THE KEEPER OF that place, Isaac Montfort, brought Alicia a tray twice or three times a day with a glass of milk, a few slices of toast with butter and jam, and some fruit or a pastry from the Escribá Patisserie, the sort he bought every Sunday – for he too had his weaknesses beyond literature and a hermit’s life, especially if they involved significant amounts of pine nuts and custard cream. After much pleading, Isaac began to bring her old newspapers, even though Dr. Soldevila wasn’t too happy about it. That is how she was able to read everything the press had published about the death of Mauricio Valls and feel her blood boil again.
This is what has saved you, Alicia, she thought.
Good old Isaac was a small, fierce-looking man, but he had a tender nature and had developed a soft spot for Alicia he was barely able to hide. He said she reminded him of his late daughter. Nuria was her name. He always carried two pictures of her in his pocket. One was of a rather mysterious-looking woman, who smiled sadly; the other showed a happy little girl hugging a man Alicia recognized as Isaac, a few decades younger.
“She left me before knowing how much I loved her,” he said.
Sometimes, when he brought in the tray with her food and Alicia struggled to swallow two or three mouthfuls, Isaac would be overcome by a wave of memories and start telling her about his daughter Nuria, and about his regrets. Alicia listened to him. She suspected that the old man hadn’t shared that sorrow with anyone, but fate had chosen to send him a stranger who resembled the person he had most loved, so that now, when it was too late, when he was no longer of any use to anyone, he could find some comfort by trying to save Alicia and give her an affection that didn’t belong to her. Sometimes, when he talked about his daughter, the old man would start to cry, haunted by that memory. Then he would leave Alicia and not return for hours. The most sincere pain is experienced alone. Alicia felt secretly relieved when Isaac took his infinite sadness to a corner to drown in it. The only pain she hadn’t learned to tolerate was to see old people cry.
*
They all took turns watching over Alicia and keeping her company. Daniel liked reading to her from books he borrowed from the labyrinth, especially books by someone called Julián Carax, for whom he felt a special fondness. Carax’s pen made Alicia think of music and chocolate cakes. The times she spent with Daniel every day, listening to him read from Carax’s pages, allowed her to lose herself in a forest of words and images that she was always sad to leave. Her favourite was a short novel called Nobody, whose last paragraph she ended up learning by heart, and would whisper to herself when she was trying to get to sleep:
In war he made a fortune, and in love he lost everything. He was destined not to be happy, never to taste the fruit which that late spring had brought to his heart. He knew then that he would live the rest of his days in solitude’s perpetual autumn, with no other company or memory than longing and remorse, and that when someone asked who had built that house and who had lived in it before it became a haunted ruin, people who had known it and were familiar with its accursed history would look down and say, in a very faint voice and hoping the wind would blow away their words: nobody.
She soon discovered that she couldn’t talk about Julián Carax to anybody, least of all to Isaac. The Semperes had shared some sort of history with Carax, and Alicia thought it best not to rummage around in the family’s shadows. Isaac, in particular, couldn’t bear to hear Carax’s name without turning purple with anger. As Daniel explained to her, Isaac’s daughter Nuria had been in love with Carax. The old man believed that all his poor daughter’s misfortunes, which had led to her tragic death, were due to Carax, a strange character who, she learned, had once tried to burn all the existing copies of his own books. Had the keeper not been sworn in to his post, Carax would have been able to count on his enthusiastic help.
“It’s best not to mention Carax to Isaac,” said Daniel. “Come to think of it, better not mention him to anyone.”
The only person among them all who saw Alicia as she was, and who didn’t have any imaginary ideas or qualms, was Daniel’s wife. Bea bathed her, dressed her, combed her hair and gave her the medication, her eyes conveying that constraint presiding over their relationship, which they had both implicitly established. Bea would take care of Alicia; she would help her to heal and recover so that, as soon as possible, she could get out of their lives and disappear forever, before she could hurt them.
Bea, the woman Alicia would have liked to be and who, with every day spent in her company, she realized she never would. Bea, who spoke little and asked even less, but who understood her better than anyone. Alicia had never been one for hugs and gestures, but more than once had felt the urge to embrace her. Luckily she always restrained herself at the last second. A quick glance at Bea was enough for Alicia to know that this was not a parish church performance of Little Women, and that they both had a task to accomplish.
“I think you’ll soon be rid of me,” Alicia would say.
Bea never took the bait. She never complained. She never reproached her. She changed her bandages with the utmost care. She applied an ointment, something Dr. Soldevila had gotten his trusted chemist to prepare for him, on the old wound. It eased the pain without poisoning her blood. When she did so, she showed neither pity nor compassion. She was the only person, excepting Leandro, in whose eyes Alicia hadn’t glimpsed horror or apprehension when they saw her naked and realized the extent of the wounds that had destroyed part of her body during the war.
The only point where they could come together in peace and without shadows on the horizon was little Julián. Their longest and most peaceful chats usually took place when Bea bathed Alicia with a bar of soap and jugs of warm water heated up by Isaac on a camping stove he had in the room he used as office, kitchen and bedroom. Bea adored the child with a devotion Alicia knew she could never even begin to understand.
“The other day he assured us that when he grows up,” Bea said, “he wants to marry you.”
“I suppose that as a good mother you’ve warned him that there are wicked girls in the world who are not at all suitable for him.”
“Of which you must be the queen.”
“That’s what all my potential mothers-in-law have always said. And rightly so.”
“On such matters being right is the least of it. I live surrounded by men, and for a long time I’ve known that most of them are immune to logic. The only thing they learn about, and not all of them do, is the law of gravity. Until they fall flat on their faces, they don’t wake up.”
“That maxim sounds like one of Fermín’s.”
“Everything is catching, and I’ve spent years listening to his pearls of wisdom.”
“What else does Julián say?”
“His latest idea is that he wants to be a novelist.”
“Precocious.”
“You’ve no idea.”
“Are you going to have any more?”
“Children? I don’t know. I’d like Julián not to grow up alone. It would be nice if he had a little sister . . .”
“Another woman in the family.”
“Fermín says that would dilute the excess of testosterone that dulls the mind of the clan. Except for his, which he alleges can’t even be dissolved with turpentine.”
“And what does Daniel say?”
There was a long silence.
Bea shrugged. “Daniel says less every day.”
*
As the weeks went by, Alicia could feel her strength coming back. Dr. Soldevila examined her twice a day. Soldevila was not a man of many words, and the few he used, he dedicated to the concerns of others. Sometimes Alicia caught him looking at her out of the corner of his eye, as if he were wondering who this creature was and wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“You have scars from a lot of old wounds. Some are serious. You should start thinking about changing your habits.”
“Don’t worry about me, Doctor. I have more lives than a cat.”
“I’m not a vet, but the theory is that cats only have nine lives, and I can see you’re almost running on empty.”
“One more will suffice.”
“Something tells me you’re not going to devote it to charity work.”
“It depends on how you look at it.”
“I’m not sure what I’m most worried about, your health or your soul.”
“A priest as well as a doctor. You’re quite the catch.”
“At my age, the difference between the practice and the confessional becomes blurred. Still, I think I’m too young for you. How’s the pain going? The pain in your hip, I mean.”
“The ointment helps.”
“But not as much as what you were taking before.”
“No,” Alicia admitted.
“How much were you taking?”
“Four hundred milligrams. Sometimes more.”
“God almighty. You can’t go on taking that. You know, don’t you?”
“Give me a good reason.”
“Ask your liver, if you two are still on speaking terms.”
“If you hadn’t confiscated my white wine I could invite you to a little drink, and you and my liver could have a chat.”
“You’re a hopeless case.”
“That’s something we all three agree on.”
*
Most of them were beginning to make plans for her funeral, but Alicia knew she had got out of purgatory, even if perhaps it was just on a weekend leave. She knew because she was recovering her dismal view of the world and losing her appreciation for the moving, tender scenes of the last few days. Once again the dark breath of years gone by coloured everything, and the pain drilling like iron through her hip bones reminded her that her tenure as the delicate flower–like invalid was about to expire.
The days had regained their customary rhythm, and the hours that slipped by during her healing process began to taste of wasted time. The person who showed the most anxiety about her was Fermín, whose role alternated between a prematurely hired mourner and an amateur mind-reader.
“May I remind you of what the poet said,” Fermín would intone, reading her evil spirits: “revenge is a dish best served cold.”
“He must have mistaken that for gazpacho. Poets usually starve to death, and they don’t have a clue about cuisine.”
“Tell me you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid.”
“I’m not thinking of doing anything stupid.”
“What I want is for you to reassure me.”
“Bring a notary public along, and we’ll make it official.”
“I have quite enough with Daniel and his newly acquired criminal tendencies. I’ve discovered that he’s got a hidden gun! Can you believe it? Holy Mother of God. Only a couple of days ago he was still picking his nose, and now he’s hiding pistols as if he were a puppet of the Anarchists.”
“What have you done with the gun?” asked Alicia, with a smile that made Fermín’s hair stand on end.
“What could I do? I hid it again. Where nobody will find it, of course.” “Bring it to me,” whispered Alicia, seductive.
“No way. I’m getting to know you. I wouldn’t bring you a water pistol. You’d be capable of filling it with sulphuric acid.”
“You’ve no idea what I’m capable of,” she snapped.
Fermín looked concerned. “I’m beginning to imagine it, crocodile woman.”
Alicia wielded her innocent smile again.
“Neither you nor Daniel know how to use a weapon. Give it to me before you get hurt.”
“So you can be the one to hurt someone?”
“Let’s say I promise I won’t hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
“Oh, fine. Why didn’t you mention that before? In that case I’ll bring you a machine gun and a few grenades. Fancy any calibre in particular?”
“I’m serious, Fermín.”
“Exactly. What you have to do is get better.”
“The only thing that will get me better is doing what I have to do. It’s the only thing that will guarantee that you’re all safe. And you know it.”
“Alicia, I’m sorry to say that the more I hear you, the less I like the tone and drift of your conversation.”
“Bring me the weapon. Or I’ll get hold of one.”
“So you can die in a taxi again, but this time for real? Or chucked into an alleyway? Or in a cell at the hands of butchers who will cut you up into little pieces for fun?”
“Is that what’s worrying you? That I might be tortured or killed?”
“It has crossed my mind, yes. Look, between you and me, and don’t take this personally, I’m up to my eyeballs with you dying on me all over the place. How am I going to bring children into the world and be a decent father if I’m unable to keep alive the first child I became responsible for?”
“I’m not a child any more, nor are you responsible for me, Fermín. Besides, you’re brilliant when it comes to keeping me alive, and you’ve already saved me twice.”
“Third time’s the charm.”
“There won’t be a third time.”
“And there won’t be a weapon. I’ll destroy it today. I’ll crush it and scatter the bits over the docks of the port: I’ll feed them to those rubbish-eating fish, the ones with a fat belly you see on the surface, stuffing themselves with pigswill.”
“Not even you can prevent the inevitable from happening, Fermín.”
“It’s one of my specialties. The other is dancing cheek to cheek. End of discussion. You can look at me with those tiger eyes as much as you like, you’re not going to scare me. I’m not Fernandito or any of those bumpkins you manage so skilfully by flashing your black stockings.”
“You’re the only person who can help me, Fermín. All the more so now that we have the same blood in our veins.”
“Which at this rate is going to last you as long as a turkey at Christmastime.”
“Don’t be like that. Help me get out of Barcelona and find me a weapon. The rest is my business. You know that deep down it will be good for you. Bea would agree with me.”
“Ask her for the pistol and see what she says.”
“Bea doesn’t trust me.”
“And why might that be?”
“We’re wasting precious time, Fermín. What do you say?”
“Just piss off, and I won’t say go to hell because that’s where you’re going, head first.”
“That’s no way to speak to a young lady.”
“You’re as much a lady as I’m a sumo wrestler. Take a swig of that stuff of yours, and go back to your coffin to sleep it off before you do something evil.”
When Fermín got tired of arguing, he would leave her alone. Alicia would have a bit of dinner with Isaac, listen to the stories about Nuria, and when the old keeper retired, would pour herself a glass of white wine (a couple of days earlier, she’d discovered where Isaac hid the bottles confiscated by the doctor) and leave the room. She would walk down the corridor until she reached the hall with the high vaulted ceiling, and there, under the breath of the midnight light cascading down from the top of the cupola, she would stare at the vision of the great labyrinth of books.
Guided by a lamp, she entered the corridors and tunnels. She limped up the cathedral-like structure, negotiating rooms, junctions, and bridges that led to hidden halls crossed by spiral staircases or by hanging footbridges forming arches and buttresses. On the way she stroked the hundreds and thousands of books that awaited their readers. Sometimes she’d fall asleep on a chair in one of the rooms she found on her itinerary. Every night the route was different.
The Cemetery of Forgotten Books had its own geometry, and it was practically impossible to walk past the same place twice. More than once she’d got lost and had taken a while to find the way back down to the exit. One night, when dawn was beginning to glimmer above, Alicia emerged at the very top of the labyrinth and found herself standing on the same spot where she’d landed after falling through the broken dome, that night of the air bombings in 1938. When she looked down into the abyss, she glimpsed the minute figure of Isaac Montfort at the foot of the labyrinth. The keeper was still there when she reached the bottom.
“I thought I was the only one with insomnia,” he said.
“Sleep is for dreamers.”
“I’ve made some chamomile tea – it helps me sleep. Would you like a cup?”
“If we add a dash of something to it.”
“The only thing I have left is some old brandy I wouldn’t even use to unclog the water pipes.”
“I’m not fussy.”
“And what will Dr. Soldevila say?”
“What all doctors say: what doesn’t kill you makes you fat.”
“You could do with getting a bit fatter.”
“It’s on my to-do list.”
She followed the keeper to his room and sat at the table while Isaac prepared two cups of herbal tea and, after sniffing at the brandy bottle, poured a few drops into each one.
“It’s not bad,” said Alicia, tasting the cocktail.
They sipped their spiked chamomile in peace and quiet, like old friends who don’t need words to enjoy each other’s company.
“You’re looking well,” said Isaac finally. “I suppose that means that you’ll leave us soon.”
“I’m not doing anyone any good by staying here, Isaac.”
“The place isn’t bad,” he assured her.
“If I didn’t have matters to resolve, no other place in the world would seem better than this.”
“You’re welcome to return whenever you like, although something tells me that once you leave, you won’t be coming back.”
For an answer, Alicia smiled.
“You’ll need clothes and things,” the old man pointed out. “Fermín says that your home is being watched, so I don’t think it would be a good idea to collect anything from there. Somewhere I have a few of Nuria’s clothes that might suit you.”
“I wouldn’t want to—”
“I would consider it an honour if you accepted my daughter’s things. And I think my Nuria would like you to have them. Besides, I think you must be the same size.”
Isaac went over to a wardrobe and pulled out a suitcase that he dragged up to the table. He opened it, and Alicia had a look. There were dresses, shoes, books, and other objects whose sight made her feel an immense sadness. Although she’d never met Nuria Montfort, she’d started to get used to her haunting presence, listening to her father talk about her as if she were still by his side. When she saw the remains of a life contained in an old suitcase, which a poor old man had kept to save the memory of his dead daughter, she couldn’t find the right words. All she could do was nod.
“They’re good quality,” she said, for she had a keen eye for labels and the feel of fabrics.
“My Nuria spent all she had on books and clothes, poor thing. Her mother always said she looked like a film star. If you’d only seen her. It was a joy to look at her . . .”
Alicia moved some of the dresses in the suitcase to one side and noticed something peeping through the folds. It looked like a white figure, about ten centimetres high. She picked it up and examined it under the light of the lamp. It was an angel made of painted plaster, with its wings open wide.
“I haven’t seen that for years. I didn’t know Nuria had kept it. It was one of her favourite toys, from when she was a little girl,” Isaac explained. “I remember the day we bought it, at the fair of Santa Lucía, next to the cathedral.”
The figurine’s torso felt as if it had an empty hole in it. When she placed her finger over it, a tiny door opened, and Alicia saw it had a hidden compartment.
“Nuria liked to leave me secret messages inside the angel. She used to hide it somewhere in the house, and I had to find it. It was a game we shared.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Alicia.
“Keep it.”
“No, I wouldn’t dream of it . . .”
“Please. This angel hasn’t given any messages for a long time. You’ll know how to put it to good use.”
That was how, for the first time in her life, Alicia began to sleep with a little guardian angel to whom she prayed she would soon be able to get away, leave those good souls behind, and set off on the path she knew awaited her on her return to the heart of darkness.
“You won’t be able to come there with me,” she whispered to the angel.