The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten 2)

The stationmaster blew the whistle: the train was about to leave.

“Don’t trust anyone. Do you hear me? I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

“Thanks for calling, Martín. Be careful.”

7

The train was beginning to glide past the platform as I took refuge in my compartment and collapsed on the seat. I abandoned myself to the flow of tepid air from the heating and the gentle rocking of the train. We left the city behind us, crossing the forest of factories and chimneys and escaping the shroud of scarlet light that covered it. Slowly the wasteland of railway depots and trains abandoned on sidings dissolved into an endless plain of fields, woodlands, rivers, and hills crowned with large, rundown houses and watchtowers. The occasional covered wagon or hamlet peered through a bank of mist. Small railway stations slipped by; bell towers and farmhouses loomed up like mirages.

At some point in the journey I fell asleep, and when I woke the landscape had changed dramatically. We were now passing through steep valleys with rocky crags rising between lakes and streams. The train skirted great forests that climbed the soaring mountains. After a while, the tangle of hills and tunnels cut into the rock gave way to a large open valley with never-ending pastures where herds of wild horses galloped across the snow and small stone villages appeared in the distance. The peaks of the Pyrenees rose up on the other side, their snow-covered slopes set alight by the amber glow of evening. In front of us was a jumble of houses and buildings clustered around a hill. The ticket inspector put his head through the door of my compartment and smiled.

“Next stop, Puigcerdà,” he announced.

…

The train stopped and let out a blast of steam that inundated the platform. When I got out I was enveloped in a thick mist that smelled of electricity. Shortly afterwards, I heard the stationmaster’s bell and the train set off again. As the coaches filed past, the shape of the station began to emerge around me. I was alone on the platform. A fine curtain of snow was falling, and to the west a red sun peeped below the vault of clouds, scattering the snow with tiny bright embers. I went over to the stationmaster’s office and knocked on the glass door. He looked up, opened the door, and gazed at me distractedly.

“Could you tell me how to find a place called Villa San Antonio?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“The sanatorium?”

“I think so.”

The stationmaster adopted the pensive air of someone trying to work out how best to offer directions to a stranger. Then, with the help of a whole catalog of gestures and expressions, he came up with the following:

“You have to walk right through the village, past the church square, until you reach the lake. On the other side of the lake there’s a long avenue with large houses on either side that leads to Paseo de la Rigolisa. There, on a corner, you’ll find a three-story house surrounded by a garden. That’s the sanatorium.”

“And do you know of anywhere I might find accommodation?”

“On the way you’ll pass Hotel del Lago. Tell them Sebas sent you.”

“Thank you.”

“Good luck …”

I walked through the lonely streets of the village beneath the falling snow, looking for the outline of the church tower. On the way I passed a few locals, who bobbed their heads and looked at me suspiciously. When I reached the square, two men who were unloading coal from a cart pointed me in the right direction, and a couple of minutes later I found myself walking down a road that bordered a large, frozen lake surrounded by stately-looking mansions with pointed towers. The great expanse of white was studded with small rowing boats trapped in the ice and around it, like a ribbon, ran a promenade punctuated by benches and trees. I walked to the edge and gazed at the ice spread out at my feet. It must have been almost twenty centimeters thick and in some places it shone like opaque glass, hinting at the current of black water that flowed under its shell.

Hotel del Lago, a two-story house painted dark red, stood at the end of the lake. Before continuing on my way, I stopped to book a room for two nights and paid in advance. The receptionist informed me that the hotel was almost empty and I could take my pick of rooms.

“Room 101 has spectacular views of the sunrise over the lake,” he suggested. “But if you prefer a room facing north I have—”

“You choose,” I cut in, indifferent to the majestic beauty of the landscape.

“Then Room 101 it is. In the summer, it’s the honeymooners’ favorite.”

He handed me the keys of the nuptial suite and informed me of the hours for dinner. I told him I’d return later and asked if Villa San Antonio was far from there. The receptionist adopted the same expression I had seen on the face of the stationmaster, first shaking his head, then giving me a friendly smile.

“It’s quite near, about ten minutes’ walk. If you take the promenade at the end of this street, you’ll see it a short distance away. You can’t miss it.”

…

Ten minutes later I was standing by the gates of a large garden strewn with dead leaves half buried in the snow. Beyond the garden, Villa San Antonio rose up like a somber sentinel wrapped in a halo of golden light that radiated from the windows. As I crossed the garden my heart was pounding and my hands perspired despite the bitter cold. I walked up the stairs to the main door. The entrance hall was covered in black and white floor tiles like a chessboard and led to a staircase at the far end. There I saw a young woman in a nurse’s uniform holding the hand of a man who was trembling and seemed to be eternally suspended between two steps, as if his whole life had suddenly become trapped in that moment.

“Good afternoon?” said a voice to my right.

Her eyes were black and severe, her features sharp, without a trace of warmth, and she had the serious air of one who has learned not to expect anything but bad news. She must have been in her early fifties, and although she wore the same uniform as the young nurse, everything about her exuded authority and rank.