“Something tells me you’re not going to devote it to charity work.”
“It depends on how you look at it.”
“I’m not sure what I’m most worried about, your health or your soul.”
“A priest as well as a doctor. You’re quite the catch.”
“At my age, the difference between the practice and the confessional becomes blurred. Still, I think I’m too young for you. How’s the pain going? The pain in your hip, I mean.”
“The ointment helps.”
“But not as much as what you were taking before.”
“No,” Alicia admitted.
“How much were you taking?”
“Four hundred milligrams. Sometimes more.”
“God almighty. You can’t go on taking that. You know, don’t you?”
“Give me a good reason.”
“Ask your liver, if you two are still on speaking terms.”
“If you hadn’t confiscated my white wine I could invite you to a little drink, and you and my liver could have a chat.”
“You’re a hopeless case.”
“That’s something we all three agree on.”
* * *
Most of them were beginning to make plans for her funeral, but Alicia knew she had gotten out of purgatory, even if perhaps it was just on a weekend leave. She knew because she was recovering her dismal view of the world and losing her appreciation for the moving, tender scenes of the last few days. Once again the dark breath of years gone by colored everything, and the pain drilling like iron through her hip bones reminded her that her tenure as the delicate flower–like invalid was about to expire.
The days had regained their customary rhythm, and the hours that slipped by during her healing process began to taste of wasted time. The person who showed the most anxiety about her was Fermín, whose role alternated between a prematurely hired mourner and an amateur mind reader.
“May I remind you of what the poet said,” Fermín would intone, reading her evil spirits: “revenge is a dish best served cold.”
“He must have mistaken that for gazpacho. Poets usually starve to death, and they don’t have a clue about cuisine.”
“Tell me you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid.”
“I’m not thinking of doing anything stupid.”
“What I want is for you to reassure me.”
“Bring a notary public along, and we’ll make it official.”
“I have quite enough with Daniel and his newly acquired criminal tendencies. I’ve discovered that he’s got a hidden gun! Can you believe it? Holy Mother of God. Only a couple of days ago he was still picking his nose, and now he’s hiding pistols as if he were a puppet of the Anarchists.”
“What have you done with the gun?” asked Alicia, with a smile that made Fermín’s hair stand on end.
“What could I do? I hid it again. Where nobody will find it, of course.”
“Bring it to me,” whispered Alicia, seductive.
“No way. I’m getting to know you. I wouldn’t bring you a water pistol. You’d be capable of filling it with sulfuric acid.”
“You’ve no idea what I’m capable of,” she snapped.
Fermín looked concerned. “I’m beginning to imagine it, crocodile woman.”
Alicia wielded her innocent smile again.
“Neither you nor Daniel know how to use a weapon. Give it to me before you get hurt.”
“So you can be the one to hurt someone?”
“Let’s say I promise I won’t hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
“Oh, fine. Why didn’t you mention that before? In that case I’ll bring you a machine gun and a few grenades. Fancy any caliber in particular?”
“I’m serious, Fermín.”
“Exactly. What you have to do is get better.”
“The only thing that will get me better is doing what I have to do. It’s the only thing that will guarantee that you’re all safe. And you know it.”
“Alicia, I’m sorry to say that the more I hear you, the less I like the tone and drift of your conversation.”
“Bring me the weapon. Or I’ll get hold of one.”
“So you can die in a taxi again, but this time for real? Or chucked into an alleyway? Or in a cell at the hands of butchers who will cut you up into little pieces for fun?”
“Is that what’s worrying you? That I might be tortured or killed?”
“It has crossed my mind, yes. Look, between you and me, and don’t take this personally, I’m up to my eyeballs with you dying on me all over the place. How am I going to bring children into the world and be a decent father if I’m unable to keep alive the first child I became responsible for?”
“I’m not a child anymore, nor are you responsible for me, Fermín. Besides, you’re brilliant when it comes to keeping me alive, and you’ve already saved me twice.”
“Third time’s the charm.”
“There won’t be a third time.”
“And there won’t be a weapon. I’ll destroy it today. I’ll crush it and scatter the bits over the docks of the port: I’ll feed them to those rubbish-eating fish, the ones with a fat belly you see on the surface, stuffing themselves with pigswill.”
“Not even you can prevent the inevitable from happening, Fermín.”
“It’s one of my specialties. The other is dancing cheek to cheek. End of discussion. You can look at me with those tiger eyes as much as you like, you’re not going to scare me. I’m not Fernandito or any of those bumpkins you manage so skillfully by flashing your black stockings.”
“You’re the only person who can help me, Fermín. All the more so now that we have the same blood in our veins.”
“Which at this rate is going to last you as long as a turkey at Christmastime.”
“Don’t be like that. Help me get out of Barcelona and find me a weapon. The rest is my business. You know that deep down it will be good for you. Bea would agree with me.”
“Ask her for the pistol and see what she says.”
“Bea doesn’t trust me.”
“And why might that be?”
“We’re wasting precious time, Fermín. What do you say?”
“Just piss off, and I won’t say go to hell because that’s where you’re going, headfirst.”
“That’s no way to speak to a young lady.”
“You’re as much a lady as I’m a sumo wrestler. Take a swig of that stuff of yours, and go back to your coffin to sleep it off before you do something evil.”
When Fermín got tired of arguing, he would leave her alone. Alicia would have a bit of dinner with Isaac, listen to the stories about Nuria, and when the old keeper retired, would pour herself a glass of white wine (a couple of days earlier, she’d discovered where Isaac hid the bottles confiscated by the doctor) and leave the room. She would walk down the corridor until she reached the hall with the high vaulted ceiling, and there, under the breath of the midnight light cascading down from the top of the cupola, she would stare at the vision of the great labyrinth of books.
Guided by a lamp, she entered the corridors and tunnels. She limped up the cathedral-like structure, negotiating rooms, junctions, and bridges that led to hidden halls crossed by spiral staircases or by hanging footbridges forming arches and buttresses. On the way she stroked the hundreds and thousands of books that awaited their readers. Sometimes she’d fall asleep on a chair in one of the rooms she found on her itinerary. Every night the route was different.
The Cemetery of Forgotten Books had its own geometry, and it was practically impossible to walk past the same place twice. More than once she’d gotten lost and had taken a while to find the way back down to the exit. One night, when dawn was beginning to glimmer above, Alicia emerged at the very top of the labyrinth and found herself standing on the same spot where she’d landed after falling through the broken dome, that night of the air bombings in 1938. When she looked down into the abyss, she glimpsed the minute figure of Isaac Montfort at the foo
t of the labyrinth. The keeper was still there when she reached the bottom.
“I thought I was the only one with insomnia,” he said.
“Sleep is for dreamers.”
“I’ve made some chamomile tea—it helps me sleep. Would you like a cup?”
“If we add a dash of something to it.”
“The only thing I have left is some old brandy I wouldn’t even use to unclog the water pipes.”
“I’m not fussy.”
“And what will Dr. Soldevila say?”
“What all doctors say: what doesn’t kill you makes you fat.”
“You could do with getting a bit fatter.”
“It’s on my to-do list.”
She followed the keeper to his room and sat at the table while Isaac prepared two cups of herbal tea and, after sniffing at the brandy bottle, poured a few drops into each one.
“It’s not bad,” said Alicia, tasting the cocktail.
They sipped their spiked chamomile in peace and quiet, like old friends who don’t need words to enjoy each other’s company.
“You’re looking well,” said Isaac finally. “I suppose that means that you’ll leave us soon.”
“I’m not doing anyone any good by staying here, Isaac.”
“The place isn’t bad,” he assured her.
“If I didn’t have matters to resolve, no other place in the world would seem better than this.”
“You’re welcome to return whenever you like, although something tells me that once you leave, you won’t be coming back.”
For an answer, Alicia smiled.
“You’ll need clothes and things,” the old man pointed out. “Fermín says that your home is being watched, so I don’t think it would be a good idea to collect anything from there. Somewhere I have a few of Nuria’s clothes that might suit you.”
“I wouldn’t want to—”
“I would consider it an honor if you accepted my daughter’s things. And I think my Nuria would like you to have them. Besides, I think you must be the same size.”
Isaac went over to a wardrobe and pulled out a suitcase that he dragged up to the table. He opened it, and Alicia had a look. There were dresses, shoes, books, and other objects whose sight made her feel an immense sadness. Although she’d never met Nuria Montfort, she’d started to get used to her haunting presence, listening to her father talk about her as if she were still by his side. When she saw the remains of a life contained in an old suitcase, which a poor old man had kept to save the memory of his dead daughter, she couldn’t find the right words. All she could do was nod.
“They’re good quality,” she said, for she had a keen eye for labels and the feel of fabrics.
“My Nuria spent all she had on books and clothes, poor thing. Her mother always said she looked like a film star. If you’d only seen her. It was a joy to look at her . . .”
Alicia moved some of the dresses in the suitcase to one side and noticed something peeping through the folds. It looked like a white figure, about ten centimeters high. She picked it up and examined it under the light of the lamp. It was an angel made of painted plaster, with its wings open wide.
“I haven’t seen that for years. I didn’t know Nuria had kept it. It was one of her favorite toys, from when she was a little girl,” Isaac explained. “I remember the day we bought it, at the fair of Santa Lucía, next to the cathedral.”
The figurine’s torso felt as if it had an empty hole in it. When she placed her finger over it, a tiny door opened, and Alicia saw it had a hidden compartment.
“Nuria liked to leave me secret messages inside the angel. She used to hide it somewhere in the house, and I had to find it. It was a game we shared.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Alicia.
“Keep it.”
“No, I wouldn’t dream of it . . .”
“Please. This angel hasn’t given any messages for a long time. You’ll know how to put it to good use.”
That was how, for the first time in her life, Alicia began to sleep with a little guardian angel to whom she prayed she would soon be able to get away, leave those good souls behind, and set off on the path she knew awaited her on her return to the heart of darkness.
“You won’t be able to come there with me,” she whispered to the angel.
11
Leandro arrived every morning at exactly half past eight. He waited for her in the room where breakfast had just been brought in, together with a vase of fresh-cut flowers. By then Ariadna Mataix had been awake for an hour. The person in charge of waking her up was the doctor, who now had set aside all formalities and entered the bedroom without knocking first. A nurse always came with him, but Ariadna had never heard her speak.
The first thing was the morning injection, the one that allowed her to open her eyes and remember who she was. Then the nurse would get her up, undress her, take her to the bathroom, and put her under the shower for ten minutes. She dressed her with clothes Ariadna remembered and thought she’d bought sometime or other, every day a new outfit. While the doctor took her pulse and checked her blood pressure, the nurse combed her hair and put on her makeup, because Leandro liked to see her looking smart and presentable. By the time she sat at the table with him, the world had resumed its place.
“Did you have a good night?”
“What is it they’re giving me?”
“A gentle sedative, as I said. If you’d rather, I’ll ask the doctor to stop administering it.”
“No. No, please.”
“As you wish. Would you like something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“A little orange juice, at least.”
Sometimes Ariadna threw up her food or experienced such intense nausea that she would lose consciousness and fall off her chair. When that happened, Leandro pressed the bell, and seconds later somebody appeared who would lift her and wash her again. In such cases the doctor would give Ariadna another injection, bringing on a state of icy calm that she craved so badly she was often tempted to pretend she was fainting so she could get another fix. She no longer knew how many days she’d been there. She measured time by the space between the injections, between the balm of an unconscious sleep and the awakening. She’d lost weight, and her clothes were falling off her. When she saw herself in the bathroom mirror, she wondered who that woman was. She longed constantly for the moment when Leandro would end the daily session so that the doctor would return with his magic bag and his knockout potions. Those moments when she felt her blood was on fire until she lost consciousness were the closest to happiness she could remember ever having experienced.
“How are you feeling this morning, Ariadna?”
“All right.”
“I thought that today we could talk about those months in which you disappeared, if you don’t mind.”
“We already spoke about that the other day. And the day before that.”
“Yes, but I think that bit by bit new details are emerging. Memory is like that. It likes to play tricks on us.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I’d like to return to the day you ran away from home. Do you remember it?”
“I’m tired.”
“Hold out a bit longer. The doctor will be here very soon, and he’ll give you a tonic to make you feel better.”
“Can it be now?”
“First we’ll talk, and then you can take your medicine.”
Ariadna nodded. Every day the same game was repeated. She no longer remembered what she’d told him and what she hadn’t. What did it matter? It no longer made sense to keep anything from him. They’d all died. And she was never going to get out of there.
“It was the day before my birthday,” she began. “The Ubachs had organized a party for me. All my girlfriends from school had been invited.”
“Your girlfriends?”
“They were not my real friends. It was bought friendship, like everything else in that house.”
“Was that the
night you decided to run away?”
“Yes.”
“But someone helped you, right?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about that man. David Martín, wasn’t it?”
“David.”
“How did you meet him?”
“David was a friend of my father’s. They’d worked together.”
“Had they written books together?”
“Radio serials. They’d written one called The Ice Orchid. It was a mystery story set in nineteenth-century Barcelona. My father didn’t allow me to listen to it because he said it wasn’t suitable for little girls, but I used to sneak away and listen to it on the radio in our house in Vallvidrera. Very low.”
“According to my reports, David Martín was sent to prison in 1939, when he was trying to cross the frontier and return to Barcelona at the end of the war. He spent some time imprisoned in Montjuïc Castle, at the same time that your father was there, and was pronounced dead toward the end of 1941. You’re talking about 1948, seven years after this. Are you sure the man who helped you escape was Martín?”
“It was him.”
“Couldn’t it have been someone who pretended to be him? After all you hadn’t seen him for a number of years.”
“It was him.”
“OK. How did you meet up again?”
“Doña Manuela, my tutor, used to take me on Saturdays to Retiro Park. To the Crystal Palace, my favorite place.”
“Mine too. Is that where you met Martín?”
“Yes. I’d seen him a few times. From a distance.”
“Do you think it was just a coincidence?”
“No.”
“When did you first speak to him?”
“Doña Manuela always carried a bottle of anise liqueur in her bag, and sometimes she would fall asleep.”
“And then David Martín would come over?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say to you?”
“I can’t remember.”
“I know it’s difficult, Ariadna. Make an effort.”
“I want the medicine.”
“First tell me what Martín said to you.”
“He would talk about my father. About the time they’d spent together in prison. My father had spoken to him about us. About what had happened. I think they’d made some sort of pact. The first one who managed to get out of there would help the family of the other.”
The Labyrinth of the Spirits Page 64