The Angel's Game (23 page)

18

Years of experience writing thrillers provide one with a set of principles on which to base an investigation. One of them is that all moderately solid plots, including those seemingly about affairs of passion, are born from the unmistakable whiff of money and property. When I left the Shade House I walked to the Land Registry in Calle Consejo de Ciento and asked whether I could consult the records in which the sales, purchase and ownership of my house were listed. Books in the Land Registry archive contain almost as much information on the realities of life as the complete works of the most respected philosophers - if not more.

I began by looking up the section containing the details of my lease of number 30, Calle Flassaders. There I found the necessary data with which to trace the history of the property before the Banco Hispano Colonial took ownership in 1911, as part of the appropriation of the Marlasca family assets - apparently the family had inherited the building upon the death of the owner. A lawyer named S. Valera was mentioned as having represented the family. Another leap into the past allowed me to find information relating to the purchase of the building by Don Diego Marlasca Pongiluppi in 1902 from a certain Bernabé Massot y Caballé. I made a note of all this on a slip of paper, from the name of the lawyer and all those taking part in the transactions to the relevant dates.

One of the clerks announced in a loud voice that there were fifteen minutes to closing time so I got ready to leave, but before that I hurriedly tried to consult the records for Andreas Corelli’s house next to Güell Park. After fifteen minutes of searching in vain, I looked up from the register and met the ashen eyes of the clerk. He was an emaciated character, gel shining on moustache and hair, oozing that belligerent apathy of those who turn their job into a platform for obstructing the life of others.

‘I’m sorry. I can’t find a property,’ I said.

‘That must be because it doesn’t exist or because you don’t know how to search properly. We’ve closed for today.’

I repaid his kindness and efficiency with my best smile.

‘I might find it with your expert help,’ I suggested.

He gave me a nauseous look and snatched the volume from my hands.

‘Come back tomorrow.’

My next stop was the ostentatious building of the Bar Association in Calle Mallorca, only a few streets away. Beneath a series of glass chandeliers, I climbed the wide steps that were guarded by what looked like a statue of Justice but with the bosom and attitude of a Paralelo starlet. When I reached the secretary’s office, a small, mousy-looking man welcomed me and asked how he could help.

‘I’m looking for a lawyer.’

‘You’ve come to the right place. We don’t know how to get rid of them here. There seem to be more every day. They multiply like rabbits.’

‘It’s the modern world. The one I’m looking for is called, or was called, Valera, S. Valera, with a V.’

The little man disappeared into a labyrinth of filing cabinets, muttering under his breath. I waited, leaning on the counter, my eyes wandering over a decor infused with the inexorable weight of the law. Five minutes later the man returned with a folder.

‘I’ve found ten Valeras. Two with an S. Sebastián and Soponcio.’

‘Soponcio?’

‘You’re very young, but years ago this was a name with a certain cachet, and ideal for the legal profession. Then along came the Charleston and ruined everything.’

‘Is Don Soponcio still alive?’

‘According to the folder and the date he stopped paying his membership of this association, Soponcio Valera y Menacho was received into the glory of Our Lord in the year 1919. Memento mori. Sebastián is his son.’

‘Still practising?’

‘Fully, and constantly. I sense you will want the address.’

‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

The little man wrote it down on a small piece of paper which he handed to me.

‘Number 442, Diagonal. It’s just a stone’s throw away. But it’s two o’clock, and by now most top lawyers will be at lunch with rich widows or manufacturers of fabrics and explosives. I’d wait until four o’clock.’

I put the address in my jacket pocket.

‘I’ll do that. Thank you for your help.’

‘That’s what we’re here for. God bless.’

I had a couple of hours to kill before paying a visit to Señor Valera, so I took a tram down Vía Layetana and got off when it reached Calle Condal. The Sempere & Sons bookshop was just a step away and I knew from experience that - contravening the immutable tradition of local shops - the old bookseller didn’t close at midday. I found him, as usual, standing at the counter, cataloguing books and serving a large group of customers who were wandering around the tables and bookshelves hunting for treasure. He smiled when he saw me and came over to say hello. He looked thinner and paler than the last time I’d seen him. He must have noticed my anxiety because he shrugged his shoulders as if to make light of the matter.

‘Some win; others lose. You’re looking fit and well and I’m all skin and bones, as you can see,’ he said.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fresh as a daisy. It’s the damned angina. Nothing serious. What brings you here, Martín, my friend?’

‘I thought I’d take you out to lunch.’

‘Thank you, but I can’t abandon ship. My son has gone to Sarriá to appraise a collection and business isn’t so good that we can afford to close the shop when there are customers about.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re having financial problems.’

‘This is a bookshop, Martín, not an investment broker’s. The world of letters provides us with just enough to get by, and sometimes not even that.’

‘If you need help . . .’

Sempere held up his hand.

‘If you want to help me, buy a book or two.’

‘You know that the debt I owe you can never be repaid with money.’

‘All the more reason not even to think about it. Don’t worry about us, Martín. The only way they’ll get me out of here is in a pine box. But if you like, you can come and share a tasty meal of bread, raisins and fresh Burgos cheese. With that, and the Count of Montecristo, anyone can live to be a hundred.’

19

Sempere hardly tasted his food. He smiled wearily and pretended to be interested in my comments, but I could see that from time to time he was having trouble breathing.

‘Tell me, Martín, what are you working on?’

‘It’s difficult to explain. A book I’ve been commissioned to write.’

‘A novel?’

‘Not exactly. I wouldn’t know how to describe it.’

‘What’s important is that you’re working. I’ve always said that idleness dulls the spirit. We have to keep the brain busy, or at least the hands if we don’t have a brain.’

‘But some people work more than is reasonable, Señor Sempere. Shouldn’t you take a break? How many years have you been here, always hard at work, never stopping?’

Sempere looked around him.

‘This place is my life, Martín. Where else would I go? To a sunny bench in the park, to feed pigeons and complain about my rheumatism? I’d be dead in ten minutes. My place is here. And my son isn’t ready to take up the reins of the business, even if he thinks he is.’

‘But he’s a good worker. And a good person.’

‘Between you and me, he’s too good a person. Sometimes I look at him and wonder what will become of him the day I go. How is he going to cope . . . ? ’

‘All fathers say that, Señor Sempere.’

‘Did yours? Forgive me, I didn’t mean to . . .’

‘Don’t worry. My father had enough worries of his own without having to worry about me as well. I’m sure your son has more experience than you think.’

Sempere looked dubious.

‘Do you know what I think he lacks?’

‘Malice?’

‘A woman.’

‘He’ll have no shortage of girlfriends with all the turtle doves who cluster round the shop window to admire him.’

‘I’m talking about a real woman, the sort who makes you become what you’re supposed to be.’

‘He’s still young. Let him have fun for a few more years.’

‘That’s a good one! If he’d at least have some fun. At his age, if I’d had that chorus of young girls after me, I’d have sinned like a cardinal.’

‘The Lord gives bread to the toothless.’

‘That’s what he needs: teeth. And a desire to bite.’

Something else seemed to be going round his mind. He was looking at me and smiling.

‘Maybe you could help . . .’

‘Me?’

‘You’re a man of the world, Martín. And don’t give me that expression. I’m sure that if you apply yourself you’ll find a good woman for my son. He already has a pretty face. You can teach him the rest.’

I was speechless.

‘Didn’t you want to help me?’ the bookseller asked. ‘Well, there you are.’

‘I was talking about money.’

‘And I’m talking about my son, the future of this house. My whole life.’

I sighed. Sempere took my hand and pressed it with what little strength he had left.

‘Promise you’ll not allow me to leave this world before I’ve seen my son set up with a woman worth dying for. And who’ll give me a grandson.’

‘If I’d known this was coming, I’d have stayed at the Novedades Café for lunch.’

Sempere smiled.

‘Sometimes I think you should have been my son, Martín.’

I looked at the bookseller, who seemed more fragile and older than ever before, barely a shadow of the strong, impressive man I remembered from my childhood days, and I felt the world crumbling around me. I went up to him and, before I realised it, did what I’d never done in all the years I’d known him. I gave him a kiss on his forehead, which was spotted with freckles and touched by a few grey hairs.

‘Do you promise?’

‘I promise,’ I said, as I walked to the door.

20

Señor Valera’s office occupied the top floor of an extravagant modernist building located at number 442 Avenida Diagonal, just round the corner from Paseo de Gracia. For want of a better description, the building looked like a cross between a giant grandfather clock and a pirate ship, and was adorned with huge French windows and a roof with green dormers. In any other part of the world the baroque and Byzantine structure would have been proclaimed either as one of the seven wonders of the world or as the freakish creation of a mad artist who was possessed by demons. In Barcelona’s Ensanche quarter, where similar buildings cropped up everywhere, like clover after rain, it barely raised an eyebrow.

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 . . .’

Valera shrunk into his armchair, visibly uncomfortable.

‘Doña Alicia Marlasca? Señor Martín, please don’t misunderstand me, but part of my duty as the family lawyer is to preserve their privacy. For obvious reasons. A lot of time has gone by, and I wouldn’t like to see old wounds reopened unnecessarily.’

‘I understand.’

The lawyer was looking at me tensely.

‘And you say you found a book?’ he asked.

‘Yes . . . a manuscript. It’s probably not important.’

‘Probably not. What was the work about?’

‘Theology, I’d say.’

Valera nodded.

‘Does that surprise you?’

‘No. On the contrary. Diego was an authority on the history of religion. A learned man. In this firm he is still remembered with great affection. Tell me, what particular aspects of the history of the property are you interested in?’

‘I think you’ve already helped me a great deal, Señor Valera. I wouldn’t like to take up any more of your time.’

The lawyer nodded, looking relieved.

‘It’s the house, isn’t it?’ he asked.

‘A strange place, yes,’ I agreed.

‘I remember going there once when I was young, shortly after Don Diego bought it.’

‘Do you know why he bought it?’

‘He said he’d been fascinated with it ever since he was a child and had always thought he’d like to live there. Don Diego was like that. Sometimes he acted like a young boy who would give everything up in exchange for a dream.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, fine. Do you know anything about the owner from whom Señor Marlasca bought the house? Someone called Bernabé Massot?’

‘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.