“Give me time. I have one or two experts here who punctuate with a pistol and think that an intro is an orthopedic contraption.”
Despite his words, it was obvious that Don Basilio felt comfortable in his new home, and he looked healthier than ever.
“Don’t tell me you’ve come to ask me for work, because I might even give it to you,” he threatened.
“That’s very kind of you, Don Basilio, but you know I gave up the cloth and journalism isn’t for me.”
“Then let me know how this grumpy old man can be of service.”
“I need some information about an old case for a story I’m working on. The death of a well-known lawyer called Marlasca. Diego Marlasca.”
“What year are we talking about?”
“Nineteen hundred and four.”
Don Basilio sighed.
“That’s going back a long way. A lot of water under the dam.”
“Not enough to wash the matter away.”
Don Basilio put a hand on my shoulder and asked me to follow him to the editorial department.
“Don’t worry, you’ve come to the right place. These good people maintain an archive that would be the envy of the Vatican. If there was anything in the press, we’ll find it for you. Besides, the archivist is a good friend of mine. Let me warn you that next to him I’m Snow White. Pay no attention to his unfriendly disposition. Deep down—very deep down—he’s kindness itself.”
I followed Don Basilio through a wide hall with fine wood paneling. On one side was a circular room with a large round table and a series of portraits of an illu
strious group of frowning members of the aristocracy.
“The room for the witches’ Sabbaths,” Don Basilio explained. “All the section heads meet here with the deputy editor, yours truly, and the editor, and like good Knights of the Round Table, we find the Holy Grail every evening at seven o’clock.”
“Impressive.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” said Don Basilio, winking at me. “Look at this.”
Don Basilio stood beneath one of the august portraits and pushed the wooden panel covering the wall. The panel, yielding with a creak, revealed a hidden corridor.
“What do you say, Martín? And this is only one of the many secret passages in the building. Not even the Borgias had a setup like this.”
Don Basilio led me down the corridor to a large reading room surrounded by glass cabinets, the repository of La Vanguardias secret library. At one end of the room, under the beam emanating from a lampshade of green glass, a middle-aged man was sitting at a table examining a document with a magnifying glass. When he saw us come in he raised his head and gave us a look that would have made anyone young or sensitive turn to stone.
“Let me introduce you to José María Brotons, lord of the underworld, chief of the catacombs of this holy house,” Don Basilio announced.
Without letting go of the magnifying glass, Brotons observed me with eyes that seemed to go rusty on contact. I went up to him and shook his hand.
“This is my old apprentice, David Martín.”
Brotons reluctantly shook my hand and glanced at Don Basilio.
“Is this the writer?”
“The very one.”
Brotons nodded.
“He’s certainly courageous, stepping out into the street after the thrashing they gave him. What’s he doing here?”
“He’s come to plead for your help, your blessing, and your advice on an important matter of documental archaeology,” Don Basilio explained.