IT WAS WELL known to everyone in the Force that when it came to the art of following or even chasing citizens – whether or not they were suspects – Vargas was unequalled. When asked what his secret was he would say that what mattered, more than discretion, was knowing how to make good use of the lie of the land. What was essential, he argued, was not what the pursuer could see or guess, but what was within range of the pursued person’s vision. That and good legs. As soon as they began to follow the lawyer, Vargas realized that Alicia had not only mastered the discipline to perfection but even raised it to a fine art. Her exhaustive knowledge of the old town’s mesh of narrow streets and alleyways allowed her to follow Brians unnoticed.
Alicia walked more confidently than the day before. Vargas supposed she must be wearing the girdle the taxidermist had told him about. The way she moved her hips was different, and she seemed more upright. She led him through that maze, indicating pauses, taking shelter in blind spots and following Brians’s route without the lawyer realizing what she was doing. For almost twenty minutes they trailed the lawyer through the dense grid of passageways that rose from the port to the town centre. More than once they caught a glimpse of him stopping at an intersection, looking back to make sure nobody was following him. His only mistake was to look the wrong way. Finally they saw him turn into Calle Canuda and head for the Ramblas, mixing with the crowd that already filled the central boulevard. Only then did Alicia stop for a few seconds.
“He’s going to the metro,” she murmured, holding Vargas back with her arm.
Mingling with the surge of people along the Ramblas, keeping about ten metres back, Alicia and Vargas followed Brians to the metro entrance next to the Canaletas fountain. The lawyer rushed down the stairs and into the web of tunnels that led to the so-called Avenida de la Luz.
More like a boulevard of darkness and sorrow than an avenue of light, this extravagant and ghostly mall had been designed by some enlightened soul who hoped to create an underground Barcelona by gaslight. The project, however, had never come close to fulfilling that vision. A budding graveyard through which gusts of air coughed up the scent of charcoal and electricity from the metro tunnels, Avenida de la Luz had become a refuge for those who shunned the surface and the sun.
Vargas scanned the long, gloomy line of mock-marble columns that bordered the shoddy bazaars and dimly lit cafés, then turned to Alicia. “The city of vampires?”
Alicia and Vargas followed Brians down the underground avenue, the lines of columns on either side shielding them from view. The lawyer walked on almost to the end, not showing any interest in the shops bordering the avenue.
“Perhaps he’s allergic to sunlight,” suggested Vargas.
Brians walked straight past the Catalan Railways’ ticket office and continued down the vast gallery. Only then did it become obvious where he was heading.
The Avenida de la Luz Cinema loomed ahead, a sombre fantasy marooned in that strange subterranean Barcelona. Its amusement-park lights and old posters for re-releases had been tempting the tunnel creatures – sacked office clerks, truant schoolchildren and sleazy pimps – to its matinees since shortly after the civil war. Brians walked up to the ticket office and bought a ticket.
“Don’t tell me our lawyer goes to the cinema halfway through the morning,” said Vargas.
At the entrance, the usher opened the door for Brians, and he disappeared under the canopy announcing that week’s programme: a double bill of The Third Man and The Stranger. A somewhat evil-looking Orson Welles bearing an enigmatic smile looked down from a poster, framed by flickering lightbulbs.
“At least he has good taste,” Alicia said.
As Vargas and Alicia went through the velvet curtains sealing the entrance, they were hit by an aroma of old cinema and unspeakable sadness. The projector’s beam cut through a thick cloud that seemed to have been trapped for decades over the stalls. There were only three or four people in the entire cinema. Rows of empty seats sloped down to the screen, where a treacherous Harry Lime ran through the phantasmagoria of Vienna’s sewer tunnels, in a series of spectral images that seemed, to Alicia, straight out of Víctor Mataix’s book.
“Where is he?” whispered Vargas in her ear.
She pointed towards the bottom of the stalls. Brians had taken a seat in the fourth row. They moved down the side aisle, where a row of seats was backed up against the wall, as on an underground train. Halfway down, Alicia slipped into one of the rows, sitting in the middle.
Vargas sat down beside her. “Have you seen this film?”
Alicia nodded. She’d seen it at least six times and knew the dialogue by heart.
“What’s it about?”
“Penicillin. Keep quiet.”
The wait turned out to be shorter than they thought. The film was still running when Alicia, glancing over her shoulder, saw a figure advancing down the side aisle. She nudged Vargas, who was by now utterly engrossed in the film.
The stranger wore a dark coat and carried a hat in his hand. Alicia clenched her fists. The visitor stopped by the row where the lawyer was sitting, and stood staring calmly at the screen. A moment later he stepped into the row just behind Brians, sitting in a seat diagonally behind the lawyer.
“Knight’s move,” whispered Vargas.
For the next couple of minutes the lawyer showed no sign of having noticed the presence of the stranger, nor did the stranger seem to communicate with him in any way. Vargas looked at Alicia sceptically. Even she began to think that perhaps it was a simple coincidence – two strangers in a cinema with no more connection than a nearsightedness that made them prefer to sit in the front rows. It was only when the sound of gunshots filled the hall, ending the thousand lives of the evil Harry Lime, that the stranger leaned towards the seat in front of him, and Brians turned slightly. The soundtrack took away his words, and all Alicia was able to establish was that the lawyer had spoken a couple of sentences and given the stranger a piece of paper. Afterwards, ignoring one another, they settled back in their seats and continued watching the film.
“In my day I would have arrested them on grounds of being fairies,” said Vargas.
“Pity we’re no longer living in the golden days of your Stone Age Spain,” replied Alicia.
When the projector flooded the screen with the grandiose final shot, the stranger stood up. He withdrew slowly towards the side aisle, and while the disillusioned heroine walked along the deserted avenue of the old Vienna cemetery, he put on his hat before slinking off to the exit. Alicia and Vargas didn’t turn their heads or otherwise suggest that they had noticed his presence, but their eyes were fixed on the figure sprinkled by the vaporous flicker of the projector. The brim of the hat cast a shadow over his face, but not enough to hide a bizarrely smooth, shiny ivory surface, like the face of a dummy. Alicia shivered.
Vargas waited for the stranger to disappear behind the entrance curtain before leaning over. “Is it me, or was that guy wearing a mask?”
“Something like that. Come on, let’s get out before he slips away.”
At that moment, before they had time to stand up, the lights went on and the end credits disappeared from the screen. Brians had stood up and was making his way towards the side aisle. In just a few seconds he would walk past and see them sitting there.
“What now?” whispered Vargas, lowering his head.
Alicia grabbed the back of the policeman’s neck and pulled his face towards hers.
“Embrace me,” she whispered.
Vargas put his arms around her with the zeal of a practicing schoolboy. Alicia pulled him towards her. Their lips almost touching, they became entwined in what looked like one of those furtive kisses that in those days were only seen in the back rows of local cinemas and in dark doorways at midnight. Vargas closed his eyes.
As soon as Brians had left the cinema hall, Alicia pushed Vargas away and stood up. “Let’s go.”
Outside the cinema, Brians was walking down the central lane of the underground avenue in the same direction as he had come. There was no trace of the stranger with the mannequin face. Some twenty metres farther along, Alicia spotted the stairs that led to the crossing of Calle Balmes and Calle Pelayo, and they hurried towards them. A stabbing pain ran up Alicia’s right leg, and she held her breath. Vargas grabbed her arm.
“I can’t go any faster,” she announced. “You go on ahead. Quick.”
Vargas leaped up the stairs while she leaned against the wall, recovering her breath. Emerging into the daylight, the policeman found himself staring at the entire length of Calle Balmes. He looked around in confusion. He didn’t know the city well and had lost his bearings. By then the traffic was very thick. The centre of Barcelona was flooded with cars, buses and trams. Curtains of pedestrians moved across the pavements beneath a dusty sunlight bearing down from on high. Vargas put a hand on his forehead to protect himself from the light and swept the intersection with his eyes, ignoring the shoving of passers-by. A thousand black coats and hats were parading every which way. He’d never find the stranger, he thought.
The peculiar texture of the stranger’s face gave him away. He was already on the other side of the street, walking towards a car parked on the corner of Calle Vergara. Vargas tried to cross, but the mass of vehicles pushed him back to the pavement amid a bellow of horns. On the other side the stranger was getting into the car – a Mercedes-Benz, at least fifteen or twenty years old.
By the time the traffic lights changed, the car was already driving away. Vargas ran after it and managed to get a good look before it was swallowed by the river of traffic. On his way back towards the mouth of the metro station, he walked past a local policeman, who gave him a disapproving look; he must have seen Vargas try to cross the street against a red light and dive in among the cars. Vargas nodded meekly and raised a hand in apology.
Alicia was waiting expectantly on the pavement.
“How are you feeling?” Vargas asked.
She ignored his question and shook her head impatiently.
“I managed to see him get into a car. A black Mercedes,” said Vargas.
“Plate number?”
He nodded.