The Angel's Game

  I managed to grab hold of the drainpipe and rest a foot on one of the bands that supported it. I stretched up, reaching for the upper section of the pipe, but as soon as I seized it, it came away in my hand and a whole meter of the pipe tumbled down the shaft. I almost fell with it, too, but managed to hold on to a piece of metal that attached one of the bands to the wall. The drainpipe on which I had hoped to climb up to the flat roof was now impassable. There were only two ways out of my current situation: to return to the corridor that Marcos and Castelo were about to enter at any moment or to descend into the black gorge. I heard the door being flung against the inside wall of the apartment and let myself begin to slide, holding on to the drainpipe as best I could, tearing off quite a bit of skin in the process. I had managed to descend about a meter and a half when I saw the shape of the two policemen in the beam of light cast by the window onto the darkness of the shaft. Marcos’s face was the first to appear as he leaned out. He smiled. I asked myself whether he was going shoot me right there and then. Castelo popped up next to him.

  “Stay here. I’ll go down to the apartment below,” Marcos ordered.

  Castelo nodded. They wanted me alive, at least for a few hours. I heard Marcos running away. It wouldn’t be long before I saw him looking out the window scarcely a meter below. I glanced down and saw that there was light at the windows of the second and first floors, but the third floor was in darkness. Carefully I lowered myself until I felt my foot touching the next band. The third-floor window was now in front of me, with an empty corridor leading from it toward the door at the far end. I could hear Marcos knocking. By that time of day the dressmakers had already closed and nobody was there. The knocking stopped and I realized that Marcos had gone down to the second floor to try his luck there. I looked up and saw that Castelo was still watching me, licking his lips like a cat.

  “Don’t fall—we’re going to have some fun when we catch you,” he said.

  I heard voices on the second floor and knew that Marcos had succeeded in getting into the apartment. Without thinking twice, I threw myself with all the strength I could muster against the window of the third floor. I smashed through the windowpane, keeping my face and neck covered with my coat, and landed in a pool of broken glass. I hauled myself up and, as I did so, noticed a dark stain spreading across my left arm. A shard of glass, sharp as a dagger, protruded just above my elbow. I caught hold of it and pulled. The cold sensation gave way to a blaze of pain that made me fall to my knees. From the floor I saw that Castelo had started to climb down the drainpipe. Before I was able to pull out the gun, he leaped toward the window. I saw his hands grabbing hold of the outer frame. Instinctively, I jumped up and started hammering at the frame with all my might, putting the whole weight of my body behind every blow. I heard the bones in his fingers break with a dry, snapping sound, and Castelo howled in pain. I pulled out the gun and pointed it at his face, but his hands had already begun to slip. A second of terror in his eyes, and then he fell down the shaft, his body ricocheting against the walls, leaving a trail of blood in the patches of light that filtered through from the lower windows.

  I dragged myself toward the front door. The wound on my arm was throbbing and I could feel a few cuts on my legs, but I kept moving. On either side of the passageway there were rooms in semidarkness full of sewing machines, bobbins of thread, and tables topped with large rolls of material. I reached the main door and took hold of the handle. A tenth of a second later I felt it turn. Marcos was on the other side, attempting to force the lock. I retreated a few steps. A huge roar suddenly shook the door and part of the lock shot out in a cloud of sparks and blue smoke. Marcos was going to blast the lock away. I took shelter in the nearest room, which was filled with motionless figures, some with arms or legs missing: shop-window mannequins all piled up together. I slipped in between the torsos just as I heard a second shot. The front door opened with a bang. A halo of gunpowder floated in the hazy yellow light that seeped in from the landing. I heard Marcos fumbling with the door, then the sound of his heavy footsteps in the hallway. Glued to the wall, hiding behind the dummies, I clutched the revolver in trembling hands.

  “Martín, come out,” Marcos said calmly as he advanced. “I’m not going to hurt you. I have orders from Grandes to take you to the police station. We’ve found that man Marlasca. He’s confessed to everything. You’re clean. Don’t go and do something stupid now. Come on, let’s talk about this at police headquarters.”

  I saw him walk past the doorway of the room where I was hiding.

  “Martín, listen to me. Grandes is on his way. We can clear this up without any need to complicate matters further.”

  I cocked the hammer. Marcos’s footsteps came to a halt. There was a slight scraping sound on the tiles. He was on the other side of the wall. He knew perfectly well that I was in that room and that I couldn’t get out without going past him. I saw his profile slink through the doorway and melt into the liquid darkness of the room; the gleam of his eyes was the only trace of his presence. He was barely four meters from me. I began to slide down against the wall until I reached the floor. I could see Marcos’s shoes behind the legs of the dummies.

  “I know you’re here, Martín. Stop being childish.”

  He stopped and didn’t move. Then I saw him kneel and touch the trail of blood I had left. He brought a finger to his mouth. I imagined he was smiling.

  “You’re bleeding a lot, Martín. You need a doctor. Come out and I’ll take you to a doctor.”

  I kept quiet. Marcos stopped in front of a table and picked up a shining object that was lying among scraps of material. Large textile scissors.

  “It’s up to you, Martín.”

  I heard the shearing sound made by the edge of the scissor blades as he opened and closed them. A stab of pain gripped my arm and I bit my lip to stifle the groan. Marcos turned his face in my direction.

  “Speaking of blood, you’ll be pleased to hear that we have your little whore, that Isabella girl. Before we start with you we’ll have some fun with her …”

  I raised the weapon and pointed it at his face. The sheen of the metal gave me away. Marcos jumped at me, knocking down the dummies and dodging the shot. I felt his weight on my body and his breath on my face. The scissor blades closed only a centimeter from my left eye. I butted my forehead against his face with all my remaining strength and he fell to one side. Then I lifted my gun and pointed it at him. Marcos, his lip split, sat up and fixed his eyes on mine.

  “You don’t have the guts,” he whispered.

  He placed his hand on the barrel and smiled at me. I pulled the trigger. The bullet blew off his hand, flinging his arm back. Marcos fell to the floor, holding his mutilated, smoking wrist, while his face, spattered with gunpowder burns, dissolved into a grimace of pain, a silent howl. I got up and left him there, bleeding to death in a pool of his own urine.

  21

  Somehow I managed to crawl through the narrow streets of the Raval as far as the Paralelo, where a line of taxis had formed outside the Apolo theater. I slipped into the first one I could. When he heard the door, the driver turned round; he took one look at me and pulled a face. I fell onto the backseat, ignoring his protests.

  “Listen, you’re not going to die on me back there, are you?”

  “The sooner you take me where I want to go, the sooner you’ll get shot of me.”

  The driver cursed under his breath and started the engine.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  I don’t know, I thought.

  “Just drive and I’ll let you know.”

  “Drive where?”

  “Pedralbes.”

  …

  Twenty minutes later I glimpsed the lights of Villa Helius. I pointed them out to the driver, who couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. He left me at the entrance to the mansion and almost forgot to charge me the fare. I staggered up to the large front door and rang the bell, then collapsed on the steps and leaned my head against the wa
ll. I heard footsteps approaching and at some point thought I saw the door open and heard someone saying my name. I felt a hand on my forehead and I seemed to recognize Vidal’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Don Pedro,” I begged. “I had nowhere else to go …”

  I heard him call out and after a while I felt various hands taking my legs and arms and lifting me. When I opened my eyes again I was in Don Pedro’s bedroom, lying on the same bed he had shared with Cristina during the few short months of their marriage. I sighed. Vidal was watching me from the end of the bed.

  “Don’t speak now,” he said. “The doctor is on his way.”

  “Don’t believe them, Don Pedro,” I moaned. “Don’t believe them.”

  “Of course not.”

  Vidal picked up a blanket and covered me with it.

  “I’ll go downstairs to wait for the doctor,” he said. “Get some rest.”

  After a while I heard footsteps and voices in the bedroom. I could feel my clothes being removed and glimpsed the dozens of cuts covering my body like bloodstained ivy. I felt tweezers poking into my wounds, pulling out needles of glass as well as bits of flesh. I felt the sting of antiseptic and the pricks of the needle as the doctor sewed up my wounds. There was no longer any pain, only tiredness. Once I had been bandaged, sewn up, and mended like a broken puppet, the doctor and Vidal covered me with a sheet and placed my head on the sweetest, softest pillow I had ever come across. I opened my eyes to see the face of the doctor, an aristocratic-looking gentleman with a reassuring smile. He was holding a hypodermic syringe.

  “You’ve been lucky, young man,” he said as he plunged the needle into my arm.

  “What’s that?” I mumbled.

  Vidal’s face appeared next to the doctor’s.

  “It will help you rest.”

  A cold mist spread up my arm and across my chest. I felt myself falling into a chasm of black velvet while Vidal and the doctor watched me from on high. Gradually, the world closed until it was reduced to a single drop of light that evaporated in my hands. I sank into that warm chemical peace from which I would have preferred never to escape.

  …

  I remember a world of black water under the ice. Moonlight touched the frozen vault, breaking into thousands of dusty beams that swayed in the current as it pulled me away. The white mantle draped around her body undulated, the silhouette of her body just visible in the translucent waters. Cristina stretched out a hand to me and I fought against that cold, heavy current. When our fingers were only a hair’s breadth apart, a somber mass unfolded its wings behind her, enveloping her like an explosion of ink. Tentacles of black light surrounded her arms, her throat, and her face, dragging her inexorably toward a dark void.

  22

  I awoke to hear Víctor Grandes saying my name. I sat bolt upright, not recognizing where I was—if anything, the place looked like a suite in a luxury hotel. The shooting pain from the dozens of cuts that streaked my torso brought me back to reality. I was in Vidal’s bedroom in Villa Helius. Through the closed shutters, a hint of midafternoon light. A fire was blazing in the grate and the room was warm. The voices came from the floor below. Pedro Vidal and Víctor Grandes.

  Ignoring the stinging of my skin, I got out of bed. My dirty, bloodstained clothes had been thrown onto an armchair. I looked for the coat. The gun was still in the pocket. I drew back the hammer and left the room, following the trail of voices as far as the stairs. I went down a few steps, keeping close to the wall.

  “I’m very sorry about your men, Inspector,” I heard Vidal saying. “Rest assured that if David gets in touch with me or if I hear of his whereabouts, I’ll let you know immediately.”

  “I’m grateful for your help, Señor Vidal. I’m sorry to bother you in the circumstances, but the situation is extremely serious.”

  “I understand. Thank you for your visit.”

  The sound of the front door closing. Vidal’s labored breathing at the foot of the staircase. I went down a few more steps and found him leaning his forehead against the door. When he heard me he opened his eyes and turned round.

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at the gun I held in my hands. I put it down on the small table at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Come on, let’s see if we can find you some clean clothes,” he said.

  I followed him to a huge dressing room that looked more like a costume museum. All the exquisite suits I remembered from Vidal’s years of glory were there. Dozens of ties, shoes, and cuff links in red velvet boxes.

  “This is all from when I was young. It should fit you.”

  Vidal chose for me. He handed me a shirt that was probably worth as much as a small plot of land, a three-piece suit made to measure in London, and a pair of Italian shoes that would not have disgraced the boss’s wardrobe. I dressed in silence while Vidal observed me with a pensive look.

  “A bit wide in the shoulders, but you’ll have to make do,” he said, handing me a pair of sapphire cuff links.

  “What did the inspector tell you?”

  “Everything.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters to me.”

  Vidal sat on a stool by a wall that was covered in mirrors from ceiling to floor.

  “He says you know where Cristina is,” he said.

  I did not deny it.

  “Is she alive?”

  I looked him in the eye and, very slowly, nodded my head. Vidal gave a weak smile, eluding my eyes. Then he burst into tears, emitting a deep groan that came from his very soul. I sat down next to him and hugged him.

  “Forgive me, Don Pedro, forgive me …”

  …

  Later, as the sun began to drop over the horizon, Vidal gathered my old clothes and threw them into the fire. Before he abandoned my coat to the flames he pulled out the copy of The Steps of Heaven and handed it to me.

  “Of the two books you wrote last year, this was the good one,” he said.

  I watched him poking my clothes about in the fire.

  “When did you realize?”

  Vidal shrugged.

  “Even a conceited idiot can’t be fooled forever, David.”

  I couldn’t make out whether there was resentment in his tone or just sadness.

  “I did it because I thought I was helping you, Don Pedro.”

  “I know.”

  He smiled.

  “Forgive me,” I murmured.

  “You must leave the city. There’s a cargo ship moored in the San Sebastián dock that sets sail tonight. It’s all arranged. Ask for Captain Olmo. He’s expecting you. Take one of the cars from the garage. You can leave it at the port. Pep will fetch it tomorrow. Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t go back to your house. You’ll need money.”

  “I have enough money,” I lied.

  “There’s never enough. When you disembark in Marseilles, Olmo will go with you to a bank and will give you fifty thousand francs.”

  “Don Pedro—”

  “Listen to me. Those two men that Grandes says you’ve killed …”

  “Marcos and Castelo. I think they worked for your father, Don Pedro.”

  Vidal shook his head.

  “My father and his lawyers only ever deal with the top people, David. How do you think those two knew where to find you thirty minutes after you left the police station?”

  A cold feeling of certainty washed over me.

  “Through my friend Inspector Víctor Grandes.”

  Vidal agreed.

  “Grandes let you go because he didn’t want to dirty his hands in the police station. As soon as he got you out of there, his two men were on your trail. Your death was to read like a telegram: Escaping murder suspect dies while resisting arrest.”

  “Just like the old days on the news,” I said.

  “Some things never change, David. You should know better than anyone.”

  He opened his wardrobe and handed me a brand new coat. I accepted it and p
ut the book in the inside pocket. Vidal smiled at me.

  “For once in your life you’re well dressed.”

  “It suited you better, Don Pedro.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “Don Pedro, there are a lot of things …”

  “They don’t matter anymore, David. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  “I owe you much more than an explanation.”

  “Then tell me about her.”

  Vidal looked at me with desperate eyes that begged me to lie to him. We sat in the sitting room, facing the French windows with their view over the whole of Barcelona, and I lied to him with all my heart. I told him that Cristina had rented a small attic in Paris, in Rue de Soufflot, under the name of Madame Vidal, and had said that she’d wait for me every day, in the middle of the afternoon, by the fountain in the Luxembourg Gardens. I told him that she spoke about him constantly, that she would never forget him, and that I knew that however many years I spent by her side I’d never be able to fill the void he had left. Don Pedro’s gaze was lost in the distance.

  “You must promise me you’ll look after her, David. That you’ll never leave her. Whatever happens, you’ll stay by her side.”

  “I promise, Don Pedro.”

  In the pale light of evening all I could see was a defeated old man, sick with memories and guilt, a man who had never believed and whose only balm now was to believe.

  “I wish I’d been a better friend to you, David.”

  “You’ve been the best of friends, Don Pedro. You’ve been much more than that.”