The Angel's Game (48 page)

“I will.”

I took my leave with a quick nod and headed for the exit. As I walked away I heard him putting another sugar lump in his mouth and crunching it between his teeth.

…

When I turned into the Ramblas I noticed that the canopies outside the Liceo were lit up and a long row of cars, guarded by a small regiment of chauffeurs in uniform, was waiting by the pavement. The posters announced
Così fan tutte
and I wondered if Vidal had felt like forsaking his castle to attend. I scanned the circle of drivers that had formed on the central pavement and soon spotted Pep among them. I beckoned him over.

“What are you doing here, Señor Martín?”

“Where is she?”

“Señor Vidal is inside, watching the performance.”

“Not ‘he.’ ‘She.’ Cristina. Señora de Vidal. Where is she?”

Poor Pep swallowed hard.

“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

He told me that Vidal had been attempting to find her and that his father, the patriarch of the clan, had even hired various members of the police force to try to discover where she was.

“At first, Señor Vidal thought she was with you …”

“Hasn’t she called or sent a letter, a telegram … ?”

“No, Señor Martín. I swear. We’re all very worried, and Señor Vidal, well … I’ve never seen him like this in all the years I’ve known him. This is the first time he’s gone out since Señorita Cristina, I mean Señora Cristina—”

“Do you remember whether Cristina said something, anything, before she left Villa Helius?”

“Well …” said Pep, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You could hear her arguing with Señor Vidal. She seemed sad to me. She spent a lot of time by herself. She wrote letters and every day she went to the post office in Paseo Reina Elisenda to post them.”

“Did you ever speak to her alone?”

“One day, shortly before she left, Señor Vidal asked me to drive her to the doctor.”

“Was she ill?”

“She couldn’t sleep. The doctor prescribed laudanum.”

“Did she say anything to you on the way there?”

Pep hesitated.

“She asked after you, in case I’d heard from you or seen you.”

“Is that all?”

“She just seemed very sad. She started to cry, and when I asked her what was the matter she said she missed her father, Señor Manuel.”

I suddenly understood, berating myself for not having figured things out sooner. Pep looked at me in surprise and asked me why I was smiling.

“Do you know where she is?” he asked.

“I think so,” I murmured.

I thought I could hear a voice calling from the other side of the street and glimpsed a familiar figure in the Liceo foyer. Vidal hadn’t even managed to last the first act. Pep turned to attend to his master’s call, and before he had time to tell me to hide I had already disappeared into the night.

E
ven from afar it looked like bad news: the ember of a cigarette in the blue of the night, silhouettes leaning against a dark wall, the spiraling breath of three figures lying in wait by the main door of the tower house. Inspector Víctor Grandes, accompanied by his two guard dogs Marcos and Castelo, led the welcome committee. It wasn’t hard to work out that they’d found Alicia Marlasca’s body at the bottom of her pool in Sarriá and that my place on their list had gone up a few notches. The minute I caught sight of them I stopped and melted into the shadows, observing them for a few seconds to make sure they hadn’t noticed me—I was only some fifty meters away. I could distinguish Grandes’s profile in the thin light shed by the streetlamp on the wall. Retreating into the darkness, I slipped into the first alleyway I could find, disappearing into the mass of passages and arches of the Ribera quarter.

Ten minutes later I reached the main entrance to the Estación de Francia. The ticket offices were closed, but I could still see a few trains lined up by the platforms under the large vault of glass and steel. I checked the timetables. Just as I had feared, there were no departures scheduled until the following day and I couldn’t risk returning home and bumping into Grandes and Co. Something told me that on this occasion my visit to police headquarters would include full board, and not even the good offices of the lawyer Señor Valera would get me out of there as easily as the last time.

I decided to spend the night in a cheap hotel opposite the old Stock Exchange, in Plaza Palacio. Legend had it that the building was inhabited by a number of walking cadavers, one-time speculators whose greed and poor arithmetic skills had proved their undoing. I chose this dump because I imagined that not even the Fates would come looking for me there. I registered under the name of Antonio Miranda and paid for the room in advance. The receptionist, who looked like a mollusk, seemed to be embedded in his cubbyhole, which also served as a linen closet and souvenir shop. Handing me the key and a bar of El Cid soap that stank of bleach and looked as if it had already been used, he informed me that if I wanted female company he could send up a serving girl nicknamed Cock-Eye as soon as she returned from a home visit.

“She’ll make you as good as new,” he assured me.

I turned down the offer, claiming the onset of lumbago, and hurried up the stairs, wishing him good night. The room had the appearance and shape of a sarcophagus. One quick look was enough to persuade me that I should lie on the old bed fully clothed rather than getting under the sheets to fraternize with whatever was growing there. I covered myself with a threadbare blanket I found in the wardrobe—which at least smelled of mothballs—and turned off the light, trying to imagine that I was actually in the sort of suite that someone with a hundred thousand francs in the bank could afford. I barely slept all night.

…

I left the hotel halfway through the morning and made my way to the station, where I bought a first-class ticket, hoping I’d be able to sleep on the train to make up for the dreadful night I’d spent in that dive. Seeing that there were still twenty minutes to go before the train’s departure, I went over to the row of public telephones. I gave the operator the number Ricardo Salvador had given me—that of his downstairs neighbor.

“I’d like to speak to Don Emilio, please.”

“Speaking.”

“My name is David Martín. I’m a friend of Señor Ricardo Salvador. He told me I could call him at this number in an emergency.”

“Let’s see … Can you wait a moment while we get him?”

I looked at the station clock.

“Yes. I’ll wait. Thanks.”

More than three minutes went by before I heard the sound of footsteps and then Ricardo Salvador’s voice.

“Martín? Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank goodness. I read about Roures in the newspaper and was very concerned about you. Where are you?”

“Señor Salvador, I don’t have much time now. I need to leave Barcelona.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes. Listen. Alicia Marlasca is dead.”

“The widow? Dead?”

A long silence. I thought I could hear Salvador sobbing and cursed myself for having broken the news to him so bluntly.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes …”

“I’m calling to warn you. You must be careful. Irene Sabino is alive and she’s been following me. There is someone with her. I think it’s Jaco.”

“Jaco Corbera?”

“I’m not sure it’s him. I think they know I’m on their trail and they’re trying to silence all the people I’ve been speaking to. I think you were right.”

“Why would Jaco return now?” Salvador asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t know. I have to go now. I just wanted to warn you.”

“Don’t worry about me. If that bastard comes to visit me, I’ll be ready for him. I’ve been ready for twenty-five years.”

The stationmaster blew the whistle: the train was about to leave.

“Don’t trust anyone. Do you hear me? I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

“Thanks for calling, Martín. Be careful.”

T
he train was beginning to glide past the platform as I took refuge in my compartment and collapsed on the seat. I abandoned myself to the flow of tepid air from the heating and the gentle rocking of the train. We left the city behind us, crossing the forest of factories and chimneys and escaping the shroud of scarlet light that covered it. Slowly the wasteland of railway depots and trains abandoned on sidings dissolved into an endless plain of fields, woodlands, rivers, and hills crowned with large, rundown houses and watchtowers. The occasional covered wagon or hamlet peered through a bank of mist. Small railway stations slipped by; bell towers and farmhouses loomed up like mirages.

At some point in the journey I fell asleep, and when I woke the landscape had changed dramatically. We were now passing through steep valleys with rocky crags rising between lakes and streams. The train skirted great forests that climbed the soaring mountains. After a while, the tangle of hills and tunnels cut into the rock gave way to a large open valley with never-ending pastures where herds of wild horses galloped across the snow and small stone villages appeared in the distance. The peaks of the Pyrenees rose up on the other side, their snow-covered slopes set alight by the amber glow of evening. In front of us was a jumble of houses and buildings clustered around a hill. The ticket inspector put his head through the door of my compartment and smiled.

“Next stop, Puigcerdà,” he announced.

…

The train stopped and let out a blast of steam that inundated the platform. When I got out I was enveloped in a thick mist that smelled of electricity. Shortly afterwards, I heard the stationmaster’s bell and the train set off again. As the coaches filed past, the shape of the station began to emerge around me. I was alone on the platform. A fine curtain of snow was falling, and to the west a red sun peeped below the vault of clouds, scattering the snow with tiny bright embers. I went over to the stationmaster’s office and knocked on the glass door. He looked up, opened the door, and gazed at me distractedly.

“Could you tell me how to find a place called Villa San Antonio?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“The sanatorium?”

“I think so.”

The stationmaster adopted the pensive air of someone trying to work out how best to offer directions to a stranger. Then, with the help of a whole catalog of gestures and expressions, he came up with the following:

“You have to walk right through the village, past the church square, until you reach the lake. On the other side of the lake there’s a long avenue with large houses on either side that leads to Paseo de la Rigolisa. There, on a corner, you’ll find a three-story house surrounded by a garden. That’s the sanatorium.”

“And do you know of anywhere I might find accommodation?”

“On the way you’ll pass Hotel del Lago. Tell them Sebas sent you.”

“Thank you.”

“Good luck …”

I walked through the lonely streets of the village beneath the falling snow, looking for the outline of the church tower. On the way I passed a few locals, who bobbed their heads and looked at me suspiciously. When I reached the square, two men who were unloading coal from a cart pointed me in the right direction, and a couple of minutes later I found myself walking down a road that bordered a large, frozen
lake surrounded by stately-looking mansions with pointed towers. The great expanse of white was studded with small rowing boats trapped in the ice and around it, like a ribbon, ran a promenade punctuated by benches and trees. I walked to the edge and gazed at the ice spread out at my feet. It must have been almost twenty centimeters thick and in some places it shone like opaque glass, hinting at the current of black water that flowed under its shell.

Hotel del Lago, a two-story house painted dark red, stood at the end of the lake. Before continuing on my way, I stopped to book a room for two nights and paid in advance. The receptionist informed me that the hotel was almost empty and I could take my pick of rooms.

“Room 101 has spectacular views of the sunrise over the lake,” he suggested. “But if you prefer a room facing north I have—”

“You choose,” I cut in, indifferent to the majestic beauty of the landscape.

“Then Room 101 it is. In the summer, it’s the honeymooners’ favorite.”

He handed me the keys of the nuptial suite and informed me of the hours for dinner. I told him I’d return later and asked if Villa San Antonio was far from there. The receptionist adopted the same expression I had seen on the face of the stationmaster, first shaking his head, then giving me a friendly smile.

“It’s quite near, about ten minutes’ walk. If you take the promenade at the end of this street, you’ll see it a short distance away. You can’t miss it.”

…

Ten minutes later I was standing by the gates of a large garden strewn with dead leaves half buried in the snow. Beyond the garden, Villa San Antonio rose up like a somber sentinel wrapped in a halo of golden light that radiated from the windows. As I crossed the garden my heart was pounding and my hands perspired despite the bitter cold. I walked up the stairs to the main door. The entrance hall was covered in black and white floor tiles like a chessboard and led to a staircase at the
far end. There I saw a young woman in a nurse’s uniform holding the hand of a man who was trembling and seemed to be eternally suspended between two steps, as if his whole life had suddenly become trapped in that moment.

“Good afternoon?” said a voice to my right.

Her eyes were black and severe, her features sharp, without a trace of warmth, and she had the serious air of one who has learned not to expect anything but bad news. She must have been in her early fifties, and although she wore the same uniform as the young nurse, everything about her exuded authority and rank.

“Good afternoon. I’m looking for someone called Cristina Sagnier. I have reason to believe she is staying here …”

The woman observed me without batting an eyelid.

“Nobody
stays
here, sir. This place is not a hotel or a guesthouse.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve just come on a long journey in search of this person …”