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bsp; “The banks kept everything, Señor Martín. Everything except for this house, which, thanks to the advice of Señor Valera’s father, was put in my name. The rest was taken by the scavengers.”
“I’m referring to the tower house, in Calle Flassaders.”
The widow sighed. I reckoned she was somewhere between sixty and sixty-five. The echo of what must once have been a dazzling beauty had scarcely faded.
“Forget that house. It’s cursed.”
“Unfortunately I can’t. I live there.”
Señora Marlasca frowned.
“I thought nobody wanted to live there. It stood empty for years.”
“I’ve been renting it for some time. The reason for my visit is that, while I was doing some renovations, I came across a few personal items that I think belonged to your deceased husband and, I suppose, to you.”
“There’s nothing of mine in that house. Whatever you’ve found must belong to that woman …”
“Irene Sabino?”
Alicia Marlasca smiled bitterly.
“What do you really want to know, Señor Martín? Tell me the truth. You haven’t come all this way to return some old things belonging to my husband.”
We gazed at each other in silence and I knew that I couldn’t, and didn’t want to, lie to this woman, whatever the cost.
“I’m trying to find out what happened to your husband, Señora Marlasca.”
“Why?”
“Because I think the same thing may be happening to me.”
…
Casa Marlasca had the feel of an abandoned mausoleum that characterizes large houses sustained on absence and neglect. Far from its days of fortune and glory, when an army of servants kept it pristine and full of splendor, the house was now a ruin. Paint was peeling off the walls, the floor tiles were loose, the furniture was rotten and damp, the ceilings sagged, and the large carpets were threadbare and discolored. I helped the widow into her wheelchair and, following her instructions, pushed her to a reading room that contained hardly any books or pictures.
“I had to sell almost everything to survive,” she explained. “If it hadn’t been for Señor Valera, who still sends me a small pension every month on behalf of the firm, I wouldn’t have known what to do.”
“Do you live here alone?”
The widow nodded.
“This is my home. The only place where I’ve been happy, even though that was many years ago. I’ve always lived here and I’ll die here. I’m sorry I haven’t offered you anything. It’s been so long since I last had visitors that I’ve forgotten how to treat a guest. Would you like a coffee or a tea?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Señora Marlasca smiled and pointed to the armchair in which I was sitting.
“That was my husband’s favorite. He used to sit by the fire and read until late. I sometimes sat here, next to him, and listened. He liked telling me things, at least he did back then. We were very happy in this house …”
“What happened?”
The widow stared at the ashes in the hearth.
“Are you sure you want to hear this story?”
“Please.”