52

IAGO

Mars Day, the seventeenth day of the month of Duir

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

P atricio opened the front door of the villa as dusk was falling, nodding his head as a sign of respect. We’d always got on well, despite Jairo. He was loyal and discreet. A rare jewel.

“He’s in the hall with the models, but he has company,” he warned me.

“Thanks, Patricio.”

I crossed the marble vestibule while all the gods in the pantheon turned in concern at my passage. When I reached the staircase, I came across my father, who gestured as if he was going to stop me.

“I’ve already spoken to him,” he said, putting a hand on my chest.

“That’s of no use to me. You always end up forgiving him,” I replied, removing his hand.

“And you end up falling for his provocations. You should hold off a while before saying anything to him.”

“I’m not ad-libbing. I’ve been expecting something like this since St. John’s Eve.”

My father scrutinized my face before deciding to believe me. “As you wish,” he said finally, yielding.

“Trust me, Father.”

I held his gaze, though it was painful, because I saw his millennia-old tiredness battling to ensure that we all continued to get on well, and his sorrow, because this scene kept repeating itself over and over again.

Once the sound of his footsteps had disappeared upstairs, I walked into the hall and made my way between the models of the people my brother had helped dispatch to the other world. Jairo was pretending to be absorbed in the Battle of Odessa, polishing the amputated legs of a high-ranking figure. My brother had a bandage on his head, which made him look ridiculous, for once. The lump caused by my rock was clearly visible underneath it.

“You’ve taken your time to come,” he said without looking up.

I ignored his greeting.

“Right, let’s get up-to-date,” I said, grabbing the soldier from his hands and throwing it against the wall. I sat on top of some Ukrainian hill, level with his bandaged head. “I owe you two favors: the first one for saving my life in Britannia in that damn massacre. What you did today cancels that one. The other favor,” I continued, “was in the seventeenth century when you killed half of County Cork to free me. I intended to return that favor with the accursed genetic research that would enable you to have your own lineage and leave us in peace once and for all.” I paused to catch my breath. “Listen carefully, because I have no intention of repeating this: if Adriana comes to harm from your machinations, I’ll abandon the research. I’ll leave Santander and change my identity, and Lyra will be left on her own with her theories. I’ll consider myself debt-free to you. And by the way, you’re one step away from me no longer treating you with the benevolence of a brother.”

I turned around and strode out of the hall without waiting for his reply. Would my brother understand that this time I was absolutely serious?

“You’ve never tried to kill him?” Dana’s voice slipped inside my head as I started the car for the drive back to Santander.

“A couple of times, in Siberia,” I’d said in response to her question, two hours earlier, as we were lying on a bed of beech leaves we’d improvised for ourselves on the forest floor.

“And what happened?”

“He didn’t die. The first time, I stabbed him between the ribs with my dagger, under his heart. It usually causes a slow and fairly painful death. But I didn’t manage to kill him. He simply recovered. I had taken advantage of one of my father’s absences, on one of those occasions when Nagorno wouldn’t stop plaguing me, even though he was tied up like a mastiff to the tentpole. I admit it would have been a cowardly crime, but it was what we were both seeking. I attributed his recovery to good fortune. The scene repeated itself decades later, with a different weapon. His wound healed again; it was as if he wanted to mock me.

“Neither of us has ever told our father. I have no idea if he really is an immortal, but it’s clear that the capacity of his cells to regenerate is far superior to ours. My theory is that our mutation, like many others that provoke illness, also has distinct levels. I think Nagorno has the top level. I prefer to believe that, rather than that he really is immortal and he’ll still be walking this earth when we’re not around to put the brakes on him. It’s a thought that worries me, and it’s the first time I’m sharing it. I’ve never discussed it with my father or with Lyra. They’ve never tried to kill him, as far as I’m aware. They just believe that he’s good in battle.”

Dana was thoughtful as she removed leaves from her hair. She looked beautiful, naked in the middle of the forest, like the Celtic goddess whose name she bore.

I had planned to drive to her apartment in search of some peace, but I turned off and took the road that ran along the bank of the River Pas. I switched off the engine on a steep slope and sat there staring at the riverbed.