“What happened to Irene?”
“That’s another aspect that makes me think Jaco tricked both of his accomplices. Shortly after Marlasca’s death, Roures left the afterlife industry and opened a shop selling magic tricks on Calle Princesa. As far as I know, he’s still there. Irene Sabino worked for a couple more years in increasingly tawdry clubs and cabarets. The last thing I heard, she was prostituting herself in El Raval and living in poverty. She obviously didn’t get a single franc. Nor did Roures.”
“And Jaco?”
“He probably left the country under a false name and is living comfortably somewhere off the proceeds.”
The whole story, far from clarifying things in my mind, only raised more questions. Salvador must have noticed my unease and gave me a commiserating smile.
“Valera and his friends in the town hall managed to persuade the press to publish the story about an accident. He resolved the matter with a grand funeral: he didn’t want to muddy the reputation of the law firm, whose client list included many members of the town hall and the city council. Nor did he wish to draw attention to Marlasca’s strange behavior during the last twelve months of his life, from the moment he abandoned his family and associates and decided to buy a ruin in a part of town he had never set his well-shod foot in so that he could devote himself to writing—or at least that’s what his partner said.”
“Did Valera say what sort of thing Marlasca wanted to write?”
“A book of poems or something like that.”
“And you believed him?”
“I’ve seen many strange things in my work, my friend, but a wealthy lawyer who leaves everything to go write sonnets is not part of the repertoire.”
“So?”
“So the reasonable thing would have been for me to forget the whole matter and do as I was told.”
“But that’s not what happened.”
“No. And not because I’m a hero or an idiot. I did it because every time I saw the suffering of that poor woman, Marlasca’s widow, it made my stomach turn and I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror without doing what I was supposedly being paid to do.”
He pointed around the miserable, cold place that was his home.
“Believe me, if I’d known what was coming I would have preferred to be a coward and wouldn’t have stepped out of line. I can’t say I wasn’t warned at police headquarters. With the lawyer dead and buried, it was time to turn the page and put all our efforts into the pursuit of starving anarchists and schoolteachers of suspicious ideology.”
“You say buried … Where is Diego Marlasca buried?”
“In the family vault in San Gervasio cemetery, I think, not far from the house where the widow lives. May I ask you why you are so interested in this matter? And don’t tell me your curiosity was aroused just because you live in the tower house.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“If you want a friendly piece of advice, look at me and learn from my mistakes. Let it go.”
“I’d like to. The problem is that I don’t think the matter will let me go.”
Salvador watched me for a long time. Then he took a piece of paper and wrote down a number.
“This is the telephone number of the downstairs neighbors. They’re good people and the only ones who have a telephone in the whole building. You can get hold of me there or leave me a message. Ask for Emilio. If you need any help, don’t hesitate to call. And watch out. Jaco disappeared from the scene many years ago, but there are still people who don’t want this business stirred up again. A hundred thousand francs is a lot of money.”
I took the note and put it away.
“Thank you.”
“Not at all. Anyhow, what more can they do to me now?”
“Would you have a photograph of Diego Marlasca? I haven’t found one anywhere in the tower house.”
“I don’t know … I think I must have one somewhere. Let me have a look.”
Salvador walked over to a desk in a corner of the sitting room and pulled out a brass box full of bits of paper.
“I still have things from the case. As you see, even after all these years I haven’t learned my lesson. Here. Look. This photograph was given to me by the widow.”
He handed me an old studio portrait of a tall, good-looking man in his forties posed against a velvet backdrop and smiling for the camera. I tried to read those clear eyes, wondering how they could possibly conceal the dark world I had found in the pages of Lux Aeterna.
“May I keep it?”
Salvador hesitated.
“I suppose so. But don’t lose it.”
“I promise I’ll return it.”
“Promise me you’ll be careful and I’d be much happier. And that if you’re not, and you get into a mess, you’ll call me.”
We shook on it.
“I promise.”
30
The sun was setting as I left Ricardo Salvador on his cold roof terrace and returned to Plaza Real. The square was bathed in a dusty light that tinted the figures of passersby with a reddish hue. From there I set off walking and ended up at the only place in town where I always felt welcome and protected. When I reached Calle Santa Ana, the Sempere & Sons bookshop was about to close. Twilight was advancing over the city and the sky was breached by a line of blue and purple. I stopped in front of the shop window and saw that Sempere’s son was saying good-bye to a customer at the front door. When he saw me he smiled and greeted me with a shyness that spoke of his innate decency.
“I was just thinking about you, Martín. Everything all right?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“It shows in your face. Here, come in, I’ll make you some coffee.”
He held the shop door open and showed me in. I stepped into the bookshop and breathed in that perfume of paper and magic that strangely no one had ever thought of bottling. Sempere’s son took me to the back room, where he set about preparing a pot of coffee.
“How is your father? He looked fragile the other day.”
Sempere’s son nodded, as if appreciative of my concern. I realized that he probably didn’t have anyone to talk to about him.
“He’s seen better times, that’s for sure. The doctor says he has to be careful with his angina, but he insists on working more than ever. Sometimes I have to get angry with him, but he seems to think that if he leaves me to look after the shop the business will fail. This morning when I got up I asked him to stay in bed and not come down to work today. Well, would you believe it, three minutes later I found him in the dining room putting on his shoes.”
“He’s a man with fixed ideas,” I agreed.
“He’s as stubborn as a mule,” replied Sempere’s son. “Thank goodness we now have a bit of help, otherwise …”
I adopted my best expression of surprise and innocence, which always came in handy and needed little practice.
“The girl,” Sempere’s son explained. “Isabella, your apprentice. That’s why I was thinking about you. I hope you don’t mind if she spends a few hours here each day. The truth is, with the way things are I’m very grateful for the help, but if you have any objections …”
I suppressed a smile when I noticed how he savored Isabella’s double l.
“Well, as long as it’s only temporary. The truth is, Isabella is a good girl. Intelligent and hardworking,” I said. “And trustworthy. We get on very well.”
“She says you’re a tyrant.”
“Is that what she says?”
“In fact, she has a nickname for you. Mr. Hyde.”
“How charming. Pay no attention to her. You know what women are like.”
“Yes, I do,” said Sempere’s son in a tone that made it clear that he might know a lot of things but certainly hadn’t the faintest clue about women.
“Isabella might say that about me, but don’t think she doesn’t tell me things about you,” I countered.
I noticed a change in his expression and let my words sink through the laye
rs of his armor. He handed me a cup of coffee with an attentive smile and rescued the conversation with a trick unworthy even of a second-rate operetta.
“Goodness knows what she says about me.”
I left him to soak in uncertainty for a few moments.
“Would you like to know?” I asked casually, hiding a smile behind my cup.
Sempere’s son shrugged.
“She says you’re a good and generous man. She says that people don’t understand you because you’re shy and they can’t see beyond that, and, I quote, you have the presence of a film star and a fascinating personality.”
Sempere’s son looked at me in astonishment.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Sempere, my friend. The truth is I’m glad you’ve brought up the subject because I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it and didn’t know how.”
“Talk about what?”
I lowered my voice.
“Between you and me, Isabella wants to work here because she admires you and, I fear, is secretly in love with you.”
Sempere gulped.
“But pure love, eh? Spiritual. Like the love of a Dickens heroine, if you see what I mean. No frivolities or childish nonsense. Isabella might be young, but she’s a real woman. You must have noticed, I’m sure …”
“Now that you mention it …”
“And I’m referring not to her—if you’ll pardon me—exquisitely tender frame but to her kindness and the inner beauty that is just waiting for the right moment to emerge and make some fortunate man the happiest in the world.”
Sempere didn’t know where to look.
“Besides, she has hidden talents. She speaks languages. She plays the piano like an angel. She has a good head for numbers. And to cap it all she’s a wonderful cook. Look at me. I’ve put on a few kilos since she started working for me. Delicacies that even at La Tour d’Argent … Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”
“She didn’t mention that she can cook …”
“I’m talking about love at first sight.”
“Well, really …”
“Do you know what the matter is? Deep down, although she gives the impression she’s an untamed shrew, the girl is docile and shy to a pathological degree. I blame the nuns: they unhinge them with all those stories of hell and all those sewing lessons. Long live secular education.”
“Well, I would have sworn she took me for a little less than an idiot,” Sempere assured me.
“There you are. Irrefutable proof. Sempere, my friend, when a woman treats you like an idiot it means her hormones are racing!”
“Are you sure about that?”
“As sure as the Bank of Spain. Believe me, I know quite a lot about this subject.”
“That’s what my father says. And what am I to do?”
“Well, that depends. Do you like the girl?”
“Like her? I don’t know. How do you know if… ?”
“It’s very simple. Do you look at her furtively and feel like biting her?”
“Biting her?”
“On her backside, for example.”
“Señor Martín!”
“Don’t be bashful, we’re among gentlemen. It’s a known fact that we men are the missing link between the pirate and the pig. Do you like her or don’t you?”
“Well, Isabella is an attractive girl.”
“What else?”
“Intelligent. Pleasant. Hardworking.”
“Go on.”
“And a good Christian, I think. Not that I’m much of a practicing Catholic, but—”
“Don’t I know it. Isabella almost lives in the church. Those nuns, I tell you!”
“But quite frankly, it had never occurred to me to bite her.”
“It hadn’t occurred to you until I mentioned it.”
“I must say, I think talking about her like that—or about any other woman—shows a lack of respect. You should be ashamed,” protested Sempere’s son.
“Mea culpa,” I intoned, raising my hands in a gesture of surrender. “But never mind—we each show our devotion in our own way. I’m a frivolous, superficial creature, hence my canine focus, but you, with that au-rea gravitas of yours, are a man of mysterious and profound feelings. The important thing is that the girl adores you and that the feeling is mutual.”
“Well …”
“Don’t you ‘well’ me. Let’s face it, Sempere. You’re a respectable and responsible man. Had it been me, what can I say? But you’re not a fellow to play fast and loose with the noble, pure feelings of a ripe young girl. Am I mistaken?”
“I suppose not.”
“Well, that’s it then.”
“What is?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No.”
“It’s time to go courting.”
“Excuse me?”
“Courting, or, in scientific terms, time for a kiss and a cuddle. Look here, Sempere, for some strange reason centuries of supposed civilization have brought us to a situation in which one cannot go sidling up to women on street corners or asking them to marry us, just like that. First there has to be courtship.”
“Marry? Have you gone mad?”
“What I’m trying to say is that perhaps—and this is your idea even if you’re not aware of it—today or tomorrow or the next day, when you get over all this shaking and dribbling over her, you could take Isabella out when she finishes work at the bookshop. Take her out for afternoon tea somewhere special, and you’ll realize once and for all that you were made for each other. You could take her to Els Quatre Gats, where they’re so stingy they dim the lights to save on electricity—that always helps in these situations. Ask for some curd cheese for the girl with a good spoonful of honey; that always whets the appetite. Then, casually, you let her have a swig or two of that muscatel that goes straight to the head. At that point, placing a hand on her knee, you stun her with that sweet talk you keep to yourself, you rascal.”
“But I don’t know anything about her, or what interests her, or—”
“She’s interested in the same things as you. She’s interested in books, in literature, in the very smell of the treasures you have here—and in the penny novels with their promise of romance and adventure. She’s interested in casting aside loneliness and in not wasting time trying to understand that in this rotten world nothing is worth a single céntimo if there isn’t someone to share it with. Now you know the essentials. The rest you can find out and enjoy as you go along.”
Sempere looked thoughtful, glancing first at his cup of coffee, which he hadn’t touched, then at me as I attempted with great difficulty to maintain the smile of a stockbroker.
“I’m not sure whether to thank you or report you to the police,” he said at last.
Just then we heard footsteps in the bookshop. A few seconds later Sempere senior put his head round the door of the back room and stood there looking at us with a frown.
“What’s going on? The shop is left unattended and you’re sitting here chattering as if it were a bank holiday. What if a customer had come in? Or some scoundrel trying to make off with our goods?”
Sempere’s son sighed, rolling his eyes.
“Don’t worry, Señor Sempere. Books are the only things in this world that no one wants to steal,” I said, winking at him.
His face lit up with a knowing smile. Sempere’s son took the opportunity to escape from my clutches and slink off back to the bookshop. His father sat next to me and sniffed at the cup of coffee his son had left untouched.
“What does the doctor say about the effects of caffeine on the heart?” I asked.
“That man can’t even find his backside with an anatomy book. What would he know about the heart?”
“More than you, I’m sure,” I replied, snatching the cup from him.
“I’m as strong as an ox, Martín.”
“You’re a mule, that’s what you are. Please go back upstairs and get into bed.”
“It’s only worth staying in b
ed if you’re young and in good company.”
“If you want company, I’ll find someone for you, but I don’t think your heart is up to it right now.”
“Martín, at my age, eroticism is reduced to enjoying flan and staring at widows’ necks. The one I’m worried about here is my heir. Any progress on that score?”
“We’re fertilizing the soil and sowing the seeds. We’ll have to see if the weather is favorable and we reap a harvest. In two or three days I’ll be able to give you a report on the first shoots that is 60 to 70 percent reliable.”
Sempere gave a satisfied smile.
“A stroke of genius, sending Isabella to be our shop assistant,” he said. “But don’t you think she’s a bit young for my son?”
“He’s the one who seems a bit green, if I may be frank. He’s got to pull himself together or Isabella will eat him alive. Thank goodness he’s a decent sort, otherwise …”
“How can I repay you?”
“By going upstairs and getting into bed. If you need some spicy company, take a copy of Moll Flanders.”
“You’re right. Good old Defoe never lets you down.”
“Not even if he tries. Go on, off to bed.”
Sempere stood up. He moved with difficulty and his breathing was labored, with a hoarse rattle that frightened me. I took his arm and noticed that his skin was cold.
“Don’t be alarmed, Martín. It’s my metabolism; it’s a little slow.”
“Today it’s as slow as War and Peace.”
“A little nap and I’ll be as good as new.”
I decided to go up with him to the apartment where father and son lived, above the bookshop, and make sure he got under the blankets. It took us a quarter of an hour to negotiate the stairs. On the way we met one of the neighbors, an affable schoolteacher called Don Anacleto, who taught language and literature at the Jesuit school in Calle Caspe.
“How’s life looking today, Sempere, my friend?”