The Angel's Game (31 page)

“He doesn’t speak, but if you stare at the portrait for a while he looks as if he might do so at any moment,” said a voice behind me.

Sebastián Valera was a man with a quiet demeanor who looked as if he’d spent the best part of his life attempting to crawl out from his father’s shadow and now, at fifty plus, was tired of trying. He had penetrating, intelligent eyes and that exquisite manner enjoyed only by princesses and the most expensive lawyers. He offered me his hand and I shook it.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but I wasn’t expecting your visit,” he said, pointing to a seat.

“Not at all. Thank you for receiving me.”

Valera gave me the smile of someone who knows how much he charges for every minute.

“My secretary tells me your name is David Martín. You’re David Martín, the author?”

The look of surprise must have given me away.

“I come from a family of great readers,” he explained. “How can I help?”

“I’d like to ask you about the ownership of a building in—”

“The tower house?” the lawyer interrupted politely.

“Yes.”

“You know it?” he asked.

“I live there.”

Valera looked at me for a while without abandoning his smile. He straightened up in his chair and seemed to go tense.

“Are you the present owner?”

“Actually I rent the place.”

“And what is it you’d like to know, Señor Martín?”

“If possible, I’d like to know about the acquisition of the building by the Banco Hispano Colonial and gather some information on the previous owner.”

“Don Diego Marlasca,” the lawyer muttered. “May I ask the nature of your interest?”

“Personal. Recently, while I was doing some refurbishment on the building, I came across a number of items that I think belonged to him.”

The lawyer frowned.

“Items?”

“A book. Or, rather, a manuscript.”

“Señor Marlasca was a great lover of literature. In fact, he was the author of a large number of books on law and also on history and other subjects. A great scholar. And a great man, although at the end of his life there were those who wished to tarnish his reputation.”

Again, my surprise must have been evident.

“I assume you’re not familiar with the circumstances surrounding Señor Marlasca’s death.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Valera looked as if he were debating whether or not to go on.

“You’re not going to write about this, are you, or about Irene Sabino?”

“No.”

“Do I have your word?”

I nodded.

“You couldn’t say anything that wasn’t already said at the time, I suppose,” Valera said, more to himself than to me.

The lawyer looked briefly at his father’s portrait and then fixed his eyes on me.

“Diego Marlasca was my father’s partner and his best friend. Together they founded this law firm. Señor Marlasca was a brilliant lawyer. Unfortunately he was also a very complicated man, subject to long periods of melancholy. There came a time when my father and Señor Marlasca decided to dissolve their partnership. Señor Marlasca left the legal profession to devote himself to his first vocation, writing. They say most lawyers secretly wish to leave the profession and become writers—”

“Until they compare the salaries.”

“The fact is that Don Diego had struck up a friendship with Irene Sabino, quite a popular actress at the time, for whom he wanted to write a play. That was all. Señor Marlasca was a gentleman and was never unfaithful to his wife, but you know what people are like. Gossip. Rumors and jealousy. Anyhow, word got round that Don Diego was having an affair with Irene Sabino. His wife never forgave him, and the couple separated. Señor Marlasca was shattered. He bought the tower house and moved in. Sadly, he’d been living there only a year when he died in an unfortunate accident.”

“What sort of accident?”

“Señor Marlasca drowned. It was a tragedy.”

Valera lowered his eyes.

“And the scandal?”

“Let’s just say there were those with evil tongues who wanted people to believe that Señor Marlasca had committed suicide after an unhappy love affair with Irene Sabino.”

“And was that so?”

Valera removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. I don’t know and I don’t care. What happened, happened.”

“What became of Irene Sabino?”

Valera put his glasses on again.

“I thought you were interested only in Señor Marlasca and the ownership of the house.”

“It’s simple curiosity. Among Señor Marlasca’s belongings I found a number of photographs of Irene Sabino, as well as letters from her to Señor Marlasca …”

“What are you getting at?” Valera snapped. “Is it money you want?”

“No.”

“I’m glad, because nobody is going to give you any. Nobody cares about the subject anymore. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, Señor Valera. I had no intention of bothering you or insinuating that anything was untoward. I’m sorry if I offended you with my questions.”

The lawyer smiled and let out a gentle sigh, as if the conversation had already ended.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m the one who should apologize.”

Taking advantage of the lawyer’s conciliatory tone, I put on my sweetest expression.

“Perhaps his widow …”

Valera shrank into his armchair, visibly uncomfortable.

“Doña Alicia Marlasca? Señor Martín, please don’t misunderstand me, but part of my duty as the family lawyer is to preserve their privacy. For obvious reasons. A lot of time has gone by and I wouldn’t like to see old wounds reopened unnecessarily.”

“I understand.”

The lawyer was looking at me tensely.

“And you say you found a book?” he asked.

“Yes. A manuscript. It’s probably not important.”

“Probably not. What was the work about?”

“Theology, I’d say.”

Valera nodded.

“Does that surprise you?”

“No. On the contrary. Diego was an authority on the history of religion. A learned man. In this firm he is still remembered with great affection.

Tell me, what particular aspects of the history of the property are you interested in?”

“I think you’ve already helped me a great deal, Señor Valera. I wouldn’t like to take up any more of your time.”

The lawyer nodded, looking relieved.

“It’s the house, isn’t it?” he asked.

“A strange place, yes,” I agreed.

“I remember going there once when I was young, shortly after Don Diego bought it.”

“Do you know why he bought it?”

“He said he’d been fascinated with it ever since he was a child and had always thought he’d like to live there. Don Diego was like that. Sometimes he acted like a young boy who would give everything up in exchange for a dream.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine. Do you know anything about the owner from whom Señor Marlasca bought the house? Someone called Bernabé Massot?”

“He’d made his money in the Americas. He didn’t spend more than an hour in the house. He bought it when he returned from Cuba and kept it empty for years. He didn’t say why. He lived in a mansion he had built in Arenys de Mar and sold the tower house for nothing. He didn’t want to have anything to do with it.”

“And before him?”

“I think a priest lived there. A Jesuit. I’m not sure. My father was the person who took care of Don Diego’s business and when Don Diego died, he burned all of the files.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because of all the things I’ve told you. To avoid rumors and preserve the memory of his friend, I suppose. The truth is, he never told me. My father was not the sort of man to offer explanations, but he must have had his reasons. Good reasons, I’m sure. Diego had been a good friend to him, as well as being his partner, and all of it was very painful for my father.”

“What happened to the Jesuit?”

“I believe he had disciplinary issues with the order. He was a friend of Father Cinto Verdaguer, and I think he was mixed up in some of his problems, if you know what I mean.”

“Exorcisms.”

“Gossip.”

“How could a Jesuit who had been thrown out of the order afford a house like that?”

I sensed that I was scraping the bottom of the barrel.

“I’d like to be of further help, Señor Martín, but I don’t know how. Believe me.”

“Thank you for your time, Señor Valera.”

The lawyer nodded and pressed a bell on the desk. The secretary who had greeted me appeared in the doorway. Valera and I shook hands.

“Señor Martín is leaving. See him to the door, Margarita.”

The secretary inclined her head and led the way. Before leaving the office I turned round to look at the lawyer, who was standing crestfallen beneath his father’s portrait. I followed Margarita out to the main door but just as she was about to close it I turned and gave her the most innocent of smiles.

“Excuse me. Señor Valera just told me Señora Marlasca’s address, but now that I think of it I’m not sure I remember the street number correctly …”

Margarita sighed, eager to be rid of me.

“It’s 13. Carretera de Vallvidrera, number 13.”

“Of course.”

“Good afternoon,” said Margarita.

Before I was able to say good-bye, the door was shut in my face as solemnly as a holy sepulchre.

W
hen I returned to the tower house, I looked with different eyes at the building that had been my home and my prison for too many years. I went through the front door feeling as if I were entering the jaws of a being made of stone and shadow and ascended the wide staircase, penetrating the bowels of this creature; when I opened the door of the main floor, the long corridor that faded into darkness seemed, for the first time, like the antechamber of a poisoned and distrustful mind. At the far end, outlined against the scarlet twilight that filtered through from the gallery, was the silhouette of Isabella advancing toward me. I closed the door and turned on the light.

Isabella had dressed as a refined young lady, with her hair up and a few touches of makeup that made her look ten years older.

“You’re looking very attractive and elegant,” I said coldly.

“Like a girl your age, don’t you think? Do you like the dress?”

“Where did you find it?”

“It was in one of the trunks in the room at the end. I think it belonged to Irene Sabino. What do you think? Doesn’t it fit me well?”

“I told you to get someone to take everything away.”

“And I did. This morning I went to the parish church but they told me they couldn’t collect and we’d have to take it to them ourselves.”

I looked at her but didn’t say anything.

“It’s the truth,” she added.

“Take that off and put it back where you found it. And wash your face. You look like—”

“A tart?” Isabella said.

I shook my head and sighed.

“No. You could never look like a tart, Isabella.”

“Of course. That’s why you don’t fancy me,” she muttered, turning round and heading for her room.

“Isabella,” I called.

She ignored me.

“Isabella,” I repeated, raising my voice.

She threw me a hostile glance before slamming the bedroom door. I heard her beginning to move things about. I walked over to the door and rapped with my knuckles. There was no reply. I rapped again. Not a word. I opened the door and found her gathering the few things she’d brought with her and putting them in her bag.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m leaving, that’s what I’m doing. I’m going and I’m leaving you in peace. Or in war, because with you one never knows.”

“May I ask where you’re going?”

“What do you care? Is that a rhetorical or an ironic question? It’s obvious that you don’t give a damn about anything, but as I’m such an idiot I can’t tell the difference.”

“Isabella, wait a moment—”

“Don’t worry about the dress, I’m taking it off right now. And you can return the nibs, because I haven’t used them and I don’t like them. They’re corny and childish.”

I moved closer and put a hand on her shoulder. She jumped away, as if a snake had brushed against her.

“Don’t touch me.”

I withdrew to the doorway in silence. Isabella’s hands and lips were shaking.

“Isabella, forgive me. Please. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

She looked at me tearfully.

“You’ve done nothing but that. Ever since I got here. You’ve done
nothing but insult me and treat me as if I were a poor idiot who didn’t understand a thing.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “Leave your things. Don’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m asking you, please, not to go.”

“If I need pity and charity, I can find it elsewhere.”

“It’s not pity or charity, unless that’s what you feel for me. I’m asking you to stay because I’m the idiot here and I don’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone.”

“Great. Always thinking of others. Buy yourself a dog.”

She let the bag fall on the bed and faced me, drying her tears as the pent-up anger slowly dissipated.

“Well then, since we’re playing at telling the truth, let me tell you that you’re always going to be alone. You’ll be alone because you don’t know how to love or how to share. You’re like this house. It makes my hair stand on end. I’m not surprised your lady in white left you or that everyone else has too. You don’t love and you don’t allow yourself to be loved.”

I stared at her, crushed, as if I’d just been given a beating and didn’t know where the blows had come from. I searched for words but could only stammer.

“Is it true you don’t like the pen set?” I managed at last.

Isabella rolled her eyes, exhausted.

“Don’t look at me like a beaten dog. I might be stupid, but not that stupid.”

I didn’t reply but remained leaning against the doorframe. Isabella observed me with an expression somewhere between suspicion and pity.

“I didn’t mean to say what I said about your friend, the one in the photographs. I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“Don’t apologize. It’s the truth.”

I left the room, eyes downcast, and escaped to the study, where I gazed at the dark city buried in mist. After a while I heard her hesitant footsteps on the staircase.