The Serpent Papers (51 page)

‘Nena,’ he booms when he sees me lifting my beleaguered self from the sheets. ‘You eat like a bird. What is this? A hunger fast? Nothing in the fridge, barely any oil – No garlic!
Ostras!
Nena?
I had to buy it all!’ He wipes his forehead in exasperation. ‘Today we’re eating properly. You’re going to need a little extra fat.’

Fabregat dumps a lake of olive oil into the frying pan. The onions spit and hiss.

I ask him about the change of style – the panama hat in particular. It doesn’t suit him. ‘Disguise.’
He grins and taps his nose.
Obfuscation.
I don’t bother to ask why. Frankly I am not interested.

‘What are you making?’

‘
Déu dóna favas a qui no té quiexals.
’

I rub my eyes.

‘God gave broad beans to the man who has no teeth,’ he repeats, looking at me crossly. ‘You’re having
Favas a la Catalana.
Fabregat-style.
Més pernil, espinacs, pamboli, i bravas . . .
’ He points at the steaming mass of desultory beans, and caramelizing flecks of sliced spring onions.
Botifarra negra
, dark blood sausage, heaped on the sideboard, browning bacon crackling on the stove. Grease bubbling. My stomach turns. I open my mouth to speak. He cuts me off with a flourish.

‘El Maestro cannot stray from his task.’

‘I can’t eat that,’ I say, pointing to the pan. ‘It looks like a war zone.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

I stumble forward in my pyjamas.

‘No really, I can’t.’

Fabregat ignores me.

‘My wife thinks I’m having an affair. I’ve told her
No, t’estimo, I love you, la meva estimada
 . . . 
Querida
, if you’ll only believe me – I’ve sponsored
una bruixa
and I want the next act to blow my fucking socks off . . . But that sounds even worse.’ He laughs and babbles on for a while, about his wife and his son and his dog, all of whom he’s leaving to their own devices. He seems happy, oddly so, and I am immediately suspicious.
Does he plan on moving in and babysitting me?

‘Thank you.’ I say, tentatively, ‘For sticking around.’

He grins at me. I gaze blearily past him.

‘You really are a freak. First-class performance,’ Fabregat says. ‘My boys will have nightmares for weeks.’

He’s moved a chair from the living room now and perches at the end of the kitchen table, pleased as an ornamental parrot. He leans forward on his elbows and looks at me.

‘Ever consider a career as a circus act?’

‘No,’ I snap back. ‘You’re giving me a migraine.’

‘It’s a shitload of drugs they put you on. Are you usually medicated?’

I shake my head.

‘Just in emergencies? That explains the syringes in the refrigerator. Biscuit?’ Fabregat asks. ‘Wife made these. Almond and chocolate. Very nice.’

He pushes a plate of cookies towards me. I don’t want one.

‘Drink,’ he says firmly. I accept water meekly, gulping down the contents.

‘How long have I been like this?’

‘Two days. I’m glad to see you’re walking.’

‘And you’ve been here the whole time?’

‘Someone has. The doctor said we couldn’t leave you unattended. You’re not very stable, Nena, when you work yourself up into this state. However, I’m pleased.’

‘With what?’

‘The results.’

‘What results?’

He whistles a little tune to himself.
The man’s being cagey
.

‘You called around eleven o’clock – I got to you at eleven thirty, the ambulance was there fifteen minutes later. A small crowd had gathered – two policemen called by the neighbours who watched you digging! Digging? Nena? You approached the pine in a trance –
como una loca 
– the witness’s precise wording. Despite the fact that your eyes were closed, you appeared to see clearly. You were speaking in voices – very quickly – many different voices, languages I couldn’t understand – it was gobbledygook.’ He rocks back and forth on his feet, grinning as he waves his hands in the air and imitates a baby gurgling, ‘Only it was fucking spooky, Nena. Freaked the damn lot of us out. The doctor tells me you were technically asleep – but sleepwalking – acting out a dream? You were able to respond to questions but unable to wake up. Is this normal for you?’

‘What do you think?’

‘If sleepwalking always produces evidence, you’re welcome to do it more often.’ He takes another bite of his biscuit. ‘You’re missing out, you know, she’s an incredible cook.’

My insides turn.
You should go home. Leave him. Follow your own way. He’s a dead weight. An encumbrance. Has nothing to do with you.

‘I looked up your medical records,’ Fabregat says simply. ‘Well, the doctors did. And I looked on. If you see what I mean.’

Up go the hackles.
I cannot help myself. I hope to say something elegant. Respectful. Mature. Instead:

‘I quit.’

Fabregat puts down his spatula.

‘Come again?’

‘I quit.’

‘You can’t. We haven’t finished yet.’

‘I have. I’m done.’

He frowns. I glare back at him.

‘Do you believe in ghosts, Sr Fabregat?’

‘No.’

‘But you hired me.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you must have some instinct. Right there, in your stomach.’

‘Instinct, no. Curiosity, yes.’ He squints at me. Narrowing his eyes to look closer. As if he wanted to pull back the layers of my chest and examine my heart. ‘I like to think the dead are dead. But I’m open to persuasion.’

‘Well, because of my
instinct
 . . . I quit.’

‘What?’ he roars. ‘You’re hallucinating again.’

I lash back. ‘My mental health is more important than your hobby.’

‘You owe me a week.’

‘I don’t want to do this any more.’

‘A contract is a contract.’

‘If I stay,’ I cut him off, ‘and I mean
if
, what do I get in return? What could you possibly offer me?’

‘A blind eye,’ Fabregat snaps back. ‘A lot of things came out of you in the ambulance, Nena. These papers you’re after? You hadn’t mentioned anything about them to me. You stole from
the Church
.’ He crosses himself twice. ‘I could have your grant removed for something like that – and believe me I would if you dicked me around. One phone call to the Diocese and the Ayuntamiento from my highly esteemed and respectable self and
peuuuuuuuuh
–’ he whistles –  ‘
adios, Nena.
Anyways, you can’t quit now, girl, you’ve already made history!’

I stare at the inspector blankly.

As the beans cook on the stove, Fabregat pours me another glass of water. ‘Take a seat.’ He nods at me. ‘Catch yourself
.’

It comes down to the book.

‘The book you pulled out of the earth?’ Fabregat grins. But he doesn’t need to say. I already know. The book was
hers
.

‘Àngel Villafranca has confirmed: a copy of
The Oresteia.
By Aes-chy-luuus.’ Fabregat trips over the name. ‘The bastard says she knew every line by heart. Where did she get it? I asked. What do you make of the inscription?
To my beautiful Cassandra. From your Aureus.
The old dog feigned ignorance. “I don’t know,” he said. “Aureus? She never knew a man by the name of Aureus.” “But you confirm this book is hers?” Villafranca stumbled, to my delight. I know a liar when I see one,’ Fabregat barks. ‘And that man will lie all the way to his tomb. He’s hiding something, Nena, plain as day.

‘But that’s not the end of it. Turns out the old battered tin full of rags was not stained by dirt but stained by
la sang
,’ he says. The word for blood in Catalan is hard – full of sharp vowel. It has none of the sing-song of the Spanish
sangre
.
Sang
in Fabregat’s mouth feels blunt. Honest and direct.

‘We think the blood is human. The rags were probably medical gauze used to clean wounds – we don’t know whose yet, or what type of cornucopia we’re looking at – but give the team a few days –’ Fabregat slams the table – ‘and we’ll be running hard down the tracks. It could be nothing . . . but you asked me about instinct? Hah! My instinct says:
Drive
.

‘Drive on, Anna. There’s more where this came from. So you keep doing your work, and I’ll keep doing mine – and somewhere, we’ll meet in the middle.’

Like hell we will.

‘
Nena!
Entens?
Do you understand?’ The joy on his face electric. ‘The police have reopened the case. The lives of four women – maybe more – are wrapped up in this.
No t’importa?
Don’t you realize what you could do for us? You have a gift. A bloody gift, girl! I have been waiting ten years for this and we’re not giving up now. You’re a crack, Nena. No one suspects a little
guiri
has teeth. But you do. You definitely do. I want you onside. We –’ he pushes up from his seat and pours dark meat over the onions in the pan – ‘are working together on this one. So: we clear? I decide when we stop. I run the show. In the meantime: relax. Be grateful. And eat. I’d also ask that you generally try and pull yourself together. Take a shower.
A la taula.
To the table,’ he orders. ‘Ghosts or no ghosts.
Mata més gent la taula que la guerra.
’

I cannot help but smile at Fabregat’s morbid Catalan
refrany.
Feasting at the table kills more people than war.

While the inspector naps on the low sofa in the living room, I decide to take matters into my own hands. I place a belated phone call to my friend and colleague the Abbey Librarian. He puts me through to a man who would not give me his name, but deals with the more mystical intrigues of the monkish community on the island. I tell this man about my vision of the girl in the church, and the name that came to me in my trance. Out of all the people in the world, these monks of Mallorca are the only ones who take my lunacy seriously, and for this I am deeply grateful. The voice on the phone asks if the vision had given me a name. Padre Canço, I reply. A woman came to him ten years ago at Santa Maria del Pi and left him an offering.

‘Ah,’ says the voice, and its owner thinks for a moment. ‘You are certain?’

‘Yes.’

A long, meditative pause ensues.

I am summoned cursorily the next morning to a meeting on the far side of the Parc de la Ciutadella, built on the ruins of a panoptic military fortress called the Citadel – raised in the mid-nineteenth century. I enter the park via the Zoological Museum, strolling through the cast-iron gates, winter sun floating like a half-forgotten denarius. I stop for a moment at the great waterfall flanked by winged serpents with a lion’s head. The fountains dance, and people swarm to watch. The park is a charged, strange place, full of pained histories and I remember how I arrived in this city and set about educating myself in Catalan history and language. I bought myself an Anglès–Catalan Dictionary and a thick tome entitled
Forgotten Empire: A History of Catalonia and Her Ports
. I learnt a word a day, and read the book overnight. During those first few weeks in the city, I raced through
The Kingdom of Aragon
and
Gothic Spires, Roman Roots
, followed by
Gaudí’s Universe
,
The Secret Life of the Black Virgin of Montserrat
,
Els Quatre Gats: Barcelona’s Art Legacy
and George Orwell’s
Homage to Catalonia
. Later I studied the
Usatges
, or
Usages
, Catalonia’s medieval charter of civil rights, which predated the Magna Carta by more than a hundred years. The
Usatges
formed a bill of rights insisting that ‘citizens’ (though not serfs) existed alongside nobility in the eyes of the law. These keys led to the founding of the
Consell de Cent
, the Council of One Hundred, or the original governing body of Barcelona. I sigh as I walk.
These books were meant to be my salvation.
I did not think murder would bring me back here.