AT THE DAWN of the twentieth century, when money still had a whiff of perfume and large fortunes were not only inherited but also put on display, a modernist palace, born from the troubled romance between the dreams of great craftsmen and the vanity of a tycoon, fell from the heavens and was encased forever in the most improbable enclave of Barcelona’s Belle Époque.
The so-called Casa Pérez Samanillo had been occupying the corner of Calle Balmes and Avenida Diagonal for half a century in the guise of a mirage, or perhaps a warning. Built originally as a family residence at a time when almost all aristocrats were getting rid of such ostentatious abodes, this paean to abundance seemed like a Parisian coral reef, beaming its coppery light over the streets from its French windows, displaying to mere mortals its grand staircases, halls and crystal chandeliers with no hint of shame. Alicia had always thought of it as a sort of aquarium where one could observe exotic and undreamed-of forms of life through glass panels.
For years this lavish fossil had ceased to be a family home, and more recently it had become the headquarters of the Equestrian Club of Barcelona, one of those unassailable and elegant institutions left to ferment in all great cities, where people with good names can protect themselves against the smell of sweat given off by those on whose shoulders their illustrious ancestors built their fortunes. Leandro, a fine observer of such situations, said that once the business of food and home has been solved, the next thing humans strive for are reasons to feel superior to others, and resources with which to demonstrate that superiority. The club seemed to have been fashioned for that very end, and Alicia suspected that if Leandro hadn’t moved to Madrid years ago, those exquisitely designed halls of fine wood would have provided the perfect stage for her mentor, a residence where he might handle his murky affairs with kid gloves.
Uniformed up to his ears, a footman opened the solemn iron door for her. Inside the foyer stood an illuminated lectern behind which she caught sight of an individual wearing a suit. His face wizened with age, he glanced at her from head to toe a couple of times before granting her a meek smile.
“Good afternoon,” said Alicia. “I’ve arranged to meet Señor Gustavo Barceló here.”
The employee looked down at the notebook on the lectern and pretended to study it for a few moments, lending solemnity to the ritual. “And your name is . . . ?”
“Verónica Larraz.”
“If you’d be so kind as to follow me—”
The receptionist led her through the sumptuous interior of the palace. As she walked by, the members of the club interrupted their conversations to look at her in surprise. Some almost seemed scandalized. This was clearly not a place that was used to receiving female visitors, and more than one patrician seemed to take her presence as an affront to his ancestral masculinity. Alicia merely returned their attentions with a polite smile. At last she was shown into a reading room facing a large window that looked out onto Avenida Diagonal. There, sitting in a plush armchair, sipping a glass of brandy the size of a fish tank, was a gentleman with majestic features and a no less grand moustache, sporting a three-piece suit, complete with two-toned shoes. The receptionist stopped a couple of metres away and broke into a fainthearted smile.
“Don Gustavo? The visitor you were expecting . . .”
Don Gustavo Barceló, honorary chairman of the Barcelona guild of booksellers and a scholar of everything pertaining to the eternal feminine and its most refined manifestations, stood up to receive Alicia warmly with a deferential bow. “Gustavo Barceló, at your service.”
Alicia held out her hand to him, and the bookseller kissed it as he would the hand of a bishop, taking his time and making the most of the moment to look her over properly, probably even noting what size gloves she wore.
“Verónica Larraz,” Alicia introduced herself. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Is Larraz the surname of your collector relative?”
Alicia supposed that Barceló’s employee, Benito, had called him as soon as she’d left the bookshop and told him all about the meeting in minute detail.
“No. Larraz is my married name.”
“I see. Discretion above all. I quite understand. Please, take a seat.”
Alicia sat down in an armchair opposite Barceló and took in the exclusive aristocratic air that emanated from the room’s decor.
“Welcome to the illustrious sanctuary of the nouveaux-riches and of those who have fallen on hard times and marry off their children to them, in order to perpetuate the caste,” remarked Barceló, following her eyes.
“You’re not a full member of the club, then?”
“For years I resisted on grounds of moral hygiene, but in the end circumstances forced me to succumb to the realities of the city and go with the flow.”
“It must have its advantages.”
“It certainly does. You meet people in need of thinning their excessive inherited disposable income on articles they don’t understand or want. It also cures you of any romantic notions you might entertain about the self-appointed elites of this country. And the brandy is superb. Besides, this is a wonderful place for social archaeology. Over a million people live in Barcelona, but when it comes to the crunch, barely four hundred of them hold the keys to every door. This is a city of closed doors where everything depends on who has the key, who the key holder will allow through the door, and on what side of the door one will end up. But I doubt any of this is news to you, Señora Larraz. Is there anything I can offer you, apart from speeches and sermons from an old bookseller?”
Alicia shook her head.
“Of course. No beating around the bush, right?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“On the contrary. Did you bring the book?”
Alicia opened her bag, pulled out the copy of Ariadna and the Scarlet Prince, wrapped in a silk scarf, and handed it to him. Barceló took it with both hands. As soon as his fingers touched the cover, his eyes lit up and a smile of pleasure spread over his lips.
“The Labyrinth of the Spirits . . .” he murmured. “I suppose you’re not going to tell me how you obtained it.”
“The owner would rather that was kept secret.”
“I understand. If you’ll allow me . . .”
Don Gustavo opened the book and turned the pages slowly, relishing the finding like a gourmet taking pleasure in a unique and unrepeatable dish. Alicia was beginning to suspect that the old bookseller, lost in the pages of the volume, had forgotten her when he suddenly looked up and threw her a questioning glance.
“Pardon my boldness, Señora Larraz, but I have to admit that I can’t understand why someone – in this case the collector you are representing – would want to get rid of a piece like this.”
“Do you think it would be difficult to find a buyer?”
“Not at all. Give me a phone, and in twenty minutes I’ll present you with at least five offers at the high end, minus my ten percent commission. That’s not the point.”
“And what is the point, Don Gustavo, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Barceló downed his glass of brandy. “The point is whether you really want to sell this piece, Señora Larraz.” Barceló stressed the fictitious surname ironically.
Alicia just smiled timidly. Barceló gave a nod. “There’s no need to reply, nor do you need to give me your real name.”
“My name is Alicia.”
“Did you know that Ariadna, the main character in the series of The Labyrinth of the Spirits, is a homage to another Alice, the Lewis Carroll one with her Wonderland, which in this case is Barcelona?”
Alicia feigned surprise, shaking her head slowly.
“In the first book of the series, Ariadna finds a book of magic spells in the attic of a large old house in Vallvidrera where she lives with her parents until they disappear mysteriously one stormy night. Believing that if she could exorcize a spirit from the shadows, she might be able to find them, Ariadna, without realizing it, opens a door between the real Barcelona and its reverse, the accursed reflection of the city. The City of Mirrors . . . The floor cracks beneath her feet, and Ariadna falls down an interminable spiral staircase into the dark until she reaches that other Barcelona, the labyrinth of the spirits, where she is condemned to wander through the circles of hell built by the Scarlet Prince. There she meets ill-fated souls and tries to save them while she searches for her lost parents.”
“Does Ariadna manage to find her parents and save some of those souls?”
“No, unfortunately she doesn’t. But she tries hard. In her own way she’s a heroine, although her flirtations with the Scarlet Prince also turn her slowly into a dark and perverse reflection of herself – a fallen angel, one might say.”
“It sounds like an uplifting story.”
“It is. Tell me, Alicia, is this what you devote your time to? Descending into hell in search of problems?”
“Why would I want to search for problems?”
“Because, as I imagine you’ve already been told by that dimwit Benito in my employ, not long ago an individual who looked like a butcher from the political police came to the bookshop asking questions similar to the ones you’ve asked, and I have a feeling that you two are acquainted with one another.”
“The individual you’re referring to is called Ricardo Lomana, and you’re on the right path.”
“I’m usually on the right path, miss, however thorny it may turn out to be.”
“What exactly did Lomana ask you?”
“He wanted to know whether anyone had recently bought one of Víctor Mataix’s books, either at auction, as a private purchase or on the international market.”
“Didn’t he ask you any questions about Víctor Mataix?”
“Señor Lomana didn’t strike me as a great reader, but I got the impression that he knew everything he needed to know about Mataix.”
“And what did you say to him?”
“I gave him the address of a collector who for the last seven years has been buying all the copies of The Labyrinth of the Spirits that were not destroyed in 1939.”
“All the Mataix books in the market have been bought by the same person?”
Barceló nodded. “All but yours.”
“And who is this collector?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve just told me you gave Lomana his address.”
“I gave him the address of the lawyer who represents him and carries out all the transactions in his name. His name is Brians – Fernando Brians.”
“Have you spoken to this lawyer Brians, Don Gustavo?”
“I must have spoken to him once or twice, at the most. On the phone. A serious man.”
“About matters connected to Víctor Mataix, Don Gustavo?”
Barceló nodded.
“What can you tell me about Víctor Mataix, Don Gustavo?”
“Very little. I know he often worked as an illustrator, that he’d published various novels with those scoundrels Barrido and Escobillas before he started to work on the Labyrinth books, and that he lived as a recluse in a house on Carretera de las Aguas, between Vallvidrera and the Fabra observatory, because his wife suffered from some strange disease and he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, leave her on her own. Not much else. That and the fact that he disappeared in 1939, after the Nacionales entered Barcelona.”
“Where could I find out more about him?”
“It’s difficult. The only person I can think of who could help you is Vilajuana. Sergio Vilajuana, a journalist and writer who knew Mataix. He’s a regular customer at the bookshop and the person who knows most about the subject. I remember hearing someone say that Vilajuana was working on a book about Mataix and the whole doomed generation of Barcelona writers who vanished after the war—”
“You mean there are more?”
“Doomed writers? It’s a local specialty, like allioli.”
“And where can I find Señor Vilajuana?”
“Try the newsroom of La Vanguardia. But if you’ll allow me a bit of advice, you’d better come up with a better story than your secret collector. Vilajuana wasn’t born yesterday.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Tempt him.”
Alicia smiled mischievously.
“With the book. If he’s still interested in Mataix, I don’t think he’ll be able to resist having a look at this copy. These days it’s almost as difficult to find a Mataix as it is to find a decent person in an important post.”
“Thank you, Don Gustavo. You’ve been a great help. May I ask you to keep this conversation between us?”
“Of course. Keeping secrets is what keeps me young. That and expensive brandy.”
Alicia wrapped the book in the silk scarf again and put it back in her bag. While she was at it, she pulled out her lipstick and shaped her smile as if she were alone, a spectacle that Barceló watched with fascination and delight.
“Very distinguished.”
She stood up and put on her coat.
“Who are you, Alicia?”
“A fallen angel,” she replied, holding out her hand and winking.
“Then you’ve come to the right place.”
Don Gustavo Barceló shook her hand and watched her walk away. He settled back in his large armchair, holding his almost empty brandy glass, lost in thought. Minutes later he saw her walking past the large window. The evening had spread a blanket of crimson clouds over Barcelona, and the setting sun traced the figures of passers-by on the pavements of Avenida Diagonal and made the cars shine like red-hot metal tears. Barceló fixed his gaze on that receding red coat until Alicia seemed to evaporate into the shadows of the city.