The Labyrinth of the Spirits Read online

  If the little mouse disagreed, he showed no signs of it. Theirs was a friendly coexistence, neither of them searching for a dominant role: a gentlemanly agreement. During the day they heard the sound of the sailors’ footsteps and voices reverberating in the bilge. On the rare occasions when a member of the crew ventured down there, normally to steal something, Fermín would hide again in the rifle crate he’d just vacated and, lulled by the sea and the aroma of gunpowder, surrender to a little nap. On his second day on board, while exploring the bazaar of wonders hidden in the stomach of that leviathan, Fermín, a modern Jonah and a free-thinking scholar of the Holy Scriptures during his spare time, discovered a box full of beautifully bound Bibles. The discovery struck him as daring and colorful, to put it mildly, but since there was no other literary menu to choose from, he borrowed a copy and, with the help of a candle also on loan from the cargo, read aloud to himself and his traveling companion, highlighting hand-picked fragments, especially from the juicier Old Testament, which he had always considered far more entertaining and gruesome than the New.

  “Pay attention, sir, for now cometh an ineffable parable of deep symbolism, spiced up with enough cases of incest and mutilation to scare the feces out of the Brothers Grimm themselves.”

  The two whiled away the hours and the days sheltered by the sea until, at dawn on March 17, 1938, Fermín opened his eyes and discovered that his friend the rodent was gone. Perhaps listening to a few episodes of the Revelation of Saint John on the previous night had frightened the little mouse, or maybe he could sense that the journey was coming to an end and it was advisable to make oneself scarce. Feeling stiff after another night encased in the icy cold that drilled into his bones, Fermín staggered over to the viewpoint provided by one of the portholes, through which poured the breath of a scarlet dawn. The circular window was only about a foot and a half above the waterline, and Fermín could see the sun rising over a wine-colored sea. He walked across the hold, dodging crates of munitions and a pile of rusty bicycles tied together with ropes, until he reached the opposite side and had a look. The hazy beam of the harbor’s lighthouse swept across the ship’s hull, projecting momentary flashes of light through all the portholes in the hold. Farther on lay the city of Barcelona, enveloped in a halo of mist that crept between watchtowers, domes, and spires. Fermín smiled to himself, briefly forgetting the cold, as well as the bruises covering his body, a consequence of brawls and misfortunes experienced in his previous port of call.

  “Lucía . . . ,” he murmured, recalling the face whose memory had kept him alive during the worst predicaments.

  He pulled out the envelope he’d carried in the inside pocket of his jacket since he left Valencia and sighed. The daydreaming vanished almost instantly. The ship was much closer to the port than he’d imagined. Any self-respecting stowaway knows that the hardest part isn’t smuggling oneself on board: what is difficult is getting out of the situation safe and sound and abandoning the boat without being seen. If he held any hopes of treading land with his own two feet and with all his bones in the right place, he’d better start formulating an escape strategy. While he listened to the footsteps and the increasing activity of the crew on deck, Fermín could feel the ship beginning to veer and the engines reduce speed as they entered the mouth of the harbor. He put the letter back in his pocket and quickly removed all signs of his presence, hiding the remains of the used candles, the sacks that had served as bedding, the Bible of his contemplative readings, and the leftover bits of cheese substitute and rancid biscuits. He then did his best to close the boxes he’d opened in search of sustenance, hammering back the nails with the heels of his worn-out boots. As he looked at his meager footwear, Fermín told himself that as soon as he’d reached dry land and kept his promise, his next objective would be to get hold of a pair of shoes that didn’t look as if they’d been filched from a morgue. While he busied himself in the hold, the stowaway peered through the portholes and saw the vessel moving ever closer to the port of Barcelona. He pressed his nose against the glass one last time, feeling a shiver when he noticed the silhouette of Montjuïc Castle with its military prison on the top of the hill, presiding over the city like a bird of prey.

  “If you’re not careful, you’ll end up there,” he whispered.

  In the distance, he could see the needle-like profile of the monument to Christopher Columbus, who, as usual, was pointing the wrong way, mistaking the Balearic archipelago for the American continent. Behind the confused discoverer was the entrance to the Ramblas that rose toward the heart of the old town, where Lucía awaited. For a moment he imagined her scented presence between the sheets. A feeling of guilt and shame removed that image from his thoughts. He had betrayed his promise.

  “You wretch,” he muttered.

  Thirteen months and seven days had passed since he’d last seen her, thirteen months that weighed on him like thirteen years. The last image he was able to steal before returning to his hiding place was the outline of Our Lady of Mercy, the city’s patron saint, standing on the dome of her basilica opposite the port, looking as if she was about to fly off over the rooftops of Barcelona. He commended his soul and his miserable body to her, for although he hadn’t set foot in a church since he was nine, when he’d mistaken the chapel of his native village for the public library, Fermín swore to whoever could and wished to listen to him that if the Virgin Mary—or any representative with leverage in heavenly matters—interceded on his behalf and led him to safe harbor without suffering any serious mishaps or fatal injuries, he would redirect his life toward spiritual contemplation and become a regular customer of the prayer book industry. Having concluded his promise, he crossed himself twice and rushed back to hide again in the rifle crate, lying on the bed of arms like a corpse in a coffin. Just before closing the lid, Fermín caught sight of his companion, the little mouse, observing him from the top of a pile of boxes that rose to the ceiling of the hold.

  “Bonne chance, mon ami,” he whispered.

  A second later he plunged into the darkness that smelled of gunpowder, the cold metal of the rifles touching his skin, the die already cast.

  2

  After a while, Fermín noticed that the rumbling of the engines had stopped and the ship was swaying, lying at rest in the calm waters of the harbor. It was too early for them to have reached the docks, by his reckoning. After two or three ports of call on the journey, his ears had learned to read the protocol and the cacophony that issued from a docking maneuver, from the casting off of the mooring rope and the hammering sound of the anchor chains to the groaning of the ship’s frame under the strain of the hull as it was being dragged against the dock. Aside from an unusual stir of footsteps and voices on deck, Fermín recognized none of those signs. For some reason the captain had decided to stop the boat earlier, and Fermín, who after almost two years of war had learned that the unexpected often goes hand in hand with the unwelcome, gritted his teeth and made the sign of the cross once again.

  “My little Virgin, I renounce my irreverent agnosticism and all the malicious suggestions of modern science,” he murmured, confined in the makeshift coffin he shared with thirdhand rifles.

  His prayer did not take long to be answered. Fermín heard what sounded like another vessel, a smaller one, approaching and scraping the hull of the ship. Moments later, almost martial footsteps landed on the deck amid the bustle of the crew. Fermín swallowed hard. They had been boarded.

  3

  Thirty years at sea, Captain Arráez thought, and the worst always comes when you reach land. He stood on the bridge, watching the group of men who had just climbed up the steps on the port side. They brandished their guns threateningly and pushed the crew aside, clearing the way for the man he supposed was their leader.

  Arráez was one of those seamen whose skin and hair had a coppery glaze from the sun and the sea air, and whose watery eyes always seemed veiled with tears. As a young man he believed that you went to sea in search of adventure, but time had taught h
im that adventure was always waiting in the port, and with nefarious motives. There was nothing to fear at sea. On dry land, however, and more so in those days, he was often overcome by nausea.

  “Bermejo,” he said, “grab the radio and let the port know that we’ve been detained momentarily and will be arriving with some delay.”

  Next to him, Bermejo, his first mate, went pale and was hit by one of those trembling fits he’d been prone to during the recent months of bombings and skirmishes. Formerly a boatswain in pleasure cruises along the Guadalquivir, poor Bermejo didn’t have the stomach for the job. “Who do I say has detained us, Captain?”

  Arráez’s eyes rested on the silhouette that had just stepped onto his deck. Wrapped in a black raincoat and sporting gloves and a fedora, he was the only one who didn’t seem armed. Arráez observed him as he walked slowly across the deck. His gait indicated a perfectly calculated calm and disinterest. His eyes, hidden behind dark lenses, skimmed across the faces of the crew, while his face was totally expressionless. At last he stopped in the middle of the deck, looked up toward the bridge, and uncovered his head to convey a greeting with his hat while he offered a reptilian smile.

  “Fumero,” murmured the captain.

  Bermejo, who was white as chalk and seemed to have shrunk at least ten centimeters since that individual had meandered across the deck, looked at the captain.

  “Who?” he managed to articulate.

  “Political police. Go down and tell the men they’re not to fool around. And then, as I said, radio the port.”

  Bermejo nodded, but made no sign of moving. Arráez fixed his eyes on his. “Bermejo, I said go down. And make sure you don’t piss yourself, for God’s sake.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Arráez remained alone on the bridge for a few moments. It was a clear day, with crystal skies and clouds like fleeting brushstrokes that would have delighted a watercolorist. For a second he considered fetching the revolver he kept under lock and key in his cabin, but that naive idea brought a bitter smile to his lips. He took a deep breath and, buttoning up his frayed jacket, left the bridge and walked down the steps to the deck where his old acquaintance was waiting for him, holding a cigarette playfully between his fingers.

  4

  “Captain Arráez, welcome to Barcelona.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Fumero smiled. “Major, now.”

  Arráez assented, holding the gaze of those two dark lenses behind which it was hard to guess where Fumero’s sharp eyes were looking. “Congratulations.”

  Fumero offered him one of his cigarettes. “No, thank you,” said Arráez.

  “Quality merchandise,” Fumero insisted. “American.”

  Arráez accepted the cigarette and put it in his pocket. “Do you wish to inspect the papers and licenses, Major? Everything is up to date, with the permits and stamps of the Generalitat government.”

  Fumero shrugged, coldly exhaling a puff of smoke and gazing at his cigarette ember with a hint of a smile. “I’m sure your papers are all in order. Tell me, what cargo are you carrying?”

  “Supplies. Medicines, arms, and ammunition. And a few lots of confiscated property for auction. The inventory, with the government stamp from the Valencia delegation, is at your disposal.”

  “I didn’t expect anything less from you, Captain. But that’s between you and the port and customs officers. I’m a simple servant of the people.”

  Arráez nodded his head calmly, reminding himself not to take his eyes off those dark, impenetrable lenses for one second. “If you would be kind enough to tell me what you’re looking for, Major, it will be my pleasure . . .”

  Fumero gestured for him to join him, and they both wandered down the length of the deck while the crew watched expectantly. After a few minutes, Fumero stopped, took one last drag, and threw his cigarette overboard. Leaning on the rail, he gazed at Barcelona as if he’d never seen the city before. “Can you smell it, Captain?”

  Arráez waited a moment before replying. “I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to, Major.”

  Fumero tapped his arm affectionately. “Take a deep breath. Slowly. You’ll see how you notice it.”

  Arráez exchanged a glance with Bermejo. The members of the crew looked at one another in confusion. Fumero turned around and with a gesture encouraged them to breathe in too.

  “No? Nobody?”

  The captain tried to force a smile that didn’t reach his lips.

  “Well, I can certainly smell it,” said Fumero. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it.”

  Arráez nodded vaguely.

  “Of course,” Fumero insisted. “Of course you can smell it. Like me, and like everyone here. It’s the smell of a rat. That disgusting rat you’re hiding on board.”

  Arráez frowned in bewilderment. “I can assure you—”

  Fumero raised a hand to silence him. “When a rat sneaks in, there’s no way of getting rid of it. You give it poison, and it eats it. You set up a rat trap, and it shits on it. A rat is the most difficult thing in the world to get rid of. Because rats are cowards. Because they hide. Because they think they’re cleverer than you.” Fumero took a few seconds to savor his words. “And do you know what is the only way of destroying a rat, Captain? How to really exterminate a rat, once and for all?”

  Arráez shook his head. “I don’t know, Major.”

  Fumero smiled, baring his teeth. “Of course not. Because you’re a seaman, and there’s no reason why you should know. That’s my job. That’s the reason why the Revolution has brought me into the world. Observe, Captain. Observe and learn.”

  Before Arráez could respond, Fumero walked off toward the prow and his men followed him. The captain then realized that he’d been wrong. Fumero was armed. He wielded a shiny revolver in his hand, a collector’s piece. Traversing the deck, he roughly pushed aside any crew members standing in his way and ignored the entrance to the cabins. He knew where he was going. At a signal his men surrounded the hatch that sealed off the hold and waited for the order. Fumero leaned over the metal sheet and gently knocked on it with his knuckles, as if he were knocking on the door of an old friend.

  “Surprise!” he chimed.

  When the men had practically ripped off the hatch and the bowels of the ship were exposed to daylight, Arráez went back to the bridge to hide. He’d already witnessed enough in two years of war. The last thing he saw was Fumero licking his lips like a cat a second before disappearing, revolver in hand, into the hold of the ship.

  5

  After days of being confined to the hold, breathing the same stuffy air, Fermín noticed the aroma of a fresh breeze coming in through the hatch and filtering through the cracks in the crate of weapons. He tilted his head to one side and through the narrow chink between the lid and the edge of the box managed to see an array of dusty light beams sweeping the hold. Flashlights.

  The white, hazy light caressed the shapes of the cargo, revealing transparencies in the cloths covering the cars and works of art. The sound of footsteps and the metallic echo resounding in the bilge slowly drew closer. Fermín gritted his teeth and mentally went over all the steps he’d taken before he returned to his hiding place. The sacks, the candles, the bits of food or footprints he might have left throughout the cargo area. He didn’t think he’d forgotten anything. They’d never find him there, he told himself. Never.

  It was then that Fermín heard that harsh, familiar voice saying his name in a soft singsong tone, and his knees turned to jelly.

  Fumero.

  The voice, and the footsteps, sounded very close. Fermín shut his eyes like a child terrorized by a strange sound in the darkness of his room. Not because he thinks this is going to protect him, but because he doesn’t dare acknowledge the silhouette towering by his bedside, bending over him. At that very moment Fermín heard the slow footsteps only centimeters away. Gloved fingers caressed the lid of the box like a snake slithering over the surface. Fumero was whistling a
tune. Fermín held his breath and kept his eyes closed. Drops of cold sweat slid down his forehead, and he had to clench his fists to stop the trembling in his hands. He dared not move a single muscle, fearing that the mere touch of his body against the bags of rifles might produce an infinitesimal sound.

  Perhaps he’d been mistaken. Perhaps they would find him. Perhaps there was no corner in the world where he could hide and live one more day to tell the tale. Perhaps, after all, that day was as good as any other to leave the show. Come to think of it, nothing stopped him kicking open that box and confronting Fumero, brandishing one of those rifles on which he was lying. Better to die riddled with bullets in two seconds flat than at the hands of Fumero and his toys, after two weeks hanging from the ceiling of a dungeon in Montjuïc Castle.

  He felt the outline of one of the guns, searching for the trigger, and clutched it firmly. Until then it hadn’t occurred to him that in all probability it wasn’t loaded. What did it matter? With his marksmanship, he was as likely to shoot himself in the foot as to hit Columbus’s eye on his monument. He smiled at the thought and held the rifle with both hands over his chest, looking for the hammer. He’d never before fired a gun, but he told himself that good luck is always on the side of beginners. It was at least worth a try. He tightened the hammer and prepared to blow off Francisco Javier Fumero’s head on his way to heaven or hell.

  * * *

  A second later, however, the footsteps faded away, depriving him of his chance of glory and reminding him that great lovers—whether practicing or aspiring—were not born to be eleventh-hour heroes. He allowed himself a deep breath and rested his hands on his chest. His clothes stuck to him like a second skin. Fumero and his henchmen were walking away. Fermín imagined their figures engulfed by the shadows of the hold and smiled with relief. Perhaps there hadn’t been a tip-off. Maybe this was nothing but a routine control.