The Angel's Game

  Vidal stretched out his arm and took my hand. He was trembling.

  “Grandes spoke to me about that man, the one you call the boss. He says you are in debt to him and you think the only way of paying him back is by giving him a pure soul …”

  “That’s nonsense, Don Pedro. Don’t pay any attention.”

  “Would a dirty, tired soul like mine be of any use to you?”

  “I know of no purer soul than yours, Don Pedro.”

  Vidal smiled.

  “If I could have changed places with your father, I would have, David.”

  “I know.”

  He stood up and gazed at the evening swooping over the city.

  “You should be on your way,” he said. “Go to the garage and take a car. Whichever you like. I’ll see if I have some cash.”

  I picked up the coat and went out into the garden and over to the coach house. The Villa Helius garage was home to two automobiles that gleamed like royal carriages. I chose the smaller, more discreet car, a black Hispano-Suiza that looked as if it had not been used more than two or three times and still smelled new. I sat at the steering wheel and started the engine, then drove the car out of the garage and waited in the yard. A minute went by, and still Vidal hadn’t come out. I got out of the car, leaving the engine running. I went back into the house to say goodbye to him and tell him not to worry about the money, I would manage. As I walked across the entrance hall I remembered I’d left the gun on the table. When I went to pick it up it wasn’t there.

  “Don Pedro?”

  The door to the sitting room was ajar. I looked in and could see him standing in the middle of the room. He raised my father’s revolver to his chest, placing the barrel at his heart. I rushed toward him but the roar of the shot drowned my shouts. The weapon fell from his hands. His body slumped over and he fell to the floor, leaving a scarlet trail on the marble tiles. I dropped to my knees beside him and supported him in my arms. Dark, thick blood gushed from the hole where the bullet had pierced his clothes. Don Pedro’s eyes locked on mine while his smile filled with blood, and his body stopped trembling, and he collapsed. The room was filled with the scent of gunpowder and misery.

  23

  I returned to the car and sat in it, my bloodstained hands on the steering wheel. I could hardly breathe. I waited a minute before releasing the hand brake. The lights of the city throbbed under the shroud of the evening sky. I set off down the street, leaving the silhouette of Villa Helius behind me. When I reached Avenida Pearson I stopped and looked through the rearview mirror. A car had just turned into the street from a hidden alleyway and positioned itself some fifty meters behind me. Its lights were not on. Víctor Grandes.

  I continued down Avenida de Pedralbes until I passed the large wrought-iron dragon guarding the entrance to Finca Güell. Inspector Grandes’s car was still tailing about a hundred meters behind. When I reached Avenida Diagonal I turned left toward the center of town. There were barely any cars around so Grandes had no difficulty following me until I decided to turn right, hoping to lose him through the narrow streets of Las Corts. By then the inspector was aware that his presence was no secret and had turned on his headlights. For about twenty minutes we dodged through a knot of streets and trams. I slipped between omnibuses and carts, with Grandes’s headlights relentlessly at my back. After a while the hill of Montjuïc rose before me. The large palace of the International Exhibition and the remains of the other pavilions had been closed for just two weeks, but in the twilight mist they looked like the ruins of some great, forgotten civilization. I took the large avenue to the cascade of ghostly lights that illuminated the exhibition fountains, accelerating as quickly as the engine would allow. As we ascended the road that snaked its way up the mountain toward the Great Stadium, Grandes was gaining ground until I could clearly distinguish his face in the rearview mirror. For a moment I was tempted to take the road leading to the military fortress on the summit, but I knew that if there was one place with no way out, it was there. My only hope was to make it to the other side of the mountain, the side that looked down onto the sea, and disappear into one of the docks at the port. To do that I needed to put some time between us, but the inspector was now about fifteen meters behind me. The large balustrades of Miramar opened up before us, with the city spread out below. I pulled at the hand brake with all my strength and let Grandes smash into the Hispano-Suiza. The impact pushed us both along almost twenty meters, raising a spray of sparks across the road. I let go of the brake and went forward a short distance while Grandes was still struggling to regain control, then I put my car into reverse and accelerated hard.

  By the time Grandes realized what I was doing it was too late. Thanks to one of the most select makes of car in town, I charged at him with a chassis and an engine that were far more robust than those protecting him. The force of the crash hurled Grandes from his seat and his head struck the windshield, shattering it. Steam surged from the hood of his car and the headlights went out. I put my car into gear and accelerated away, heading for the Miramar viewing post. After a few seconds I realized that in the collision the back fender had been crushed against one tire, which now scraped on the metal as it turned. The smell of burning rubber filled the car. Twenty meters farther on the tire blew and the car began to zigzag until it came to a halt, wreathed in a cloud of black smoke. I abandoned the Hispano-Suiza and glanced back at where Grandes’s car still sat—the inspector was dragging himself out of the driver’s seat. I looked around me. The stop for the cable cars that crossed over the port and the town from Montjuïc to the tower of San Sebastián was about fifty meters away. I could make out the shape of the cars dangling from their wires as they slid through the dusk, and I ran toward them.

  One of the staff was getting ready to close the doors to the building when he saw me hurrying up the road. He held the door open and pointed inside.

  “Last trip of the evening,” he warned. “You’d better hurry.”

  The ticket office was about to close but I scurried in, bought the last ticket on sale, and rushed over to join a group of four people waiting by the cabin. I didn’t notice their clothes until the employee opened the door. Priests.

  “The cable railway was built for the International Exhibition and is equipped with the latest technology. Its safety is guaranteed at all times. From the start of the journey this security door, which can be opened only from the outside, will remain locked to avoid accidents or, heaven forbid, a suicide attempt. Of course, with Your Eminences on board, there is no danger of—”

  “Young man,” I interrupted. “Can you speed up the ceremony? It’s getting late.”

  The employee threw me a hostile glance. One of the priests noticed my bloodstained hands and crossed himself. The young man continued with his long-winded speech.

  “You’ll be traveling through the Barcelona sky at a height of some seventy meters above the waters of the port, enjoying spectacular views of the city until now available only to swallows, seagulls, and other creatures endowed with feathers by the Almighty. The trip lasts ten minutes and makes two stops, the first at the central tower in the port, or, as I like to call it, Barcelona’s Eiffel Tower, the tower of San Jaime, and the second and last at the tower of San Sebastián. Without further delay, I wish Your Eminences a happy journey, and on behalf of the company I hope we will see you again on board the Port of Barcelona Cable Railway in the not-too-distant future.”

  I was the first person to enter the cable car. The employee held out his hand as the four priests went by, hoping for a tip that never graced his fingertips. Visibly disappointed, he slammed the door shut and turned round, ready to operate the lever. Inspector Víctor Grandes was waiting there for him, in a sorry state but smiling and holding out his badge. The employee opened the door and Grandes strode into the cable car, greeting the priests with a nod and winking at me. Seconds later we were floating out into the void.

  …

  The cabin lifted off from the terminal toward the
mountain edge. The priests had all clustered on one side, ready to enjoy the evening views over Barcelona and ignore whatever murky business had brought Grandes and me together in that place. The inspector sidled over and showed me the gun he had in his hand. Large reddish clouds hung over the water of the port. The cable car sank into one of them and for a moment it felt as if we had plunged into a lake of fire.

  “Have you ever been on this before?” Grandes asked.

  I nodded.

  “My daughter loves it. Once a month she asks me to take her on a return trip. A bit expensive, but it’s worth it.”

  “With the amount of money old Señor Vidal is paying you for my head, I’m sure you’ll be able to bring your daughter here every day, if you feel like it. Simple curiosity: what price did he put on me?”

  Grandes smiled. The cable car emerged from the crimson cloud and we found ourselves suspended over the port, with the lights of the city spilling over its dark waters.

  “Fifteen thousand pesetas,” he replied, patting a white envelope that peeped out of his coat pocket.

  “I suppose I should feel flattered. Some people would kill for two duros. Does that include the price of betraying your two men?”

  “Let me remind you that the only person who has killed anyone here is you.”

  By now the four priests were watching us with expressions of shock and concern, oblivious to the delights of the vertiginous flight over the city. Grandes gave them a cursory glance.

  “When we reach the first stop, if it’s not too much to ask, I’d be grateful if Your Eminences would get off and allow us to discuss a few mundane matters.”

  The tower on the docks of Barcelona port rose before us like a cupola of steel with great metal threads wrenched from a mechanical cathedral. The cable car entered the dome and stopped at the platform. When the door opened, the four priests hastened out. Grandes, gun in hand, told me to go to the far end of the cabin. One of the priests looked at me anxiously as he got off.

  “Don’t worry, young man, we’ll call the police,” he said, just before the door closed.

  “Yes, please do!” replied Grandes.

  Once the door was locked, the cable car resumed its course. We emerged from the tower and started on the last stage of the crossing. Grandes went over to the window and gazed at the view of the city, a fantasy of lights and mist, cathedrals and palaces, alleyways and wide avenues woven into a labyrinth of shadows.

  “The city of the damned,” said Grandes. “The farther away you are, the prettier it looks.”

  “Is that my epitaph?”

  “I’m not going to kill you, Martín. I don’t kill people. You’re going to do that for me. As a favor. For me and for yourself. You know I’m right.”

  Saying no more, the inspector fired three shots at the locking mechanism of the door and kicked it open. The door was left hanging in the air and a blast of damp wind filled the cabin.

  “You won’t feel anything, Martín. Believe me. The impact will take only a tenth of a second. It’s instant. And then, peace.”

  I gazed at the door. A fall of over seventy meters into the void opened up before me. I looked at the tower of San Sebastián and reckoned there were still a few minutes to go before we would arrive. Grandes read my thoughts.

  “Soon it will all be over, Martín. You should be grateful to me.”

  “Do you really think I killed all those people, Inspector?”

  Grandes raised his revolver and pointed it at my heart.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  He muttered in disagreement.

  “You don’t have any friends, Martín.”

  I heard the roar of the shot and felt a blow to my chest, as if I’d been hit in the ribs with a jackhammer. I fell on my back, unable to breathe, a spasm of pain spreading through my body like petrol on fire. Grandes had grabbed my feet and was pulling me toward the door. The top of the tower of San Sebastián appeared between veils of cloud. Grandes stepped over my body and knelt behind me, then started pushing me by my shoulders. I felt the cold air on my legs. Grandes gave another push and my legs slid over the edge. The pull of gravity was instant. I was beginning to fall.

  I stretched out my arms toward the policeman and dug my fingers into his neck. Anchored by the weight of my body, the inspector was trapped and couldn’t move from the doorway. I pressed with all my might, pushing on his windpipe, squeezing the arteries in his neck. He struggled to free himself from my grip with one hand while the other groped about for his gun. Finally his fingers found the trigger. The shot grazed my temple and hit the doorframe, but the bullet bounced back into the cabin and went clean through his hand. I sunk my nails deeper into his neck, feeling his skin yield. Grandes groaned. Using all the strength I had left, I managed to get more than half my body back inside the car. Once I was able to grab hold of the metal walls, I let go of Grandes and threw myself away from him.

  I touched my chest and found the hole left by the inspector’s shot. I opened my coat and pulled out the copy of The Steps of Heaven. The bullet had pierced the front cover and the four hundred pages of the book, so that it peeped out, like the tip of a silver finger, through the back cover. Next to me, Grandes was writhing on the ground, grabbing at his neck with despair. His face was purple and the veins on his forehead and temples stood out like tensed cables. He looked at me, pleading. A cobweb of broken blood vessels spread across his eyes and I realized I had squashed his windpipe and that he was suffocating. I watched him as he lay shaking on the floor in agony. I pulled the white envelope from his pocket, opened it, and counted fifteen thousand pesetas. The price of my life. I put the envelope in my pocket. Grandes was dragging himself across the floor toward the gun. I stood up and kicked it out of reach. He grabbed my ankle, begging for mercy.

  “Where’s Marlasca?” I asked.

  His throat emitted a dull moan. I fixed my eyes on his and saw that he was laughing. The cable car had already entered the tower of San Sebastián when I pushed him through the doorway and saw his body plunge eighty meters through a maze of rails, cables, cogwheels, and steel bars that tore him to pieces as he fell.

  24

  The tower house was buried in darkness. I groped my way up the stone staircase until I reached the landing and found the front door ajar. I pushed it open and waited on the threshold, scanning the shadows that filled the long corridor. I took a few steps, then stopped, not moving a muscle. I felt the wall until I found the light switch. I tried it four times but without success. The first door to the right, three meters away, led into the kitchen. I remembered that I kept an oil lamp in the larder and there I found it, among unopened coffee tins from the Can Gispert emporium. I put the lamp on the kitchen table and lit it. A faint amber light suffused the kitchen walls. I picked it up and stepped out into the corridor.

  As I advanced, the flickering light held high, I expected to see something or someone emerge at any moment from one of the doors on either side. I knew I was not alone; I could smell it. A sour stench, of anger and hatred, floated in the air. I reached the end of the corridor and stopped in front of the last room. The lamp cast its soft glow over the wardrobe that had been pulled away from the wall and the clothes thrown on the floor—exactly as I had left them when Grandes had come to arrest me two nights before. I continued toward the foot of the spiral staircase and warily mounted the stairs, peering behind my shoulder every two or three steps, until I reached the study. The ruby aura of twilight flooded in through the windows. I hurried across the room to the wall where the trunk stood and opened it. The folder with the boss’s manuscript had disappeared.

  I crossed the room again, heading back to the stairs. As I walked past my desk I noticed that the keyboard of my old typewriter had been destroyed—as if someone had been punching it. Gingerly, I went down the steps, entered the corridor, and put my head round the entrance to the gallery. Even in the half-light I could see that all my books had bee
n hurled onto the floor and the leather of the armchairs was in tatters. I turned round to examine the twenty meters of corridor that separated me from the front door. The light from the lamp reached only half that distance, beyond which the shadows rolled on like black water.

  I remembered I’d left the door to the apartment open when I came in. Now it was closed. I walked on a couple of meters, but something stopped me as I passed the last room in the corridor. When I’d walked past it the first time I hadn’t noticed, because the door to that room opened to the left and I hadn’t looked in far enough to see. But now, as I drew closer, I saw it clearly. A white dove, its wings spread out like a cross, was nailed to the door. Drops of blood dripped down the wood. Fresh blood.

  I entered the room. I looked behind the door, but there wasn’t anyone there. The wardrobe was still pulled to one side. The cold, damp air that emanated from the hole in the wall permeated the room. I left the lamp on the floor and placed my hands on the softened filler around the hole. I started to scratch with my nails and felt it crumble beneath my fingers. I looked around and found an old paper knife in a drawer of one of the small tables piled up in a corner. I dug the knife edge into the filler. The plaster came away easily; it was only about three centimeters thick. On the other side I discovered wood.

  A door.

  I searched for the edges using the knife, and the shape of the door began to emerge. By then I’d already forgotten the close presence that was poisoning the house, lurking in the shadows. The door had no handle, just a lock that had rusted away from being covered by damp plaster for years. I plunged the paper knife into it and struggled in vain, then began to kick the lock until the filler that held it in place was slowly dislodged. I finished freeing it with the paper knife and, once it was loose, the door opened with a simple push.