‘Alone, betrayed and forgotten.’
The inspector nodded slowly. ‘Makes one think of the future in this job, doesn’t it?’
‘I bet that in your case things will be different, and your promotion to the top is just a question of a couple of years. I can just imagine you as chief commissioner before the age of forty-five, kissing the hands of bishops and generals during the Corpus parade.’
Grandes ignored my sarcasm.
‘Speaking of hand-kissing, have you heard about your friend Vidal?’
Grandes never started a conversation without having an ace hidden up his sleeve. He watched me with a smile, relishing my anxiety.
‘What about him?’ I mumbled.
‘They say his wife tried to kill herself the other night.’
‘Cristina?’
‘Of course, you know her…’
I didn’t realise that I’d stood up and my hands were shaking.
‘Calm down. Señora de Vidal is all right. Just a fright. It seems that she overdid it with the laudanum. Will you sit down, Martín? Please.’
I sat down. My stomach was a bag of nails.
‘When was this?’
‘Two or three days ago.’
My mind filled with the image of Cristina in the window of Villa Helius a few days earlier, waving at me while I avoided her eyes and turned my back on her.
‘Martín?’ the inspector asked, waving a hand in front of my face as if he feared I’d lost my mind.
‘What?’
The inspector seemed to be genuinely worried.
‘Have you anything to tell me? I know you won’t believe me, but I’d like to help you.’
‘Do you still think it was me who killed Barrido and his partner?’
Grandes shook his head.
‘I’ve never believed it was you, but there are others who would like to.’
‘Then why are you still investigating me?’
‘Calm down. I’m not investigating you, Martín. I never have. The day I do investigate you, you’ll know. For the time being I’m only observing you. Because I like you and I’m concerned that you’re going to get yourself into a mess. Why won’t you trust me and tell me what’s going on?’
Our eyes met and for an instant I was tempted to tell him everything. I would have done so, had I known where to begin.
‘Nothing is going on, inspector.’
Grandes nodded and looked at me with pity, or perhaps it was only disappointment. He finished his beer and left a few coins on the table. He gave me a pat on the back and got up.
‘Look after yourself, Martín. And watch how you go. Not everyone holds you in the same esteem as I do.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
It was almost midday when I got home, unable to stop thinking about what the inspector had told me. When I reached the tower house I climbed the steps slowly, as if my very soul was weighing me down. I opened the door of the apartment, fearing I’d find Isabella in the mood for conversation. The house was silent. I walked up the corridor until I reached the gallery and there I found her, asleep on the sofa, an open book on her chest – one of my old novels. I couldn’t help but smile. The temperature inside the house had dropped considerably during those autumn days and I was afraid Isabella might catch a chill. Sometimes I’d see her wandering about the apartment wrapped in a woollen shawl she wore over her shoulders. I went to her room to find the shawl, so that I could quietly cover her with it. Her door was ajar. Although I was in my own home, I’d rarely entered that room since Isabella had installed herself there and now felt uneasy doing so. I saw the shawl folded over a chair and went to fetch it. The room had Isabella’s sweet, lemony scent. The bed was still unmade and I leaned over to smooth out the sheets and blankets. I knew that when I applied myself to these domestic chores my moral standing rose in the eyes of my assistant.
It was then that I noticed there was something wedged between the mattress and the base of the bed. The corner of a piece of paper stuck out from under the folded sheet. When I tugged at it I realised it was a bundle of papers. I pulled it out completely and found that I was holding what looked like about twenty blue envelopes tied together with a ribbon. My whole body felt cold. I untied the knot in the ribbon and took one of the envelopes. It had my name and address on it. Where the return address should have been, it simply said: Cristina.
I sat on the bed with my back to the door and examined the envelopes, one by one. The first letter was a few weeks old, the last had been posted three days ago. All of the envelopes were open. I closed my eyes and felt the letters falling from my hands. I heard her breathing behind me, standing motionless in the doorway.
‘Forgive me,’ whispered Isabella.
She walked over slowly and knelt down to pick up the letters. When she’d gathered them together she handed them to me with a wounded look.
‘I did it to protect you,’ she said.
Her eyes filled with tears and she placed a hand on my shoulder.
‘Leave,’ I said.
I pushed her away and stood up. Isabella collapsed onto the floor, moaning as if something were burning inside her.
‘Leave this house.’
I left the apartment without even bothering to close the door behind me. Once outside, I faced a world of buildings and faces that seemed strange and distant. I started to walk aimlessly, oblivious to the cold and the rain-filled wind that was starting to lash the town with the breath of a curse.
34
The tram stopped by the gates of Bellesguard, a mansion standing on the edge of the city, at the foot of the hill. I walked on towards the entrance to San Gervasio Cemetery, following the yellowish beam projected through the rain by the tram lights. The walls of the graveyard rose some fifty metres ahead, a marble fortress from which emerged a mass of statues the colour of the storm. I found a cubicle next to the entrance where a guard, wrapped in a coat, was warming his hands over a brazier. When he saw me appear in the rain he looked startled and stood up. He examined me for a few seconds before opening the cubicle door.
‘I’m looking for the Marlasca family vault.’
‘It’ll be dark in less than half an hour. You’d better come back another day.’
‘The sooner you tell me where it is, the sooner I’ll leave.’
The guard checked a list and showed me the site by pointing a finger to a map of the graveyard hanging on the wall. I walked off without thanking him.
It wasn’t difficult to find the vault among the citadel of tombs and mausoleums crowded together inside the walls of the cemetery. The structure stood on a marble base. Modernist in style, the mausoleum was shaped like an arch formed by two wide flights of steps that spread out like an amphitheatre. The steps led to a gallery held up by columns, inside which was an atrium flanked by tombstones. The gallery was crowned by a dome, and the dome, in turn, by a marble figure sullied by the passage of time. Its face was hidden by a veil, but as I approached I had the impression that this sentinel from beyond the grave was turning its head to watch me. I went up one of the staircases, and when I reached the entrance to the gallery, I stopped to look behind me. The distant city lights were just visible in the rain.
I stepped into the gallery. In the centre stood a statue of a woman in prayer, embracing a crucifix. The face had been disfigured and someone had painted the eyes and lips black, giving her a wolfish aspect. That was not the only sign of desecration in the vault. The tombstones seemed to be covered in what looked like markings or scratches made with a sharp object, and some had been defaced with obscene drawings and words that were almost illegible in the failing light. Diego Marlasca’s tomb was at the far end. I went up to it and put my hand on the tombstone. Then I pulled out the photograph of Marlasca Salvador had given me and examined it.