‘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 tuppence. 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 the latter died, he burned all of the files.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because of all the things I’ve told you. To avoid rumours 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?’
Valera shrugged his shoulders and 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 stretched out his hand and I shook it.
‘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 gave me Señora Marlasca’s address, but now that I think of it I’m not sure I remember the house number correctly…’
Margarita sighed, anxious 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 goodbye, the door was slammed in my face with the solemnity of a holy sepulchre.
21
When 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 was 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 towards 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 make-up 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 completed.
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 shut. 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 kitsch 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 with tears in her eyes and gave a bitter smile.
‘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 apologise. It’s the truth.’
I left the room, eyes downcast, and took refuge in the study, where I gazed at the dark city buried in mist. After a while I heard her hesitant footsteps on the staircase.
‘Are you up there?’ she called out.
‘Yes.’
Isabella came into the room. She had changed her clothes and washed the tears from her face. She smiled and I smiled back at her.
‘Why are you like that?’