The Frozen Heart (75 page)

When he left Eugenio’s apartment, Julio Carrión no longer felt that freshness, no longer smelled the clean smell like freshly laundered sheets, which had welcomed him when he arrived. He was annoyed, though he had no reason to be, since what Eugenio had told him confirmed his hopes, but he could not rid himself of a bitter taste, like a scrap of food rotting between his teeth.

Julio could not understand why he missed the old Eugenio, the happy, enthusiastic, passionate Eugenio, only now that he was gone for good. Madrid seemed depressing, cruel, complicated. Against his better judgement, through his friend’s eyes, he could see the other side: the hardship, the worry, the subdued fury of the desperate. But he stifled this surge of nostalgia, intent on playing his hand as quickly as possible. At the end of the day, Eugenio Sánchez Delgado had always been a queer fish, thought Julio, and most people out there probably didn’t think the way he did. Two days later, he discovered how right he had been.

‘Julito! Jesus Christ!’ Romualdo gave him a broad smile. ‘You don’t know how happy I am to see you. Shit! You know, every morning I wake and see these legs of mine and I remember you! Come here, give me a hug!’

This long, tender embrace, which drew raised eyebrows from one or two of the customers having an early evening cocktail in the expensive bar on the Gran Vía, was the dawning of a new life for Julio Carrión, a life of drinking and whoring and private rooms, of calculations, percentages, profits, of dinners that went on into the early hours, more drinks, more whores, more private rooms, clandestine meetings with men who, though charming, were not as charming as he was, in formal rooms and private offices, in bars and cafés, alone and with Romualdo, more dinners that went on into the early hours, or early dinners in family dining rooms, presided over by a reproduction of the Last Supper and a plump, charmless hostess who would inevitably ask whether he preferred prawns or clams before she served him fish soup with a silver ladle.

Romualdo inevitably declined these high Catholic invitations, and Julio would accept in his place. From the beginning, Julio took the calculated risk of telling Romualdo everything, and it proved to be the right decision. ‘If it weren’t for you they’d have amputated my legs,’ Romualdo said when they met again. Romualdo introduced him to half a dozen well-placed men and advised Julio how much of the truth he should tell each one. Julio was in no hurry, and his patience was to his advantage. So it was almost a month before he knew where to begin, how to proceed, a month before he rang the doorbell of an apartment on the second floor of a majestic old apartment block overlooking the Calle Manuela Malasaña and the Calle Carranza.

‘Hello.’ A young girl, tall as a grown woman, with hair so blonde it looked unnatural, gazed at him curiously.

‘Is your mother home?’

‘No. Who are you?’

‘Angélica!’ A second girl, shorter than the first though older, rushed into the hallway and grabbed the first by the arm, whispering fiercely, ‘How many times have I told you, you’re not supposed to answer the door? That’s my job. Your mother will tell me off.’

La Señora was not at home, she had gone out but would be back shortly, of course he could wait, would he care for something to drink? The maid implemented the protocol for unexpected guests and showed Julio into a study lined with books. He had the impression that everything - the furniture, the paintings, the decor, even the marks of the silverware that had once stood on the now bare sideboard - belonged to the previous owners of this house, and still reflected their taste, their past, their way of life, as though some gossamer thread linked everything he could see to that small, sparsely furnished apartment in a cheerless Paris suburb. He was attempting to imagine them - Ignacio, María and Paloma - here in these rooms, sitting on the sofas, leaning over the balconies, when the little girl who had opened the door to him tiptoed soundlessly into the room.

‘Don’t take any notice of Matilde, she’s a pest,’ she announced, taking a seat facing him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Julio Carrión.’

‘My name’s Angélica. But you already know that . . .’ Her eyes were deep blue and disconcertingly attractive; she was physically mature yet obviously still a child, her face was round and chubby, her legs were scabbed and scratched, and she had an abruptness more in keeping with her age than her body. ‘I’m twelve . . . at least, I will be soon. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘That means, when I’m twenty you’ll be . . .’

‘Thirty-three ...’

‘Twenty and thirty-three,’ she thought about this, ‘that means that in eight years, we could get engaged . . .’

‘Really?’ Julio laughed.

‘Of course,’ she said solemnly, ‘my father was eleven years older than my mother.’

‘What are you doing here, Angélica?’

They both turned and, standing in the doorway, was a woman Julio did not know, but who surprised him as much as this little girl had.

Julio had not dared to hope that Mariana Fernández Viu would look like her cousin Paloma, but the difference between them was even more profound than he’d expected, making it difficult to believe that this timorous woman, with her blouse buttoned up tight, her low-heeled shoes and a black hat pushed down over her forehead, could possibly belong to the same family. Had he not known that Mariana was thirty-five, Julio would never have guessed her age, blurred as it was by the primness particular to Spanish matrons intent on defending their virtue. She was neither pretty nor ugly, she was simply abrasive.

This abrasive outer shell surprised Julio, as it was so completely at odds with her daughter’s grace. Angélica might have inherited her piercing blue eyes from her mother, but not her sensuality, her boldness, that precocity that had made him listen to her plans for their engagement. Mariana, too, was tall and stout, though not overweight, a heaviness that distinguished her from her cousins.

Looking at her, Julio was reminded of Ignacio’s little sister María, who had the same thick ankles, the same dark hair, though María’s hair was invariably a tousled mess as she dashed down the street, rushed about the house, fussed over the children, always in a hurry, something that you could hear in the way she spoke, the way she laughed, it was a trait that to some extent she shared with her brothers and sisters, and with her sister-in-law. That’s what it is, thought Julio, getting to his feet as he saw Mariana come towards him with a slow, indolent gait.

‘Hello, my name is Julio Carrión.’ He offered his hand and she shook it limply, which reminded him of the nickname her cousins in Paris had given her. ‘I’ve just arrived from Paris. I’m a friend of your cousin, Ignacio Fernández Muñoz . . .’

‘Ignacio, oh yes, of course . . .’

By the time she had said these words, everything had changed.

‘Angélica, go to your room.’

‘But, Mamá . . .’

‘I said go to your room.’

By the time they were alone, she had been careful to soften her dour expression as soon as the blood which had drained from her face returned. Julio witnessed the sudden metamorphosis. As Angélica slowly got up, dragging her feet in a mute, childish protest entirely appropriate for her age, he watched the frantic play of light and shadow on Mariana’s face. Mariana Fernández Viu was worried, and beneath her nervousness, Julio Carrión could also sense fear, contempt and rage as the woman vacillated between the urge to challenge the newcomer and the urge to win his trust.

‘Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.’ Julio flashed her his most charming smile.

‘At first, I thought of asking you to kill her.’ Julio remembered Paloma’s words and realised that this woman was terrified of just such a threat. You have every reason to fear me, he thought, but he smiled again and sat down. With the effortless grace of the master of the house, he gestured to the armchair where Angélica had been sitting.

‘Please, sit down.’ She obeyed, as though she had finally realised who was now in charge.

‘How is everyone?’ Julio’s silence compelled her to be more precise. ‘My cousins, my uncle and aunt . . . Are they well ?’

‘They’re in good health, yes. Those who survived, obviously. Mateo was shot. Ignacio married a pretty girl from Aragon, they have two children. María is married too. A boy from Toledo. They have a daughter and she’s expecting another child. Paloma . . . Paloma didn’t have any children. Her husband was shot, too. But you know all this, don’t you?’

Mariana did not reply. Her whole body tensed, she closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. Julio was in no hurry to reassure her.

‘I’m not carrying a gun,’ he said after a moment, but still she would not look at him. ‘I’m not a killer, or a communist, so you needn’t be afraid. As I said before, I won’t hurt you, but if you don’t calm down, I don’t see how we can talk business.

‘I don’t suppose anyone gave you any trouble back in 1939, did they?’ he continued. ‘I mean, you’d helped them arrest your cousin’s husband . . . He was quite a catch, a high-profile Red, and that sort of thing mattered back then. But it’s not 1939 any more, and this is a serious country, so although your friend Dorita and the nuns of the Convent of the Divine Shepherd may speak highly of you, and I have no reason to doubt their word, you must admit that the situation with this house and the other properties belonging to your uncle and aunt is highly irregular. I’m sure we can work out something to keep everyone happy.’

He did not say another word. Two days later, Mariana invited him to lunch so they could talk things over. That afternoon, she herself answered the door. She was wearing a close-fitting dress of maroon velvet with a deep décolletage above which swelled her pale, flabby breasts stippled with a large number of spots. To minimise her remoteness, she had applied red lipstick similar to the shade Paloma had chosen to wear on the night they had gone out - a night that now seemed as if it had happened at the beginning of time. Seeing Julio, Mariana smiled broadly, displaying a crimson-stained tooth and a brazenness so clumsy she would have been better taking lessons from her daughter. Julio returned her smile, thinking, I’ve got you now . . .

When Mariana signed the document by which she relinquished all rights and monies in the sale of her Aunt María’s olive groves, she did not know that the money Julio would receive, after charges and commissions were paid, would never reach her Uncle Mateo. Nor did she imagine that this document would be torn to shreds and tossed into the first rubbish bin her guest happened on as he left the Glorieta de Bilbao.

The disclaimer she had signed was designed merely to reassure her and to give a spurious appearance of legality to the scheme, just as the power of attorney Julio had brought with him from Paris was simply a safeguard. His new friends recommended a course of action more convoluted than the simple sale and purchase of properties which, though it had the drawback of increasing the number of intermediaries, had the advantage of protecting him from any present or future claims. Because not one of the Fernández Muñoz properties still belonged to them by the time there was a series of supposedly public auctions, in a sealed office at 6.30 a.m., each lasting barely two minutes, in which ownership was granted, for a peppercorn sum, to the sole bidder - one Don Julio Carrión González. The resulting deeds detailed many names, but nowhere on them were the names Mateo Fernández Gómez de la Riva, nor that of his wife nor any of the children. By that time, they no longer had any legal claim on lands or dwellings which had been legally expropriated in accordance with a law that had been repealed two years earlier, but which postdated the mysterious dates that appeared on the documentation.

On the day the first document Mariana Fernández Viu signed was tossed into the bin, where every subsequent document would end up, Julio Carrión González sold one third of the lands formerly belonging to María Muñoz. The transaction was so favourable that not only was he in a position to settle his debts with Ernesto Huertas, he also decided to settle his account with Freud.

‘How are you?’ He approached her under the arches of the Plaza Mayor and she stared at him, open-mouthed, as though she were looking at a ghost.

He had already been here, had been tracking her for weeks, with the patience of a hunter, waiting for the perfect moment. Madrid had changed so much and had not changed at all, and Doña Pilar, his former landlady, was still in residence at her boarding house on the Calle de la Sal, her tongue as loose as it had ever been. In order to know what was going on, however, he had to risk news of his return filtering back, but when he saw her, and saw the way she looked at him, he realised that would not be a problem.

‘Where did you spring from, you bastard?’

‘Well, that’s a fine welcome, Mari Carmen!’ Julio laughed, and saw the woman who had refused to be the love of his life smile in spite of herself.

Peluca’s daughter, who had been such a beautiful girl, had grown up to be an astonishing woman. Mari Carmen Ortega was not as beautiful as Paloma Fernández Muñoz, but she still had the prettiest legs in all of Madrid and a face so passionate it made virtues of her flaws. Before she was twenty, she had had a spectacular body; now, to say she had curves in all the right places would be a shameful understatement.

‘It’s not that . . .’ She looked him up and down, then with the habitual air of superiority which had once annoyed and now excited him, she said, ‘It’s just that all the marching bands were booked up.’

Considering the encounter to be over, Mari Carmen walked on, pretending not to notice that he was walking next to her.

‘And where are you going, if you don’t mind me asking?’ She stopped and stared at him. ‘I mean, I haven’t seen you in a long time and we used to be friends, didn’t we? Comrades . . .’

‘Be careful, Julio.’ Mari Carmen thrust out her chest, stuck out her chin. ‘Be very careful, don’t make me call you a son of a bitch!’