Barcelona Shadows (22 page)

“Mama has princess dresses,” declares Angelina, but the wardrobe door is locked with a key and she can’t open it.

“Your mama isn’t good.”

Angelina looks cross, getting angry for real.

“She’s your mama too now.”

Teresina breaks out in tears, I want my mama, I want my mama, and Angelina smacks her across the face, abruptly stopping the tears.

“I want to go home.” Her cheek is all red.

“This is your house and you’re not leaving, or Mama will punish you.”

Teresina holds back her tears with all her strength. Angelina takes her by the hand and leads her to the kitchen. There she
searches through some sacks piled up on the floor and pulls out a knife, with dried blood, sharpened, as long as the girl’s forearm. With her free hand she caresses Teresina’s hair and kisses her on the forehead. She grabs some dirty little dresses from inside the sacks and chooses one.

“Now I’ll dress you and take care of you,” she says, her eyes twitchy, moving like panicky flies.

“
L
ADIES AND GENTLEMEN,
welcome to the Cinema Napoleón. I am Balshoi Makarov, artist of the mind and master of escape, and for the next hour I ask for your full attention.”

Applause, the audience packed, people standing in the sides, pickpockets having a field day in the aisles. Moisès Corvo and Juan Malsano behind the stage, watching as two spotlights dazzle the illusionist, dressed in a tuxedo, with his head shaved and his goatee pointy with Vaseline. Vladimir Makarov opens his arms, taking in the energy from the audience and continues:

“The spectacle you will now see is filled with mysteries and disappearances, but they are only illusions, lies that your brains are willing to believe, a return to the childhood you left behind so many long years ago… well, from here I can see some young ladies who only just left it behind recently”—laughter. “But yours truly is only able to make magic on stage, because real life is altogether different. And this is why we are here. This is a benefit performance for the return of Teresina Guitart, who disappeared the night of 10th February. Since I can’t pull her out of a top hat, at least I can humbly contribute with this new show, which I present tonight for you, and Teresina’s parents, Joan and Anna.

The lights focus on the couple in the first row, the man holding back his emotion and the woman with her face in several
handkerchiefs. A long ovation resounds through the theatre and the audience stand up to underscore their applause. Makarov has his arm extended towards them, allowing them to be the centre of attention.

Enriqueta and Salvador are sitting six rows back, uncomfortable but curious. During the long week all talk has been about Teresina and the magician’s performance at the Cinema Napoleón to raise funds for finding her. The whole street’s been discussing it and they couldn’t resist the temptation to show up, to know what’s said, to find out what the prevailing suspicions are as to the identity of the kidnappers. In a way, they are as much protagonists as the girl’s parents, but in anonymity. And Enriqueta hears the applause as if it were directed at her. Joan Pujaló is at the back, leaning on one of the doorways. Today he is jealous of Salvador, he’d never taken Enriqueta out on the town. He’s dying to be by her side.

“There are rumours that Mayor Sostres would come,” continues Makarov after a while. He furrows his brow and brings his hand up to it, creating a visor. “But I don’t see him out in the audience”—a burst of gaiety from the seats. “It’s for the best, I’ll have a distinguished crowd”—the laughter grows. “I would like to thank the chief of police, José Millán Astray, for coming, and some of his best inspectors, for the many hours they are devoting to the resolution of this case”—widespread rebuke, grimace from Millán, sardonic smiles from Corvo and Malsano in the shadows. “And I would like to thank all of you for your co-operation in these moments of such difficulty for the family.”

Balshoi Makarov makes an exaggerated movement with his arms, as if he wanted to shoot lightning out of his fingertips, and from the ceiling falls a rain of multicoloured confetti. Sebastián has
everything prepared after a couple of days of intense rehearsals. The idea for the show was Moisès Corvo’s, and Sebastián took it to the owner of the cinema, who gave it the go-ahead. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. Vladimir Makarov, for his part, accepted immediately. His contract had ended at the beginning of the year and he hadn’t found a promoter for his new show, so this presented him with an excellent opportunity to give his new number a baptism by fire and, at the same time, help the police in their investigation.

“First of all, I need a volunteer”—people look around as if saying, you, you, the boys pinch their girlfriends so they’ll jump up and go on stage. The illusionist pulls a coin purse out of his pocket, opens it and looks at the identification inside. “I see we have here… Marina… Marina? Is there a Marina in the room who’s missing this? Gentlemen of the police force, please, don’t hold this against me.”

A shriek and a girl gets up and runs towards Makarov. It is his assistant. I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I? No, no, no. And the show begins.

Balshoi Makarov is quite talented, and for a good long while he plays with the audience at guessing their dates of birth, the names of their parents or if the card they have in their trouser pockets, unbeknownst to them, is a three of spades. Half an hour later he pulls out a tank with glass walls filled to the top with water and asks a young man to tie up his hands and feet with some chains. Sebastián plays Beethoven’s ‘Clair de Lune’ on a gramophone and prepares the projector. Makarov hangs himself from a hook that lifts him, using pulleys, up and over the tank. He laughs and falls inside, while the upper trapdoor closes and the curtain comes down. Sebastián plays the film
History of
a Crime
by Ferdinand Zecca. It’s more than ten years old, but he hopes to achieve the desired effect.

A thief enters a room where a man is sleeping, and he breaks into his safe. The noise wakes the victim up and he fights against the intruder, who pulls out a knife and sinks it into his chest, fatally wounding him.

Makarov has already got out of the fish tank through the back. When he fell, he landed in a half-empty compartment in the centre, covered up to his waist. Now he undoes the chains and goes down through a hidden trapdoor without anyone noticing.

“Did you see anybody?” asks Corvo.

“No, there’s too much light. I’ll look now, before the film ends.” He wets his face and shirt to make it look as if he was in the water.

The thief in the film is at an outside café, surrounded by beautiful women, living the high life, when the gendarmes show up and arrest him. They take him to prison and there he falls into a deep sleep, watched over closely by a jailer. He dreams that he has a full, honourable life, with a wife and children and guests over for dinner, and that he is happy. But the long arm of the law wakes him up, and a priest prays the last words for his soul. They are taking him to the scaffold.

Makarov goes out to the side corridor to finish off the number. He has to get to the first floor, right beside the projection booth, and surprise everyone. He will have escaped the wings of death just as the film ends. He only has five minutes.

The criminal begs for forgiveness and faints as he sees the end approaching. The guillotine awaits him and he draws nearer, tied up like Makarov was before jumping into the box, and moaning. The public goes oh, and there are those who can’t bear to look. The thief is stretched out and they are about to decapitate him.

Enriqueta thinks she’s already seen enough, that it’s all a pantomime and that she has better things to do than watch films and sleight of hand. She elbows Salvador Vaquer in the ribs. They stand up and leave the row of chairs, amid protests from the other spectators who want to see the end of the film. Makarov makes them out among the penumbras of the theatre and recognizes the gimp without a shadow of a doubt. He points to him and looks at the policemen, who are keeping a close watch on the audience from the other side.

Enriqueta Martí and Moisès Corvo exchange glances, and it seems they say it all. The police see Salvador, limping as fast as he can towards the exit.

“Pujaló,” says Malsano in a hushed voice, just as
History of a Crime
ends and the curtain rises. “There, at the back.”

Juan Malsano breaks into a run because Pujaló saw that something was going wrong and he vanished through the door. Moisès Corvo heads towards where Enriqueta and Salvador are fleeing. The spotlights illuminate Makarov, on the first floor, who is waving every which way. The applause is deafening.

“What’s that one’s name?” shouts Corvo to Staff Sergeant Asens, who is in charge of security for the performance.

“What?” He doesn’t hear him, the ovation kills all other sound.

“What’s that one’s name?” And he points to the couple.

“Salvador?”

“The gimp. The fat gimp.”

“Salvador Vaquer, a wastrel. And she is Enriqueta Martí.”

Moisès Corvo feels a stab in his left arm, at the height of the bullet wound. His monster, just metres away.

He pulls out his revolver and quickens his step.

Joan Pujaló, sweating like a pig, crosses the Rambla and enters
Anselm Clavé Street. He isn’t used to the exercise and he’s gasping for breath. Inspector Malsano loses sight of him. He has to get him, no matter how, he is convinced he has something to do with it, running away as fast as your legs will carry you when the police have spotted you can only mean bad things. When he reaches Ample Street, there is no trace of the painter. The echo of Pujaló’s shoes against the cobblestones fades out, and Malsano has to look in every doorway. He doesn’t know if he’s still running away or if he’s now hiding. He opens some doors, but the blackness is his enemy. After a little while he lowers his arms, takes a deep breath, with burning lungs, and he admits defeat.

Moisès Corvo is getting increasingly closer to Enriqueta and Salvador. He, limping, and she, all dressed up, walk slowly. He grips the weapon in his hand, ready to use it, and shouts at them when he’s got them in his reach on Sant Pau Street.

“Police!”

The couple stop, turn, and remain still, staring at the inspector.

“Don’t frighten us, Officer,” she says, the bodkin she always carries hidden in her sleeve slipping down to her hand.

“Hands in the air,” demands Corvo.

“I think not,” she says.

Blackmouth smacks a stick into the inspector’s head with all his might. Corvo turns, unsure as to what’s happened, and the lad wallops him again, this time laying him out on the ground.

Killing someone doesn’t require intent. There are murders where the killer went too far, or didn’t consider the consequences of certain actions. To kill someone, the only truly essential element is opportunity. Moisès Corvo lies with his head open, at Blackmouth’s feet, as the lad winds up with the stick to finish him off.

“Enough!” shouts Enriqueta.

When Malsano returns to the Cinema Napoleón, with the performance still going on, he doesn’t find Corvo. He asks Asens, who tells him he hasn’t been seen since. And he repeats the names of the couple he was pursuing. Juan Malsano goes out to look for them, but he doesn’t know where to start. He has a bad feeling, which grows with the passing hours. He doesn’t find him at the police station on Conde del Asalto or the prefecture on Sepúlveda Street. He decides to head over to Corvo’s flat, on Balmes Street, but doesn’t find him there either. He hesitates about asking his brother if he’s seen him, so as not to worry him any further. The next day Juan Malsano checks the hospitals, with no luck. Millán Astray has found out about the disappearance and calls Malsano in for an urgent meeting.

“Leave it in our hands. Rest. This matter is affecting you personally and your perspective on the big picture is getting muddled. We’ll put every man on finding Inspector Corvo.”

But Malsano can hear the echo of his words, that’s how hollow they are. They’re now not only taking him off the investigation, but also the search for his missing partner. The policeman doesn’t mention the names Enriqueta or Salvador. He’s afraid that if he does someone could catch them first and make them disappear. He has to arrest them himself.

Golem and Babyface are waiting for him right outside the police station.

“What did he say?” asks the big bloke.

“That I should go home and sleep.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Are you guys very busy?”

An hour later, Golem knocks down the door to the flat on
Picalquers Street and shouts police police police, while Babyface and Malsano enter crouched down and with their revolvers in hand, hammers cocked, ready to fire. In the darkness, every room is a mystery, every corner is a hidey-hole, every shadow an enemy. When they are sure it is empty, they begin the search. They know that it’s completely illegal, that without the authorization of the judge this entry cannot be used as evidence in any trial, but they don’t care. The priority is finding Moisès Corvo. Malsano takes the bedrooms, Golem the kitchen and Babyface the tiny parlour.

“Nobody’s lived here for months.”

The search yields jars filled with tallows, animal bones (they look like rabbit, or hare, or maybe cat, but not human), half-rotten hides and children’s toys. There are no photos or portraits, nor a single mirror. The walls have yellowed paper and no decoration of any kind. In a chest of drawers appears a pile of papers, amid fines and receipts, which the policemen study carefully. In some of them there are repeated addresses, one on Riera Baixa Street, another on Tallers and a third on Ponent, which they mistake for Pujaló’s and disregard.

Moisès Corvo is bound hand and foot, and hasn’t seen anything for a few hours because they’ve locked him up in a pitch-black room. He can’t speak: he has a handkerchief or a rag in his mouth. If he listens carefully he hears some muffled voices, but he can’t really make out the words. He is stupefied and woozy, and his arm and head are seething with pain. They might have drugged him, because he has to fight to stay awake and he’s awfully disoriented. He tries to figure out how many people there are, sounds like a man and woman, the ones he was following when
he was attacked from behind. It’s possible that the one speaking with a more nasal tone is Blackmouth, but he doesn’t know if he can trust his senses right now. He would even say that sometimes there is a girl chattering, or two, or more.

“Let’s just kill him.” Declaration of intentions from Salvador Vaquer, who is scared to death. “It’s too risky having a copper in the house.”

“No. Not that.” Enriqueta combs Teresina ineptly, ripping out tufts of her hair, which is now quite short. The little girl doesn’t even dare to cry.

“How long before the scuffers tie up loose ends and show up here? Nobody’s protecting us now, Enriqueta!”

“We still have many friends, Salvador. Many.”

“Why don’t we kill him and get it over with?”

“Because it’s much more fun this way.”