I walked into the hallway and was shown to a lift that reminded me of something a giant spider might have left behind, if it were weaving cathedrals instead of cobwebs. The doorman opened the cabin and imprisoned me in the strange capsule that began to rise through the middle of the stairwell. A severe-looking secretary opened the carved oak door at the top and showed me in. I gave her my name and explained that I had not made an appointment, but that I was there to discuss a matter relating to the sale of a building in the Ribera quarter. Something changed in her expression.
‘The tower house?’ she asked.
I nodded. The secretary led me to an empty office. I sensed that this was not the official waiting room.
‘Please wait, Señor Martín. I’ll let Señor Valera know you’re here.’
I spent the next forty-five minutes in that office, surrounded by bookshelves that were packed with volumes the size of tombstones, bearing inscriptions on the spines such as ‘1888-1889, B.C.A. Section One. Second title’. It seemed like irresistible reading matter. The office had a large window looking onto Avenida Diagonal that provided an excellent view over the city. The furniture smelled of fine wood, weathered and seasoned with money. Carpets and leather armchairs were reminiscent of those in a British club. I tried to lift one of the lamps presiding over the desk and guessed that it must weigh at least thirty kilos. A huge oil painting, resting over a hearth that had never been used, portrayed the rotund and expansive presence of none other than Don Soponcio Valera y Menacho. The titanic lawyer sported moustaches and sideburns like the mane of an old lion, and his stern eyes, with the fire and steel of a hanging judge, dominated every corner of the room from the great beyond.
‘He doesn’t speak, but if you stare at the portrait for a while he looks as if he might do so at any moment,’ said a voice behind me.
I hadn’t heard him come in. Sebastián Valera was a man with a quiet gait who looked as if he’d spent the best part of his life trying to crawl out from under his father’s shadow and now, at fifty-plus, was tired of trying. He had penetrating and intelligent eyes, and that exquisite manner only enjoyed by royal princesses and the most expensive lawyers. He offered me his hand and I shook it.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but I wasn’t expecting your visit,’ he said, pointing to a seat.
‘Not at all. Thank you for receiving me.’
Valera gave me the smile of someone who knows how much he charges for every minute.
‘My secretary tells me your name is David Martín. You’re David Martín, the author?’
The look of surprise must have given me away.
‘I come from a family of great readers,’ he explained. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’d like to ask you about the ownership of a building in-’
‘The tower house?’ the lawyer interrupted politely.
‘Yes.’
‘You know it?’ he asked.
‘I live there.’
Valera looked at me for a while without abandoning his smile. He straightened up in his chair and seemed to go tense.
‘Are you the present owner?’
‘Actually I rent the place.’
‘And what is it you’d like to know, Señor Martín?’
‘If possible, I’d like to know about the acquisition of the building by the Banco Hispano Colonial and gather some information on the previous owner.’
‘Don Diego Marlasca,’ the lawyer muttered. ‘May I ask what is the nature of your interest?’
‘Personal. Recently, while I was doing some refurbishment on the building, I came across a number of items that I think belonged to him.’
The lawyer frowned.
‘Items?’
‘A book. Or, rather, a manuscript.’
‘Señor Marlasca was a great lover of literature. In fact, he was the author of a large number of books on law, and also on history and other subjects. A great scholar. And a great man, although at the end of his life there were those who wished to tarnish his reputation.’
My surprise must have been evident.
‘I assume you’re not familiar with the circumstances surrounding Señor Marlasca’s death.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Valera sighed, as if he were debating whether or not to go on.
‘You’re not going to write about this, are you, or about Irene Sabino?’
‘No.’
‘Do I have your word?’
I nodded.
‘You couldn’t say anything that wasn’t already said at the time, I suppose,’ Valera muttered, more to himself than to me.
The lawyer looked briefly at his father’s portrait and then fixed his eyes on me.
‘Diego Marlasca was my father’s partner and his best friend. Together they founded this law firm. Señor Marlasca was a brilliant lawyer. Unfortunately he was also a very complicated man, subject to long periods of melancholy. There came a time when my father and Señor Marlasca decided to dissolve their partnership. Señor Marlasca left the legal profession to devote himself to his first vocation: writing. They say most lawyers secretly wish to leave the profession and become writers-’
‘Until they compare the salaries.’
‘The fact is that Don Diego had struck up a friendship with Irene Sabino, quite a popular actress at the time, for whom he wanted to write a play. That was all. Señor Marlasca was a gentleman and was never unfaithful to his wife, but you know what people are like. Gossip. Rumours and jealousy. Anyhow, word got round that Don Diego was having an affair with Irene Sabino. His wife never forgave him for it, and the couple separated. Señor Marlasca was shattered. He bought the tower house and moved in. Sadly, he’d only been living there for a year when he died in an unfortunate accident.’
‘What sort of accident?’
‘Señor Marlasca drowned. It was a tragedy.’
Valera lowered his eyes and sighed.
‘And the scandal?’
‘Let’s just say there were evil tongues who wanted people to believe that Señor Marlasca had committed suicide after an unhappy love affair with Irene Sabino.’
‘And was that so?’
Valera removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.
‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. I don’t know and I don’t care. What happened, happened.’
‘What became of Irene Sabino?’
Valera put his glasses on again.
‘I thought you were only interested in Señor Marlasca and the ownership of the house.’
‘It’s simple curiosity. Among Señor Marlasca’s belongings I found a number of photographs of Irene Sabino, as well as letters from her to Señor Marlasca-’
‘What are you getting at?’ Valera snapped. ‘Is it money you want?’
‘No.’
‘I’m glad, because nobody is going to give you any. Nobody cares about the subject any more. Do you understand?’
‘Perfectly, Señor Valera. I had no intention of bothering you or insinuating that anything was out of place. I’m sorry if I offended you with my questions.’
The lawyer smiled and let out a gentle sigh, as if the conversation had already ended.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m the one who should apologise.’
Taking advantage of the lawyer’s conciliatory tone, I put on my sweetest expression.
‘Perhaps his widow…’