THE BLUE TRAM climbed slowly, a small raft of golden light making its way like a ship through the night mist. Fernandito travelled on the back platform. He’d left his Vespa parked next to the Hotel La Rotonda. He saw it fade into the distance and then looked out to face the long avenue of mansions that flanked the route, deserted castles sheltered by small woods, fountains and gardens of statues, where nobody was ever to be seen. Great fortunes are never at home.
At the top of the avenue loomed the silhouette of El Pinar through slivers of low clouds. Towers, gables and lines of serrated dormer windows crowned a forbidding vision resting on a hill from which the whole of Barcelona could be seen. On a clear day you could probably make out the island of Mallorca from that hilltop, thought Fernandito. That night, however, a thick blanket of darkness shrouded the house.
Fernandito gulped. The mission Alicia had entrusted him with was beginning to make him apprehensive. According to an uncle of his who had lost an arm and an eye in the war, one can only be a hero when one is genuinely afraid. Someone who faces danger fearlessly is just an idiot. Fernandito wasn’t sure whether Alicia was expecting him to be a hero or a simpleton. Perhaps a subtle combination of both, he concluded. The salary was unbeatable, granted, but the image of Alicia weeping inconsolably in his arms would have been enough to make him tiptoe into hell, and even pay for it.
*
The tram dropped him off at the top of the avenue and vanished again in the mist, its lights fading on the downward journey like a hazy mirage. The small square was deserted at that late hour. A solitary streetlamp barely revealed the shape of two black cars parked outside the La Venta restaurant. Police, thought Fernandito. He heard the drone of an approaching vehicle and rushed to find a dark spot near the funicular station. Soon he caught sight of headlights cutting through the night. The car, which he identified as a Ford, stopped only a few metres from where he was hiding.
Out of the car emerged one of the two men he’d seen that very morning arresting Sanchís, the banker. Something made him different from the rest. He exuded a classy air, a dash of high breeding and refined manners. He was dressed like a gentleman at a fine cigar club, in the sort of formal attire one saw in shop windows such as Gales or Gonzalo Comella. It didn’t fit in with the more modest, everyday garments worn by the other plainclothes policemen who accompanied him. His cufflinks shone in the gloom and his shirt cuffs looked as if they’d been pressed at the dry cleaner’s. It was only when the man walked under the streetlamp’s halo that Fernandito was able to see that these were dotted with dark stains. Blood.
The policeman stopped and turned towards the car. For a second, Fernandito thought he’d noticed him, and his stomach shrank to the size of a marble. But the policeman only addressed the driver of the Ford, smiling politely.
“Luis, I’ll be here a while. If you like you can leave. Remember to clean the back seat. I’ll let you know when I need you.”
“Very good, Captain Hendaya.”
Hendaya pulled out a cigarette and lit it, savouring it unhurriedly as he watched the car driving off down the avenue. He seemed possessed by a strange calm, as if no concern in the world could spoil that moment alone with himself. Buried in the shadows, afraid of even breathing, Fernandito observed him. The man called Hendaya smoked like a movie star, transforming the act into a show of style and poise. He turned his back on Fernandito and walked over to the vantage point, a balcony from which one could view the city. After a while, taking his time, he dropped his stub on the ground, put it out cleanly with the tip of one patent-leather shoe, and made his way towards the entrance of the house.
As soon as Hendaya had rounded the corner of the street that bordered El Pinar and disappeared, Fernandito emerged from his hiding place. His forehead was drenched with cold sweat. Some hero Alicia had got herself. He hurried after Hendaya, who had entered the property through an archway in the wall that fenced off the estate. On the entry lintel, above a pair of metal gates, were inscribed the words EL PINAR. Beyond the gates Fernandito saw what appeared to be a path of stone steps that climbed through the garden up to the house. He peeped in and glimpsed the silhouette of Hendaya, leaving a trail of smoke behind him as he moved gradually up the steps.
Fernandito waited until Hendaya had reached the top of the path. A couple of police officers had come out to meet him, and seemed to be giving him an account of events. After a brief exchange Hendaya went into the villa, followed by one of the men. The other remained posted at the top of the steps, guarding the front door.
Fernandito weighed his options. He couldn’t take that path without being seen, and the sight of the blood on Hendaya’s cuffs didn’t exactly encourage him to pull any heroic stunts. He took a few steps back and studied the wall surrounding the grounds. The street, a narrow road that snaked along the mountainside, was deserted. Fernandito walked along it until he caught sight of what looked like the back of the house. He climbed carefully up the wall and from there managed to grab a branch, lowering himself into the garden. It suddenly occurred to him that if there were dogs, they would detect his scent in a matter of seconds, but after a few moments he established something even more disquieting. There was no sound at all. Not a leaf shook among the trees, no murmur of birds or insects stirred the air. The place was dead.
The house’s elevated position on the top of a hill created the illusion that it was closer to the street than it actually was. Fernandito had to clamber up the slope between trees and paths overrun by bushes until he reached the paved lane that circled around from the main entrance. Once on the path, he followed it to the villa’s rear facade. All the windows were dark except for a couple of small casements in a corner hidden between the house and the top of the hill, which he guessed must be the kitchen window. Fernandito crept up to it and, keeping his face away from the dim light spreading out through the glass, peered inside.
He recognized her immediately: the woman he’d seen coming out of Sanchís’s house with the chauffeur. She lay slumped on a chair, strangely still, her face to one side, as if she were unconscious. Yet her eyes were open.
Only then did he notice that she was bound, hand and foot, to the chair. A shadow fell across her. Hendaya and the other policeman had come in. Hendaya pulled up a chair and sat facing the woman. He spoke to her for a couple of minutes, but Señora Sanchís showed no signs of hearing him. She looked away, as if Hendaya weren’t there. After a while the policeman shrugged and placed his fingers gently on the banker’s wife’s chin, turning her face towards him. He’d begun speaking to her again when the woman spat in his face. Hendaya instantly slapped her so hard he knocked her onto the floor, where she remained, collapsed, tied to the chair. The officer with Hendaya, and another one Fernandito hadn’t noticed before – he must have been leaning against the wall under the window Fernandito was spying through – approached her and pulled the chair upright again.
Hendaya wiped the spit off his face with his hand and then smeared it on Señora Sanchís’s blouse.
At a signal from Hendaya, the two police officers left the kitchen. They returned shortly afterwards, bringing in the chauffeur Fernandito had seen that morning, picking up the banker’s wife. He was handcuffed.
Hendaya nodded, and the two men forced the man to lie down on a wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. Then they tied his hands and feet to the four table legs. Meanwhile, Hendaya removed his jacket and folded it neatly over the chair. He went up to the table, leaned over the driver, and pulled off the mask that covered half his face. Hidden under it was a terrible wound that had disfigured the man’s face from his chin to his forehead; part of the jaw and his cheekbone were missing.
Once the chauffeur had been immobilized, the two officers brought the chair on which the banker’s wife was sitting close to the table. One of them held the woman’s head with his hands, so that she could not look away. Fernandito felt a wave of nausea, and tasted bile in his mouth.
Hendaya knelt down next to the banker’s wife and whispered something in her ear. She didn’t even open her mouth: her face was frozen in anger. The policeman stood up. He stretched an open hand towards one of the officers, who handed him a gun. Then he inserted a bullet in the chamber and placed the gun’s barrel just above the driver’s right knee. For a moment he glanced at the woman, expectantly. Finally he shrugged again.
The roar of the gunshot and the driver’s screams pierced the windowpanes and stone walls. A fine mist of blood and pulverized bone spattered the woman’s face. She began to shout. The driver’s body was convulsing as if an electric current were running through him. Hendaya walked around the table, placed another bullet in the chamber, and pressed the barrel against the driver’s other kneecap. A pool of blood and urine spread over the table, dripping onto the floor. For a second, Hendaya looked at the woman. Fernandito closed his eyes and braced himself for the second shot. When he heard the yells, the nausea got worse, and he doubled over. Vomit rose up his throat and spilled over his chest.
He was trembling when the third shot rang out. The chauffeur no longer screamed. The woman in the chair was stammering, her face covered with tears and blood. Hendaya knelt down next to her once more, listening to her while he stroked her face and nodded. When he seemed to have heard what he wanted, he got up and, with barely one last look at him, shot the driver in the head. He returned the gun to the officer and walked over to a corner, where he washed his hands in a sink. Then he slipped on his jacket and his coat.
Fernandito suppressed his retching and moved away from the window, sliding down towards the bushes. He tried to find the path back along the hill to the tree he’d used to jump over the wall. He was perspiring like never before, a cold sweat that stung his skin. His hands and legs shook as he climbed up the wall. When he jumped over to the other side, he fell flat on his face and threw up again. At last, feeling there was nothing left inside him, he staggered down the road. As he passed the gate through which he’d seen Hendaya enter, he heard voices drawing nearer. He hurried on and ran to the little square.
*
A tram waited at the stop, an oasis of light in the darkness. There were no passengers on board, only the conductor and the driver, who were chatting and sharing a Thermos flask of coffee to keep away the cold. Fernandito got in, ignoring the conductor’s look.
“Young man?”
Fernandito fumbled around in his jacket pocket and handed over some coins.
The conductor gave him his ticket. “You’re not going to throw up here, are you?”
The boy shook his head. He sat down in the front, by a window, and closed his eyes, trying to take a deep breath and think about his Vespa waiting for him at the foot of the avenue. He could hear a voice talking to the conductor, and the tram swayed gently as a second passenger got in. Fernandito heard footsteps approaching. He clenched his teeth. Then he felt the touch. A hand resting on his knee. He opened his eyes.
Hendaya was gazing at him with a friendly smile. “Are you feeling all right?”
Fernandito froze. Trying not to look at the red marks dotted over Hendaya’s shirt collar, he nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“I think I’ve had too much to drink.”
Hendaya gave him a sympathetic smile. The tram began its descent. “A bit of bicarbonate of soda with the juice of half a lemon. When I was young, that was my secret. And then to sleep.”
“Thanks,” said Fernandito. “I’ll do that as soon as I get home.”
The tram was sliding down at a snail’s pace, caressing the hook-shaped curve that crowned the avenue. Hendaya leaned back in his seat opposite Fernandito and smiled at him. “Do you live far?”
The boy shook his head. “No. Twenty minutes on the metro.”
Hendaya felt his coat and pulled out what looked like a small paper envelope from an inside pocket. “A eucalyptus sweet?”
“I’m all right, thanks.”
“Go on, take one,” Hendaya encouraged him. “It will do you good.”
Fernandito accepted a sweet and began to peel off the wrapper with trembling fingers.
“What’s your name?”
“Alberto. Alberto García.” Fernandito popped the sweet into his mouth. His mouth was dry, and it stuck on his tongue. He forced a smile of satisfaction.
“How’s that?” asked Hendaya.
“Very good, thank you so much. It’s true, it really helps.”
“I told you it would. Tell me, Alberto García. Can I see your ID?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your ID card.”
Fernandito gulped the saliva he didn’t have and started searching his pockets. “I don’t know . . . I think I must have left it at home.”
“You know you can’t go out without ID, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. My father is always reminding me. I’m a bit of a disaster.”
“Don’t worry. I understand, but don’t let that happen again. I’m telling you for your own good.”
“It won’t happen again.”
The tram was now heading down the last stretch towards the final stop. Fernandito glimpsed the dome of the Hotel La Rotonda and a white point caught by the tram’s headlights. The Vespa.
“Tell me, Alberto. What were you doing here at this time of night?”
“I went to see my uncle. The poor man is very ill. The doctors say he won’t live long.”
“I’m very sorry.” Hendaya pulled out one of his cigarettes. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Fernandito shook his head, offering his best smile. Hendaya lit the cigarette. The tobacco embers tinted his pupils the colour of copper.
The boy felt those eyes digging into his mind like needles. Say something.
“What about you?” he suddenly asked. “What are you doing around here this time of night?”
Hendaya let the smoke filter through his lips. He had the smile of a jackal.
“Work,” he said.
They both fell silent during the last few metres of the journey. When the tram stopped, Fernandito stood up and, after saying a courteous goodbye to Hendaya, made his way to the back. He got off the tram and walked at a leisurely pace towards the Vespa, then knelt down to open the padlock. Standing on the step of the tram, Hendaya watched him coldly.
“I thought you were going to take the metro home,” he said.
“Well, I meant it was nearby. A few stops away.”
Fernandito put his helmet on, as Alicia had recommended, and fastened the strap. Slowly, he told himself. He lowered the Vespa off the stand with a gentle push, and moved it along a metre or so to the end of the pavement. Hendaya’s shadow loomed in front of him, and Fernandito felt the policeman’s hand on his shoulder. He turned around.
Hendaya was smiling at him paternally. “Come on. Get off and hand me the keys.”
He barely noticed that he was nodding and handing the policeman the motorbike’s keys with a tremulous hand.
“I think you’d better come with me to the station, Alberto.”