Marina

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  ‘María?’ I stammered.

  Kolvenik’s daughter, or the creature inhabiting her carcass, stopped for a moment, hesitating.

  ‘María?’ I said again.

  Nothing remained of the angelic aura I remembered. Her beauty had been destroyed and a pathetic spine-chilling vermin had taken its place. Her skin was still fresh: Kolvenik had worked fast. I lowered the gun and stretched out a hand towards the poor woman. Perhaps there was still some hope for her.

  ‘María? Do you recognise me? I’m Oscar, Oscar Drai. Don’t you remember me?’

  María Shelley looked at me intently. For a moment a spark of life rose to her eyes. I saw her shed tears and raise her hands. She stared at the monstrous metal claws that sprouted from her arms and I heard her moan. Again I stretched out a hand to her. María Shelley took a step back, trembling.

  A wave of flames burst over one of the bars supporting the main curtain. The sheet of threadbare material fell away in a blanket of fire and the ropes that had been holding it up snapped outwards like fiery whips, reaching the walkway on which we were standing. A line of fire fell between us. Again I held a hand out to Kolvenik’s daughter.

  ‘Please, take my hand.’

  She withdrew, shying away, her face drenched in tears. The platform under our feet creaked.

  ‘María, please . . .’

  The creature gazed at the flames, as if she could see something in them. She gave me one last look and seized the blazing rope, which was now lying on the platform. The fire spread over her arm, her torso, her hair, her clothes and face. I saw her burn as if she were a wax figure, until the wooden planks beneath her feet gave way and she fell into the abyss.

  I ran to one of the third-floor exits. I had to find Eva Irinova and save Marina.

  ‘Eva!’ I yelled when at last I sighted her.

  She ignored my call and continued on her way. I caught up with her on the central marble staircase, grabbed her arm and stopped her. She struggled to free herself.

  ‘He’s got Marina. If I don’t give him the serum he’ll kill her.’

  ‘Your friend is already dead. Get out of here while you can.’

  ‘No!’

  Eva Irinova looked around us. Plumes of smoke were creeping up the stairs. There wasn’t much time left.

  ‘I can’t go without her . . .’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she replied. ‘If I give you the serum he’ll kill both of you and nobody will be able to stop him.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to kill anybody. He only wants to live.’

  ‘You still don’t understand, Oscar,’ said Eva. ‘I can’t do anything. It’s all in God’s hands.’

  With those words she turned and walked away.

  ‘Nobody can do God’s work. Not even you,’ I said, reminding her of her own words.

  She paused. I raised my gun and aimed. The click as I cocked the gun echoed through the gallery. The sound made her turn round.

  ‘I’m only trying to save Mijail’s soul,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know whether you’ll be able to save Kolvenik’s soul, but you can still save your own.’

  The lady now looked at me without speaking, facing the threat of the gun in my shaking hands.

  ‘Would you be able to shoot me in cold blood?’ she asked.

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t know the answer. The only things occupying my mind were the image of Marina in Kolvenik’s claws and the few minutes remaining before the flames finally opened the doors of hell in the Gran Teatro Real.

  ‘Your friend must mean a lot to you.’

  I nodded, and it seemed to me that the woman was smiling the saddest smile of her life.

  ‘Does she know?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said without thinking.

  She nodded slowly and I saw her pull out the emerald bottle.

  ‘You and I are the same, Oscar. We’re alone, condemned to love someone without hope . . .’

  She handed me the bottle and I lowered my weapon. I put the gun on the floor and took the bottle in my hands. While I examined it I felt as if a load had been taken off my shoulders. I was going to thank her, but Eva Irinova was no longer there. Nor was the revolver.

  When I reached the top floor the entire building seemed about to crumble under my feet. I ran to the end of the gallery, searching for an entrance to the area above the stage. Suddenly one of the doors burst off its frame wrapped in flames. A river of fire flooded the gallery. I was trapped. I looked desperately around me and saw only one way out. The windows onto the street. I drew closer to the smoke-filled windowpanes and noticed a narrow ledge on the other side. The fire was coming towards me. The windowpanes splintered as if touched by an infernal breath. My clothes were smoking; I could feel the heat of the flames on my skin and I was suffocating. I jumped onto the ledge. The cold night air hit me and I could see the streets of Barcelona spreading out many metres below. It was an overwhelming sight: the fire had completely enveloped the Gran Teatro Real and the outside scaffolding had collapsed, burned to cinders. The old façade rose like a cathedral of flames in the middle of the Raval quarter. Fire-engine sirens howled in the distance as if bewailing their own impotence. Near the metal spire, where the dome’s network of steel nerves came together, Kolvenik was holding Marina.

  ‘Marina!’ I screamed.

  I took a step forward and instinctively grabbed a metal arch so as not to fall. It was scorching. I shrieked with pain and pulled my hand away. Smoke rose from my blackened palm. At that very moment a new tremor ran through the structure and I guessed what was about to happen. With a deafening blast the theatre collapsed, leaving only the naked metal skeleton intact, a spider’s web of aluminium stretching over an inferno. In its centre stood Kolvenik. I could see Marina’s face. She was alive. So I did the only thing that could save her.

  I took the bottle and raised it so that Kolvenik could see it. He pushed Marina aside, moving her close to the edge of the precipice. I heard her scream. Then he extended an open claw into the void. The message was clear. In front of me a beam stretched towards him like a bridge. I stepped forward.

  ‘Oscar no!’ Marina begged.

  I fixed my eyes on the narrow gangway and risked it. I could feel the soles of my shoes melting with every step I took. A suffocating wind rising from the fire roared all around me as I moved forward step by step, keeping my eyes on the beam like a tightrope walker. When I looked up I discovered a terrified Marina. She was alone! I was about to put my arms around her when, suddenly, Kolvenik rose behind her. He grabbed her again and held her out over the chasm. I pulled out the bottle, and did the same with it, letting him know I would throw it into the flames if he didn’t put Marina down. I remembered Eva Irinova’s words: ‘He’ll kill both of you.’ So I opened the bottle and threw a couple of drops into the void. Kolvenik flung Marina against a bronze statue and lunged at me. I jumped to one side to dodge him and the bottle slipped through my fingers.

  The serum evaporated as it touched the red-hot metal. Kolvenik’s claw caught the flask when there were only a few drops left inside. He closed his metal fist over it and crushed it to bits. A few emerald drops slid through his fingers. The flames illuminated his face, a well of irrepressible hatred and anger. Then he started to move towards us. Marina clutched my hands and pressed them hard. She closed her eyes and I did the same. I could smell the rotten stench of Kolvenik a few centimetres away and braced myself for the impact.

  The first shot whistled through the blaze. I opened my eyes and saw Eva Irinova’s silhouette advancing as I had done, along the beam. She held the revolver up high. A rose of black blood spread over Kolvenik’s chest. The second shot, much closer, destroyed one of his hands. The third one hit him in the shoulder. I pulled Marina away. Kolvenik staggered and turned towards Eva. The lady in black was advancing slowly, coldly aiming her weapon at him. I heard Kolvenik groan. The fourth shot opened a hole in his stomach. The fifth and last left a black hole between his eyes. A se
cond later Kolvenik collapsed on his knees. Eva Irinova dropped the gun and ran to his side.

  She took him in her arms and cradled him. Their eyes met and I could see her caress that monstrous face. She was crying.

  ‘Take your friend away from here,’ she said without looking at me.

  I led Marina along the walkway until we reached the ledge outside the building. From there we managed to climb onto the roof of the annexe building and get safely away from the inferno. Before losing sight of Eva, we turned round. The lady in black was embracing Mijail Kolvenik. Their figures were silhouetted against the flames until the fire enveloped them completely. I thought I could see their ashes scattering in the wind, floating over the city, until dawn took them away for ever.

  The following morning the papers spoke about the greatest fire in the history of Barcelona; about the old Gran Teatro Real and how its disappearance had silenced the last echoes of a long-gone age. The ashes had spread a blanket over the waters of the port and would continue to fall over the city until evening. Photographs taken from the hill of Montjuïc revealed the horrific scene of an infernal pyre rising heavenwards. The tragedy took a new turn when the police disclosed their suspicions that the building had been occupied by homeless beggars and that a number of them had become trapped amid the debris. Nothing was known about the identity of the two charred bodies that had been found, locked in an embrace, at the top of the dome. The truth, as Eva Irinova had predicted, was safe from people.

  No newspaper mentioned the old story of Eva Irinova and Mijail Kolvenik. It no longer interested anyone. I remember standing with Marina that morning in front of one of the newspaper stands in the Ramblas. The front page of La Vanguardia bore the headline, spread over five columns: BARCELONA BURNS!

  Early risers and the merely curious hurried to buy the first edition, wondering who had painted the sky with garlands of amber and grey. Slowly we walked away towards Plaza Cataluña while the ashes continued to fall all around us like dead snowflakes.

  CHAPTER 25

  IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED THE FIRE AT THE Gran Teatro Real a cold spell struck Barcelona. For the first time in many years a blanket of snow covered the city from the port to the top of Mount Tibidabo. Marina and I, together with Germán, spent a Christmas filled with long silences, our eyes rarely meeting. Marina barely mentioned what had happened and I began to notice that she avoided my company and preferred to retire to her room to write. I killed time playing endless games of chess with Germán in the large sitting room, by the fireside. I watched the snow fall and waited for the moment when I’d be alone with Marina. A moment that never came.

  Germán pretended not to notice what was going on and tried to cheer me up by making conversation.

  ‘Marina tells me you want to be an architect, Oscar.’

  I would nod, not really knowing what I wanted any more. I spent my nights awake, piecing together the story we had lived through. I tried to keep the phantoms of Kolvenik and Eva Irinova out of my mind. More than once I thought of visiting old Dr Shelley to let him know what had happened. But I lacked the courage to face him and to explain how I’d witnessed the death of the woman he had brought up as his daughter or how I’d seen his best friend burn to death.

  On the last day of the year the fountain in the garden froze. I feared that my days with Marina were about to end. Soon I would have to return to the boarding school. We spent New Year’s Eve in candlelight, listening to the distant bells of the church in Plaza Sarriá. Outside it was still snowing: it looked as if the stars had tumbled out of the sky without warning. At midnight we murmured a toast. I wanted to catch Marina’s eye, but she hid her face in the shadows. That night I tried to understand what I’d done or said to deserve such treatment. I could feel Marina’s presence in the next room, like an island floating away in the current. I imagined her awake. I rapped on the wall. I called her name in vain. There was no reply.

  I packed my belongings and wrote a note in which I said my farewells to Germán and Marina and thanked them for their hospitality. Something had broken – though I couldn’t explain what – and I felt that I was in the way. At daybreak I left the note on the kitchen table and set off towards the school. As I walked away I was sure Marina was watching me from her window. I waved goodbye, hoping she’d be looking. My footsteps left a trail through the snow in the deserted streets.

  There were still a few days to go before the rest of the boarders were due to arrive. The rooms on the fourth floor were pools of loneliness. While I unpacked, Father Seguí paid me a visit. I greeted him politely and continued putting away my clothes.

  ‘Funny people, the Swiss,’ he said. ‘While the rest of us hide our sins, they stuff theirs with liqueur, wrap them in silver paper, add a ribbon and sell them at the price of gold. The prefect has just sent me a huge box of chocolates from Zurich and there’s nobody around to share it with. Someone is going to have to lend me a hand before Doña Paula discovers them . . .’

  ‘You can count on me,’ I offered half-heartedly.

  Seguí walked over to the window and gazed at the city, which spread out like a mirage at our feet. Then he turned and observed me as if he could read my thoughts.

  ‘A good friend once told me that problems are like cockroaches,’ he said in the joking tone he used when he wanted to say something serious. ‘If you bring them out into the light, they get scared and leave.’

  ‘He must have been a wise friend,’ I said.

  ‘Not quite,’ Seguí replied. ‘But he was a good man. Happy New Year, Oscar.’

  ‘Happy New Year, Father.’

  I spent those days, until the start of the school term, barely leaving my room. I tried to read, but the words flew off the page. I would spend hours at the window, gazing at Germán and Marina’s rambling old house in the distance. A thousand times I thought of returning and more than once I ventured as far as the alleyway that led to their front gate. I no longer heard Germán’s gramophone through the trees, only the wind through the naked branches. At night I’d relive, over and over again, the events of the last few weeks until I collapsed into a restless, feverish, suffocating sleep.

  Lessons began a week later. Those were leaden days, with steamed-up windows and radiators dripping in the dark rooms. My old friends and their conversations felt alien to me. They chatted about presents, parties and memories that I couldn’t and didn’t want to share. The words of my teachers washed over me. I couldn’t make out the importance of Hume’s solemn pronouncements or see how derived equations could help turn back the clock and change the fate of Mijail Kolvenik and Eva Irinova. Or my own fate.

  The memory of Marina and of the terrifying events we had shared prevented me from thinking, eating or holding a coherent conversation. She was the only person with whom I could share my anguish, and the need for her presence began to cause me physical pain. I was burning inside. Nothing and nobody could ease the pain. I became a grey figure in the corridors. My shadow merged with the walls. Days fell off the calendar like dead leaves. I kept hoping for a note from Marina, a sign to let me know she wanted to see me again; a simple excuse to run to her side and put an end to the distance separating us, a distance that seemed to grow day by day. But the note never came. I whiled away the days by returning to the places where I’d been with Marina. I would sit on the benches in the square, hoping to see her walk by . . .

  At the end of January Father Seguí called me to his study. Looking serious, with a penetrating gaze, he asked me what was the matter.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answered.

  ‘Perhaps if we talk about it we might find out what it is,’ he suggested.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, so brusquely I was immediately sorry.

  ‘You spent a week away over Christmas. May I ask where?’

  ‘With my family.’

  A shadow fell over my tutor’s eyes.

  ‘If you’re going to lie to me, we might as well not continue this conversation, Oscar.’

&nb
sp; ‘It’s the truth,’ I said. ‘I’ve been with my family.’

  February brought the sun with it. The winter light melted the layers of ice and frost that had masked the city. That cheered me, and one Saturday I turned up at Marina’s house. A chain secured the gates. Beyond the trees the old mansion looked more abandoned than ever. For a moment I thought I was losing my mind. Had I imagined it all? The inhabitants of that ghostly mansion, the story of Kolvenik and the lady in black, Inspector Florián, Lluís Claret, the creatures brought back to life . . . characters whom the black hand of fate had eliminated one by one . . . Had I dreamed up Marina and her enchanted beach?

  ‘We only remember what never really happened . . .’

  That night I woke up screaming, bathed in cold sweat, not knowing where I was. In my dreams I’d returned to Kolvenik’s tunnels. I was following Marina without being able to reach her until I found her covered in a mantle of black butterflies; but when they flew off, only emptiness remained. Inexplicable. Cold. The destructive devil that obsessed Kolvenik. The nothingness behind the last darkness.

  When Father Seguí and my friend JF heard my screams and ran into my room, it took me a few seconds to recognise them. Seguí felt my pulse while JF looked at me in dismay, convinced that his friend had lost his mind altogether. They didn’t leave my side until I fell asleep again.

  The following day, after two months without seeing Marina, I decided to return to the old house in Sarriá. I wasn’t going to give up until I’d found an explanation.