"Don't worry about Castelvetia. He's always been arrogant. He beat Caleb Lawson once and he thought he could always best him. The Englishman entrapped you. But the important thing is that you didn't snitch on Craig. That story you told was meant for me and no one else."
"But I betrayed her . . ."
"You didn't only do it out of fear; you were yearning to say her name. Even when everything around you is going to hell, there is no greater pleasure than saying that word. Any excuse is valid to finally say the name of the one you love. Caleb Lawson knew it. But he didn't get you to snitch on Craig, which was what he wanted even more. There is no greater betrayal than an assistant's disloyalty to his detective, his mentor."
Arzaky looked at me with a strange seriousness. I felt the same way I had when Caleb Lawson was attacking me: that something was pulling me out of the corners and my hiding places and my invisibility, to give great importance to the most insignificant of my words or deeds, and that was not a good thing for me.
"What do I have to do now? The detectives said my life is in danger."
"Don't give it a second thought. Await my instructions. This case is almost closed. I might need your services one last time."
"A nd t hen ? "
"Then ? You'll go back to Buenos Aires, I imagine. With a clean conscience, knowing you've fulfilled your mission. Craig needs you to tell him everything that has happened, that is happening, and that will happen. He sent you here with a cane and a story; soon it will be your turn to tell him another story, when you return his cane."
Arzaky left and I wanted to go back to my work with the microscope, but there wasn't enough daylight left.
On May 5 the World's Fair opened.
Never before had so much activity been concentrated in a single place. Even from my bed I could hear the noise of the footsteps that were heading to see the numerous treasures and surprises. The 222 * Pablo De Santis
crowds bought up all the tickets and wandered happily through the pavilions, without knowing what to see first. They were all overtaken by a similar anxiety--perhaps the most important thing wasn't what was in front of them, but what was around the next corner. And even those who had gotten a spot to go up on the tower suspected that the most thrilling part of the fair was somewhere else, in some tiny, secret place. Only that which we are denied kindles our true desire.
After taking advantage of the morning light, I set off toward the Numancia Hotel, carrying Darbon's microscope wrapped in gray paper and tied with a yellow cord. It was early and the room was empty. I put the microscope back where it belonged and threw the wrapping into a wastepaper basket.
Tamayak was at the hotel's entrance, accompanied by Baldone, Okano, and Benito, all wearing their best clothes. For a moment I thought they were there because they had discovered that something was missing from the glass case.
"I just took the microscope out for a minute to polish it," I explained.
They looked at each other. They didn't know what I was talking about.
"We saw you come into the hotel. We want you to come with us," said Benito. "We're going to the fair."
"How are you going to spread out through the fairgrounds?" I asked.
"Novarius is in the dirigible. He won't budge from there."
"And you aren't going to be with him?" I asked Tamayak.
"No. If the gods had wanted us to f ly, they would have given us wings."
"What about the others?"
"Rojo and Zagala are keeping watch by the globe. Caleb Lawson went to guard the Argentine Pavilion, with Madorakis."
"Then you guys aren't going . . ."
"We have another mission. They've charged us with walking around the fair. Looking here and there. To see if we notice anything strange. If Arzaky hasn't told you otherwise, you should come with us."
I went because I supposed I didn't have any other choice. In our conversations there was a sense that we were saying good-bye: Baldone mentioned that he had found a hat to bring back as a gift for his mother; Okano asked where he could buy a case of absinthe at a good price. We showed our safe-conducts at the entrance. It was so crowded that it was hard to stick together.
There was only an hour left before Castelvetia's train departed for Amsterdam. Sometimes I thought I had managed to evade the assistants but a few steps later my guardians would appear, feigning distraction. In order to put some distance between us, I pretended to be feverishly excited about things. I rushed to the American Pavilion, but the Sioux was there at the door, so still that the visitors admired him, thinking he was part of the display. I turned and searched for the Galerie des Machines, but Baldone appeared by my side, offering me a minty soft drink he had just bought. I saw my opportunity when a Chinese delegation made their way through the crowd. They carried a dragon that swayed and twisted, with hundreds of people inside. The gigantic head leaned one way and then the other. The choreography was perfect, but the dragon hadn't taken the crowd into account and its blind movements crashed again and again into the visitors, knocking them down. The enthusiasm for the fair's inauguration was such that people were laughing with delight even as they got bruised and trampled. I couldn't hope for a better chance: I went below the dragon's scales and shared the darkness with my Chinese companions. I walked blindly, like the rest. I felt a deep sadness for the people inside that dragon; they were in a world of wonders but condemned to see nothing. Hidden in the bowels of the dragon, I escaped my four guardians.
5
T
he trains purred in the north station. I ran toward track four, from where, according to the schedule, Castelvetia's train should be leaving. I hurried through the cars, bumping into passengers who were stowing their luggage and into guards who were giving instructions and brief ly enjoying the power bestowed upon them by their gray uniforms. I found Greta and Castelvetia in the third car. All the passengers seemed nervous about the departure, except for them, as if they were railroad staff whose job was to provide an image of tranquility for the other passengers. They sat together, without touching, both serious, as if they were strangers. She was by the window, looking out at a group of gray pigeons pecking at some breadcrumbs.
I went toward them and almost bumped into Castelvetia, who had, just at that moment, gotten up to get a book out of the case he had stored on the luggage rack. When he saw me, the Dutchman sighed, obviously annoyed.
"What? Were you planning on coming with us?"
I had run quite far, and now that it was time to speak, I needed to catch my breath. Castelvetia looked with puzzlement at the catalogue of gestures I used to replace the words I couldn't get out. Greta looked at me seriously with her large gray eyes.
"Only one thing could excuse your betrayal," said Castelvetia. "Only one thing. That what Lawson said was true."
"Lawson said a lot of things."
"You know what I'm referring to. Craig's crime."
I didn't respond. I let my fatigue overcome me, as an excuse to remain quiet.
Castelvetia's index finger jammed into my chest.
"It's your fault I'm no longer part of The Twelve Detectives. . . ."
"I know. And that's why I've come to apologize."
"No, you came to say good-bye. Besides, I don't want an apology. I want the truth."
I lowered my gaze, unable to look him in the eye. Then I realized that Castelvetia thought that my reply would be in the negative, and he was anxiously waiting for me to defend Craig's good name.
"Say it: Craig didn't torture the killer. Say it: Craig didn't kill him."
I couldn't say anything, and my silence spoke for me. The Dutchman took a watch out of his pocket and measured the length of my silence.
"More than thirty seconds. Now I know what you aren't saying."
The Dutchman was pale. He came close to whisper in my ear, as if he had suspicions about the passengers around us.
"My expulsion doesn't matter, The Twelve Detectives are finished."
Castelvetia touched Greta'
s shoulder. She had been looking out the window.
"Greta, dear, you can talk to the young man."
"He betrayed us," she said, without taking her eyes off the windowpane, refusing to look at me.
"We no longer have any grudge against him, because they have kicked us out of something that no longer exists. That erases the offense."
That upset Greta, and she stood up, annoyed. Without saying a 226 * Pablo De Santis
word, she made her way through the last travelers who were arriving. I went down first and tried to offer my hand to help her with the iron steps, but she refused to take it. I managed to brush her fingers, which were ice cold.
"I knew I shouldn't say your name, but for a moment I was happy to hear it come out of my mouth. Then I realized what I had done."
Greta now addressed me with formal distance, instead of the familiar way she used to.
"Now you can say the name as many times as you wish. As a secret, it was powerful. Once the magic word has been spoken, it loses all value."
"The magic hasn't lost its power."
She looked at me for a few seconds. She was a woman, at the end of it all, and she was f lattered by my insistence, by my dishevelment, by my foolishly running all the way here.
"Shouldn't you be working? They are expecting the fourth murder to happen today."
"All the detectives are at their posts, keeping watch over any possible versions of air and earth."
She pointed toward one of the train's windows. Castelvetia was reading a book with yellow covers, decorated with interwoven roses: a romance novel.
"Castelvetia mocks their preparations. He says that they are all wrong, that it's not about air or earth."
"Castelvetia knows as much as the others do. At least they are at their posts. He's leaving."
"He's leaving because they threw him out. He's leaving because he has no other choice. Can you imagine what the press in Amsterdam is going to say about his expulsion?"
"Castelvetia could stay anyway. Investigate on his own. If he knows so much, he should stay, solve the mystery, and then negotiate his readmittance."
"You should trust that Arzaky will be the one to solve the enigma. An assistant must maintain his faith even in the lowest moments."
"I'm no more than a ghost to him. He doesn't tell me what to do. I don't know what he's thinking. Since Paloma's death . . ."
I said her real name to create some distance from the green costume, from the body in the water, from Nerval's damp verses; I said her name as a way not to say anything. Greta stared as if I had uttered an unexpected blasphemy.
"Who?"
"Paloma Leska. The Mermaid."
"I didn't know her name was Paloma."
I was young; my pride thought for me. I wondered if she was jealous that I had used her real name instead of her stage name. Was I going to receive, in that station amid the steam and smell of engine oil, the gift of her jealousy? The train roared. The last passengers rushed to get on board with their luggage, and they pushed their suitcases as best they could. A guard shouted, another insistently rang a bronze bell. I looked at her again, and I knew it wasn't jealousy. She was trembling. Both of us, almost at the same time, understood. We looked at each other for the last time.
"Weren't you talking about magic words? My name isn't the magic word. Doesn't paloma mean dove? This is the moment you were waiting for when you met with Craig, this is the moment that justifies your delays and betrayals. This is the moment that justifies you now saying good-bye to me, Sigmundo Salvatrio. Quickly. Quickly."
Greta pushed me, and that was her farewell. She took the stairs a few at a time, when the train had already begun to move. I waited for it to completely disappear, as if I didn't have the strength to leave. Some pigeons had gathered to eat the stale bread an old woman dressed in rags threw to them. When I walked past them they f lew off toward the tall glass heights.
6
T
here are people who need to be still in order to think, but I work better walking or even running. I knew
where I was going, but I didn't know why. Against the opinion of Craig and the other detectives, I didn't think an enigma was a painting by Arcimboldo, or an Aladdin's blackboard, or a sphinx, or a blank page. It was what it had been since my childhood: a jigsaw puzzle. My father would come home with a large box wrapped in blue silk paper. By the window, I tore off the paper, threw the pieces to the ground, and enjoyed that wonderful chaos that was waiting for me to put it in order and to find, in the many shapes, the image. Now I had the big pieces in front of me: Darbon's body, fallen from the tower; Sorel's corpse, first executed by guillotine and then burned; and, the only one that pained me, the Mermaid's lifeless silhouette. There were other, smaller pieces: the black oil that had initiated Darbon's plunge from the tower, the witnesses' statements, the fire, the obscure quotes on the walls of Grialet's book of a house. I had read Nerval's verses, which I couldn't get out of my head, but it was those other words that were important, the ones that said: "The day will come when God will be a meeting between an old man, a decapitated man, and a dove. . . ."
The answer was written on Grialet's wall, in full view of everyone.
Now I knew for certain that the detectives, spread out through the fair in search of earth or air, were looking in vain: it wasn't a series of four; it was a series of three. It wasn't about the four elements, the four roots that the Greeks saw behind everything, but in the Trinity. The old man was Darbon, the decapitated man, Sorel; the dove, Paloma. . . .
I arrived at Grialet's house breathless. I climbed the marble staircase and was about to knock, when Desmorins, the priest, opened the door. He was also agitated and sweating, as if his path to me had been a symmetrical race.
"You have to stop Arzaky," he said.
police."
"Where is he?"
"Upstairs. He thinks that Grialet is the killer. I'm going to get the
Before he could leave or I could enter the shot rang out, reverberating off the walls. It sounded more like a pistol than a revolver or carbine. There was something in the sound itself that was irreparable, as if it were a bomb going off. A shot can miss its mark: an explosion always has consequences for someone. I went up the stairs, not as quickly as the scene demanded, nor as slowly as my tiredness called for. As I walked I was escorted by the words on the walls, which I didn't read.
Arzaky was standing in a room that the morning hadn't quite made up its mind to illuminate. He held Craig's cane, still smoking, in his hand. It looked less like a firearm than some powerful mythological figure's staff. On the f loor, seated, with his back against the writing that filled the wall, was Grialet. The shot had entered his neck and torn his carotid artery. For a few seconds, Grialet held a hand over the wound, which was black with gunpowder, but then, out of weakness or resignation, he gave up. He wanted to say something, but couldn't. His legs shook two or three times, and then he was still.
Then Arzaky did something unexpected: he crossed himself. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost; in the name of the Old Man, the Decapitated Man, and the Dove. He stared at me, as if struggling to remember who I was. Then he said, "Grialet was the murderer. I'll give the details tonight."
Arzaky held the cane out to me. At first I didn't dare touch it. I had brought it as a relic, and now it was a murder weapon. The cane felt hot.
"Put it back in the glass case. Now it can take its rightful place."
7
A
rzaky had promised to state the case that very night, but the detectives and assistants waited in vain for
him. At first they thought he had run off again, but I arrived in time to tell them that the chief of police had taken him in for questioning about Grialet's death. Bazeldin's long interrogations, which lasted until dawn, were famous. The police chief maintained that the morning's clarity, after a night filled with conf lict, stimulated confessions. The detectives' meeting was postponed until seven the next even
ing.
On May 7 the detectives arrived punctually. No one wanted to miss Arzaky's explanation. Grimas, the editor of
Tra ce s, was also there. The only one missing was Arzaky, who arrived two hours late. He made his way through the detectives and assistants without any greeting or apology. His long beard was f lecked with white and he looked as if he hadn't eaten in days. He had that mix of energy and weakness that comes with a fever. Around him was a halo of silence and anticipation. The only one who seemed to have no interest in Arzaky was Neska, who stood by the door like a conference attendee who fears he will be bored and can't quite make up his mind about taking a seat. I could barely contain my nerves, thinking of the words that would be spoken that night; my fingers clenched around the handkerchief I had in my pocket.
The detectives talked about the fair: even though it had just opened, it already seemed dated, countless visitors had worn it out with their footsteps. Arzaky called for silence, but it wasn't necessary, because everyone had already grown quiet.
"In April of 1888 Renato Craig visited Paris. He stayed at this hotel, as he always did, and we spent our time together taking long walks and talking about crime. It was then that we came up with the idea (I don't know if he thought of it first or if I did, or if, as I prefer to remember, it came to both of us at once) to gather the Twelve Detectives together for the World's Fair. We got the committee to invite us. We were thinking of sharing our knowledge, our scientific advances, discussing theory relating to our craft. We wanted to rest, for a month or two, from murders and suspects, from evidence and witnesses. Wouldn't you like to live in a world without crime?" No one responded. "Of course not! "
Arzaky's joke raised only a few smiles. Nobody was in the mood for humor.
"But these days, as the fair grew, filled out, and consolidated itself, we began a rapid process of decomposition. Craig is absent, ill and maligned. Darbon has been murdered and Castelvetia expelled. I cannot restore the harmony we've lost, but at least I can solve the mystery that has been keeping us up nights lately. I can say that the deaths of Darbon and the Mermaid and the incineration of Sorel's body followed a pattern."
The Paris Enigma: A Novel Page 20