me.”
In that way, limping and stopping every ten or fifteen meters to ease the pain, they managed to reach her front door. When she tried to pull the keys out of her bag, they fell on the ground. Vargas picked them up, opened the door, and helped her in. Alicia leaned on the wall, moaning. The policeman checked the staircase and, without saying a word, picked her up in his arms and headed up the stairs.
By the time they reached the top floor, Alicia’s face was covered in tears of pain and anger. Vargas carried her into the bedroom and laid her gently on the bed. He removed her shoes and put a blanket over her. The bottle with the pills was on the bedside table.
“One or two?” he asked.
“Two.”
“Are you sure?”
He gave her two pills and poured a glass of water from the jug on the chest of drawers. Alicia swallowed the pills, breathing with difficulty. Vargas held her hand and waited for her to calm down.
She looked at him, her eyes reddened and her face streaked with tears. “Don’t leave me alone, please.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Alicia tried to smile. He turned off the light.
“Get some rest.”
He kept her hand in his, listening to her in the dusky room as she held back her tears and shook with pain. Half an hour later he felt her grip loosen as she slipped into a state midway between delirium and sleep, murmuring words that made no sense to him. At last she slowly fell asleep, or lost consciousness. The faint light of evening filtered through the window, outlining her face on the pillow. For a moment Vargas thought she looked dead, and he checked her pulse. Were those tears caused by the wound on her side, or did the pain come from somewhere deeper?
After a while he too began to feel worn out. He retired to the dining room to lie on the sofa, closing his eyes and breathing in Alicia’s scent, which lingered in the air.
“No, I don’t think you’re a bad person,” he murmured under his breath, surprising himself. “But sometimes you scare me.”
18
It was after midnight when Vargas opened his eyes and found Alicia sitting in a chair next to him, wrapped in a blanket, staring at him in the darkened room.
“You look like a vampire,” he managed to say. “How long have you been there?”
“A while.”
“I should have warned you that I snore.”
“I don’t mind. With those pills I wouldn’t hear an earthquake.”
Vargas sat up and rubbed his face. “If you don’t mind my saying so, this sofa is dreadful.”
“I don’t have much of an eye for furniture. I’ll buy some new cushions. Any color preference?”
&
nbsp; “As it’s for you, black with a pattern of spiders, or skulls and crossbones.”
“Did you have any dinner?”
“I ate enough food for a whole week. How are you feeling?”
Alicia shrugged. “Embarrassed.”
“I can’t see why. How’s the pain?”
“Better. Much better.”
“Why don’t you go back to bed and sleep a bit longer?”
“I’ve got to call Leandro.”
“At this time of night?”
“Leandro doesn’t sleep.”
“Speaking of vampires . . .”
“If I don’t call him, it will be worse.”
“Do you want me to go out to the corridor?”
“No,” said Alicia, but she’d paused a shade too long.
Vargas nodded. “Look, I’ll go down to my luxurious rooms on the other side of the street to have a shower and change my clothes, and then I’ll come back.”
“There’s no need, Vargas. You’ve done enough for me tonight. Go and get some rest—we’re going to have a long day tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast.”
He looked at her, somewhat unconvinced.
Alicia smiled at him. “I’ll be all right. I promise.”
“Do you have the revolver at hand?”
“I’ll sleep with it as if it were my new teddy bear.”
“You’ve never had a teddy bear. A little devil, perhaps . . .”
Alicia gave him one of those smiles of hers, the kind that opened doors and melted willpower. Vargas lowered his eyes.
“All right, then. Call the prince of darkness and tell him your little secrets,” he said on his way out. “And lock the door tight.”
“Vargas?”
The policeman stopped in the doorway.
“Thanks.”
“Stop thanking me for nothing.”
* * *
She waited while the policeman’s footsteps trailed away down the stairs and then picked up the telephone. Before dialing, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The direct line to the suite didn’t answer. Alicia knew that Leandro kept other rooms at the Gran Hotel Palace, although she had never wanted to ask what he used them for. She called reception.
The night operator was familiar with Alicia’s voice, and didn’t even have to ask whom she was calling. “One moment, Señorita Gris.” Even at that time of night, she hadn’t lost her musical singsong. “I’ll put you through to Señor Montalvo.”
The phone rang only once before the receiver was lifted at the other end. Alicia imagined Leandro sitting in the dark somewhere in the hotel, gazing down at Plaza de Neptuno or looking at the Madrid sky awash with black clouds, awaiting daybreak.
“Alicia,” he said slowly, no tone whatsoever in his voice. “I thought you weren’t going to call.”
“I apologize. I had an episode.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you better?”
“I’m fine.”
“Is Vargas with you?”
“I’m alone.”
“Everything all right with him?”
“Yes. There’s no problem.”
“If you want me to get rid of him, I could . . .”
“There’s no need. I almost prefer to have him handy, just in case.”
A pause. In Leandro’s pauses there was no breathing, no sound whatsoever. “You’re unrecognizable, if you don’t mind the observation. Anyhow, I’m glad you two get along. I thought that perhaps you wouldn’t quite mesh, given his personal history . . .”
“What history?”
“Nothing. It’s not important.”
“When you say that, that’s when I really get worried.”
“Didn’t he tell you about his family?”
“We don’t speak about personal matters.”
“In that case, I don’t want to be the one who—”
“What’s the matter with his family?”
There was another of Leandro’s pauses. Alicia could almost imagine him smiling and licking his lips.
“Vargas lost his wife and his daughter in a traffic accident about three years ago. He was drunk at the wheel. His daughter was your age. He’s been through rough times. He was almost thrown out of the Force.”
Alicia didn’t reply. She could hear Leandro’s breathing.
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“No.”
“I suppose he prefers not to stir up the past. At any rate, I hope there won’t be a problem.”
“What problem could there be?”
“Alicia, you know I never meddle in your personal life, although by God I sometimes find it hard to understand your tastes and particular preferences.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
She bit her lip and swallowed the words burning in her mouth. “There won’t be any problem,” she said at last.
“Excellent. Now tell me, what have you got for me?”
Alicia took a deep breath and clenched her fist so firmly she sank her nails into her skin. When she began her account, her voice had returned to the docile and melodic tone she had learned to cultivate in her dealings with Leandro.
* * *
During the next few minutes she summed up the events that had taken place since their last conversation. Her narrative had no color and no detail; she just listed all the steps she had taken, without offering the reasons or hunches that had led her to take them. When it came to omissions, most noteworthy was the bit about the theft of the Víctor Mataix book from her home the night before. As he usually did, Leandro listened patiently, without interrupting.
Once she’d finished, Alicia fell silent, taking in Leandro’s long pause as he digested her report.
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re not telling me everything?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve left out anything relevant.”
“To conclude, the search of the car that was allegedly used for—let’s call it the getaway—provides no final evidence beyond a few signs of nonfatal violence and a supposed list of numbers that we can’t link to anything and that possibly has no connection with the case. On the other hand, we continue with your insistence on the matter of the book by this man called Mataix, a line of inquiry that I worry will lead only to a series of fascinating bibliographical mysteries of zero use in finding Mauricio Valls.”
“Any news about the official police investigation?” asked Alicia, hoping to shift the course of the conversation.
“There’s no relevant news, and there isn’t expected to be any. Suffice it to say that some don’t look kindly on the fact that we’ve been invited to the party, even if it was through the back door.”
“Is that why I’m being watched?”
“For that reason, and because they probably can’t believe that we will, of course, be pleased to see our friends in the police take all the glory and medals the day we find the minister safe and sound, and hand him over to them, tied up with a red bow.”
“If we find him, that is.”
“Is your lack of faith a simple affectation, or have you kept something from me?”
“I only meant that it’s difficult to find someone who might not want to be found.”
“Let’s give ourselves the benefit of the doubt and set aside the possible wishes of the minister. Or those of our colleagues at police headquarters. That’s why I recommend a certain amount of prudence when it comes to Vargas. Loyalty is a habit that doesn’t change in one day.”
“We can trust Vargas.”
“Said the woman who doesn’t even trust herself. I’m not saying anything that you don’t already know.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. Anything else?”
“Call me.”
Alicia was about to wish Leandro a good night when she realized that, once again, he had already hung up.
19
The candlelight fades into a tiny pale-blue flame, floating on a p
ool of wax. Valls draws the hand he no longer feels into the aura of brightness. His skin has a purplish color, almost black. His fingers are swollen, and his nails, beneath which flows a gelatinous liquid with an indescribable stench, are beginning to fall off. Valls tries to move the fingers, but his hand doesn’t respond. It’s just a piece of dead flesh stuck to his body, beginning to send black lines up his arm. He can feel the rotten blood in his veins clouding his thoughts, dragging him into a dark, feverish sleep. He knows that if he waits a few more hours, he will lose consciousness. He will die in the narcotic sleep of gangrene, his body just a tangle of carrion that will never see the sunlight again.
The saw his jailer left in the cell is still there. He has considered it various times. He has tried pressing it down on the fingers that no longer belong to him. At first he felt some pain. Now he feels nothing, only nausea. His throat is dry from shouting, moaning, begging for mercy. He knows that sometimes someone comes to see him. When he is asleep. When he’s delirious. It is usually the man with the mask, his jailer. Other times it’s the angel he remembers seeing by the car door, before a knife cut through his hand and he lost consciousness.
Something has gone wrong. There has been a mistake somewhere in his calculations and suppositions. Martín isn’t here, or hasn’t wanted to show his face. Valls knows, needs to believe, that all this is the work of David Martín. Only his sick mind could think of doing this to someone.
“Tell Martín I’m sorry, tell him I beg his forgiveness . . . ,” he has pleaded a thousand times in the jailer’s presence.
He never gets a reply. Martín will let him die there, let him rot a centimeter at a time, not deigning to come down to his cell, even once, to spit in his face.
At some point he loses consciousness again.
* * *
Valls wakes up soaked in his own urine, convinced this is 1942, and he’s back in Montjuïc Castle. His poisoned blood has snatched what little reason he had left. He laughs. I was inspecting the cells, and I’ve fallen asleep in one of them, he thinks. That’s when he notices a hand that isn’t his, attached to his arm. Panic takes hold of him. He has seen lots of corpses, during the war and in his years as prison governor, and he knows without needing to be told that the hand he is looking at is a dead man’s hand. He creeps along the floor, thinking the hand will drop off, but it follows him. He hits the hand against the wall, and it doesn’t come off. He doesn’t realize he’s screaming when he grabs hold of the saw and starts cutting just above the wrist. The flesh yields like wet clay, but when he hits the top of the bone, a deep nausea invades him. He doesn’t stop. He musters all his strength. His howls drown the sound the bone makes when it breaks under the metal. A pool of black blood spreads at his feet. The only thing linking his hand to his body is a shred of skin.
The Labyrinth of the Spirits Page 27