VICTORIA SANCHÍS AWOKE between linen sheets, ironed and perfumed with lavender. She was wearing beautifully tailored silk pyjamas. She touched her face and noticed that her skin smelled of bath salts, and her hair was clean, although she didn’t remember having washed it. She couldn’t remember anything.
She sat up, far back enough to be leaning on the velvet headboard, and tried to work out where she was. The bed, large, with pillows that invited surrender, presided over an ample bedroom decorated in a plush, elegant style. A soft light filtered through a large window with white curtains, revealing a chest of drawers adorned with a vase full of fresh flowers. Next to the chest of drawers stood a dressing table, placed under a mirror. There was also a desk. The walls were covered with embossed paper, and there were a number of watercolours of pastoral scenes, ostentatiously framed.
She drew the sheet to one side and sat on the edge of the bed. The pastel colours in the carpet at her feet matched the rest of the room’s decor to perfection. The setting had been put together with professional taste by an expert hand. It was both warm and impersonal. Victoria wondered whether this was hell.
She closed her eyes and tried to understand how she had got here. The last thing she remembered was the house in El Pinar. The images came back to her little by little. The kitchen area. She was tied hand and foot to a chair with bits of wire. Hendaya had knelt down next to her and was interrogating her. She spat in his face. A brutal blow knocked her onto the floor. One of Hendaya’s men lifted the chair. Two other men were bringing in Morgado and tying him to a table. Hendaya was questioning her again. She kept silent. Then the policeman took a gun and blew off Morgado’s knee, shooting at pointblank range. The chauffeur’s screams were breaking her heart. She had never heard a man howl with pain like that. Hendaya questioned her again, calmly. Struck dumb, she shook with terror. Hendaya shrugged and walked around the table, placing the barrel of the gun on the chauffeur’s other knee. One of the captain’s thugs held her head so that she couldn’t look away. “Look what happens to people who try to fuck with me, you whore.” Hendaya pulled the trigger. A cloud of blood and pulverized bone splashed his face. Morgado’s body was going into spasms as if some high-voltage current were running through it, but no more sound came out of his mouth. Victoria closed her eyes. Moments later came the third shot.
Nausea suddenly hit her, and she jumped out of bed. A half-open door led to the bathroom. She collapsed on her knees by the toilet and vomited bile. She went on retching until she could no longer bring out a drop of saliva, then leaned against the wall, sitting on the floor, panting. She looked around her. The bathroom, a creation made of pink marble, was pleasantly warm. On the wall, a built-in loudspeaker exuded the murmur of a string orchestra performing a sugary version of a Bach adagio.
Victoria recovered her breath and stood up, leaning on the walls. Her head was spinning. She walked over to the sink and let the water run. After washing her face and getting rid of the bitter aftertaste in her mouth, she dried herself with a thick, soft towel, which she dropped by her feet. She staggered back to the room and slumped back onto the bed. Although she tried to erase the images from her mind, Hendaya’s blood-spattered face seemed branded with a hot iron on her retinas.
Victoria looked around at this strange place in which she had awoken. She didn’t know how long she had been here. If this was hell, and it deserved to be, it looked more like a luxury hotel. Soon she fell asleep again, praying she would never wake up.