Marina

  ‘Did you know that Sentís’s body was discovered a week ago in the sewers?’ I asked.

  ‘I read the papers,’ he replied coldly.

  ‘Didn’t you find that strange?’

  ‘No stranger than anything else that is printed in the papers,’ said Shelley. ‘The world is sick. And I’m beginning to get tired. Will that be all?’

  I was going to ask him about the lady in black but Marina anticipated me, shaking her head with a smile. Shelley reached for the cord of the service bell and pulled it. María Shelley appeared, her eyes glued to her feet.

  ‘These youngsters are leaving, María. Kindly show them out.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  We stood up. I made as if to take back the photograph but the doctor’s shaky hand stopped me.

  ‘I’m keeping this, if you don’t mind . . .’

  With those words he turned his back on us and gestured to his daughter to accompany us to the door. Just before we left the library I turned to have a last look at the doctor and saw him throw the picture into the fire. His glassy eyes watched it burn in the flames.

  María Shelley led us quietly to the hall and then smiled apologetically.

  ‘My father is a difficult man, but he has a good heart,’ she explained. ‘Life has dealt him many blows and sometimes his moods get the better of him . . .’

  She opened the door for us and turned on the light on the landing. I noticed a glimmer of doubt in her eyes, as if she wanted to say something but was reluctant to do so. Reluctant or afraid. Marina also noticed this and offered her hand as a sign of gratitude. María Shelley shook it. Loneliness poured out of that woman’s pores like cold sweat.

  ‘I don’t know what my father has told you . . .’ she said, lowering her voice and looking behind her fearfully.

  ‘María?’ came the doctor’s voice from inside the flat. ‘Who are you talking to?’

  A shadow fell over María’s face.

  ‘Coming, Father, coming . . .’

  She gave us one last desolate look and stepped back inside. As she turned, I noticed a small medal hanging from a chain around her neck. I could have sworn it was in the shape of a butterfly with open wings. The door closed before I could be sure. We were left standing on the landing, listening to the thundering voice of the doctor as he vented his fury on his daughter. The light on the landing went out. For a moment I thought I detected a smell of decomposing flesh. It came from some point on the staircase, as if a dead animal were lying there in the dark. Then I thought I could hear footsteps fading away above us and the smell, or the impression, disappeared.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said.

  CHAPTER 14

  ON OUR WAY BACK TO MARINA’S HOUSE I NOTICED that she was looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘Aren’t you going to spend Christmas with your family?’ she asked.

  I shrugged, staring at the traffic.

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I sighed, scrambling for words.

  ‘You could say my family is, I don’t know . . . complicated. We haven’t spent Christmas together for years. My parents are too busy hating each other for us to get together.’

  ‘But I’m sure they love you,’ Marina offered.

  I smiled to myself, biting my words.

  ‘Not everybody is like you and Germán,’ I said at last.

  My voice had sounded unintentionally harsh and hostile.

  ‘I’m sorry, Oscar. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  I nodded weakly, feigning indifference.

  ‘It’s OK. I prefer it this way, really.’

  She nodded, and I avoided her eyes. We walked on in silence for a while. I accompanied Marina to the gates of the old mansion and said goodbye to her.

  As I approached the school it began to rain. I looked up at the distant row of windows on the fourth floor. Only a couple of them had their lights on. Most of the boarders had left for the Christmas holidays and wouldn’t return for another three weeks. Every year it was the same. The boarding school remained almost empty, with only a couple of poor souls left behind in the tutors’ care. The two previous years had been the worst, but this year it felt different. I had not lied when I told Marina I preferred it this way. The very idea of leaving her and Germán was unthinkable. As long as I was close to them I wouldn’t feel lonely.

  Once again I walked up the stairs to my room. The corridor was silent. That whole wing was deserted. I imagined that the only person left would be Doña Paula, a widow in charge of the cleaning who lived by herself in a small apartment on the third floor. I thought I could hear the incessant murmur of her television set on the floor below. I walked past the row of empty bedrooms until I reached mine and opened the door. A roll of thunder roared above the city and the whole building trembled. The glow from the flash of lightning pierced through the closed shutters. I lay down on my bed without removing my clothes and heard the storm unleashing itself in the dark. Then I opened the drawer of my bedside table and pulled out the pencil sketch Germán had made of Marina the day we went to the beach. I gazed at it until fatigue bore down on me and I fell asleep holding it as if it were an amulet. When I awoke, the portrait had disappeared from my hands.

  I opened my eyes with a start. I was shivering with cold and could feel the breath of the wind on my face. The window was wide open and the rain was cascading into the room. I sat up in a daze, groped around the bedside table in the dark and pressed the light switch in vain: there was no power. It was then I realised that the portrait I was holding when I’d fallen asleep was no longer in my hands, or on the bed, or on the floor. I rubbed my eyes, trying to understand. Suddenly I noticed it. Intense and penetrating. That stench of rot. In the air. In the room. On my own clothes, as if someone had rubbed the carcass of a decomposing animal over my skin while I slept. It made me retch and a second later panic took hold of me. I wasn’t alone. Someone or something had come in through that window while I slept.

  Slowly, fumbling my way past the furniture, I reached the door. I tried turning on the main light: nothing. I peered into the corridor, but it was cloaked in shadow. I could smell that odour again, more intensely, like the trail of a wild animal. A moment later I thought I could see a figure entering the last room on the corridor.

  ‘Doña Paula?’ I called, almost in a whisper.

  The door closed gently. Taking a deep breath I stepped into the corridor and walked slowly down it, my eyes trained on that last door. I was only a few metres away when I heard a chilling sound, like the hiss of a snake. It was murmuring a word. My name. I froze. The voice came from within the closed bedroom.

  ‘Doña Paula, is that you?’ I stammered, trying to control the trembling in my hands.

  The voice repeated my name. It was a voice such as I’d never heard before. A broken whisper, cruel and poisoned with evil. I was stranded in that corridor, incapable of moving a single muscle. All of a sudden the bedroom door flew open. In the space of a seemingly endless second I thought the corridor was narrowing and shrinking under my feet, pulling me towards that door.

  I could quite clearly distinguish something shining on the bed in the middle of the room. It was Marina’s picture, the one I was clasping when I fell asleep. Two wooden hands, puppet’s hands, were clutching it. Bits of bloodstained wire protruded from the base of the wrists. I knew then, with absolute certainty, that those were the hands Benjamín Sentís had lost in the depths of the sewers. They’d been torn off. I felt the air leaving my lungs.

  The stench was becoming unbearable, corrosive. And with the lucidity that comes with panic I noticed the figure hanging motionless on the wall. It was dressed in black, with its arms open wide. A mesh of tangled hair covered its face. As I stood by the door, I watched it raise its head with infinite slowness, displaying a smile of bright wolfish teeth in the dark. Under the gloves, claws began to move like bundles of snakes. I took a step back and once again heard that voice whispering my name.
The figure was creeping towards me like a giant spider.

  I let out a scream and slammed the door shut. I was trying to lock it from the outside but it shook violently as ten nails, sharp as knives, cut through the wood. I started running to the other end of the corridor and heard the door being smashed to pieces. The corridor seemed to have turned into an endless tunnel. I could see the staircase a few metres further on and turned my head to look behind me. The nightmarish silhouette was gliding straight towards me, the glow from its eyes piercing the darkness. I was trapped.

  Taking advantage of the fact that I knew every nook and cranny in the school, I flung myself down the stairs and along the corridor leading to the kitchen. I closed the door behind me, but it was useless. The creature threw itself against it, knocking it down and tossing me onto the floor. I rolled over the tiles and took shelter beneath a table. I spied a pair of legs. All around me dozens of plates and glasses were being smashed, spreading a blanket of broken glass. I glimpsed the edge of a serrated knife among the debris and grabbed it frantically. The figure squatted in front of me, like a wolf at the mouth of a warren. I wielded the knife close to its face and the blade sank in as if it were plunging into mud. I heard a muffled cry as the figure pulled away and I was able to escape to the other end of the kitchen, looking for something else to defend myself with as I moved backwards, step by step. I found a drawer and opened it. Cutlery, kitchen utensils, candles, a lighter . . . Instinctively I seized the lighter and tried to ignite it. I could see the shadow of the creature rising before me and smelled its foul breath. One of its claws was drawing close to my throat. Just then the lighter finally produced a flame that shone on the creature, now only a foot away. I closed my eyes and held my breath, convinced that I’d seen the face of death and all I could do was wait. The wait became eternal.

  When I opened my eyes again, the creature had gone. I heard its footsteps fading away and followed it as it made its way to my bedroom. I thought I could hear a groan, a sound that seemed full of pain, or anger. When I reached my room, I peered around the door. The creature was rummaging through my rucksack. It grabbed the photograph album I’d taken from the greenhouse, then it turned and we stared at one another. The ghostly glow of the night outlined the intruder for a tenth of a second. I wanted to say something, but the creature had already leaped out of the window.

  I ran to the windowsill and looked out, expecting to see the body falling into the void. The figure was sliding down the drainpipe at an incredible speed, its black cloak flapping in the wind. From there it jumped onto the roof of the east wing, where it dodged through a forest of gargoyles and turrets. Paralysed, I watched the hellish apparition move away under the storm, performing astonishing leaps, like a panther, as if the roofs of Barcelona were its jungle. I realised that the window frame was covered in blood. I followed the trail back to the corridor and it took me a while to understand that the blood was not mine. I’d wounded a human being with the knife. I leaned against the wall. My knees were giving way and I crouched down, exhausted.

  I don’t know how long I remained like that. When I managed to stand up, I decided to go to the only place where I thought I would feel safe.

  CHAPTER 15

  I REACHED MARINA’S HOUSE AND, GROPING MY way through the garden, walked around the building and headed for the kitchen. A warm glow flickered through the shutters. I felt relieved. I rapped on the door and, finding it open, walked in. Despite the late hour, Marina was writing in her notebook, sitting at the kitchen table in the candlelight with Kafka on her lap. When she saw me the pen fell out of her hand.

  ‘Good God, Oscar! What . . .?’ she cried, staring at my torn dirty clothes and feeling the scratches on my face. ‘What happened to you?’

  After a cup or two of hot tea I managed to tell Marina what had just happened – or what I thought had happened, because I was beginning to question my own sanity. She listened to me, holding my hand between hers to calm me down. I probably looked even worse than I thought.

  ‘You don’t mind if I spend the night here? I didn’t know where to go. And I don’t want to go back to the school.’

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t let you go back there anyway. You can stay with us as long as you need to.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I could read in her eyes the same anxiety that was gnawing at me: after what had happened that night her house was no safer than the school or any other place. The presence that had been following us knew where to find us.

  ‘What are we going to do now, Oscar?’

  ‘We could look for the inspector Dr Shelley mentioned – Florián – and try to find out what’s really going on . . .’

  Marina sighed.

  ‘Listen, perhaps I’d better leave . . .’ I ventured.

  ‘Definitely not. I’ll get a bedroom ready for you upstairs, next to mine. Come.’

  ‘What . . . what will Germán say?’

  ‘Germán will be delighted. We’ll tell him you’re going to spend Christmas with us.’

  I followed her up the stairs. I’d never been on the upper floor. A corridor with carved oak doors on either side stretched out in the candlelight. My room was at the end of the passage, next to Marina’s. The furniture looked like a collection of antiques but it was all very neat and tidy.

  ‘The sheets are clean,’ said Marina, pulling back the bedspread. ‘There are more blankets in the wardrobe, in case you feel cold. And here are some towels. Let’s see if I can find you a pair of Germán’s pyjamas.’

  ‘They’ll look like a tent on me,’ I joked.

  ‘Better to err on the side of generosity. I’ll be back in a sec.’

  Her footsteps faded away down the corridor. I left my clothes on a chair and slipped between the clean starched sheets. I’d never felt so tired in my life. My eyelids had turned into leaden slabs. When she returned, Marina was carrying some sort of nightgown about two metres long, which looked as if it had been handpicked from Kaiser Wilhelm’s collection of long johns.

  ‘Good Lord,’ I whispered. ‘With all due respect . . .’

  ‘Sorry, but it’s all I could find. Give it a shot. I’m sure it will look great on you. It’s the man that makes the clothes, not the other way around. Besides, Germán doesn’t allow me to have naked boys sleeping here. House rules.’

  She threw the nightgown at me and left a couple of candles on a small table.

  ‘If you need anything, bang on the wall. I’m on the other side.’

  For a moment we gazed at one another without saying a word. Finally Marina looked away.

  ‘Goodnight, Oscar,’ she whispered.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  When I awoke the room was bathed in soft coppery light. My window faced east and I could see a bright sun rising over the city. Before getting up I noticed that my clothes had disappeared from the chair where I’d left them the night before. I realised what this meant and cursed so much kindness, convinced that Marina had done it on purpose. The smell of warm bread and fresh coffee filtered under the door. Having abandoned all hope of preserving my dignity, I prepared to go downstairs attired in that ridiculous nightgown. I stepped into the corridor and heard the voices of my hosts chatting in the kitchen. I plucked up courage and walked down the stairs, then paused in the doorway and cleared my throat. Marina was pouring coffee for Germán and she looked up.

  ‘Good morning, sleeping beauty,’ she said.

  Germán turned and stood up courteously, offering me his hand and a chair at the table.

  ‘Good morning, my dear Oscar,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘It’s a pleasure to have you with us. Marina has already told me about the building work in the school dormitories. You can stay here as long as you want. I mean it. Make yourself at home.’

  ‘Thank you so much . . .’

  Marina poured coffee into my cup, smiling conspiratorially as she pointed at my nightgown.

  ‘Looks great on you.’

  ‘Divine. Where are my clothes?’

&nb
sp; ‘They spent the night under the effects of soap and water. Don’t worry. I left them outside to dry early this morning.’

  Germán passed me a tray full of croissants, fresh out of the Foix bakery and still warm. My mouth watered.

  ‘Try one of these, Oscar,’ Germán suggested. ‘It’s the Mercedes-Benz of croissants. And make sure to try that jam. Outstanding.’

  I wolfed down everything that was put in front of me like a castaway just rescued from a raft after weeks at sea. Germán was leafing through a newspaper distractedly. He seemed to be in good spirits, and although he’d already finished his breakfast, he didn’t get up until I was full and there was nothing left for me to eat other than the cutlery and the napkins. Then he checked his watch.

  ‘You’re going to be late for your meeting with the priest, Dad,’ Marina reminded him.

  Germán nodded, looking slightly annoyed.

  ‘I don’t know why I bother,’ he said. ‘The rogue cheats like a horse trader.’

  ‘It’s the uniform,’ said Marina. ‘It gives him a sense of entitlement . . .’

  I looked at both of them, puzzled. I couldn’t follow a word of what they were saying.

  ‘Chess,’ explained Marina. ‘Germán and the priest have been sparring for years.’

  ‘Never challenge a Jesuit to chess, Oscar, my friend. Trust me. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’ said Germán, standing up.

  ‘Of course. Good luck.’

  Germán took his overcoat, his hat and his ebony cane and set off to his meeting with the scheming prelate. As soon as he’d left, Marina went out into the garden and returned with my clothes.

  ‘I’m afraid Kafka slept on them.’

  The clothes were dry, but the cat’s scent wasn’t going to disappear, not even after five washes.

  ‘Come on, get dressed.’

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘This morning, when I went out to get the breakfast, I called the police station from the bar in the square. Inspector Víctor Florián is retired and lives in Vallvidrera. He doesn’t have a phone, but they gave me an address.’