almost lost her on one of those terraces; she went in while I
stayed outside, hidden by the menu board, and suddenly I saw Remo Morán, who was
sitting at one of the tables with two very suntanned guys. I felt trapped; I
should have been at work by then, and Remo’s gaze reared up like ectoplasm and
hit me between the eyes, or that’s how it felt, but in fact it was a sleeper’s
or a dreamer’s gaze—he didn’t seem to be listening to the suntanned guys, and at
the time I thought, Either he’s critically ill or he’s very happy. Anyway, I
turned around, crossed the Paseo and waited in the gardens. Soon it began to
drizzle. When Caridad came out of the restaurant, there was something different
about her step; it was longer and more decisive, as if the stroll was over and
now she was in a hurry. I followed her without hesitation (but hadn’t anyone in
the restaurant noticed that she was carrying a knife?) and we began to leave the
bright lights of the center behind us. We went through the fishermen’s
neighborhood, climbed a steep street lined with terraced houses, at the end of
which was a dirty, modern, four-storey school, with that unfinished look that
schools always have, and then, beyond the last buildings, we set out on the
highway that runs around the coves, heading for Y. From time to time headlights
lit up Caridad’s shrunken silhouette, pressing on relentlessly. Twice I heard
men’s voices yelling from cars, but they didn’t stop. Maybe they saw me. Maybe
they saw Caridad and were scared. Only the wind in the trees stayed with us
until the end. We walked a long way. At each bend in the road, the sea appeared,
streaked with a milky brightness, the sea with its clouds and its rocks, lapping
the sandy beaches of Z. When she reached the third cove, Caridad left the
highway and turned off onto a dirt road. It had stopped raining and the mansion
was visible from a distance. I tripped over something and fell down. Caridad
stopped for a few moments at the iron gate, before opening it and disappearing.
I picked myself up carefully; my legs were shaking. There were no lights shining
in the house to suggest that it was occupied. The iron gate had remained ajar.
Peering in, I could barely make out the remains of an enormous garden, a
half-ruined fountain and weeds growing everywhere. A paved path led to a kind of
dilapidated porch on various levels. There I discovered that the front door was
also open, and I thought I heard a sound, a very faint sound of music that could
only have been coming from inside the mansion. That was what I concluded as I
stood there on the porch like a rain-wet statue, with my left hand resting on
the door frame and my right hand cupped to my ear, before finally deciding to go
in. The hall, or what I presumed was a hall, empty except for some boxes piled
up in a corner, led to a glass door. When my eyes had adjusted to the darkness,
I proceeded with caution, trying to make as little noise as possible. When I
opened the glass door, I could hear the music clearly. A few paces further on,
the corridor branched. I chose to go left. On one side of the passage there were
doors, but although they were open, the rooms were utterly black. There was some
light in the passage itself, coming in through a long window on the other side,
running right along the wall and looking into an interior courtyard, which
seemed to be at a much lower level than the front garden. The passage finally
opened out into a circular room like the cockpit of an impossible submarine,
from which one stairway led up to the floor above and another led down to the
sunken garden. That was where the music was coming from. So down I went. The
floor was marble and the walls were decorated with plaster reliefs, which
neglect had rendered indecipherable. Something moved in the weeds. A rat, maybe.
But my attention was now focused on a double door. The music was coming through
it along with a freezing draft that dried the sweat on my
stayed outside, hidden by the menu board, and suddenly I saw Remo Morán, who was
sitting at one of the tables with two very suntanned guys. I felt trapped; I
should have been at work by then, and Remo’s gaze reared up like ectoplasm and
hit me between the eyes, or that’s how it felt, but in fact it was a sleeper’s
or a dreamer’s gaze—he didn’t seem to be listening to the suntanned guys, and at
the time I thought, Either he’s critically ill or he’s very happy. Anyway, I
turned around, crossed the Paseo and waited in the gardens. Soon it began to
drizzle. When Caridad came out of the restaurant, there was something different
about her step; it was longer and more decisive, as if the stroll was over and
now she was in a hurry. I followed her without hesitation (but hadn’t anyone in
the restaurant noticed that she was carrying a knife?) and we began to leave the
bright lights of the center behind us. We went through the fishermen’s
neighborhood, climbed a steep street lined with terraced houses, at the end of
which was a dirty, modern, four-storey school, with that unfinished look that
schools always have, and then, beyond the last buildings, we set out on the
highway that runs around the coves, heading for Y. From time to time headlights
lit up Caridad’s shrunken silhouette, pressing on relentlessly. Twice I heard
men’s voices yelling from cars, but they didn’t stop. Maybe they saw me. Maybe
they saw Caridad and were scared. Only the wind in the trees stayed with us
until the end. We walked a long way. At each bend in the road, the sea appeared,
streaked with a milky brightness, the sea with its clouds and its rocks, lapping
the sandy beaches of Z. When she reached the third cove, Caridad left the
highway and turned off onto a dirt road. It had stopped raining and the mansion
was visible from a distance. I tripped over something and fell down. Caridad
stopped for a few moments at the iron gate, before opening it and disappearing.
I picked myself up carefully; my legs were shaking. There were no lights shining
in the house to suggest that it was occupied. The iron gate had remained ajar.
Peering in, I could barely make out the remains of an enormous garden, a
half-ruined fountain and weeds growing everywhere. A paved path led to a kind of
dilapidated porch on various levels. There I discovered that the front door was
also open, and I thought I heard a sound, a very faint sound of music that could
only have been coming from inside the mansion. That was what I concluded as I
stood there on the porch like a rain-wet statue, with my left hand resting on
the door frame and my right hand cupped to my ear, before finally deciding to go
in. The hall, or what I presumed was a hall, empty except for some boxes piled
up in a corner, led to a glass door. When my eyes had adjusted to the darkness,
I proceeded with caution, trying to make as little noise as possible. When I
opened the glass door, I could hear the music clearly. A few paces further on,
the corridor branched. I chose to go left. On one side of the passage there were
doors, but although they were open, the rooms were utterly black. There was some
light in the passage itself, coming in through a long window on the other side,
running right along the wall and looking into an interior courtyard, which
seemed to be at a much lower level than the front garden. The passage finally
opened out into a circular room like the cockpit of an impossible submarine,
from which one stairway led up to the floor above and another led down to the
sunken garden. That was where the music was coming from. So down I went. The
floor was marble and the walls were decorated with plaster reliefs, which
neglect had rendered indecipherable. Something moved in the weeds. A rat, maybe.
But my attention was now focused on a double door. The music was coming through
it along with a freezing draft that dried the sweat on my
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