Our eyes met in the reflection.

“The other night you showed me something I’d never seen before,” murmured Bea. “Now it’s my turn.”

I frowned, intrigued. Bea opened her bag, pulled out a folded card, and handed it to me.

“You’re not the only person in Barcelona who knows secrets, Daniel. I have a surprise for you. I’ll wait for you at this address today at four. Nobody must know that we have arranged to meet there.”

“How will I know that I’ve found the right place?”

“You’ll know.”

I looked at her briefly, praying that she wasn’t just making fun of me.

“If you don’t come, I’ll understand,” Bea said. “I’ll understand that you don’t want to see me anymore.”

Without giving me a second to answer, she turned around and walked hurriedly off toward the Ramblas. I was left holding the card, my words still hanging on my lips, gazing at her until she melted into the heavy shadows that preceded the storm. I opened the card. Inside, in blue handwriting, was an address I knew well.

Avenida del Tibidabo, 32

·27·

THE STORM DIDN’T WAIT UNTIL NIGHTFALL TO SHOW ITS TEETH. The first flashes of lightning caught me by surprise shortly after taking a bus on Line 22. As we went around Plaza Molina and started up Calle Balmes, the city was already beginning to fade behind curtains of liquid velvet, reminding me that I hadn’t even thought of taking an umbrella with me.

“That’s what I call courage,” said the conductor when I asked for the stop.

It was already ten minutes past four when the bus left me in the middle of nowhere—somewhere at the end of Calle Balmes—at the mercy of the storm. Opposite, Avenida del Tibidabo disappeared in a watery mirage. I counted up to three and started to run. Minutes later, soaked to the bone and shivering, I stopped under a doorway to get my breath back. I scrutinized the rest of the route. The storm’s icy blast blurred the ghostly outline of mansions and large, rambling houses veiled in the mist. Among them rose the dark and solitary tower of the Aldaya mansion, anchored among the swaying trees. I pushed my soaking hair away from my eyes and began to run toward it, crossing the deserted avenue.

The small door encased within the gates swung in the wind. Beyond it, a path wound its way up to the house. I slipped in through the door and made my way across the property. Through the undergrowth I could make out the pedestals of statues that had been knocked down. As I neared the mansion I noticed that one of the statues, the figure of an avenging angel, had been dumped into the fountain that was the centerpiece of the garden. Its blackened marble shone ghostlike beneath the sheet of water that flowed over the edge of the bowl. The hand of that fiery angel emerged from the water; an accusing finger, as sharp as a bayonet, pointed toward the front door of the house. The carved oak door looked ajar. I pushed it and ventured a few steps into a cavernous entrance hall, its walls flickering under the gentle light of a candle.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” said Bea.

The corridor was entombed in shadows, and her silhouette stood out against the pallid light of a gallery that opened up beyond. She was sitting on a chair against the wall, a candle at her feet.

“Close the door,” she told me without getting up. “The key is in the lock.”

I obeyed. The lock creaked with a deathly echo. I heard Bea’s steps approaching me from behind and felt her touch on my soaking clothes.

“You’re trembling. Is it fear or cold?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Why are we here?”

She smiled in the dark and took my hand. “Don’t you know? I thought you would have guessed….”

“This was the house of the Aldayas, that’s all I know. How did you manage to get in, and how did you know…?”

“Come, we’ll light a fire to warm you up.”

She led me through the corridor to the gallery, which presided over the inner courtyard of the house. The marble columns and naked walls of the sitting room crept up to the coffered ceiling, which was falling to pieces. One could make out the spaces where paintings and mirrors had once covered the walls, and there were markings on the marble floor where furniture had stood. At one end of the room was a fireplace laid with a few logs. A pile of old newspapers stood by the poker. The air from the fireplace smelled of recent flames and charcoal. Bea knelt down by the hearth and started to place a few sheets of newspaper among the logs. She pulled out a match and lit them, quickly conjuring up a crown of flames, and her hands stirred the logs with confidence. I imagined she was thinking that I was dying of curiosity and impatience, so I decided to adopt a nonchalant air, making it very clear that if she wanted to play mystery games with me, she had every chance of losing. But she wore a triumphant smile. Perhaps my trembling hands did not help my acting.

“Do you often come around here?” I asked.

“This is the first time. Intrigued?”

“Vaguely.”

She spread out a clean blanket that she took out of a canvas bag. It smelled of lavender.

“Come on, sit here, by the fire. You might catch pneumonia, and it would be my fault.”

Tags: Carlos Ruiz Zafón The Cemetery of Forgotten Mystery
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