The Whispering City (28 page)

Beatriz put her hand on Ana’s arm and said, without raising her voice, ‘I think you know that I’m right. Knowing something and not being able to say it is the norm in this country. But not wanting to know something, intentionally shutting your eyes because it doesn’t suit you to say what you know, that’s opportunism.’

Ana got up and put on her jacket. ‘You don’t know when to stop, do you?’ She turned on her heel and left.

‘See you soon.’

Beatriz wasn’t sure that Ana had heard her; she went out of the café without looking back. From the window she saw her cross the street, but she wasn’t heading towards
La Vanguardia
’s offices, rather to the Plaza Cataluña.

Beatriz bit her lip. Arrogance. Wanting always to be right was a form of arrogance. Her particular mortal sin. Ana had left furious, and didn’t want to listen to her any more. Being right doesn’t get you very far if no one will listen to you.

36

Ana crossed the Plaza Cataluña briskly. Even though she had to write the article, she also needed to walk a little to clear her head.

She was confused, and increasingly irate with Beatriz for having plunged her into this confusion. ‘The seeds of doubt,’ she formulated to herself. More than a seed, she corrected herself: her cousin’s words had grown like the legendary magical beans. ‘Very witty. And now what?’

You can’t write an article when you’re in a bad mood, or in a state of euphoria. That was a lesson from her father. She wandered up the Rambla de Cataluña. She noticed a man sitting on a bench reading
La Vanguardia
and soon she passed another who carried a copy folded under his arm. ‘Tomorrow they’ll be reading my article,’ she thought proudly. Immediately she felt a blow to the stomach, as if she had swallowed a stone. She had doubts. Did she have doubts? She shook her head, but couldn’t soothe the discomfort in her stomach.

She stopped short. What would those who bought her newspaper be reading tomorrow?

She felt a strange relief when she saw a third man, who was reading
El Noticiero Universal
and leaning on the doorframe of a barbershop. They wouldn’t publish anything about the Sobrerroca case. Would that be better or worse?

She sat on a bench at the corner of Aragón Street.

She thought about going over to the Paseo de Gracia. Sometimes window shopping helped her think, but not today. Looking at store windows is contemplating the imperfect past, in static displays. That wasn’t what she needed just then. She needed movement, action, drama if possible.

Her feet led her to Caspe Street.

There was the Novedades jai alai court, which hid its splendour and beauty behind a modest facade. She was received by the doormen’s discreet greetings, the arching motion of an usher indicating where she should sit and, already in the stands, the sound of the ball hitting the wall, the voices of the players and the audience, the shouts of the bookmakers. The bookmakers at Novedades were the most elegant in Barcelona, with their white jackets and red berets.

She sat down and followed the first match attentively.

By the second round, she already felt at home and accepted a spectator’s bet.

‘Two hundred to one hundred.’

For the blues. The runner threw her the ball and she caught it securely. She was proud of her reflexes, which allowed her to catch it with a single firm motion. There are things that, once you’ve learned them, you never forget. She had acquired that skill as a girl, going to the pelota court with her father and her brother Ángel on Sunday mornings. She had been fascinated by the names there, which sounded like dynasties: Artamendi II, Atano III, Urrutia, Olaizola. She had also learned all the rituals of the game and grown used to its sounds. Without looking, she could recognise the blunt thwack of a hand, the spongy, elastic blow to the basket, the dull thud of the bats.

That had been before the war.

Afterwards, her father never set foot on a jai alai court and Ángel never returned to Barcelona. She went back to Novedades shortly after they were notified of his execution by firing squad. She would sit in the stands and describe the game to her brother, as he used to explain the rules to her when she was little. Soon it would be nine years since his death. In a few years she would be the same age Ángel was when they killed him, twenty-seven. But she hadn’t gone there to think about him. She focused on the game.

The blues finally lost, even though they had been making a good comeback.

She could quit and simply watch the next match, or play a little more of the money her father had sent her.

The next match was about to begin.

A murmur of admiration ran through the stands. It was the debut of a young player, sixteen years old, on the red team. Someone beside her said, ‘They say he is the reincarnation of Erdotza.’

Erdotza, the best player ever, capable of beating two opponents alone, had died on that court. In 1942, ten years earlier, he threw himself to the floor for a drop shot. He managed to return it, won the point and then died right there from a heart attack. A legendary play. But his reincarnation… What rubbish!

In an appeal to reason versus rubbish, she bet against the reds.

She won. She took it as a sign. She was aware of the irony that her conclusion was as irrational as the image of the player’s spirit searching for someone to reincarnate into on the jai alai court. But she was grateful to have been able to clarify her thoughts.

She walked back to her house. She already knew what she was going to do. She would write the article with the official version of the case’s resolution, but measuring her words, so that, as Beatriz had done, an attentive reader could harbour some doubts about whether the case really was closed.

She didn’t think of herself as superstitious, but, just in case, she gave thanks to Erdotza’s spirit.

37

Joaquín Grau didn’t ever openly admit it, but he liked what he saw when he looked in the mirror. The silver shine at his temples, far from ageing him, made him look dignified. He turned his head slightly; he had a large, aquiline nose that gave him a regal air. He was also tall and svelte. He definitely had good presence, he confirmed with satisfaction.

Nothing like the squalid little boy who had once stubbornly sat with his homework at the kitchen table of the flat over the family’s hardware shop in Gerona, his mother’s voice repeating, ‘Joaquín, make an effort. You have to make something of yourself in this life.’ And he had made an effort, although not as much of one as he led her to believe, because his lessons came easily to him. A Jesuit took care of him, Grau supposed at the behest of his mother, who was always keenly devout. Father Leonardo got him a modest scholarship and a bookbag so he could study in Barcelona. Later, the war took care of paving the way for him.

He ran the comb through his hair once more and made sure that his suit jacket was well buttoned up. Then he closed the mirrored door to the wardrobe in his office. He was ready to start the day.

On his desk he found the morning editions. His secretary had left a copy of
La Vanguardia
opened to the page where the bold headline ‘Mariona Sobrerroca Murder Solved’ immediately caught his eye. He extended his arm to grab the paper but the ringing of the telephone shifted his motion towards the receiver.

‘Good job. Very good job.’

Fernando Sánchez-Herranz imbued his voice with a laboured seriousness. Grau knew that Fernando did it to try to compensate for his round fleshy face and droopy cheeks, which gave the impression of a lack of character.

‘The Civil Governor is very satisfied with the work done by the police and the public prosecutor’s office, and asked me to convey his congratulations.’

He had taken note of his achievements in the matter. Good. On the one hand. On the other, the Civil Governor could have called him personally instead of delegating the task to his personal secretary.

‘Thank you.’

His gratitude had come out sounding somewhat cool, since Fernando said, ‘Really, Joaquín. Acedo is most satisfied. The police did an exemplary job. They are even more effective since I sent Goyanes from Social to the CIB. With this success we can show up all those who say that our country is backward and our police force is brutal. And I think much of the credit is yours.’

Grau was astounded. Praise came from above. Bestowing praise was a privilege that
he
had enjoyed in relation to Fernando, for over a decade. He had praised him, criticised him and advised him. He had supported him and got him the post he now held as secretary to the Civil Governor. And now Fernando was the one praising him.

Fernando continued speaking. ‘We are very proud of you.’

We
. Us. The Civil Governor and I. Grau noticed how the rage began to rise up his neck, a tide of lava, of burning red fury. Over his forty-four years he’d learned to control it, to channel it in the right direction. That was how he knew that this was a moment when he had to keep it contained. He changed the subject.

‘How are things going for you in the Civil Government?’

‘Well. A lot to do. A lot of responsibility. These are complicated times.’

It was true. The new government named by Franco had produced seismic shifts in the Regime, and it remained to be seen how far the shock waves would reach.

Fernando’s tone grew confidential.

‘This damn city needs an iron hand. A hand that inspires fear, so much so that no one will dare to pursue their subversive impulses. The fact that, with the Eucharistic Congress, the eyes of the world are now fixed on us doesn’t make it any easier. It’s our international endorsement. The world can’t keep on ignoring us.’

It irritated him no end that Fernando thought it was necessary to give these explanations, but he held his tongue.

At some point, Fernando’s voice had lost all trace of energy; it sounded gentle and trusting when he said, ‘I’ve thought of you often in these last few weeks, of your advice, your support.’

Had he remembered that the person he was talking to was his mentor, his promoter? Or was he trying to manipulate him with strategies learned at the private school his well-to-do family had sent him to in Ávila? Perhaps Fernando had forgotten that he too had studied with the Jesuits.

Grau’s rage had faded to anger. He responded in a friendly but distant way. After the obligatory courteous exchanges, he hung up the phone.

The article in
La Vanguardia
didn’t improve his mood. That Ana Martí had words of praise for the police, and named him and Castro several times. Yet he still didn’t like it.

It had been decided – the impersonal wording didn’t hide the fact that he was the one who had made the decision – that the Sobrerroca case would be dealt with delicately. He could have taken advantage of the situation to throw a negative light on part of the city’s bourgeoisie, but it wasn’t in his best interests to fall out with people he might need. The iron hand that Fernando had been going on and on about began in a smaller framework, more home-made, if you will, of daily policies. And the Sobrerroca affair was a perfect example. How should the relationship between Señora Sobrerroca and this Mendoza chap be presented to the public? Some would portray it as fair punishment for the vices of the upper middle class. Barcelona: Gomorrah itself in the boxes at the Liceo, at the cocktail receptions, at the private parties, behind the velvet drapes of its mansions. This was true, in part; but telling the truth at all costs wasn’t always the smartest option. Señora Sobrerroca had to be presented as the innocent victim of an unscrupulous criminal. Up to that point, everything was fine. The author had stuck to the guidelines. Why, then, had the text made him so uneasy?

He read it again and hit on the cause of his disquiet. The journalist presented the results of the police work with kid gloves. ‘Inspector Castro made clear that the case was solved’, ‘The public prosecutor affirmed that…’, ‘According to the investigation report, the killer was…’

Grau had nothing against her quoting him, but here the results of the investigation and the resolution of the case were presented as something that the police and the prosecutor’s office were announcing, as opposed to being facts. A version put forth by the police. That was what it was. Grau was sure now: the author was writing as if she herself wasn’t entirely convinced by the investigation. It wasn’t openly critical, but her desire to distance herself was evident.

Ana Martí.

Grau decided to make two phone calls. The first one, to Mateo Sanvisens.

The second call would be to an old friend in the Political-Social Brigade, to find out what he knew about this Ana Martí person.

38

The next article that Abel Mendoza read about the Sobrerroca case declared him dead. ‘Abel Mendoza, the presumed murderer, committed suicide by throwing himself into the Llobregat River.’ Well, well. From fugitive to corpse. Reading and rereading those lines he felt cold, with a terrible prickling at the back of his neck, and terribly hungry.

He went into a bar. He had got some money out of Mercedes, and he allowed himself another slice of potato omelette. It hadn’t been cooked in good-quality oil, or even clean oil, but having been confronted by the news of your own death, being able to taste even something rancid is cause for celebration.

He needed a calm place to think. The brothel was still closed and Mercedes had kicked him out of bed because it was her time of the month and she wanted to be alone.

Fine. He couldn’t think there anyway, not next to a woman who complained and sighed every time he shifted in bed and tried to ease her pain with absinthe. Abel was disgusted by the smell of absinthe; the taste repulsed him too, and after a bad night he had come to associate it with Mercedes’s nausea and vomiting.

A police siren sounded in the distance, and made him think that the street wasn’t a safe place for him. He couldn’t go back to the brothel until nightfall and he couldn’t go from bar to bar with the little cash he had on him. But he needed a place to take shelter, a place where he wouldn’t be seen. A dark place. A dark place in the middle of the day. Such as a cinema. The Argentina Theatre.