The Midnight Palace

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  Then, all of a sudden, there was silence. Roshan stood up and opened his eyes. The station was deserted once more and the only trace of the train was two rows of flames gradually disappearing along the rails. He ran back to the point where he’d last seen Siraj. Cursing his cowardice, he cried out in anger – he realised he was alone.

  In the distance dawn pointed the way to the exit.

  THE FIRST LIGHT OF day seeped through the closed shutters of the library in the Indian Museum. Seth and Michael were dozing, their heads resting on the table, exhausted. Mr de Rozio heaved a deep sigh and pushed his chair away from the desk, rubbing his eyes. He had spent hours engrossed in the mountain of documents, trying to unravel those lengthy court records. His stomach was now begging for attention, and he had placed a moratorium on his consumption of coffee, which was necessary if he was to go on performing his duties with any degree of dignity.

  ‘I give up, sleeping beauties,’ he thundered.

  Seth and Michael looked up with a start and noticed that the day had begun without them.

  ‘Did you find anything?’ asked Seth, suppressing a yawn.

  His stomach was rumbling and his head felt as if it was full of purée.

  ‘Is that a joke?’ asked the librarian. ‘I think you’ve been pulling my leg all along.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said Michael.

  De Rozio gave a vast yawn, revealing cavernous jaws, which reminded the boys of a hippopotamus wallowing in a river.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ he said. ‘You came here with a tale of murder and crime and that absurd business about someone called Jawahal.’

  ‘But it’s all true. We have first-hand information.’

  De Rozio laughed, his tone mocking.

  ‘Maybe you’re the ones who’ve been tricked,’ he replied. ‘In this entire pile of papers I haven’t found a single mention of your friend Jawahal. Not one word. Zero.’

  Seth felt his stomach fall to his feet.

  ‘But that’s impossible. Jawahal was sentenced and went to prison and then escaped years later. Perhaps we could start again from that point. From the escape. It must be documented somewhere …’

  De Rozio’s astute eyes gave him a sceptical look. His expression clearly indicated that there would be no second chance.

  ‘If I were you, boys, I’d return to the person who gave me this information and this time I’d make quite sure I was told the whole story. As for this Jawahal, who according to your mysterious informer was in prison, I think he’s far more slippery than either you or I can handle.’

  De Rozio studied the two boys. They were as pale as marble. The plump scholar smiled in commiseration.

  ‘My condolences,’ he murmured. ‘You’ve been sniffing down the wrong hole …’

  Shortly afterwards, Seth and Michael were sitting on the stairs of the main entrance to the Indian Museum, watching the sunrise. A light rain had glazed the streets and they shone like sheets of liquid gold. Seth looked at his companion and showed him a coin.

  ‘Heads, I go and visit Aryami and you go to the prison. Tails, it’s the other way round.’

  Michael nodded, his eyes half-closed. Seth tossed the coin and the circle of bronze spun in the air, catching the light, until it landed on the boy’s hand. Michael leaned over to check the result.

  ‘Give my regards to Aryami,’ Seth mumbled.

  THE NIGHT HAD SEEMED endless but finally daylight arrived at the engineer’s house. For once in his life Ian blessed the Calcutta sun, as its rays erased the shroud of darkness that had enveloped them for hours. In the dawn the house seemed less threatening. Ben and Sheere were also visibly relieved to see the morning come.

  ‘If there’s one good thing about this house, it’s that it’s safe,’ said Ben. ‘If our friend Jawahal had been able to get in, he would have done so already. Our father might have had some strange inclinations, but he knew how to protect a home. I suggest we try to get some sleep. The way things are looking right now, I’d rather sleep during the day and stay awake at night.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Ian. ‘Where shall we sleep?’

  ‘There are several bedrooms in the towers,’ Sheere explained. ‘We can choose.’

  ‘I suggest we find rooms next to each other,’ said Ben.

  ‘Fine,’ said Ian. ‘And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to eat something either.’

  ‘That can wait,’ Ben replied. ‘Later on we’ll go out and find something.’

  ‘How can you two be hungry?’ asked Sheere.

  Ben and Ian shrugged their shoulders.

  ‘Elemental physiology,’ replied Ben. ‘Ask Ian. He’s the doctor.’

  ‘As the teacher in a Bombay school once told me,’ said Sheere, ‘the main difference between a man and a woman is that the man always puts his stomach before his heart and a woman does the opposite.’

  Ben considered the theory.

  ‘Let me quote our favourite misogynist and professional bachelor, Mr Thomas Carter: “The real difference is that, while men’s stomachs are much larger than their brains and their hearts, women’s hearts are so small they keep leaping out of their mouths.”’

  Ian seemed bemused by the exchange of such illustrious quotes.

  ‘Cheap philosophy,’ pronounced Sheere.

  ‘The cheap sort, my dear Sheere, is the only philosophy worth having,’ declared Ben.

  Ian raised a hand to signal a truce.

  ‘Goodnight to both of you,’ he said, then headed straight for one of the towers.

  Ten minutes later all three had fallen into a deep sleep from which nobody could have roused them. In the end tiredness conquered fear.

  SETTING OFF FROM THE Indian Museum in Chowringhee Road, Seth walked south almost a kilometre downhill. He then turned east along Park Street, heading for the Beniapukur area, where the ruins of the old Curzon Fort prison stood next to the Scottish cemetery. The dilapidated graveyard had been built on what was once the official limit of the city. In those days a high mortality rate and the speed with which bodies decomposed meant that all burial grounds had to be situated outside Calcutta for reasons of public health. Ironically, although the Scots had been in control of Calcutta’s commercial activity for decades, they discovered that they couldn’t afford a place among the graves of their English neighbours, and were therefore forced to build their own cemetery. In Calcutta the wealthy refused to yield their land to anyone poorer, even after death.

  As he approached what remained of the Curzon Fort prison, Seth understood why the building had not yet become another victim of the city’s cruel demolition programme. There was no need – its structure already seemed to be hanging by an invisible string, ready to topple over the crowds at the slightest attempt to alter its balance. A fire had devoured the building, carving out gaps and destroying beams and props in its fury.

  Seth approached the prison entrance, wondering how on earth he was going to discover anything among the heap of charred timber and bricks. Surely the only mementos of its past would be the metal bars and cells that had been transformed in their final hours into lethal ovens from which there was no escape.

  ‘Have you come on a visit, boy?’ whispered a voice behind him.

  Seth spun around in alarm and realised that the words had come from the lips of a ragged old man whose feet and hands were covered in large infected sores. Dark eyes watched him nervously, and the man’s face was caked in grime, his sparse white beard evidently trimmed with a knife.

  ‘Is this the Curzon Fort prison, sir?’ asked Seth.

  The beggar’s eyes widened when he heard the polite way the boy was addressing him, and his leathery lips broke into a toothless smile.

  ‘What’s left of it,’ he replied. ‘Looking for accommodation?’

  ‘I’m looking for information,’ replied Seth, trying to smile back at the beggar in a friendly manner.

  ‘This world is full of ignoramuses: nobody is looking for information. Except you. So wha
t do you want to find out, young man?’

  ‘Do you know this place?’

  ‘I live in it,’ answered the beggar. ‘Once it was my prison; today it’s my home. Providence has been generous to me.’

  ‘You were imprisoned in Curzon Fort?’ asked Seth, incredulous.

  ‘Once upon a time I made some big mistakes … and I had to pay for them.’

  ‘How long were you in prison, sir?’ asked Seth.

  ‘Right to the end.’

  ‘So you were here the night of the fire?’

  The beggar drew aside the rags draped over his body and Seth stared in horror at the purple scars covering his chest and neck.

  ‘Maybe you could help me,’ continued Seth. ‘Two friends of mine are in danger. Do you remember a prisoner called Jawahal?’

  The beggar closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

  ‘None of us called each other by our real names,’ he explained. ‘Our name, like our freedom, was something we left by the entrance when we came here. We hoped that if we managed to keep our name separate from the horror of this place, we might be able to recover it when we left, clean and untouched by memories. It didn’t turn out that way of course …’

  ‘The man I’m referring to was convicted of murder,’ Seth replied. ‘He was young. He was the one who started the fire that destroyed the prison and then escaped.’

  The beggar stared at him in surprise.

  ‘The one who started the fire? The fire started in the boiler room. An oil valve exploded. I was outside my cell, doing my work shift. That was what saved me.’

  ‘But he set it all up,’ Seth insisted. ‘And now he’s trying to kill my friends.’

  The beggar tilted his head to one side but then nodded.

  ‘That may be so, son. But what does it matter any more? I wouldn’t worry about your friends. There’s not much this man, Jawahal, can do to them now.’

  Seth frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

  The beggar laughed.

  ‘The night of the fire I was even younger than you are now. In fact, I was the youngest in the prison. This man, whoever he was, must be well over a hundred by now.’

  Seth rubbed his temples, totally confused.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he said. ‘Didn’t the prison burn down in 1916?’

  ‘1916?’ The beggar laughed again. ‘Dear boy, what are you going on about? Curzon Fort burnt down in the early hours of 26 April 1857. Seventy-five years ago.’

  Seth stared open-mouthed at the beggar, who was studying him with curiosity and some concern at his evident dismay.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the man asked.

  ‘Seth, sir,’ replied the boy, whose face had gone pale.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help you, Seth.’

  ‘You have,’ replied Seth. ‘Now how can I help you?’

  The beggar’s eyes shone and he smiled bitterly.

  ‘Can you make time go backwards, Seth?’ The beggar stared at the palms of his hands.

  Seth shook his head.

  ‘Then you can’t help me … Go back to your friends, Seth. But don’t forget me.’

  ‘I won’t, sir.’

  MICHAEL STOPPED BY THE entrance to the street that led to Aryami Bose’s house and stared in shock at the smoking ruins of what had once been the old lady’s home. People had drifted in from the streets and were standing in the courtyard, watching in silence as the police searched the debris and questioned the neighbours. Michael hurried over and pushed through the circle of onlookers. A police officer stopped him.

  ‘I’m sorry, lad. You can’t come through.’

  Michael looked over the policeman’s shoulder and saw two of the man’s colleagues lifting a fallen beam that was still glowing.

  ‘What about the woman who lives in the house?’ asked Michael.

  The policeman seemed suspicious. ‘You knew her?’

  ‘She’s my friends’ grandmother,’ Michael replied. ‘Where is she? Is she dead?’

  The officer observed him impassively for a few seconds then shook his head.

  ‘We can’t find any trace of her,’ he said. ‘One of the neighbours says he saw someone running down the street shortly after the flames burst through the roof. But I’ve already told you more than I should. Off you go now.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Michael. He made his way back through the mass that was gathering in the hope of some gruesome discovery.

  Once he was free of the crowd, Michael examined the adjacent buildings, trying to guess where the old lady might have fled. Both ends of the street merged into the Black Town, with its tangle of buildings, bazaars and palaces. Aryami Bose could be anywhere.

  For a few moments Michael considered the options, then finally decided to head for the banks of the Hooghly River, to the west. There thousands of pilgrims immersed themselves in the sacred waters of the Ganges, hoping heaven might purify them, although mostly they received only fevers and diseases in return.

  With the sun beating down on him, Michael wove his way through the throng that flooded the streets, a constant gabble of merchants, quarrels and unheeded prayers. The voice of Calcutta. Some twenty metres behind him a figure wrapped in a dark shawl peered out from an alleyway and began to follow him through the crowd.

  IAN OPENED HIS EYES with the absolute certainty that his persistent insomnia would allow him no more than a few hours’ respite, despite the exhaustion brought about by recent events. Judging from the quality of the light bathing the room in the western tower of the engineer’s house, he calculated that it must be somewhere around mid-afternoon. The hunger pangs that had assaulted him at dawn had returned with a vengeance, making him grit his teeth. As Ben used to joke, parodying the words of the writer Tagore, whose castle was only a short distance away: when the stomach speaks, the wise man listens.

  As Ian slipped quietly from the room, he noticed with some envy that Ben and Sheere were still enjoying the sleep of the righteous. He suspected that when they woke up even Sheere would be prepared to swallow the first edible object within reach, and as far as Ben was concerned, there was no doubt whatsoever. Ian imagined his best friend was probably busy dreaming about a tray of gastronomic delights and a sumptuous dessert of chhena sweets – a mixture of lime juice and boiled milk that all sweet-toothed Bengalis adored.

  Aware that he had already been granted more sleep than expected, he decided to venture out in search of provisions with which to placate his hunger and that of his friends. With a bit of luck he’d be back before either of them had even had time to yawn.

  As he crossed the large hall containing the model town and made for the spiral staircase, he was pleased to see that in daylight the house looked considerably less menacing and that nothing else had changed. Ian noticed that the building was remarkably efficient at insulating them from the soaring temperatures outside. It wasn’t hard to imagine the stifling heat beyond those walls, yet the engineer’s house felt almost spring-like. Downstairs, he walked through some of the galaxies on the floor mosaic then opened the door to the outside world, hoping he wouldn’t forget the combination of the eccentric lock that sealed Chandra Chatterghee’s sanctuary.

  The sun beat down mercilessly on the dense vegetation of the garden. The lake, which the night before had resembled a sheet of polished ebony, now threw bright reflections against the front of the house. Ian walked towards the secret tunnel beneath the wooden bridge and entered the passageway. Before its pungent stench could fill his lungs, he was out again, passing through the entry that led to the street. There, he threw an imaginary coin in the air and decided to begin his search for food by heading west.

  As he walked along, humming to himself, he could never have imagined that behind him the four circles of the combination lock had slowly started to turn again, and that this time the four-letter word they would form when set in a vertical line was not Dido, but the name of a goddess much closer to home: Kali.

  IN HIS DREAMS BEN thought he heard
a crash. He woke to find the room in total darkness. His first thought, in his initial daze after waking abruptly from a long deep sleep, was that night must have fallen and they had slept for over twelve hours. But a moment later he heard the dry thud again and realised that the room wasn’t dark because it was night-time; something was happening in the house. The shutters were slamming shut like the tightly sealed sluice gates of a canal. Ben jumped out of bed and ran to the door in search of his friends.

  ‘Ben!’ he heard Sheere yelling.

  He raced over to her room and opened the door. His sister was standing behind it, trembling and unable to move. Ben hugged her and led her out of the room, watching in horror as, one by one, the windows of the house were blocked out.

  ‘Ben,’ Sheere whispered. ‘Something came into my room while I was sleeping and touched me.’

  Ben felt a shudder run through his body. He led Sheere to the middle of the room containing the model of the city. Seconds later they were surrounded by nothing but darkness. Ben put his arms round Sheere and told her to remain silent as he scanned the room for any hint of movement. He couldn’t make anything out in the dark, but they could both hear a murmur that seemed to be invading the structure of the house, a sound like tiny animals scuttling under the floors and between the walls.

  ‘What’s that, Ben?’ whispered Sheere.

  Before her brother could find an answer, something else stole the words from his lips. Little by little the lights in the model city were coming on, and the two siblings witnessed the birth of a nocturnal Calcutta. Ben gulped and Sheere clung on to him tightly. In the middle of the model the headlights of the little train flashed and its wheels slowly began to turn.