‘Then wear whichever one covers you the most.’
‘You’re a reactionary. What about my literary education?’
‘What better classroom than Sempere & Sons? You’ll be surrounded by masterpieces from which you can learn in bulk.’
‘And what should I do? Take a deep breath to see if something sticks?’
‘It’s just for a few hours a day. After that you can continue your work here, as you have until now, receiving my advice, which is always priceless and will turn you into a new Jane Austen.’
‘And where’s the cunning plan?’
‘The cunning plan is that every day I’ll give you a few pesetas, and every time you are paid by a customer and open the till you’ll slide them in discreetly.’
‘So that’s your plan…’
‘That’s the plan. As you can see, there’s nothing perverse about it.’
Isabella frowned again.
‘It won’t work. He’ll notice there’s something wrong. Señor Sempere is nobody’s fool.’
‘It will work. And if Sempere seems puzzled, you tell him that when customers see a pretty girl behind the counter, they let go of the purse strings and become more generous.’
‘That might be so in the cheap haunts you frequent, not in a bookshop.’
‘I beg to differ. If I were to go into a bookshop and come across a shop assistant who is as pretty and charming as you are, then I might even be capable of buying the latest national book award winner.’
‘That’s because your mind is as filthy as a hen house.’
‘I also have – or should I say “we have” – a debt of gratitude towards Sempere.’
‘That’s a low blow.’
‘Then don’t make me aim even lower.’
Every self-respecting act of persuasion must first appeal to curiosity, then to vanity, and lastly to kindness or remorse. Isabella looked down and slowly nodded.
‘And when were you planning to set this plan of the bounteous goddess in motion?’
‘Don’t put off for tomorrow what you can do today.’
‘Today?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘Tell me the truth. Is this a strategy for laundering the money the boss pays you, and to purge your conscience, or whatever it is you have where there should be one?’
‘You know my motives are always selfish.’
‘And what if Señor Sempere says no?’
‘Just make sure the son is there and you’re dressed in your Sunday best, but not for Mass.’
‘It’s a degrading and offensive plan.’
‘And you love it.’
At last Isabella smiled, cat-like.
‘What if the son suddenly grows bold and allows his hands to wander?’
‘I can guarantee the heir won’t dare lay a finger on you unless it’s in the presence of a priest waving a marriage certificate.’
‘That sounds a bit extreme.’
‘Will you do it?’
‘For you?’
‘For literature.’
23
When I stepped outside I was greeted by an icy breeze sweeping up the streets, and I knew that autumn was tiptoeing its way into Barcelona. In Plaza Palacio I got on a tram that was waiting there, empty, like a large wrought-iron rat trap. I sat by the window and paid the conductor for my ticket.
‘Do you go as far as Sarriá?’ I asked.
‘As far as the square.’
I leaned my head against the window and soon the tram set off with a jerk. I closed my eyes and succumbed to one of those naps that can only be enjoyed on board some mechanical monstrosity, the sleep of modern man. I dreamed that I was travelling in a train made of black bones, its coaches shaped like coffins, crossing a deserted Barcelona that was strewn with discarded clothes, as if the bodies that had occupied them had simply evaporated. A wasteland of abandoned hats and dresses, suits and shoes that covered the silent streets. The engine gave off a trail of scarlet smoke that spread across the sky like spilt paint. A smiling boss travelled next to me. He was dressed in white and wore gloves. Something dark and glutinous dripped from the tips of his fingers.
‘What has happened to all the people?’
‘Have faith, Martín. Have faith.’
As I awoke, the tram was gliding slowly into Plaza de Sarriá. I jumped off before it reached the stop and made my way up Calle Mayor de Sarriá. Fifteen minutes later I arrived at my destination.
Carretera de Vallvidrera started in a shady grove behind the red-brick castle of San Ignacio’s school. The street climbed uphill, bordered by solitary mansions, and was covered with a carpet of fallen leaves. Low clouds slid down the mountainside, dissolving into puffs of mist. I walked along the pavement and tried to work out the street numbers as I passed garden walls and wrought-iron gates. Behind them, barely visible, stood houses of darkened stone and dried-up fountains beached between paths that were thick with weeds. I walked along a stretch of road beneath a long row of cypress trees and discovered that the numbers jumped from 11 to 15. Confused, I retraced my steps in search of number 13. I was beginning to suspect that Señor Valera’s secretary was, in fact, cleverer than she had seemed and had given me a false address, when I noticed an alleyway leading off the pavement. It ran for about fifty metres towards some dark iron railings that formed a crest of spears atop a stone wall.
I turned into the narrow cobbled lane and walked down to the railings. A thick, unkempt garden had crept towards the other side and the branches of a eucalyptus tree passed through the spearheads like the arms of prisoners pleading through the bars of a cell. I pushed aside the leaves that covered part of the wall and found the letters and numbers carved in the stone.
CASA MARLASCA
1 3
As I followed the railings that ran round the edge of the garden, I tried to catch a glimpse of the interior. Some twenty metres along I discovered a metal door fitted into the stone wall. A large door knocker rested on the iron sheet that was welded together with tears of rust. The door was ajar. I pushed with my shoulder and managed to open it just enough to pass through without tearing my clothes on the sharp bits of stone that jutted out from the wall. The air was infused with the intense stench of wet earth.
A path of marble tiles led through the trees to an open area covered with white stones. On one side stood a garage, its doors open, revealing the remains of what had once been a Mercedes-Benz and now looked like a hearse abandoned to its fate. The house was a three-storey building in the modernist style, with curved lines and a crown of dormer windows coming together in a swirl beneath turrets and arches. Narrow windows, sharp as daggers, opened in its facade, which was peppered with reliefs and gargoyles. The glass panes reflected the silent passing of the clouds. I thought I could see the outline of a face behind one of the first-floor windows.
Without quite knowing why, I raised my arm and smiled faintly. I didn’t want to be taken for a thief. The figure remained there watching me, as still as a spider. I looked down for a moment and, when I looked up again, it had disappeared.
‘Good morning!’ I called out.
I waited for a few seconds and when no reply came I proceeded slowly towards the house. An oval-shaped swimming pool flanked the eastern side, beyond which stood a glass conservatory. Frayed deckchairs surrounded the swimming pool. A diving board, overgrown with ivy, was poised over the sheet of murky water. I walked towards the edge and saw that it was littered with dead leaves and algae rippling over the surface. I was looking at my own reflection in the water when I noticed a dark figure hovering behind me.
I spun round and met a pointed, sombre face, examining me nervously.