The Angel's Game (40 page)

“Exemplary ethics. So, what did you say to Marlasca?”

“I told him it was all a load of mumbo jumbo, I told him I was a trickster who made a living organizing séances for poor devils who had lost their loved ones and needed to believe that lovers, parents, and friends were waiting for them in the next world. I told him there was nothing on the other side, just a giant void, and this world was all we had. I told him to forget about the spirits and return to his family.”

“And he believed you?”

“Obviously not. He stopped coming to the sessions and looked elsewhere for help.”

“Where?”

“Irene had grown up in the shacks of Bogatell beach, and although she’d made a name for herself dancing and acting in the clubs on the Paralelo, she still belonged to that place. She told me she’d taken Marlasca to see a woman they called the Witch of Somorrostro, to ask for protection from the person to whom Marlasca was indebted.”

“Did Irene mention the name of that person?”

“If she did I can’t remember. As I said, they’d stopped coming to the séances.”

“Andreas Corelli?”

“I’ve never heard that name.”

“Where can I find Irene Sabino?”

“I’ve already told you all I know,” Roures replied, exasperated.

“One last question and I’ll go.”

“Let’s see if that’s true.”

“Do you remember ever hearing Marlasca mention something called
Lux Aeterna?”

Roures frowned, shaking his head.

“Thanks for your help.”

“You’re welcome. And if at all possible, don’t come back.”

I started toward the door.

“Wait,” Roures called suddenly.

The little man observed me, hesitating.

“I seem to remember that
Lux Aeterna
was the name of some sort of religious pamphlet we sometimes used in the sessions in Calle Elisabets. It was part of a collection of similar books, probably loaned to us by the Afterlife Society, which had a library specializing in the occult. I don’t know if that’s what you’re referring to.”

“Do you remember what the pamphlet was about?”

“The person who was most familiar with it was my partner, Jaco—he
managed the séances. But I seem to recall that
Lux Aeterna
was a poem about death and the seven names of the Son of Morning, Bringer of Light.”

“Bringer of Light?”

Roures smiled.

“Lucifer.”

W
hen I left the shop I returned home, wondering what to do next. I was approaching the entrance to Calle Moncada when I saw him. Inspector Grandes was leaning against a wall and enjoying a cigarette. He smiled at me and waved and I crossed the street toward him.

“I didn’t know you were interested in magic, Martín.”

“Nor did I know that you were following me, Inspector.”

“I’m not following you. It’s just that you’re a difficult man to find and I decided that if the mountain wouldn’t come to me, I’d go to the mountain. Do you have five minutes to spare, for a drink? It’s on police headquarters.”

“In that case … No chaperones today?”

“Marcos and Castelo stayed behind doing paperwork, but if I’d told them I was coming to see you, I’m sure they’d have volunteered.”

We walked through the canyon of old palaces until we reached the Xampañet tavern, where we found a table at the far end. A waiter, armed with a mop that stank of bleach, stared at us and Grandes asked for a couple of beers and a tapa of Manchego cheese. When the beers and the snack arrived, the inspector offered me the plate. I declined.

“Do you mind? I’m always starving at this time of day.”

“Bon appétit.”

Grandes wolfed down the cubes of cheese and licked his lips.

“Didn’t anyone tell you that I came by your house yesterday?”

“I didn’t get the message until later.”

“I understand. Hey, she’s gorgeous, the girl. What’s her name?”

“Isabella.”

“You rascal, some people have all the luck. I envy you. How old is the little sweetheart?”

I threw him a toxic look. The inspector smiled, obviously pleased.

“A little bird told me you’ve been playing at detectives lately. Aren’t you going to leave anything to the professionals?”

“What’s your little bird’s name?”

“He’s more of a big bird. One of my superiors is a close friend of Valera, the lawyer.”

“Are you also on the payroll?”

“Not yet, my friend. You know me. I’m of the old school. Honor and all that shit.”

“A shame.”

“And tell me, how is poor Ricardo Salvador? Do you know? I haven’t heard that name for over twenty years. Everyone assumed he was dead.”

“A premature diagnosis.”

“And how is he?”

“Alone, betrayed, and forgotten.”

The inspector nodded slowly. “Makes one think of the future in this job, doesn’t it?”

“I bet that in your case things will be different and your promotion to the top is just a question of a couple of years. I can imagine you as chief commissioner before the age of forty-five, kissing the hands of bishops and generals during the Corpus parade.”

Grandes let my sarcasm pass.

“Speaking of hand kissing, have you heard about your friend Vidal?”

Grandes never started a conversation without having an ace hidden up his sleeve. He watched me with a smile, relishing my anxiety.

“What about him?” I mumbled.

“They say his wife tried to kill herself the other night.”

“Cristina?”

“Of course, you know her …”

I didn’t realize that I’d stood up and my hands were shaking.

“Calm down. Señora de Vidal is all right. Just a fright. It seems that she overdid it with the laudanum. Will you sit down, Martín? Please.”

I sat down.

“When was this?”

“Two or three days ago.”

My mind filled with the image of Cristina in the window of Villa Helius a few days earlier, waving at me while I avoided her eyes and turned my back on her.

“Martín?” the inspector asked, waving a hand in front of my face as if he feared I’d lost my mind.

“What?”

The inspector seemed to be genuinely worried.

“Have you anything to tell me? I know you won’t believe me, but I’d like to help you.”

“Do you still think it was me who killed Barrido and his partner?”

Grandes shook his head.

“I’ve never believed it was you, but there are others who would like to.”

“Then why are you still investigating me?”

“Calm down. I’m not investigating you, Martín. I never have. The day I do investigate you, you’ll know. For the time being I’m only observing you. Because I like you and I’m concerned that you’re going to get yourself into a mess. Why won’t you trust me and tell me what’s going on?”

Our eyes met and for an instant I was tempted to tell him everything. I would have done so, had I known where to begin.

“Nothing is going on, Inspector.”

Grandes nodded and looked at me with pity, or perhaps it was only disappointment. He finished his beer and left a few coins on the table. He gave me a pat on the back and got up.

“Look after yourself, Martín. And watch how you go. Not everyone holds you in the same esteem as I do.” “I’ll keep that in mind.”

…

It was almost midday when I got home, unable to stop thinking about what the inspector had told me. When I reached the tower house I climbed the steps slowly, as if my very soul were weighing me down. I opened the door of the apartment, fearing I’d find Isabella in the mood for conversation. The house was silent. I walked up the corridor until I reached the gallery and there I found her, asleep on the sofa, an open book on her chest—one of my old novels. I couldn’t help but smile. The temperature inside the house had dropped considerably during those autumn days and I was afraid Isabella might catch a chill. Sometimes I’d see her wandering about the apartment wrapped in a wool shawl she wore over her shoulders. I went to her room to find the shawl, so that I could quietly cover her with it. Her door was ajar. Although I was in my own home, I’d rarely entered that room since Isabella had installed herself there and now I felt uneasy going in. I saw the shawl folded over a chair and went to fetch it. The room had Isabella’s sweet, lemony scent. The bed was still unmade and I leaned over to smooth out the sheets and blankets. I knew that when I applied myself to these domestic chores my moral standing rose in the eyes of my assistant.

As I straightened up I noticed there was something wedged between the mattress and the base of the bed. The corner of a piece of paper stuck out from under the folded sheet. When I tugged at it I realized it was a bundle of papers. I pulled it out completely and found that I was holding what looked like about twenty blue envelopes tied together with a ribbon. My whole body felt cold. I untied the knot in the ribbon and took one of the envelopes. It had my name and address on it. Where the return address should have been, it simply said: Cristina.

I sat on the bed with my back to the door and examined the envelopes, one by one. The first letter was a few weeks old, the last had been posted three days ago. All of the envelopes were open. I closed my
eyes and felt the letters falling from my hands. I heard her breathing behind me, and when I opened my eyes she was standing motionless in the doorway.

“Forgive me,” whispered Isabella.

She walked over slowly and knelt down to pick up the letters. When she’d gathered them together she handed them to me with a wounded look.

“I did it to protect you,” she said.

Her eyes filled with tears and she placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Leave,” I said.

I pushed her away and stood up. Isabella collapsed onto the floor, moaning as if something were burning inside her.

“Leave this house.”

I left the apartment without even bothering to close the door behind me. Once outside, I faced a world of buildings and faces that seemed strange and distant. I started to walk aimlessly, oblivious to the cold and the rain-filled wind that was starting to lash the town with the breath of a curse.

T
he tram stopped by the gates of Bellesguard, a mansion standing on the edge of the city, at the foot of the hill. I walked on toward the entrance to San Gervasio cemetery, following the yellowish beam projected through the rain by the tram lights. The walls of the graveyard rose some fifty meters ahead, a marble fortress from which emerged a mass of statues the color of the storm. I found a booth next to the entrance where a guard, wrapped in a coat, was warming his hands over a brazier. When he saw me appear in the rain he looked startled and stood up. He examined me for a few seconds before opening the door.

“I’m looking for the Marlasca family vault.”

“It’ll be dark in less than half an hour. You’d better come back another day.”

“The sooner you tell me where it is, the sooner I’ll leave.”

The guard checked a list and showed me the site by pointing a finger to a map of the graveyard hanging on the wall. I walked off without thanking him.

It wasn’t difficult to find the vault among the citadel of tombs and mausoleums crowded together inside the walls of the cemetery. The structure stood on a marble base. Modernist in style, the mausoleum was shaped like an arch formed by two wide flights of steps that spread out like an amphitheater. The steps led to a gallery held up by columns, inside which was an atrium flanked by tombstones. The gallery was
crowned by a dome, and the dome, in turn, by a marble figure, sullied by the passage of time. Its face was hidden by a veil, but as I approached I had the impression that this sentinel from beyond the grave was turning its head to watch me. I went up one of the staircases and when I reached the entrance to the gallery, I stopped to look behind me. The distant city lights were just visible in the rain.

I stepped into the gallery. In the center stood a statue of a woman in prayer, embracing a crucifix. The face had been disfigured and someone had painted the eyes and lips black, giving her a wolfish aspect. That was not the only sign of desecration in the vault. The tombstones seemed to be covered in what looked like markings or scratches made with a sharp object, and some had been defaced with obscene drawings and words that were almost illegible in the failing light. Diego Marlasca’s tomb was at the far end. I went up to it and put my hand on the tombstone. Then I pulled out the photograph of Marlasca that Salvador had given me and examined it.

At that moment I heard footsteps on the stairway to the vault. I put the photograph back into my coat pocket and turned, facing the entrance to the gallery. The footsteps stopped and all I could hear now was the rain beating against the marble. I went toward the entrance and looked out. The figure had its back to me and was gazing at the city in the distance. It was a woman dressed in white, her head covered by a shawl. Slowly she turned and looked at me. She was smiling. Despite the years, I recognized her instantly. Irene Sabino. As I took a step toward her I realized there was someone else behind me. The blow to the back of my neck fired off a spasm of white light. I felt myself falling to my knees. A second later I collapsed on the flooded marble. A dark silhouette stood over me in the rain. Irene knelt down beside me; I felt her hands surrounding my head and feeling the place where I’d been hit. I saw her fingers emerging, covered in blood. She stroked my face. The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was Irene Sabino pulling out a razor and opening it, silvery drops of rain sliding across the blade’s edge as it drew toward me.

I opened my eyes to the blinding glare of an oil lamp. The guard’s face was watching impassively. I tried to blink while a flash of pain shot through my skull from the back of my neck.

“Are you alive?” the guard asked, without specifying whether the question was directed at me or was purely rhetorical.

“Yes,” I groaned. “Don’t you dare stick me in a hole.”

The guard helped me sit up. Every time I moved I felt a stab of pain in my head.

“What happened?”

“You tell me. I should have locked this place up over an hour ago, but as I hadn’t seen you leave, I came to investigate and found you sleeping it off.”