The Angel's Game (42 page)

“Are you all right, Señor Martín?” he asked.

I nodded. The lawyer led the inspector over to a corner. I heard them whispering. Grandes gesticulated with suppressed fury. Valera watched him coldly and shook his head. The conversation went on for almost a minute. Finally Grandes huffed and let his hands fall to his sides.

“Pick up your scarf, Señor Martín. We’re leaving,” Valera ordered. “The inspector has finished his questioning.”

Behind him, Grandes bit his lip, glaring at Marcos, who shrugged. Without losing his expert smile, Valera took me by the arm and led me out of the dungeon.

“I trust that the treatment you received from these police officers has been correct, Señor Martín.”

“Yes,” I managed to stammer.

“Just a moment,” Grandes called out behind us.

Valera stopped and, motioning for me to be quiet, he turned round.

“If you have any more questions for Señor Martín you can direct them to our office and we will be glad to help you. In the meantime, and
unless you have a more important reason for keeping Señor Martín on the premises, we shall retire. We wish you a good evening and thank you for your kindness, which I will certainly mention to your superiors, especially to Chief Inspector Salgado, who, as you know, is a dear friend.”

Sergeant Marcos started to move toward us, but Inspector Grandes stopped him. I exchanged a last glance with him before Valera took me by the arm again and pulled me away.

“Don’t wait about,” he whispered.

We walked down the dimly lit passage until we came to a staircase that took us up to another long corridor. At the end of the second corridor a small door opened onto the ground-floor entrance hall and the main exit, where a chauffeur-driven Mercedes-Benz was waiting for us with its engine running. As soon as the chauffeur saw Valera, he jumped out and opened the door for us. I sat down on the backseat. The car was equipped with heating and the leather seats were warm. Valera sat next to me and, with a tap on the glass that separated the back from the driver’s compartment, he instructed the chauffeur to set off. Once the car was en route and had settled in the center lane of Vía Layetana, Valera smiled at me as if nothing had happened. He pointed at the mist that parted like undergrowth as we drove through it.

“A disagreeable night, isn’t it?” he said casually.

“Where are we going?”

“To your home, of course. Unless you’d rather go to a hotel or …”

“No. That’s fine.”

The car was rolling along down Vía Layetana. Valera gazed at the deserted streets with little interest.

“What are you doing?” I finally asked.

“What do you think I’m doing? Representing you and looking after your interests.”

“Tell the driver to stop the car,” I said.

The chauffeur looked at Valera’s eyes in the mirror. Valera shook his head and gestured to him to continue.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Señor Martín. It’s late, it’s cold, and I’m taking you home.”

“I’d rather walk.”

“Be reasonable.”

“Who sent you?”

Valera sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“You have good friends, Señor Martín. It is important in life to have good friends and especially to know how to keep them,” he said. “As important as knowing when one is stubbornly following the wrong path.”

“Might that path be the one that goes past Casa Marlasca, number 13 Carretera de Vallvidrera?”

Valera smiled patiently, as if he were scolding an unruly child.

“Señor Martín, believe me when I say that the farther away you stay from that house and that business, the better for you. Do accept at least this piece of advice.”

When the chauffeur reached Paseo de Colón, he turned and drove up to Calle Comercio and from there to the entrance of Paseo del Borne. The carts with meat and fish, ice and spices were beginning to accumulate opposite the large marketplace. As we drove past, four boys were unloading the carcass of a calf, leaving a trail of blood that could be smelled in the air.

“Your area is charming, full of picturesque scenes, Señor Martín.”

The driver stopped on the corner of Calle Flassaders and got out of the car to open the door for us. The lawyer got out with me.

“I’ll come with you to the door,” he said.

“People will think we’re lovers.”

We entered the alleyway, a chasm of shadows, and headed toward my house. On reaching the front door, the lawyer offered me his hand with professional courtesy.

“Thanks for getting me out of that place.”

“Don’t thank me,” replied Valera, pulling an envelope out of the inside pocket of his coat.

I recognized the wax seal with the angel even in the tenuous light that dripped from the streetlamp above our heads. Valera handed me the envelope and, with a final nod, walked back to the waiting car. I opened
my front door and went up the steps to the apartment. When I got in I went straight to the study and placed the envelope on the desk. I opened it and pulled out the folded sheet of paper with the boss’s writing.

I folded the sheet of paper and put it carefully in the envelope. Then I lit a match and, holding the envelope by one corner, moved it closer to the flame. I watched it burn until the wax turned to scarlet tears that fell on the desk and my fingers were covered in ashes.

“Go to hell,” I whispered. The night, darker than ever, leaned in against the windowpanes.

S
itting in the armchair in the study, I waited for a dawn that did not come, until anger got the better of me and I went out into the street ready to defy Valera’s warning. A cold, biting wind was blowing, the sort that precedes dawn in wintertime. As I crossed Paseo del Borne I thought I heard footsteps behind me. I turned round for a moment but couldn’t see anyone except for the market boys unloading carts so I continued walking. When I reached Plaza Palacio I saw the lights of the first tram of the day waiting in the mist that crept up from the port. Snakes of blue light crackled along the overhead power cable. I stepped into the tram and sat at the front. The same conductor as on my last trip took the money for my ticket. A dozen or so passengers dribbled in, each one alone. After a few minutes the tram set off and we began our journey. Across the sky stretched a web of red capillaries between black clouds. There was no need to be a poet or a wise man to know that it was going to be a bad day.

By the time we reached Sarriá, dawn had broken with a gray, dull light that robbed the morning of any color. I climbed the deserted, narrow streets of the neighborhood toward the lower slopes of the hillside. Occasionally I thought I again heard footsteps behind me, but each time I stopped and looked back there was nobody there. At last I reached the entrance to the passage leading to Casa Marlasca and made my way through a blanket of dead leaves that crunched under foot. Slowly, I
crossed the courtyard and walked up the stairs to the front door, peering through the large windows of the façade. I rapped the door knocker three times and moved back a few steps. I waited for a moment, but no answer came. I knocked again and heard the echoes fading away inside the house.

“Good morning!” I called out.

The grove surrounding the property seemed to absorb the sound of my voice. I went around the house, past the swimming pool area, and then on to the conservatory. Its windows were darkened by closed wooden shutters that made it impossible to see inside, but one of the windows next to the glass door was slightly open. The bolt securing the door was just visible through the gap. I put my arm through the window and slid open the bolt. The door gave way with a metallic creak. I looked behind me once more, to make sure there was nobody there, and went in.

…

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I began to distinguish a few outlines. I went over to the windows and half opened the shutters. A fan of light cut through the darkness, revealing the full profile of the room.

“Is anyone here?” I called out.

The sound of my voice sank into the bowels of the house like a coin falling into a bottomless well. I walked to the end of the conservatory, where an arch of carved wood led to a dim corridor lined with paintings that were barely visible on the velvet-covered walls. At the end of the corridor there was a large, round sitting room with a mosaic floor and a mural of enameled glass showing the figure of a white angel with one arm extended and fingers pointing like flames. A wide staircase rose around the room. I stopped at the foot of the stairs and called out again.

“Good morning! Señora Marlasca?”

The house drowned the dull echo of my words. I went up the stairs to the first floor and paused on the landing, looking down on the sitting room and the mural. From there I could see the trail my feet had left on the film of dust covering the ground. Apart from my footsteps, the only other sign of movement I could discern was parallel lines drawn in the
dust, about half a meter apart, and a trail of footprints between them. Large footprints. I stared at those marks in some confusion until I understood what I was seeing: the movement of a wheelchair and the marks of the person pushing it.

I thought I heard a noise behind my back and turned. A half-open door at one end of the corridor was gently swinging and I could feel a breath of cold air. I moved slowly toward the door, glancing at the rooms on either side, bedrooms with dust sheets covering the furniture. The closed windows and heavy darkness suggested these rooms had not been used in a long time, except for one, which was larger than the others, the master bedroom. It smelled of that odd mixture of perfume and illness associated with elderly people. I imagined this must be the room of Marlasca’s widow, but there was no sign of her.

The bed was neatly made. Opposite it stood a chest of drawers with a number of framed photographs on it. In all of them, without exception, was a boy with fair hair and a cheerful expression. Ismael Marlasca. In some pictures he posed next to his mother or other children. There was no sign of Diego Marlasca in any of them.

The sound of a door banging in the corridor startled me again and I exited the bedroom, leaving the pictures as I’d found them. The door to the room at the end was still swinging back and forth. I walked up to it and stopped for a second before entering, taking a deep breath.

Inside, everything was white. The walls and the ceiling were painted an immaculate white. White silk curtains. A small bed covered with white sheets. A white carpet. White shelves and cupboards. After the darkness that had prevailed throughout the house, the contrast dazzled my vision for a few seconds. The room seemed to be straight out of a fairy tale. There were toys and storybooks on the shelves. A life-size china harlequin sat at a dressing table, looking at himself in the mirror. A mobile of white birds hung from the ceiling. At first sight it looked like the room of a spoiled child, Ismael Marlasca, but it had the oppressive air of a funeral chamber.

I sat on the bed and sighed. Something in the room, I now noticed, seemed out of place. Beginning with the smell, a sickly, sweet stench. I
stood up and looked around me. On a chest of drawers I saw a china plate with a black candle, its wax melted into beads. I turned round. The smell seemed to be coming from the head of the bed. I opened the drawer of the bedside table and found a crucifix broken in three. The stench grew stronger. I walked around the room a few times but was unable to find the source. Then I saw it. There was something under the bed. A tin box, the sort that children use to hold their childhood treasures. I pulled out the box and placed it on the bed. The stench was now more powerful, and penetrating. I ignored my nausea and opened the box. Inside was a white dove, its heart pierced by a needle. I took a step back, covering my mouth and nose, and retreated to the corridor. The harlequin with its jackal smile observed me in the mirror. I ran back to the staircase and hurtled down the stairs, looking for the passage that led to the reading room and the door to the garden. At one point I thought I was lost and the house, like a creature capable of moving its passageways and rooms at will, was trying to prevent me from escaping. At last I sighted the conservatory and ran to the door. Only then, while I was struggling to release the bolt, did I hear malicious laughter behind me and know I was not alone in the house. I turned for an instant and saw a dark figure watching me from the end of the corridor, carrying a shining object in its hand. A knife. The bolt yielded and I pushed open the door, falling headlong onto the marble tiles surrounding the swimming pool. My face was barely centimeters from the surface and I could smell the stench of stagnant water. For a moment I peered into the shadows at the bottom of the pool. There was a short break in the clouds and a shaft of sunlight pierced the water, touching the floor, with its loose fragments of mosaic. The vision was over in a second: the wheelchair, tilted forward, stranded on the pool floor. The sunlight continued its journey to the deep end and it was there that I saw her: lying against the wall was what looked like a body shrouded in a threadbare white dress. At first I thought it was a doll, with scarlet lips shriveled by the water and eyes as bright as sapphires. Her red hair undulated gently in the rancid water and her skin was blue. It was Marlasca’s widow. A second later the gap in the clouds closed again and the water was once more a clouded mirror in which I could
glimpse only my face and a form that appeared in the doorway of the conservatory behind me, holding a knife. I shot up and ran straight into the garden, crossing the grove, scratching my face and hands on the bushes, until I reached the iron door and was out in the alleyway. I didn’t stop running until I reached the main road. There I turned, out of breath, and saw that Casa Marlasca was once again hidden down its long alleyway, invisible to the world.