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 exploded in their faces. 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 mollusc, seemed to be embedded in his cubbyhole, which also served as a towel rack and souvenir shop. He handed me the key, a bar of El Cid soap that stank of bleach and looked as if it had already been used, and 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 goodnight. 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 fraternise 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 neighbour.
‘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.’
7
The 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, run-down houses and watchtowers. The occasional covered wagon or hamlet peered through a bank of mist. Small railway stations slipped by; bell towers and farmhouses appeared like mirages in the distance.
At some point in the journey I fell asleep, and when I woke again 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 static. 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 like an apparition. 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 catalogue 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-storey 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 the 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 over to the edge and gazed at the frozen lake spread out at my feet. The ice must have been almost twenty centimetres thick and in some places it shone like opaque glass, hinting at the current of black water that flowed under its shell.