Chopin´s Secret: The Bicycle Chronicles, #2

CHAPTER 1

Warsaw. Poland. February. 1830.

T

he young man ran as if the wind was an enemy he wanted to leave behind. His youth and his fear of the cruelty of the pursuing Russian imperial soldiers helped him ignore the pain from his wounds.

He had to get away from the river and reach a more populated area, to disappear into the narrow streets, but his likely fractured ankle and several deep cuts on his leg and arms would make it difficult for him.

He reached the large Castle Square and circumvented the iron gate surrounding the base of the immense column of Sigismund. From the top, the sculpture of the old king gazed down at him, holding a cross and a sword in his hands. The young man glanced sideways at it, wishing Sigismund would come back to life and lend him his armor and the sword he wielded. At moments like those, both would be more useful than the cross.

Fleeing by jumping and running through thick window glass at the back of the tavern where he had been accosted by the soldier patrol had seemed like a good idea. However, exhausted after running through endless streets without stopping or looking back, he now thought perhaps it might have been wiser to go out the door instead.

The cries of his pursuers languished in the night's silence, which he interpreted as a sign that he was leaving them behind. He could not even hear the murmur of the mighty Vistula River in its slow but tireless flow through the city, which split it into two asymmetrical halves.

Pausing briefly to catch his breath, he looked around to get his bearings. Running blindly was only going to lead to his doom. He needed a strategy if he was to survive the hunt.

He knew what his mission was, and the address he had to reach to hide the package, but he could not think clearly. The shouts of the approaching soldiers expedited his decision-making.

Taking the most direct route, he entered the narrow streets of the old city, a poor and densely populated neighborhood where he could hide.

As he reprised the march after the very brief rest, his ankle reminded him with a relentless shock of pain that it would not sustain him much longer.

He sank his feet into a huge muddy patch that took up almost the entire width of the street, unable to distinguish whether it was just rainwater or had been garnished with horse droppings.

As he ran, he hardly met any passersby, and the few who walked by did not even notice him or preferred to ignore his presence. He knew that at such an early morning hour, he could expect no help from anyone.

Tempted to look out onto the gigantic Market Square, where at almost any time of day or night there were merchants setting up their stalls, he found it too exposed, with the added threat of the Russian patrols watching the area.

He turned left and continued running along a parallel street until he came to the old defense walls still standing in the city.

Exhausted, the pain in his leg had already spread to his side, and he found it hard to breathe. The sight of the endless brick wall instantly depressed him. He had to get to one of the gates and cross to the other side. 

The echo of the Russian soldiers' boots on the pavement cobblestones sounded like the choppy gallop of a herd of wild horses. The young man waited no longer, and broke into a limping run, until he caught sight of the nearest door.

With renewed energy, he headed there and crossed it, appearing near the Church of the Holy Spirit of the Pauline Fathers. Two bell towers flanked its baroque façade, painted in a light ochre color that blurred under the dim glow of the street lamps.

Running up the double staircase, he reached the enormous access door. He pushed it with all his might and pounded on it with his fists, but to no avail.

The patrol would appear at any moment, and he barely had enough strength left to keep running. He made his way down the steps and around the corner, dragging his leg along two endless streets, and entered the narrowest side alley he could find.

If no one had spotted him, with any luck he could gain a few precious minutes, which he would use to find a permanent hiding place.

That area was more industrial than residential. The practical absence of windows and the large wooden crates stacked against the sides of the buildings suggested they were warehouses.

Almost convinced he was on the right street, he did not remember which door he was looking for, as they all looked similar.

He walked to the one closest to him and pushed hard, to no effect. After crawling to the next one, he tried again, with the same result.

His desperation was making him reckless. He pounded his fists on every door he could find, not caring that the noise might attract his pursuers.

Time was running out, his strength was fading, and he just had enough energy left to take a few last steps.

One more door. He had to try before giving up.

He approached a thick wooden double door painted dark maroon, which housed a smaller door on its right side.

Above the dark brick archway crowning it, a plain sign with crudely hand-painted letters read PLAVEL, next to a small symbol that he could not identify.

With almost no strength to knock, he leaned against the door and let himself go.

The little door did not give way, but the weight of his almost inert body separated the two leaves of the big heavy door by a mere two inches, held by a thick chain on the inside.

Encouraged by the prospect of slipping between them, he took a deep breath and pulled his belly in as far as he could. Pushing himself in profile through the slit, he forced his way in, letting out a cry of pain as he felt squeezed in all his most sensitive parts.

Once inside he collapsed, but still had the strength to lean his back against the doors and push them to keep them closed. As soon as he recovered a bit, he would try to find a bar or something to lock them with.

For the moment, he was alive, and he still had the package he had so zealously guarded.

That was all that mattered.

CHAPTER 2

H

e did not know how much time had elapsed, but it felt like an eternity. The silence on the other side of the door boosted his confidence and encouraged him to think that he had succeeded at throwing the Czar's soldiers off.

It was absurd to keep his eyes closed when he was in pitch darkness. When he opened them, he tried to scan his surroundings, but first he had to get accustomed to the gloom.

He could see nothing, but the rest of his senses sharpened. He could only make out undefined shapes, shadows within even darker shadows, but he immediately caught a peculiar smell in the air.

It was a mixture of the warm scent of fresh wood, mixed with a pungent smell of varnish. That place must have been a craftsman's workshop or some kind of factory.

He wasn't entirely sure he had arrived at the right address, but he had no choice but to make do, explore the place, and try to find the person he was looking for.

He sat up with difficulty, leaning on some wooden crates nearby. Staggering, he moved slowly, feeling with his hands and feet before taking each step.

As he reached the wall, he felt the rough touch of what looked like a tarp or a curtain hanging overhead. Assuming there must be a window or a door behind, he pushed it aside with both hands, starting an unstoppable chain reaction.

The clatter was considerable. Metal noise, plus the sound of objects rolling across the floor, mixed with the unmistakable popping of glass.

Damn it! he let out loud, adding his voice to the prevailing cacophony. He was sure he had knocked over some shelves with supplies and tools from the workshop.

Standing still for a few long minutes, he feared he would soon hear the soldiers' footsteps approaching, but everything was silent.

Taking a deep breath, he touched the wounds on his leg. He couldn't see the blood, but he felt it dripping down his hands. He must not have lost much, because he didn't feel dizzy yet, although he knew he had little time left and kept moving.

After hitting practically every obstacle on his way, he came to a wall opening which led to a larger room where visibility was better. The moonlight filtering through small rectangular windows in the ceiling made him feel he was dreaming. What the hell was that place?

The sight before him was surreal.

He stood in the center of a vast room, in a long corridor between two rows of bulky dark objects lined up on either side. Most were flat, some vertical, and some slightly slanted. What was all that?

In the silvery gloom of that room, he approached the one closest to him and felt its surface. It was wood, but he didn't feel its natural roughness; it was smooth to the touch, and his fingers slid freely across it.

He stumbled and staggered, leaning his hands on that object to avoid a nasty fall, and his heart skipped a beat as he suddenly heard the most dissonant musical chord ever created.

They're pianos; they're damn pianos, he muttered, still in awe.

He started down the hallway, and it all made sense. Two rows of pianos in different stages of assembly surrounded him.

He didn't remember ever being told the address they gave him belonged to a piano factory or store, only that he had to make the delivery and disappear.

The flickering glow of a candle approaching from one end of the room sent him hiding under what must be a grand piano, hitting his head against one of its legs.

Who's there? shouted a voice, in a tone devoid of aggression, almost friendly.

Staying crouched under the piano in such a forced posture was killing his strength. He could already feel nausea mixed with weakness and a tingling rising from his legs to his head, a prelude to what became a fainting spell.

The man carrying the candle ran down the aisle between the pianos until he reached the spot where the young man had collapsed. He bent down and placed the candle next to the piano's leg while he grabbed the lapels of the young man's thick jacket to pull him up.

A few gentle slaps did the miracle, and he soon regained consciousness.

"Who are you, boy? What are you doing here? We have nothing of value, we don't keep any money. And if you intend to steal a piano and run off with it, well, I can think of easier ways to make a living.

My name is Maciej, and I'm no thief, said the young man, turning his head to spit blood between gasps.

What happened to you? Are you wounded? asked the man, lifting his jacket to examine his side, noting his blood-soaked clothes.

I'm looking for Miroslaw, he mumbled.

Whom are you looking for?

Miroslaw. Do you know him? he asked, wincing in pain.

That's my son. What has he done? Has something happened to him? Are you friends?

A loud banging on the warehouse door, followed by distant shouts, interrupted the conversation.

What's going on? the man asked, picking up the candle from the floor to go check what was happening.

Maciej grabbed his arm and pulled toward him.

Please don't leave me. They're after me. They're coming for me.

Who's coming for you? What do they want? And what do you want me to do? asked the man, not knowing what to do or where to look.

Maciej made an effort to sit up and rummaged inside his jacket. He soon pulled out a dark leather cylinder and handed it to the man.

Give this to your son and tell him to hide it. He will know what to do with it. That's the most important thing, the young man said, pressing the cylinder against the father's chest to push him to leave.

The clatter of the door's wood bursting and the pieces of chain banging against the walls made him react.

The man patted Maciej's bloodied face with affection, and stood up quickly, carrying the candle in one hand and the cylindrical document-holder in the other. With a puff, he blew out the candle, which let out a wisp of whitish smoke over the grand piano's lid.

From the floor, Maciej followed the man's feet with his eyes as they disappeared at the end of the room.

In less than a minute, he could already hear the clatter of boots and the shouts of the patrol inside the room. The glow of a torch brought to life the soldiers' shadows, dancing on the floor in front of the young man's terrified eyes.

The lid of a grand piano collapsed loudly, as one soldier broke the supporting rod with a saber blow.

Maciej backed away, crawling between the piano's legs.

The captain leading the group gestured, and the others stopped. He looked around, sniffing like a bloodhound.

It smells like candle smoke, he whispered to his men, motioning them toward the grand piano under which the young man was hiding.

After a loud bang on the keyboard that awakened never-before-heard chords, the flame of the torch peeked out from under the piano, momentarily blinding Maciej.

CHAPTER 3

W

hy, what have we here? There seem to be mice in this warehouse," the captain said, passing the torch to one of his men, while pulling the feet of the young man, who was throwing kicks to fight him.

Two soldiers went around the piano from behind and bent down to restrain the boy, dragging him out between blows and kicks.

In the room at the far end, Miroslaw's father was debating whether to confront the soldiers or flee for help. It was a small office that connected to a staircase leading to his home on the upper floor.

A simple green velvet curtain separated them. The man cursed the moment he had let his wife convince him to replace the door with that curtain, just because it reminded her of the felt used to cushion the ivory keys on the pianos.

He was hiding behind the curtain, trying to imagine what was going on from the screams and banging he heard.

Where is it? We know you had it on you. Where did you hide it? the patrol captain shouted, accompanying his questions with sharp blows, which to the father sounded more like punches on soft parts.

I don't know what you're talking about, the boy answered repeatedly, his vocalizing deteriorating as the interrogation progressed, which the father assumed was because of the progressive loss of teeth.

The magic stone, where did you hide it? shouted the officer, slashing saber blows against the valuable piano, each one eliciting a remote gasp from the old man hiding in the office, who was almost in tears.

I don't know what stone you're talking about. I don't know anything, cried Maciej, his voice tone somewhere between terror and crying, as he continued to endure the blows.

Father, what's wrong?

The man turned as if he had seen a specter and pounced at his son Miroslaw, and covered his mouth with his hands to shut him up.

Don't say anything, and stay still, the father whispered, dragging him behind the heavy wooden desk at the center of his office.

Who are those men?

A patrol of the Czar's imperial soldiers.

Even in the prevailing gloom, the man saw the young man's face go pale.

Son, do you know anything about all this?

The young man did not answer, turning his gaze back to the curtain as he heard Maciej's desperate cries. He attempted to get up, but his father grabbed him by the arm.

Do you know that boy?

In the absence of an answer, the father insisted, his tone anything but conciliatory, pulling hard on his son's arm.

Do you have anything to do with all this? What are you involved in? Talk to me, Miroslaw.

The young man swallowed and nodded. He seemed determined to speak, but a new rumbling sound diverted his attention toward the curtain.

The dry, thudding sound of a piano lid slamming again and again on some part of Maciej's body, accompanied by his shrieks of pain, brought tears to his eyes. He looked at his father with glassy eyes, imploring his forgiveness with his gaze.

The young man's screams blended with the musical resonance floating in the air from the vibration of the piano strings after each hefty blow, in a perverse and terrifying melody.

What is this? the father asked, showing his son the leather cylinder.

His eyes looked like two balloons about to burst as he took it between his trembling hands, but he did not answer.

It's what that young man wanted to give you. He gave it to me to hide it, and he seems willing to die for it. What have you gotten yourself into, son? asked the father, with the desperation of one who sees all is lost.

Father, you have to believe in me. It's not what it seems. But now I have to take this to a safe place. It's too dangerous.

Taking the cylinder from his father's hands, he stood up and headed for the staircase, turning around as he reached the red velvet curtain that concealed it.

Trust me, father, and please help me.

The father's teary eyes watched his son's shadow disappear up the stairs, and he bowed his head, letting his sadness drown amidst the conflicting feelings of deep disappointment and anguish that threatened to choke him.

Maciej's shrieks suddenly ceased, in sync with a final blow that surely must have shattered what was left of the piano lid.

The father closed his eyes, and in his mind, the image of that helpless young man being savagely assaulted merged with that of his son, who looked up at him, imploring his help. It was more than the good man could bear.

In a display of his impulsive and thoughtless integrity, he stood up, and with a wave of his hand, he pushed aside the curtain, walking toward the group of soldiers.

Enough! Stop! I am Maksymilian Plavel, the owner of this company, and I demand that you leave this place at once.

The soldiers turned, brandishing their sabers in his direction, but they relaxed when they realized the man was not carrying a weapon.

The captain pushed the limp body of Maciej, who collapsed next to the piano, and turned his full attention to the man facing them.

Perhaps you will be more sensible than this bastard and understand that you must cooperate with us, he said, approaching him slowly.

Cooperate in what? This is an abuse. You are committing a crime. And in my house! the man shouted, gesticulating dramatically.

The tip of the captain's saber landed on the patriarch's throat, causing a tiny button of blood to gush out.

Where is the stone? Where is the case? Mr. Plavel, tell us and we won't do you any harm, the officer said, with an expression that left no doubt about his insincerity.

I promise you. I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just an industrialist. I've never been interested in politics, I only live for the music, the man tried to reason.

The saber's sharp tip slowly slid across his skin, opening a wound that started bleeding down his neck, but the man remained impassive.

I know nothing. I have nothing to tell you, he insisted, letting the thick beads of sweat sliding down his neck mingle with the blood in the wound, staining it a soft pinkish color.

The captain sheathed the saber and approached a heavy workbench attached to the wall.

He rummaged through wooden boxes from which the handles of various tools protruded until he smiled in satisfaction. With a jerk, and raising his arm into the air, he pulled a long metal cable, which the father immediately identified as a thick piano string.

The officer coiled the ends of the rope in his hands and pulled it taut to test its stiffness, quickly approaching the father, while motioning for his soldiers to hold him by the arms.

If what you say is true, and you only live for music, it is only fair that you should die for it too, don't you think?

With a perfidious smile, he stood behind the owner of the company and wrapped the metal string around his throat, pulling the ends tightly to strangle him.

Still nothing comes to mind? he shouted, pulling the string even tighter.

The asphyxiation prevented him from answering, but the man moved his head from side to side in his death throes, looking up at the ceiling, while his soul left his body through his bloodshot eyes, about to explode in his trembling purple face.

When his body was inert, the soldiers released his arms and let him fall, while the captain accompanied him to the floor, removing the string and throwing it on a nearby piano.

Loud knocks sounded at the entrance door to the premises, joined by the shouts of the neighbors who were entering the factory from the street, wondering what was happening.

The captain signaled his men, and without a word, they quickly retreated, making their way unceremoniously through the group of neighbors who were flooding the warehouse.

Once outside, they got lost down the street into the night.

CHAPTER 4

Hospital of the Order of the Sisters of Divine Help. Barcelona. 1913.

G

ive me your hand, little one. Don't be afraid," the young woman said, extending her arm toward a boy barely four years old who stared at her motionless and impassive, from the rumpled sheets of a metal bed.

That hospital ward was dedicated to the care of single mothers, victims of abuse or abandonment, suffering from illnesses that required prolonged treatment.

The Sisters of Divine Help had run that sanatorium for decades. Receiving no official subsidies, it survived thanks to the generosity of many faithful and anonymous donors and the income from the sale of textiles and handicrafts made by the resident women and the nuns who cared for them.

Inés, the Reverend Mother wants to see you, said a nun with a rosy, good-natured face who approached her to speak almost in her ear.

I'll be right there. Do you want to go with the sister, little one? She'll take you to the kitchen and I'm sure she'll find some cookies for you. Your mother will be back soon. She's with the doctor now, the young woman said, taking the little boy by the hand and leading him toward the nun.

Is there any news about the surgery? she asked the sister in a low voice, to which she responded with a negative gesture.

Let's pray everything goes according to God's plan. Fate is always written in Heaven, the nun said.

Yes, but often God also needs a little help from us here on Earth, Sister, she said, flashing a sweet smile, and walking away toward the exit door.

The Reverend Mother's office was on the third floor of the building. It was a modest room, presided over by a simple wooden crucifix and a small oil painting depicting the Holy Spirit visiting the Virgin Mary. The cracked canvas, darkened by the passage of time, rather than evoking tenderness in her, felt sinister every time she saw it.

The young woman entered through the half-open door and, in response to the Reverend Mother's gesture, sat down on the only chair in front of the desk.

You wanted to see me, Mother?

Yes, my child. How are you?

Inés replied with a grimace that pretended to pass as a reassuring smile.

We are worried about you. Since you came back from your... adventure, you've changed. You look sad. Am I right?

You are very observant, Mother. And I cannot hide anything from you, for you know I am very grateful to the Order. My life changed after the incidents you know about. I could not return to my former life, and you took me in and gave me sustenance, and although it is unnecessary, you even pay me a modest stipend, for which I am immensely grateful.

A stipend that I am aware you give back to the Order as anonymous donations. We know that, said the Reverend Mother, reaching out to take Inés' hand in hers.

Not before paying the rent at the boarding house where I subsist... I mean, where I live, Inés said with a trembling smile.

That is precisely why I wanted to see you, my child. You know how much we value your selfless work, your dedicated abnegation in helping so many needy women who come to us.

For whom we are their last resort, in most cases, Inés interrupted her.

Very true. But you know that the political situation in the country has become very complicated. Unfortunately, and much to our regret, the economy has become a priority in our daily lives.

Above our social work?

Never. We owe it to the needy; it is the foundation stone on which we built our Order, and that will never change. But as Reverend Mother of the institution, it is also my duty to manage the scarce resources at our disposal to ensure the continuity and survival of the sanatorium. Too many lives depend on it.

I understand, Mother. If I may ask, what are you getting at? I beg you to speak to me with clarity and total confidence, Inés said, keeping her clear eyes fixed on those of the Reverend Mother, who immediately looked down and let go of her hand.

Very well. I will speak to you bluntly. Given the difficult economic situation in which we find ourselves, we would like to continue counting on your help and your work, but for the moment, and until things improve, it could only be as a volunteer collaboration.

The Mother looked up and held Inés' gaze, hoping to receive a satisfactory answer.

That would mean...

That it will be impossible for us to continue paying you the stipend as we have been doing up to now, the nun said, settling the question with an energetic nod.

Inés did not try to hide her disappointment and the Mother could read on her face all the stages the young woman was going through after receiving the news, from surprise to final acceptance, including a fleeting but understandable anger.

I understand the situation, and although this is an enormous hardship for me, I have nothing but words of thanks for the way you have taken me in.

We are the ones who are grateful to you. As I said, as soon as circumstances improve, we will compensate you the best we can for your work, but for the moment, it will have to be as a volunteer, the Mother said, in a colder tone, hinting that she hoped the conversation was coming to an end.

Inés turned her gaze to the dark canvas hanging on the wall next to the table, and it took her a few seconds to recompose her thoughts.

I would love to continue collaborating with the Order, as the work you do is commendable, and I don't rule out continuing to do so as a volunteer, but that will have to wait. For now, my priority must be to find a paying job that will allow me to cover the rent for my room in the pension where I live. I hope you understand.

The Reverend Mother stood up, a clear sign she was ending the meeting.

Of course, my child, I understand perfectly. We will pray for you that the Lord gives you clarity of mind to follow your course guided by faith, enlightens you, gives you strength, helps you to find your way...

And helps me also to pay the rent. Don't forget it, Mother, Inés said, rising and bowing in farewell before turning and walking out the door, which she left ajar.

She walked down the stairs like an automaton, momentarily unable to think about what she should do to put her life back together. For many reasons, she could not return to her former life, but the news had left her paralyzed.

She felt as if she was sitting on the edge of a cliff, balancing her feet in the void.

Once again, her life was becoming complicated and twisted, as had been happening all too often in recent times.

She had to pull herself together and find a branch to hold on to, so as not to fall off the cliff.

CHAPTER 5

I

nés needed to clear her mind and her head. The news had been too sudden, and she needed to assimilate it before thinking about what her next steps should be.

The first one was to look for a quiet coffee shop where she could sit down for a cup of tea and meditate. She didn't have to open her purse to count the few coins she had left. Her finances were very basic, she did not need outside help to balance them. If she could not find another job soon, she would have to leave the dingy boarding house where she lived and look for an even more modest one, if she could afford it.

After the death of the wealthy Mrs. Xamot, murdered almost a year before at the hands of a psychopath who had also attacked her, leaving her badly wounded, Inés found herself unable to return to the service of any high society lady, even though that had been her job for the last three years. An intense job, but a comfortable and well-remunerated one, that allowed her to live with no hardships or worries.

The trauma of that assault left her scarred, introducing her into an unknown world; a world of deception, deceit, violence and, above all, death.

Her subsequent encounter with Subinspector Morillo, the young police officer in charge of the investigation, who became the young woman's soul mate, soon led to a sentimental relationship that was on its way to consolidate and that had opened a window of hope for her, amidst so much darkness.

The strange disappearance of the Subinspector months later, after abandoning her in the middle of a Wagner opera performance at the Liceu Theater, was a new blow to her confidence and self-esteem, plunging her even more into a deep pit from which she had been unable to climb out.

The imperious need to give some meaning to her life amid all that madness had led her to turn blindly to helping others, to focus on trying to positively influence the lives of those most in need, to feel useful and fulfilled.

Several volunteer jobs in social organizations had led her to the sanatorium of the Sisters of Divine Help, where she found an outlet for her social concerns, while bringing her a minimum income to subsist while waiting for better times.

In a new setback of life, losing that modest salary meant not only a pressing survival situation but also a return to the recent past, to a dark and unfortunate stage of her life that she wished to forget, although she had never lost hope of seeing Morillo alive.

She walked toward the windows of a bustling cafeteria but passed by, trying not to think of the cheerful people sitting at their tables and the joy they transmitted.

After taking several steps away, she could not resist the temptation and changed her mind.

I can't be so bad off that I can't afford to have a cup of tea. You only live once. I'll make an exception, she said to herself, turning around and bumping into a gentleman walking behind her.

The man picked up his hat from the floor while she excused herself, unable to suppress a nervous smile.

Once inside the premises, a waiter escorted her to a small white marble round table.

Soon after, she was in front of a steaming cup of chocolate. Tea was for the weak, and her desperate situation called for bolder measures, something stronger like chocolate.

Holding the cup to her lips, she gently tapped the porcelain with the tip of her tongue to test the temperature, and let her mind go blank for a few minutes. She needed to empty herself of content before she could figure out what her short-term strategy should be to get her life back on track soon.

The first step was undoubtedly to find another job. The housing issue could wait, as it would depend on the income level she could make.

She went through the list of friends and acquaintances who could help her get a job. It was so short that she didn't even have time to put the cup down, and she dared to take a small sip that scalded the tip of her tongue.

Her other option was to get a newspaper and check the published job offers, although she doubted she would find in them the kind of job with social impact she was looking for.

As she tasted the intense and comforting flavor of the chocolate, she looked around and could not help feeling a certain envy of many of those women, with or without a partner, who seemed to enjoy their lives, oblivious to any monetary worries or hardships.

A way of life that had also been hers until very recently, although deep inside the conflict between her hedonism and her social conscience was still alive, facing each other in an all-out struggle.

The chocolate had once again worked a miracle, and Inés was now much calmer and looked to the future, if not with optimism, at least with a certain resignation that was not without hope, which was enough for the moment.

She made a sign to the waiter and paid her bill with the last coins she had left in her purse, which implied a long walk back to the pension, since she didn't have enough to pay for a streetcar ticket.

She went out into the street and began the long walk with energy. The sun would set soon, and she didn't want it to be dark when she got to the pension, especially considering the undesirable neighborhood she was in.

Horse-drawn carriages shared the roadway with some motor vehicles, in a coexistence without apparent rules, which often reminded her of the law of the jungle.

After walking for almost half an hour, she reached a wide unpaved dirt avenue. Crossing it without getting her feet stained was quite an odyssey that required careful planning.

Waiting for the right moment to jump onto the road, dodging the carriages and vehicles that circulated with no consideration for pedestrians, avoiding stepping into one of the many potholes and ditches dotting the ground, or stepping on horse droppings, was a delicate task that required concentration.

She had almost made it across and was just a few steps from the other end when, despite her concentration, as she looked up at the sidewalk, something caught her eye.

The same man she had bumped into in front of the coffee shop at the other end of town was now standing by a doorway half a street away. He was leaning against the wall and appeared to be reading a newspaper, but Inés could see his gaze following her over the open pages.

Despite the distance, she was sure it was the same man. It couldn't be a coincidence, especially considering they were a long way from the coffee shop.

When she reached the other side, Inés decided to confirm her suspicions and picked up her pace as much as she could. Her pension was only a few streets away, in the Poble Sec neighborhood, near the port.

She left the avenue and turned down one of the side streets that climbed up the Montjuïc mountain. When she came to where she should take the narrow alley where her pension was located, she stopped for a moment, pretending to fix her skirt, but turning to look.

One street away, the man was trudging up the slope toward her.

Frightened, she ran down the alley until she reached the entrance to the pension. It was on the third floor of an old, cramped tenement building.

She looked up, in case she saw any of the pension tenants on the third-floor balcony, but the rusty iron railing was all she could see.

She could hear her pursuer's footsteps on the sidewalk cobblestones.

The man was running.

CHAPTER 6

I

nés pushed open the heavy iron door, slipped through the opening, and dropped back against the doorway to close it, then trotted up the stairs.

When she reached the third-floor landing, she had to stop to catch her breath and took the opportunity to peek into the narrow stairwell. She saw no hands resting on the railing and heard no sound of footsteps coming up the spiral of steps, which was reassuring.

She stopped in front of the pension door and pressed a thick brass button that rang a bell inside.

After an eternal minute of waiting, during which she pressed the button several times, she heard footsteps approaching behind the door.

I'm coming, I'm coming. What's the hurry? a male voice thundered from inside.

The angry face of a man in his seventies looked at her with a grimace of disgust, and he stepped aside to let her pass.

Inés was sure that the sullen and unpleasant man must have been a schoolteacher in his youth, but not one of those who saw teaching as a vocation, but one who took refuge in it to make the students suffer for his complexes and unfulfilled dreams.

The man and his wife ran the pension as if they were running a penitentiary, prioritizing rent collection above all else, continually threatening the tenants and reminding them of the dire consequences of late payments.

Any hint of cordiality or humanity in their treatment was non-existent.

Inés walked past him without saying a word, ignoring the string of comments that followed her down the hallway to the living room that acted as the dining room, and continued down another narrower hallway until she locked herself in her room and bolted the door.

She dropped onto the bed and took a deep breath, feeling safe but also strangely uneasy.

She was convinced that the stranger had been following her. It was the confirmation of a feeling she already had before but had dismissed as a product of her imagination, still affected by the emotional impact of the attack she had suffered months earlier and Morillo's subsequent disappearance.

She wondered who could it be, and why she was being followed. One thing was clear: it couldn't be for anything good.

Something startled her back to reality. Someone was ringing the front doorbell insistently, something the regular pension tenants rarely did.

Inés was on alert. She got up and raised the corner of the curtain on the small window in her room. It overlooked a dark and dirty inner yard, from which she had a view of the pension foyer through another small window barely covered by a thin net curtain.

The owner of the pension was talking to a man at the door, and just when he stepped aside, she immediately recognized the face of the stranger who was following her.

Terrified, and knowing that staying in her room was like being caught in a mousetrap, she grabbed her purse and rushed out, returning to the living room and locking herself in the only bathroom in the entire house, which luckily was unoccupied.

She bolted the door and leaned against it, flattening her ear against the crack.

She just came in not long ago. I suppose she'll be glad to see her father. Remind your daughter that we'll be collecting this week's rent tomorrow, although if you want, you can pay it in advance on her behalf. No problem, the landlord explained as they walked down the hallway past the bathroom door.

With her eyes closed, Inés held her breath and remained motionless as the two men reached the living room. The landlord showed the stranger into a small room next to the dining room, which the tenants used as a reading room.

Wait here. I'll go let her know you've arrived, the landlord said, walking away down the hallway that led to her room.

Inés opened her eyes and stared at her image in the bathroom mirror for a second. Her hair was disheveled and thick beads of sweat glistened on her forehead and her flushed cheeks.

After a slight nod, which she meant as an encouragement from her reflection to herself, she unlatched the door and slowly opened it, praying to Heaven that the hinges wouldn't squeak.

Slipping through the opening, she tiptoed down the hallway to the front door of the pension. Resting her hand on the handle, she waited until she heard the landlord knocking on the door to her room, to synchronize it with the click of the front door lock opening.

She went out onto the landing but left the door ajar for fear of attracting too much attention with the noise it would make when it closed.

Once she started down the stairs, as she peered down the stairwell, her gaze met that of a man in a hat looking up from the first floor. From his expression, she had no doubt he was an accomplice of the man in the pension, and without a second thought, she retraced her steps and ran up the stairs, passing the half-open door.

She raced up to the fourth floor of the building and was tempted to knock on the neighbors' door to ask for help, but she could not get the image of a mousetrap out of her mind, so she continued up the stairs until she reached a closed door leading to the rooftop.

The door was always open, since the neighbors used that place to get some fresh air and to hang their freshly washed clothes. Inés jumped onto the rooftop and closed the door behind her. She looked around, but the laundry prevented her from enjoying much of the spectacular view.

The forest masses of Montjuïc mountain rose behind her back. In front of her lay the old part of the city, a sea of colorful rooftops, from which the pointed spires of several church bell towers, including the cathedral of Barcelona, protruded.

In the distance, the Mediterranean Sea was dimming its glow for the day, letting the last rays of the evening sun drown in its waters.

The sound of footsteps running up the stairs made her react, and she ran to one side of the rooftop, peering over the adjoining building only a few meters below her.

She followed the contour of the wall and was relieved to see that the roof of the adjoining building was at the same level as hers. Without further thought, she climbed over the wall and swung her legs over to jump onto the neighboring building.

At that moment, the rooftop door opened and one stranger appeared, standing in front of the white sheets fluttering in the wind.

He pushed aside the sheet closest to him and peered over the side of the façade overlooking the street. He retraced his steps and walked down the narrow corridor between the hanging sheets toward one side of the building, but stopped when he heard his companion appear through the door.

Have you seen her?

She's not in her room. She can only have fled this way, replied the newcomer.

The distant sound of a closing door made them turn toward the place where Inés had fled.

Flicking aside the sheets and popping the clothespins that held them, they ran to the wall and jumped onto the roof of the adjoining building, running toward the access door they had heard, and disappearing down the stairs.

Barely a minute later, a delicate woman's hand appeared behind the edge of one of the hanging sheets. Inés fastened a piece of rope from the clothesline to the door handle, then tied the other end to a metal hook on the wall.

Satisfied, she ran to the wall and checked with relief that the three adjoining buildings were all the same height, offering her a safe escape route by jumping from one to another to put distance between her and her pursuers.

The sheets flapping in the wind were all that remained of her passage through the heights.

CHAPTER 7

T

he desperate knocks on the door startled Maribel, who had just put her daughter to bed and was finishing tidying up the tiny kitchen of her even tinier apartment.

She dried her hands on a rag made from the cloth of an old apron and cautiously approached the front door.

The door had a small brass peephole in the center, but Maribel didn't want to risk opening the door, preferring instead to speak through it.

Who is it? It's too late to go knocking on doors, she growled, her voice echoing with annoyance, which she intended to sound intimidating to whoever was outside.

It's me, Maribel. It's Inés.

Inés? What are you doing here at this hour?

Open the door and we'll talk better, don't you think?

Yes, of course.

Inés rushed in, pushed the door shut with her back, and clicked the lock into place.

What's wrong? Why are you so cautious? Have you seen what time it is?

It's a lot of questions. Let me sit down, please, and I'll explain everything, Inés said, plopping down on the only chair in the room.

Soon after, over a cup of hot soup, she filled her friend in on what had happened.

And you're sure they didn't follow you here?

As sure as I can be. I jumped across four different rooftops at least. When I finally got down to the street, I came out through the staircase of a building facing a different street than the one I'd entered from. And besides, I made a huge detour to get here, and I made sure a thousand times no one was coming after me, Inés said, taking small sips from the bowl of broth she was holding.

I can't go back to the pension. At least not tonight. It's too dangerous.

Yes, that's fine. You can stay here tonight if you want, but you should go to the police and report it.

I don't have much confidence in them. It's been several months, and I'm still waiting for news about Morillo's whereabouts," Inés said, her hands trembling as she set the cup down on the table.

Don't expect much from them. After all, you weren't his wife, or direct family, not even indirect.

But they know the relationship we had. They could at least tell me if he's still alive, or if they know anything else, anything at all, Inés insisted, stirring over and over the remnants of broth at the bottom of the cup with the spoon.

You know I'm always frank with you. I think the best you could do is forget about him and move on. If he disappeared or is dead, there's nothing you can do. And if he's still alive and hasn't contacted you? Well, the answer is obvious. He doesn't deserve you, and you should forget him. I never believed in your relationship. I already told you that, Maribel said, getting up to pick up the leftover food on the table.

I can't believe you're saying that, Inés shouted, trying to suppress her anger. You didn't know him as I did. He would have never disappeared like that, she added, slapping her hand on the table, which she immediately regretted.

Maribel took a plate with three eggs and a piece of cheese wrapped in gauze and placed it outside the kitchen window, covered by a thin cloth that let the wind through, but not the flies.

The price of ice blocks is prohibitively high. I can't afford them, so I have to keep the food alfresco in the window, Maribel said, changing the subject to avoid an unpleasant discussion.

I'm sorry. Forgive me. I'm very nervous about everything that's been happening to me lately. I don't have to make you pay for it, Inés said, reaching out for Maribel to take her hands.

I know, I understand, and I want to help you, but I wouldn't be a good friend if I didn't tell you what I really think. You must accept things as they are, accept reality, and get on with your life, which is all yours to live. You'll find someone who will make you happy, you'll see, but you have to turn the page.

Inés got up and went to the sink to wash her cup of broth.

I'll leave tomorrow. Thank you very much for letting me stay tonight, Inés said, while she dried the cup with a cloth.

You can stay as long as you need, woman, but it's a tiny apartment. It only has one bed, and with two women already here, there's no room for anyone else.

I understand, don't worry about it. I'll start looking for a new pension tomorrow. I can't go back to where I was. And of course, the hardest part will be to find a new job so I can pay for it, otherwise, I'm lost, Inés said, sighing and taking Maribel by the hands to give her a loving squeeze.

Maybe I can help you with that. I know the brother of the owner of a car factory, and I know they always need people to fill various positions. If you want, I can ask him.

Really? You'd be doing me a huge favor.

I can't promise you anything, but I'll try, Maribel said, letting go of her hand and going back to the living room. It's getting late. Let's go to sleep. You'll have to sleep in that armchair, because I share the bed with my daughter, and it's a tiny bed.

Don't worry. I'll be fine. Marta has grown so much. She'll soon be a little woman, she said, pointing to the girl snoozing on a bunk attached to the side of the living room.

Yes, she's a sweetheart. But she's only four years old. She's still got a lot of growing to do. If you get cold, you can use that shawl on the back.

Thank you, Maribel. You're a good friend, Inés said, settling into the armchair.

"I know. And I know you'd do the same for me if I needed it.

"Inés smiled at her, snuggling into the angle at the back of the uncomfortable armchair, trying in vain to find the magic position that would allow her to sleep comfortably.

CHAPTER 8

Police Station. Eixample. Barcelona. 1913.

I

nés' visit to the police station followed the same familiar script as on previous occasions. Ever since Morillo disappeared, she was always left with the bitter aftertaste that her problems did not arouse any interest among the agents.

Why have you come here and not gone to the Poble Sec police station, which is the one that corresponds to that area? Isn't that the neighborhood where the chase you are denouncing has taken place?

The officer talking to her sat behind a wooden counter from which only his head peeked out, showing an affable face presided over by an enormous mustache.

Inés did not want to answer with the truth, that she was there because it was the police station where Morillo worked before his mysterious disappearance. It was the same police station where he took her statement after having interrogated her as the key witness in the murder of Mrs. Xamot, in whose residence Inés worked as the wealthy widow's personal assistant.

What you just explained to me does not necessarily imply that this man...

Men. There were two of them. Don't forget it, Inés interrupted him.

Don't worry, I already made a note of it. Maybe those two men were simply walking in the same direction as you, and had no criminal intent, reasoned the officer, weariness more than evident in his eyes.

And how do you explain that one of them entered the pension where I live and that they both followed me to the rooftop? Inés asked, raising her tone of voice.

I'm not explaining anything. I'm just trying to make you realize maybe you see crime where there is none. After all, at no time did anyone attack you, right?

Inés held his gaze for a few seconds, not believing what she was hearing.

Are you telling me I have to be attacked, and maybe end up badly hurt, to come and make a report and be taken seriously by you?

The volume of her voice made other officers look to the counter and one of them approached to see what was going on.

Excuse me. I'm very nervous, but that doesn't mean I don't feel helpless in the face of what is a blatant threat to me. Doubly helpless, because it’s clear I am being followed, and the police, instead of helping me, have thrown in the towel and are not taking this case seriously.

Inés picked up her bag and prepared to leave the police station. The officer reached out and placed a document on the counter, dropping a fountain pen on the sheet of paper.

Before you leave, please sign the report.

Inés let her anger show, snorting noticeably.

As if it’s going to do any good. But don't let it be said that I don't collaborate with the glorious Police Force, she snarled, giving a wry smile to all the officers watching her from their desks.

As she headed for the exit door, she felt a hand grabbing her arm and turned angrily, intent on continuing the heated discussion.

Excuse me. I couldn't help but witness your... conversation with my colleague while he was taking your statement.

The officer immediately released her arm when he saw the angry expression on the woman's face. He was a young police officer in his early twenties, looking down at her with an affable expression and a friendly smile.

How about you join me for a quiet chat? It's almost lunchtime. Would you like some refreshments? Perhaps some tea?

Inés wondered why all men thought women could only drink tea, but she was so eager to leave the police station she nodded, and without another word, went out into the street.

She had immediately recognized the officer. His face had felt familiar since the very beginning.

I know you recognized me. I could read it in your eyes, the officer told her, over two cups of very thick, strong coffee, sitting at a table at a nearby coffee shop.

You were present when I was being interrogated at Mrs. Xamot's house, after the...

The unfortunate incident.

Murder. You can say it by its name, officer, Inés snapped at him. Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I can't talk about any subject, no matter how unpleasant.

Memories rose to the surface like air bubbles. She remembered the young man. He was the officer who had accompanied Morillo when they first met, when the Subinspector interrogated her at the mansion, just after the widow's murder. After that, she had seen him a couple more times at the police station during subsequent interrogations.

Excuse me, but I don't remember your name, constable.

Roura, ma'am. Corporal Roura. I'm actually a Corporal, not a constable, which is something many people get confused about.

Excuse me, I didn't mean to offend you. I'm not well versed in the terminology of police ranks, Inés apologized.

Nor need you be, of course, replied the Corporal, stirring his coffee so nervously that the swirl created threatened to overflow the cup.

I couldn't help overhearing your discussion with my colleague.

I'm afraid I'm wasting my time. You will not listen to me either. I can already see it.

Don't say that. My colleague will process your complaint and we will investigate the matter, whatever it is about, the Corporal said, to which Inés responded with a grimace of disbelief.

You worked with Subinspector Morillo, didn't you?

The sudden change of subject caught the Corporal by surprise and made him stutter as he spoke.

You have an excellent memory. Yes, I was present during several of the interrogation sessions we had with you after Mrs. Xamot's death, in that...

Where is the Subinspector? Can you put me in touch with him? Inés interrupted him unceremoniously.

The change of expression on the young man's face made her fear the worst.

I'm afraid that will not be possible, replied the Corporal, looking down into his cup.

What happened? Why won't anyone talk to me about him? I've been trying for months to get some kind of explanation as to his whereabouts, Inés said, pushing the mug away without even tasting its contents.

The last time I saw him, we were attending an opera performance at the Liceu. Morillo, the Subinspector, left the play at the intermission, and I know he was working on a case. I'm sure he was chasing someone or had a meeting. You were working with him. What happened?

Inés could feel the heat of the internal conflict Corporal Roura was struggling with, and put pressure on him by appealing to his self-esteem.

Please help me. Only you can do it. Tell me the truth.

The eagerness in Inés’ gaze seemed to soften the heart of the Corporal, who stirred in his chair, cleared his throat, and decided to collaborate.

What I'm going to say is confidential, and I'm telling you in the strictest confidence. You'll see, the truth is that we know nothing. At least officially. I haven't seen him since that day you're referring to, when you went to the opera.

What do you mean? He doesn't work with you anymore? Why hasn't he contacted me in these months?

"What I mean is, we don't know where he is. We don't