The Serpent Papers (29 page)

The girls moved down the corridor, brushing shoulders. Núria and Emily would share a white stucco bedroom in a wooden loft. They fell into each other inside. Wrapped in each other’s skin, they curled like nesting birds, fingers wandering through hair, kissing eyebrows, they slept entangled. The bathroom window gazing over the street behind the farmhouse. Crumbling stone and dirt. In the distance the tips of six swaying columns. Cypress trees flirting with the sky. A neighbour, in a smaller house across the cobbled street, draped Tibetan meditation flags over his door. Later Emily napped in one of the lounge chairs on the patio, overlooking blue mountains. White arms all bare and angular. Summer dress. Straps loose at the shoulder. Plum-coloured roses. A golden field of grain. She felt easy and calm. Lovely and still.

* * *

When Adrià arrived at the farmhouse that evening he did not say hello.

He sat on the wooden chair at the centre of the stone patio that faced the mountains. From the guest bedroom, Emily observed him through the window, his face obscured by the hanging branches of a vine that grew around the trunk of a citrus tree. For the rest of the afternoon Emily successfully avoided talking to him. The decision uneasy, mutual. Later Adrià cornered Emily in the garden, behind a rock wall hidden from the house. He pressed his body into her, bit her neck.
I want what my sister has.
Emily was very still. Does she tell him that she hates him? He would not hurt her. This at least she knows.
I hate you
, she wanted to say. Instead?

Nothing
.

Adrià gave her a piece of crumpled paper.

On the paper he had written:

My sins

Are unutterable thoughts.

I must atone.

‘Go. Go and show them,’ La Marta said at dinner. She flicked her wrist at her son. Dismissive. Regal. Adrià’s mother, bovine and rouged, exposing it all at the table, a great crevasse that runs from her throat to the low coral silk. That evening the moon rose late. A grove of citrus behind them. Sweet lemons. Overhead, clusters of wisteria dripped from a wooden frame. Adrià shirtless, streaks of sweat pooling over his collarbones. In the light of the summer candles, his chest heaved as if his lungs were bulging out of him. Making his excuses from the table, Adrià pushed out his chair, and went into the house. From the courtyard below, as he ran up the carved stone steps to the house, his silhouette stood out against long French windows. A sharp breeze blew from the valley below the patio. The night’s breath drunk with the scent of lavender and sun-warmed mud, thick and heady. In the house, the curtains rustled, curling through the open windows. Drone of the cicadas singing.

When Adrià returned he carried an object wrapped in thick cloth. Cradling it in against his chest like a babe in swaddling. His mother threw open her arms.

‘Come, come!’ she exclaimed. ‘Tell them the story – it’s a lovely story, Joan – go on, tell them, Adrià, like you told me in the car.’

Adrià hugged the cloth closer to his chest.

‘Funny story.’ Adrià laughed. Too loudly. ‘I was at a party—’

‘You are always at a party,’ Adrià’s father interrupted. Adrià released the package with a dull thud onto the table. A cigarette hung languidly from Adrià’s lower lip. Emily’s nostrils burnt.

‘Yes, Papa. I was at a party. With Max, actually – you know him. We caught the train out from Barcelona, towards Sitges. Max heard there was a rave, or something, you know, one of those big house parties by the sea – in an abandoned mansion that some squatters had taken over in April. They’d been found out a week earlier by the police –’ Adrià spat emphatically – ‘and were about to be evicted. So they decided to have a garden party.

‘When I got there, I knew the place was special. The house had doors that opened onto the sea, and art everywhere. Big paintings. Portraits – old pictures of men with ruffs around their necks and sour faces. Luxury. Real luxurious house. The squatters had the music playing loud, turntables, a dance floor in the garden – it was . . .’

Adrià shook his head violently, slamming his chair away from the table. He flung his arms out into the air. ‘It was crazy! The music was slamming, and I was dancing –’ his body hurtled round the courtyard – ‘and there were so many people there, crazy people, dancing like this, and like this, and like this . . .’

‘Adrià,’ his father said. ‘
Deixes de fer això.
’ He caught his son by the wrist, and pulled him back into the table. ‘Sit down.’

Adrià refused to sit down.

Adrià’s mother smiled a pained smile. She put her fat fingers over her mouth as she spoke. ‘Isn’t Adrià a good dancer? What a nice dance, Adrià.’

Adrià stood firmly by his seat. His hair electric, made wild by the dance. ‘I haven’t finished my story.’ Adrià took the cigarette from his lips, and tapped it twice, sprinkling ash onto the table next to his father’s plate.

‘Go on, Adrià.’ His mother looked at Joan for affirmation.

‘Please, Adrià,’ Joan said. ‘I would like to know what happens next.’

‘It was crazy . . .’ Adrià shrugged. ‘And I was dancing.’

He paused, resting his hand on his father’s shoulder.

‘And the whole place was up in the air.’

Adrià consumed space with his body.

‘The people were rammed inside. I loved it. By the sea they had set up a barbecue and a bonfire, and people were shadow dancing and drinking. Max and I only knew a couple of people there, but you know how it is. We met this little guy from Granada, small, with glasses, clean cut, but a true Anarcho brother . . .’

Adrià’s father coughed.

‘The kid from Granada asked me if I wanted to leave the music for a second and explore the house, and I was like, sure, come on, let’s go. He said that the man who’d owned the house had died suddenly and his body was still in his bed. So we went up to the second floor and along the corridor and then we opened this massive bedroom door and everything was all gold and beautiful and wild, and there at the centre of the bed, surrounded by the sheets was the dude himself –
dead
. Pale and grey and stony as shit. And I was like, hey man, you weren’t kidding . . . So we left the bedroom and this Andalusian guy said I could take anything I wanted from the house, that it would be his gift to me, for trusting him and being all cool – you know – and agreeing not to tell anybody what I had seen.’

Adrià picked up the long spool of cloth on the table and unwrapped the contents. Núria’s face emptied. Eyes glued to her brother.

‘What did you choose?’ asked Joan jovially.

Adrià unveiled his prize possession. There, pressed into the cloth was a long, stainless steel knife with a wooden handle. A folding knife of extreme proportions – more machete than tool. Adrià picked the knife up and twisted the handle, locking the shaft into place. He held the handle flat against his palms, showing the blade to the table.

‘Let me see it,’ his father said.

‘No.’

Adrià balanced the blade between his fingers. Metal stained by the candles. Radiating light.

La Marta’s breath caught in her throat, a detail she hid with her napkin.

Adrià’s father laughed again, this time in a forced, loud way.

‘
És macu, no?
’ said La Marta. ‘Go on, let Joan see it.’

This was part of her plan.

Confiscation of the object.

Adrià gave his father the knife, who kept his grip on it, holding the blade in his lap for the remainder of the meal.

When dinner was over, Emily followed Joan into the kitchen. Joan hid the knife behind the kitchen cupboard.

‘It’s worse than I imagined.’ Joan’s voice was low.

Emily nodded. She was not sure what to say.

‘Did anyone tell you what happened two years ago?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing? Not one word?’ Joan sighed. ‘It was a shame. A real shame.’

‘What happened?’

‘He broke.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ask Núria. Try to keep yourself out of trouble.’ They walked back down through the kitchen towards the garden party. As they descended down the outdoor steps to the patio, Joan touched Emily’s shoulder gently and whispered into her ear: ‘Lock your door tonight.’

The next day, after Adrià’s uncle had come to collect Adrià and return him to the hospital in Barcelona, Emily requested to be driven to the bus stop in the village. Nuría begged her not to go: Emily must spend the day with her in the mountains – this is her family home, after all, Emily is most welcome – we will all drive back tomorrow, we will visit Adrià in the hospital, we don’t want to interrupt the weekend – my parents, they have so enjoyed having you, I want to tell them – I want to tell them with you. Emily was resolute. She had seen enough. She wanted to go home.

Once she arrived in Barcelona, Emily decided to walk the weekend off. She padded along Passeig de Gràcia, the artery of the city, to Plaça de Catalunya, to the Cathedral, then down Carrer dels Comtes into the heart of the Gothic quarter. The sun dropped behind thunderheads as a vast blanket of shadow fell over the western streets. Narrow alleyways lit by dangling orange bulbs. The evening thick with water. Humidity hanging on the air, stinking of secrets. City stone streaked with urine. Music wafted from the old quarter. Dancing in Plaça del Rei?

The beating of a drum? The
tin-ta-ran-tan
of a marching band?

The steady thump of leather shoes. The shriek of approaching crowds. Emily rounded the corner of Plaça de Sant Just. A cacophony of noise exploded from the Basílica. Mounted
Guàrdia Urbana
appeared at the head of an enormous throng. Horses’ hooves clattered on the graves of Christian martyrs embedded in the square. Sombre trumpets bleated over the city. The first flank of a religious procession. Emily relinquished herself to the horde, engulfed by red uniforms. Gold-encrusted lapels. Tassels and bayonets.

She turned to a man in the crowd. ‘What is happening?’

‘The march of Corpus Christi.’

Emily entered the delirium. Toddlers gaped in awe. Mothers wrangled their children into order. Confetti and streamers burst on the air! Laughter! Noise! Exuberance! Next came the
Cavallets Cotoners
 – eight men and women in traditional costume: white tunic, scarlet velvet, knee-high boots. They danced in medieval hobby horses. The parade joyous! Extravagant! Emily felt the thumping thud of feet, the clanging clatter of pans. Enter the Eagle and Lion of Barcelona! Bunches of yellow blossoms soaked up the dying embers of the sun. Here come the dancing figures! Giant clay and fibreglass costumes for the initiated. A crowned lion gargled a wreath of sunflowers in his mouth! Black wings and golden coronets! The trumpets regal and proud!

The lion bowed, once, twice, three times, then careened into a drunken gig!

Tan-ta-ran, tan-tan ta-ran!

Capgrossos
, the giant heads of the Catalan Peasant, worn on the shoulders of costumed dancers – yellow, orange, gold, smooth fabric, they pranced before the
Gegants de la Ciutat
. Welcome the Royal Giants of Barcelona! Kings and queens of the city! King Jaume wielding a sceptre and orb. Bob-bobbing above the crowd. The queen ferocious! Ebony plaits coiled in a spring. Blue gown trimmed with gold. Fecundity burst from her fists. The crowd sang:

‘
Els gegants del Pi, ara ballen, ara ballen;

els gegants del Pi, ara ballen pel camí.

Els gegants de la Ciutat, ara ballen, ara ballen;

els gegants de la Ciutat, ara ballen pel terrat.
’