The Whispering City (20 page)

‘And they met through an advertisement and then they set a date? He wore a carnation in his lapel and she wore a white silk scarf?’

‘That’s my theory.’

‘But why don’t we have any letter where they introduce themselves and make a date to meet for the first time?’

‘Good question.’

Which wouldn’t be any use unless they found some answer to it. It didn’t have to be definitive or complete. Half a reply is often a starting point. So she ventured, ‘Perhaps Mariona Sobrerroca threw it away because a beginning like that didn’t fit with her image of a romantic relationship. When someone heaps praise on your golden hair and shimmering blue eyes, you surely don’t want to think that you met him through an advert.’

In her head she added,
And when someone promises you the moon and stars, you lap it up. Until he leaves you.

Ana shook her head.

‘I don’t think Mariona threw anything away. The boxes the police have from her house were filled with souvenirs. Letters, old postcards, theatre tickets, train tickets…’

‘But there was no advertisement.’

‘Not that I saw.’

The waiter came in carrying a tray with the empty cups left by a group of men who had been sitting at one of the tables in the courtyard garden. One of them had abandoned a copy of the Falangist newspaper
Arriba
. The waiter made sure the men couldn’t see him and then threw it into the bin with an expression of disgust. She and Ana saw him. Her cousin turned towards her and said, ‘Maybe Mariona organised her keepsakes, the good ones in drawers so she could look at them, and perhaps she made the others disappear into an attic or behind the shelves.’

Beatriz had to laugh, because this made her recall the pile of papers into which she had jammed the letter from Oxford.

Ana went on thinking aloud. ‘If they met through an advertisement, the newspaper or magazine where it appeared would have the address of our Rosenkavalier. If he was the one who placed the ad, he would have had to leave an address where they could send the replies.’ Ana took another lump of sugar. Her fourth. ‘But if he was the one who answered her ad, that complicates things,’ she added after putting the cube onto her spoon and letting it soak up coffee. The spoon and the sugar disappeared into her mouth. She closed her eyes for a moment.

Beatriz observed her. She realised that she had come through: she had read the letters, as promised, and she had even given Ana a useful clue. Her part was done. Still, she asked her, ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

She was disconcerted. She had given Ana a clue, she had a thread to pull on and still she didn’t have any idea as to how to proceed.

Ana beamed at her.

‘But I’ll think of something.’

Having contributed one of the pieces of the puzzle, Beatriz realised that she wanted to identify the other pieces. She asked her, ‘What magazines publish that type of advertisement?’

‘Mostly women’s magazines:
¡Hola!
,
Mujer Actual, Luna y sol, Astra
…
’
Ana thought for a moment. ‘Each one has a specific audience. An article for
Mujer Actual
is very different from one for
¡Hola!
You have to look for other adjectives, adjust the length of the sentences, because you are addressing a different public. Women like Mariona usually read
Mujer Actual
, but perhaps she saw the ad in
Luna y sol
and answered it.’

‘Then, in my opinion, the best thing would be to check the back issues of the magazine you think is most likely.’

She made a huge effort to suggest this in such a way that it didn’t seem intrusive, but she couldn’t conceive of letting Ana leave without a concrete plan. Since she seemed rather interested, and certainly not put out or irritated, Beatriz carried on, ‘Taking into account the dates on the letters, you could assume that the period to look at would probably be the first two weeks in January, maybe the final week of December last year.’

‘When almost two years had passed since her husband’s death. It could be that Mariona Sobrerroca considered her mourning over.’

‘Could be. The letter describing their meeting is the third one, and it’s dated 29 January. The others are dated one and two weeks later respectively. I don’t have much experience in these matters, but I imagine that between the advertisement and the first meeting not more than three or four weeks passed.’

Ana nodded.

‘Then we would have to look at those weeks before to see if any advertisement was published with the name Octavian or The Knight of the Rose.’

At that point her cousin interrupted her. ‘He might have used another name. Young Lonely Heart, or something like that.’

Ana picked up her coffee cup and immediately set it down again on the saucer. Beatriz thought that it must be empty. Ana said, ‘It could also be that Mariona was the one who placed the ad.’

‘It’s possible, but I would look first for Octavian or The Knight of the Rose. And I’d start with the magazine you think it’s most likely Mariona would read, and if you don’t find anything there, try the next one on the list, and so on.’

She trailed off. Ana laughed. ‘OK! Understood. But your plan has a lot of “maybes” and “perhapses”.’

‘Of course; but many of those can be eliminated if you give your plan a thorough review.’

‘All right.’

Ana didn’t sound enthusiastic, exactly, but Beatriz felt it was a solid working plan. It was true that if she started with the wrong magazine, the search would be a long one. And if she had bad luck, it would be in vain. But then at least she would know that this path didn’t lead anywhere, and she’d have to look for another one.

With a rapid movement, Ana swiped her finger through the remains of the coffee and sugar at the bottom of the cup and licked it. ‘You know what? This plan of yours is pretty laborious, but I’ll think about it. First, I have to go to the newspaper office.’

She smiled at her. She got up, took her by the shoulders and gave her a loud kiss on each cheek.

‘Thanks so much for all your help. You are amazing!’

Beatriz didn’t know how to respond to such effusiveness. She picked up the packet of letters and held it before her with both hands as if it were a protective shield. ‘I could analyse them further, if you’d like.’

‘Do you think you can find out even more?’

‘Perhaps.’

The letters didn’t stop Ana from hugging her.

‘Be careful! You’re going to crease them.’

‘Sorry. I have to go. I have to hand in the article about Mariona’s funeral.’

She grabbed her bag and coat and gave her a last quick peck on the cheek.

Beatriz watched her leave. She wondered if Ana would get in touch with the magazines right away. Beatriz didn’t have the impression that she was planning to make a list of publications and check them one by one. But, really, it was none of her business. Was it?

24

The Knight of the Rose.

She could imagine Mariona feeling like the Marschallin of Strauss’s great work, in love at fifty-three with a younger man like the lover in the opera. Was he as young as Strauss’s Octavian, who was seventeen?

They had already seen, from the dates on the letters, that she had waited quite some time after her husband’s death before answering a ‘friendship’ ad. The guardians of the nation’s morality couldn’t be so innocent as to believe that such a thing existed as friendship between men and women. Or did they think those ‘gentlemen’ were making innocent dates to escort women to concerts of the Montserrat Boys’ Choir? Where had she got that part about the boys’ choir? She realised that the music from the radio had infiltrated her thoughts. The host had announced the musical interlude after saying something about the forthcoming Eucharistic Congress. She turned off the radio.

A ‘friendship’ advert, a euphemism constructed with forced words to suggest honesty. Mariona saved any slip of paper that reminded her of moments in her life, even the most routine meeting of the Ladies of Charity; how was it possible she hadn’t saved that ad? In some well-protected place, because it was also somewhat shameful, but she wouldn’t have got rid of it. It was still in Mariona’s house.

So, once again, she set off running out of her own house. She took the stairs two by two on the way down and three by three when she reached the first floor, because Teresina Sauret had just scrubbed them. She came face to face with her on the last flight, still on her knees on a foam pad.

‘Some people have great timing,’ complained the doorkeeper.

‘If you had got to the fourth floor, I would have realised and waited,’ she responded wickedly and with the poise that being up to date on the rent gave her.

It was mean and she knew it, a retaliatory ‘money talks’ after having avoided her for several weeks, but her remorse lasted only as long as it took to come up with her plan on the way to the newspaper, the waltz from
Der Rosenkavalier
echoing in her head.

She went straight to Sanvisens’s office. ‘Would you be interested in some photos of Mariona Sobrerroca’s house?’

‘Of course. Especially of the scene of the crime. Is there a possibility?’

‘Castro told me that I can go with him to see the house. If you lend me a camera.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to send a photographer?’

‘No. I don’t think they want any more journalists.’

‘All right. Do you know how to use one?’

‘Please!’

‘Then tell Ramoneda to lend you one. Don’t forget to put a film in it.’

‘Come on, boss!’

She left the office in such a hurry that she hardly paid any attention to the last thing that Sanvisens told her: ‘Carlos is coming back on Monday, Tuesday at the latest.’

Twenty minutes later, she turned up at Castro’s office.

‘I was expecting you this afternoon.’

‘We had a meeting at the paper, and my boss has asked me for some photos.’

‘You aren’t taking any photos of me, I can tell you that now.’

‘No, not of you. They would be photos of Señora Sobrerroca’s house, to go with the article.’

‘What article? There’s nothing new to report.’

‘Another point in my favour. A couple of photos, a brief description of the crime scene and, since it’s new information, people will be satisfied.’

There it was. She’d played her bluff card. There was no turning back.

The tightening that preceded one of the inspector’s rare smiles started to be visible on his face. He had unmasked her. Once again he had read what she hadn’t wanted to tell him.

Or had he?

The words that followed were spoken in an unequivocally admiring tone: ‘You would sell your own grandmother for a good article!’

She gave him a flustered smile in return for his unflattering praise.

Castro rose, opened the door to his office and called for Officer Sevilla. He pulled the door behind him. Castro and Sevilla’s voices were so muffled that she couldn’t make out what they were saying. At one point they almost disappeared. The inspector must be giving him instructions about her. She imagined that he was asking him not to take his eyes off her, and to be discreet, not tell her anything about the case. If only he were also asking him to be kind.

It seemed he had told him not to speak to her. Sevilla barely said a word on the way there, just gave instructions in the form of orders: ‘Sit down, you can get out of the car now, follow me, it’s this way, go in.’ And when they were inside, ‘Don’t touch anything.’

‘Relax, I won’t.’

To avoid raising the officer’s suspicions, she said out loud everything she was supposedly doing: ‘I am going to go through the house to get an overall idea. I’m not touching anything… I hope you don’t mind if I take some notes. I’m not touching anything… I’m just taking a look in that corner to see the details. I’m not touching anything.’

She did everything slowly. Soon she found three places where Mariona Sobrerroca could have hidden the advertisement. Did she need to hide it? Of course, she had a maid. From the occasional dealings she’d had with her, she knew that Mariona was a bit of a romantic. Ana had met her husband. Jerónimo Garmendia was like his name, solid and dour; she couldn’t imagine him capable of outpourings of love or awakening any sort of passion. She imagined that, after being widowed, Mariona had given free rein to her desires. She had already seen several bookcases filled with romance novels. That was one of the possible hiding places. Another was the significant collection of records lined up underneath a very modern record player. The third was among the programmes from the Liceo Opera that Mariona kept perfectly in order on a sideboard in the parlour.

Sevilla, bored, decided to go out into the garden to smoke a cigarette.

‘Don’t touch anything.’

She pretended to be absorbed in her notes and didn’t look up as she replied, ‘Of course not.’

The officer went out.

Ana didn’t have time to look in all three places. Which should she choose? Mariona, so romantic… in love with a younger man… sporadic visits… days of waiting…

Her first impulse was to go over to the novels. She read the titles, hoping that one of them would suggest that it hid what she was searching for; but from
I’ll Wait for You For Ever
to
Spring in Autumn
, any one of them could contain the advert. When you enter into the parallel dimension of allusion, every interpretation is possible. Even
Sacrifice for Love
could be the key. And there were so many novels! Sevilla would have to smoke his way through an entire packet of cigarette papers to give her time to browse all the books. She gave it up as an impossible task, and took it on trust that the books weren’t the hiding place. The waltz from
Der Rosenkavalier
played again in her head. On another shelf the opera programmes were lined up chronologically. When had they performed Strauss’s opera at the Liceo? She couldn’t remember. She really didn’t know and she didn’t have time.