‘Getting a little respectable, are we, Don Basilio?’
My old boss shrugged his shoulders, making a gesture to indicate that he was playing down the new decor.
‘Don’t let it impress you.’
‘Don’t be modest, Don Basilio; you’ve ended up with the jewel in the crown. Are you taking them in hand?’
Don Basilio pulled out his perennial red pencil and showed it to me, winking as he did so.
‘I get through four a week.’
‘Two fewer than at The Voice.’
‘Give me time. I have one or two experts here who punctuate with a pistol and think that an intro is a starter from the province of Logroño.’
Despite his words, it was obvious that Don Basilio felt comfortable in his new home, and he looked healthier than ever.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve come to ask me for work, because I might even give it to you,’ he threatened.
‘That’s very kind of you, Don Basilio, but you know I gave up the cloth and journalism isn’t for me.’
‘Then let me know how this grumpy old man can be of service.’
‘I need some information about an old case for a story I’m working on. The death of a well-known lawyer called Marlasca, Diego Marlasca.’
‘What year are we talking about?’
‘Nineteen hundred and four.’
Don Basilio sighed.
‘That’s going back a long way. A lot of water has flowed by since then.’
‘Not enough to wash the matter away.’
Don Basilio put a hand on my shoulder and asked me to follow him into the editorial department.
‘Don’t worry; you’ve come to the right place. These good people maintain an archive that would be the envy of the Vatican. If there was anything in the press, we’ll find it for you. Besides, the archivist is a good friend of mine. Let me warn you that next to him I’m Snow White. Pay no attention to his unfriendly disposition. Deep down – very deep down – he’s kindness itself.’
I followed Don Basilio through a wide hall with fine wood panelling. On one side was a circular room with a large round table and a series of portraits from which we were observed by an illustrious group of frowning members of the aristocracy.
‘The room for the witches’ sabbaths,’ Don Basilio explained. ‘All the section heads meet here with the deputy editor, yours truly, and the editor, and like good Knights of the Round Table, we find the Holy Grail every evening at seven o’clock.’
‘Impressive.’
‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ said Don Basilio, winking at me. ‘Look at this.’
Don Basilio stood beneath one of the august portraits and pushed the wooden panel covering the wall. The panel yielded with a creak, leading to a hidden corridor.
‘What do you say, Martín? And this is only one of the many secret passages in the building. Not even the Borgias had a set-up like this.’
I followed Don Basilio down the corridor and we reached a large reading room surrounded by glass cabinets, the repository of La Vanguardia ’s secret library. At one end of the room, under the beam emanating from a lampshade of green glass, a middle-aged man was sitting at a table examining a document with a magnifying glass. When he saw us come in he raised his head and gave us a look that would have made anyone young enough, or sensitive enough, turn to stone.
‘Let me introduce you to José María Brotons, lord of the underworld, chief of the catacombs of this holy house,’ Don Basilio announced.
Without letting go of the magnifying glass, Brotons observed me with eyes that seemed to go rusty on contact. I went up to him and shook his hand.
‘This is my old apprentice, David Martín.’
Brotons reluctantly shook my hand and glanced at Don Basilio.
‘Is this the writer?’
‘The very one.’
Brotons nodded.
‘He’s certainly courageous, stepping out into the street after the thrashing they gave him. What’s he doing here?’
‘He’s come to plead for your help, your blessing and advice on an important matter of documental archaeology,’ Don Basilio explained.
‘And where’s the blood sacrifice?’ Brotons spat out.
I swallowed.
‘Sacrifice?’ I asked.
Brotons looked at me as if I were an idiot.
‘A goat, a lamb, a capon if pressed…’
My mind went blank. For an endless moment Brotons kept his eyes fixed on mine without blinking. Then, just as I started to feel the prickle of sweat down my back, the archivist and Don Basilio roared with laughter. I let them laugh as much as they wanted at my expense, until they couldn’t breathe and had to dry their tears. Clearly, Don Basilio had found a soulmate in his new colleague.
‘Come this way, young man,’ Brotons said, doing away with his fierce countenance. ‘Let’s see what we can find.’
28
The newspaper archives were located in one of the basements, under the floor that housed the huge rotary press, a product of post-Victorian technology. It looked like a cross between a monstrous steam engine and a machine for making lightning.
‘Let me introduce you to the rotary press, better known as Leviathan. Mind how you go: they say it has already swallowed more than one unsuspecting person,’ said Don Basilio. ‘It’s like the story of Jonah and the whale, only what comes out again is mincemeat.’
‘Surely you’re exaggerating.’
‘One of these days we could throw in that new trainee, the smart alec who likes to say that print is dead,’ Brotons proposed.
‘Set a time and a date and we’ll celebrate with a stew,’ Don Basilio agreed.
They both laughed like schoolchildren. Birds of a feather, I thought.
The archive was a labyrinth of corridors bordered by three-metre-high shelving. A couple of pale creatures who looked as if they hadn’t left the cellar in fifteen years officiated as Brotons’s assistants. When they saw him, they rushed over, like loyal pets awaiting instructions. Brotons looked at me inquisitively.
‘What is it we’re looking for?’
‘Nineteen hundred and four. The death of a lawyer called Diego Marlasca. A pillar of Barcelona society, founding member of the Valera, Marlasca y Sentís legal firm.’
‘Month?’
‘November.’
At a signal from Brotons, the two assistants ran off in search of copies dating back to November 1904. It was a time when each day was so stained with the presence of death that most newspapers ran large obituaries on their front pages. A character as important as Marlasca would probably have generated more than a simple death notice in the city’s press and his obituary would have been front-cover material. The assistants returned with a few volumes and placed them on a large desk. We divided up the task between all five present and found Diego Marlasca’s obituary on the front page, just as I’d imagined. The edition was dated 23 November 1904. It was Brotons who made the discovery.
‘Habemus cadaver,’ he announced.
There were four obituary notices devoted to Marlasca. One from the family, another from the law firm, one from the Barcelona Bar Association and the last from the cultural association of the Ateneo Barcelonés.
‘That’s what comes from being rich. You die five or six times,’ Don Basilio pointed out.
The announcements were not in themselves very interesting – pleadings for the immortal soul of the deceased, a note explaining that the funeral would be for close friends and family only, grandiose verses lauding a great, erudite citizen, an irreplaceable member of Barcelona society, and so on.