DANIEL JUMPED ONTO the night tram from Plaza de Cataluña just as it was starting the slide along the rails. There were only about half a dozen passengers inside, all hunched up with cold, swaying to the rattling of the tram with their eyes half closed, oblivious to the world. Nobody would remember having seen him there.
For about half an hour the tram climbed up the city streets, meeting hardly any traffic. They went past deserted stops, leaving a trail of blue sparks on the cables and a smell of electricity and burned wood. Every now and then one of the passengers came back to life, staggered to the back exit, and got off without waiting for the tram to stop. During the last stretch of the ascent, from the corner of Vía Augusta and Calle Balmes to Avenida del Tibidabo, Daniel travelled alone with only a lethargic conductor who snoozed on his stool at the back and the driver, a little man joined to the world by a cigar that shed plumes of yellowish smoke smelling of petrol.
When he reached the final stop, the driver let out a celebratory puff and rang the bell. Daniel stepped out, leaving behind him the amber bubble of light surrounding the tram. In front of him, unfolding towards a vanishing point, was Avenida del Tibidabo, with its parade of mansions and palaces scaling the mountainside. High above, a silent sentinel keeping watch over the city, stood the silhouette of El Pinar. Daniel felt his heart racing. He pulled his coat tight and started walking.
As he went past number 32 in the avenue he looked up to gaze at the old house of the Aldayas from the gate, and was overcome by memories. In that large old house he’d found and almost lost his life an eternity ago – that is to say, a few years back. Had Fermín been with him, he would surely have found a way of improvising some irony about how that avenue seemed to describe his destiny and how only a fool would think of carrying out what he had in mind while his wife and child slept their last night of peace on earth. Perhaps he should have brought Fermín along with him. He would have done everything in his power to stop him, and not allowed him to do anything crazy. Fermín would have come between him and his duty, or simply his dark desire for vengeance. That is why he knew that, that night, he had to face his destiny alone.
When he reached the small square that crowned the avenue, Daniel kept in the shadows. He walked towards the road surrounding the hill above which loomed the dark, angular silhouette of El Pinar. From a distance the house looked as if it were perched in the night sky. Only when one drew closer did one become aware of the size of the estate surrounding it and the huge scale of the building. The grounds – a landscaped mountain – were surrounded by a stone wall that bordered the road. An adjoining villa crowned with a tower guarded the main entrance, whose ornate wrought-iron gate dated from the days when metalwork was still an art form. Farther down was another entrance, a stone porch built into the wall with a lintel announcing the name of the mansion. Behind that second entrance, a long maze of steps wound its way up through the gardens. It looked like a long climb. The gate seemed as solid as the one at the main entrance, and Daniel concluded that he’d have to climb the wall, vault over, and reach the house by walking through the trees, hoping he wouldn’t be seen. He wondered whether there were any dogs, or hidden guards. From the outside he couldn’t see any lights. El Pinar emitted a funereal air of loneliness and neglect.
After a couple of minutes’ observation, he chose a point in the wall that seemed more sheltered by the trees. The stone there was damp and slippery, and it took him a few tries before he could reach the top and jump over to the other side. As soon as he’d landed on the blanket of pine needles and fallen branches, he felt the temperature drop around him, as if he’d entered an underground tunnel.
Daniel began to climb stealthily up the hill, stopping every few metres to listen to the murmur of the breeze through the leaves. After a while he reached a stone path that led from the main entrance to the esplanade surrounding the house. He followed it until the facade rose before him. He scanned the area around him, which was enveloped in silence and a dense gloom. If there was anyone else in that place, they had no intention of making their presence known.
The building rested in shadow, the windows dark. The only sounds were those of his own footsteps and the wind whistling through the trees. Even by the faint light of the moon, Daniel could tell that El Pinar had been virtually abandoned for years. He gazed around, puzzled. He’d expected guards, dogs, or some sort of armed surveillance. Perhaps he had secretly been hoping for it – for someone who might try to stop him. There was nobody.
He walked over to one of the large windows and pushed his face against the cracked pane, seeing only darkness inside. He walked around the structure and came to a small patio adjoining a glazed gallery. He peered inside but didn’t see any light or movement. Grabbing a stone, he broke a glass pane in the door, then put his hand through the gap and opened it from the inside. The smell of the house embraced him like an old, wicked spirit that had been waiting anxiously for him. He took a few steps forward, and noticed that he was shaking, and still holding the stone in his hand. He didn’t let go of it.
The gallery led to a rectangular space that must once have been a formal dining room. Daniel walked through it and into a sitting room with large, intricately shaped windows, from which one could gaze down on the whole of Barcelona, more distant than ever. He went on exploring the house, feeling as if he were walking through the hull of a sunken ship. The furniture was shrouded by a pale murkiness, the walls darkened, the curtains frayed or fallen. At the heart of the house was an inner courtyard, its walls rising to a cracked roof through which beams of moonlight fell like swords of steam. He heard a low sound and a flapping of wings up high. On one side stood a sumptuous marble staircase, more suited to an opera house than a private home. Next to the stairs was an old chapel. The face of a Christ nailed to the cross could be made out in the half-light, tears of blood rolling down his cheeks and an accusatory look in his eyes. Farther on, beyond the doors to various closed rooms, a larger open door seemed to sink into the very bowels of the mansion. Daniel walked over to it and stopped. A light draught brushed his face, and with it came a smell. Wax.
He took a few more steps forward through a corridor and saw a more ordinary-looking staircase, once used, he assumed, by the staff. A few metres farther on, the corridor opened up into an ample room with a table in the middle, and near it, some fallen chairs. It was the old kitchen area, Daniel realized. The smell of wax came from there. A soft flickering light illuminated the surrounding walls and a large dark stain on the table, left by something that had spilled over the edge and splashed on the floor like a liquid shadow. Blood.
“Who goes there?”
The voice sounded almost more scared than Daniel himself. He stopped and searched for cover among the shadows as footsteps slowly approached.
“Who goes there?” came the voice again.
Clutching the stone firmly, Daniel held his breath. A figure loomed, holding a candle in one hand and a shining object in the other. All of a sudden it stopped, as if sensing Daniel’s presence. Daniel studied its shadow. A gun trembled in its hand. The figure took a few steps forward, and in a flash Daniel saw the hand holding the weapon cross in front of the doorway where he was hiding.
His fear turned to anger, and before he realized what he was doing, he threw himself on the figure, hitting the hand with the stone as hard as he could. He heard bones cracking, and a howl of pain. The weapon fell to the floor. Daniel hurled himself on the bearer of the gun, unleashing all the fury he’d been holding inside as he beat the figure’s face and torso with his bare fists. The figure tried to cover its face and shouted like a terrified animal.
The fallen candle, still burning, had created a pool of wax that now ignited. In its amber light, Daniel saw the panic-stricken face of a fragile-looking man. He stopped, disconcerted. The man, breathing with difficulty, his face covered in blood, looked at him without understanding. Daniel grabbed his gun and pressed the barrel against one of the eyes of the man, who let out a groan.
“Don’t kill me, please . . .”
“Where’s Valls?”
The man still didn’t seem to understand.
“Where’s Valls?” Daniel repeated. He could hear the steely tone in his voice, and a hatred he didn’t recognize.
“Who is Valls?” stammered the man.
Daniel made as if to hit his face with the gun. The man closed his eyes, trembling, and Daniel suddenly realized he was beating up an elderly person. He retreated and sat down with his back to the wall. Taking a deep breath, he tried to recover his self-control. The old man had curled into a ball and was whimpering.
“Who are you?” Daniel sighed at last. “I’m not going to kill you. I only want to know who you are, and where Valls is.”
“The guard,” the old man groaned. “I’m the guard.”
“What are you doing here?”
“They said they’d come back. They told me to feed him and wait for them.”
“Feed who?”
The old man shrugged.
“Valls?”
“I don’t know his name. They left this gun with me and ordered me to kill him and throw him into the well if they didn’t come back in three days’ time. But I’m not a murderer . . .”
“How long ago was this?”
“I don’t know. Days ago.”
“Who told you he would come back?”
“A police captain. He didn’t give me his name. He gave me money. It’s yours if you want it.”
Daniel shook his head. “Where’s that man? Valls.”
“Downstairs . . .” The old man pointed to the metal door at the far end of the kitchen.
“Give me the keys.”
“Have you come to kill him, then?”
“The keys.”
The old man looked in his pockets and handed him a bunch of keys.
“Are you with them? With the police? I’ve done everything I was told to do, but I couldn’t kill him . . .”
“What’s your name?”
“Manuel. Manuel Requejo.”
“Go home, Manuel.”
“I have no home . . . I live in a shed, back there, in the woods.”
“Leave this place.”
The old man nodded. He got on his feet with some difficulty, holding on to the table to steady himself.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Daniel said. “I thought you were someone else.”
Avoiding his eyes, the man dragged himself towards the exit.
“You’re going to do him a favour,” he said.