‘And what do you say about women, the other half? I’m sorry, but I find it hard to imagine a substantial number of women in a society believing in pennants and shields. Boy Scout psychology is for children.’

‘The main pillar of every organised religion, with few exceptions, is the subjugation, repression, even the annulment of women in the group. Woman must accept the role of an ethereal, passive and maternal presence, never of authority or independence, or she will have to take the consequences. She might have a place of honour in the symbolism, but not in the hierarchy. Religion and war are male pursuits. And anyhow, woman sometimes ends up becoming the accomplice in her own subjugation.’

‘And the aged?’

‘Old age is the lubricant of belief. When death knocks at the door, scepticism flies out of the window. A serious cardiovascular fright and a person will even believe in Little Red Riding Hood.’

Corelli laughed.

‘Careful, Martín, I think you’re becoming more cynical than I am.’

I looked at him as if I were an obedient pupil anxious for the approval of a demanding teacher. Corelli patted me on the knee, nodding with satisfaction.

‘I like it. I like the flair of it. I want you to go on turning things round and finding a shape. I’m going to give you more time. We’ll meet in two or three weeks. I’ll let you know a few days beforehand.’

‘Do you have to leave the city?’

‘Business matters concerning the publishing house. I’m afraid I have a few days of travel ahead of me, but I’m going away contented. You’ve done a good job. I knew I’d found my ideal candidate.’

The boss stood up and put out his hand. I dried the sweat from my palm on my trouser leg and we shook hands.

‘You’ll be missed,’ I began.

‘Don’t exaggerate, Martín; you were doing very well.’

I watched him leave in the haze of the Shade House, the echo of his steps fading away into the shadows. I remained there a good while, wondering whether the boss had risen to the bait and swallowed the pile of tall stories I’d given him. I was sure that I’d told him exactly what he wanted to hear. I hoped so, and I also hoped that the string of nonsense would keep him satisfied for the time being, convinced that his servant, the poor failed novelist, had become a convert. I told myself that anything that could buy me more time in which to discover what I had got myself into was worth a try. When I stood up and left the Shade House, my hands were still shaking.

18

Years of experience writing thrillers provide one with a set of principles on which to base an investigation. One of them is that all moderately solid plots, including those seemingly about affairs of passion, are born from the unmistakable whiff of money and property. When I left the Shade House I walked to the Land Registry in Calle Consejo de Ciento and asked whether I could consult the records in which the sales, purchase and ownership of my house were listed. Books in the Land Registry archive contain almost as much information on the realities of life as the complete works of the most respected philosophers – if not more.

I began by looking up the section containing the details of my lease of number 30, Calle Flassaders. There I found the necessary data with which to trace the history of the property before the Banco Hispano Colonial took ownership in 1911, as part of the appropriation of the Marlasca family assets – apparently the family had inherited the building upon the death of the owner. A lawyer named S. Valera was mentioned as having represented the family. Another leap into the past allowed me to find information relating to the purchase of the building by Don Diego Marlasca Pongiluppi in 1902 from a certain Bernabé Massot y Caballé. I made a note of all this on a slip of paper, from the name of the lawyer and all those taking part in the transactions to the relevant dates.

One of the clerks announced in a loud voice that there were fifteen minutes to closing time so I got ready to leave, but before that I hurriedly tried to consult the records for Andreas Corelli’s house next to Güell Park. After fifteen minutes of searching in vain, I looked up from the register and met the ashen eyes of the clerk. He was an emaciated character, gel shining on moustache and hair, oozing that belligerent apathy of those who turn their job into a platform for obstructing the life of others.

‘I’m sorry. I can’t find a property,’ I said.

‘That must be because it doesn’t exist or because you don’t know how to search properly. We’ve closed for today.’

I repaid his kindness and efficiency with my best smile.

‘I might find it with your expert help,’ I suggested.

He gave me a nauseous look and snatched the volume from my hands.

‘Come back tomorrow.’

My next stop was the ostentatious building of the Bar Association in Calle Mallorca, only a few streets away. Beneath a series of glass chandeliers, I climbed the wide steps that were guarded by what looked like a statue of Justice but with the bosom and attitude of a Paralelo starlet. When I reached the secretary’s office, a small, mousy-looking man welcomed me and asked how he could help.

‘I’m looking for a lawyer.’

‘You’ve come to the right place. We don’t know how to get rid of them here. There seem to be more every day. They multiply like rabbits.’

‘It’s the modern world. The one I’m looking for is called, or was called, Valera, S. Valera, with a V.’

The little man disappeared into a labyrinth of filing cabinets, muttering under his breath. I waited, leaning on the counter, my eyes wandering over a decor infused with the inexorable weight of the law. Five minutes later the man returned with a folder.

‘I’ve found ten Valeras. Two with an S. Sebastián and Soponcio.’

‘Soponcio?’

‘You’re very young, but years ago this was a name with a certain cachet, and ideal for the legal profession. Then along came the Charleston and ruined everything.’

‘Is Don Soponcio still alive?’

‘According to the folder and the date he stopped paying his membership of this association, Soponcio Valera y Menacho was received into the glory of Our Lord in the year 1919. Memento mori. Sebastián is his son.’

‘Still practising?’

‘Fully, and constantly. I sense you will want the address.’

‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

The little man wrote it down on a small piece of paper which he handed to me.

‘Number 442, Diagonal. It’s just a stone’s throw away. But it’s two o’clock, and by now most top lawyers will be at lunch with rich widows or manufacturers of fabrics and explosives. I’d wait until four o’clock.’

I put the address in my jacket pocket.

‘I’ll do that. Thank you for your help.’

‘That’s what we’re here for. God bless.’

I had a couple of hours to kill before paying a visit to Señor Valera, so I took a tram down Vía Layetana and got off when it reached Calle Condal. The Sempere & Sons bookshop was just a step away and I knew from experience that – contravening the immutable tradition of local shops – the old bookseller didn’t close at midday. I found him, as usual, standing at the counter, cataloguing books and serving a large group of customers who were wandering around the tables and bookshelves hunting for treasure. He smiled when he saw me and came over to say hello. He looked thinner and paler than the last time I’d seen him. He must have noticed my anxiety because he shrugged his shoulders as if to make light of the matter.

‘Some win; others lose. You’re looking fit and well and I’m all skin and bones, as you can see,’ he said.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fresh as a daisy. It’s the damned angina. Nothing serious. What brings you here, Martín, my friend?’

‘I thought I’d take you out to lunch.’