I left the apartment without even bothering to close the door behind me. Once outside, I faced a world of buildings and faces that seemed strange and distant. I started to walk aimlessly, oblivious to the cold and the rain-filled wind that was starting to lash the town with the breath of a curse.
34
The tram stopped by the gates of Bellesguard, a mansion standing on the edge of the city, at the foot of the hill. I walked on toward the entrance to San Gervasio cemetery, following the yellowish beam projected through the rain by the tram lights. The walls of the graveyard rose some fifty meters ahead, a marble fortress from which emerged a mass of statues the color of the storm. I found a booth next to the entrance where a guard, wrapped in a coat, was warming his hands over a brazier. When he saw me appear in the rain he looked startled and stood up. He examined me for a few seconds before opening the door.
“I’m looking for the Marlasca family vault.”
“It’ll be dark in less than half an hour. You’d better come back another day.”
“The sooner you tell me where it is, the sooner I’ll leave.”
The guard checked a list and showed me the site by pointing a finger to a map of the graveyard hanging on the wall. I walked off without thanking him.
It wasn’t difficult to find the vault among the citadel of tombs and mausoleums crowded together inside the walls of the cemetery. The structure stood on a marble base. Modernist in style, the mausoleum was shaped like an arch formed by two wide flights of steps that spread out like an amphitheater. The steps led to a gallery held up by columns, inside which was an atrium flanked by tombstones. The gallery was crowned by a dome, and the dome, in turn, by a marble figure, sullied by the passage of time. Its face was hidden by a veil, but as I approached I had the impression that this sentinel from beyond the grave was turning its head to watch me. I went up one of the staircases and when I reached the entrance to the gallery, I stopped to look behind me. The distant city lights were just visible in the rain.
I stepped into the gallery. In the center stood a statue of a woman in prayer, embracing a crucifix. The face had been disfigured and someone had painted the eyes and lips black, giving her a wolfish aspect. That was not the only sign of desecration in the vault. The tombstones seemed to be covered in what looked like markings or scratches made with a sharp object, and some had been defaced with obscene drawings and words that were almost illegible in the failing light. Diego Marlasca’s tomb was at the far end. I went up to it and put my hand on the tombstone. Then I pulled out the photograph of Marlasca that Salvador had given me and examined it.
At that moment I heard footsteps on the stairway to the vault. I put the photograph back into my coat pocket and turned, facing the entrance to the gallery. The footsteps stopped and all I could hear now was the rain beating against the marble. I went toward the entrance and looked out. The figure had its back to me and was gazing at the city in the distance. It was a woman dressed in white, her head covered by a shawl. Slowly she turned and looked at me. She was smiling. Despite the years, I recognized her instantly. Irene Sabino. As I took a step toward her I realized there was someone else behind me. The blow to the back of my neck fired off a spasm of white light. I felt myself falling to my knees. A second later I collapsed on the flooded marble. A dark silhouette stood over me in the rain. Irene knelt down beside me; I felt her hands surrounding my head and feeling the place where I’d been hit. I saw her fingers emerging, covered in blood. She stroked my face. The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was Irene Sabino pulling out a razor and opening it, silvery drops of rain sliding across the blade’s edge as it drew toward me.
I opened my eyes to the blinding glare of an oil lamp. The guard’s face was watching impassively. I tried to blink while a flash of pain shot through my skull from the back of my neck.
“Are you alive?” the guard asked, without specifying whether the question was directed at me or was purely rhetorical.
“Yes,” I groaned. “Don’t you dare stick me in a hole.”
The guard helped me sit up. Every time I moved I felt a stab of pain in my head.
“What happened?”
“You tell me. I should have locked this place up over an hour ago, but as I hadn’t seen you leave, I came to investigate and found you sleeping it off.”
“What about the woman?”
“What woman?”
“There were two.”
“Two women?”
I sighed, shaking my head.
“Can you help me get up?”
With the guard’s assistance I managed to
stand. It was then that I felt a burning sensation and noticed that my shirt was open. There were a number of superficial cuts running in lines across my chest.
“Hey, that doesn’t look good …”
I closed my coat and felt the inside pocket. Marlasca’s photograph had disappeared.
“Do you have a telephone in the booth?”
“Sure, it’s in the room with the Turkish baths.”
“Can you at least help me reach Bellesguard, so that I can call from there?”
The guard swore and held me by the armpits.