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“Look who’s talking: Saint John of the Cross.”
“That’s enough. Let’s calm down and stick to the facts. There’s one thing in Daniel’s narrative that seemed very strange to me, even stranger than the rest of it. It has nothing to do with the gothic spin of this whole saga, but with an essential and apparently banal detail,” Barceló said.
“Dazzle us, Don Gustavo.”
“Well, here it is: this business about Carax’s father refusing to identify Carax’s body, claiming that he didn’t have a son. That seems very odd to me. Almost unnatural. No father in the world would do that. Never mind the bad blood there might have been between them. Death does that: it makes everyone feel sentimental. When we stand in front of a coffin, we all see only what is good or what we want to see.”
“What a great quote, Don Gustavo,” Fermín said. “Do you mind if I add it to my repertoire?”
“There can always be exceptions,” I objected. “From what we know, Mr. Fortuny was rather peculiar.”
“All we know about him is thirdhand gossip,” said Barceló. “When everyone is determined to present someone as a monster, there are two possibilities: either he’s a saint or they themselves are not telling the whole story.”
“The trouble is, you’ve taken a shining to the hatter just because he’s dense,” said Fermín.
“With all due respect to the profession, when the description of a rogue is based solely on the caretaker’s statement, my first instinct is not to trust it.”
“But that means we can’t be sure of anything. Everything we know is, as you say, third-, or even fourth-hand. Caretakers or otherwise.”
“Never trust he who trusts everyone,” Barceló added.
“What an evening you’re having, Don Gustavo,” Fermín applauded. “Pearls of wisdom offered in abundance. Would that I had your crystalline insight—”
“The only crystalline thing in all this is that you need my help—logistical and probably monetary as well—if you’re hoping to bring this Christmas play to a conclusion before Inspector Fumero reserves a suite for you in San Sebas Prison. Fermín, I assume you’re with me?”
“I follow Daniel’s orders. If he orders it, I’d even play the part of Baby Jesus.”
“Daniel, what do you say?”
“You two are doing all the talking. What do you propose, Don Gustavo?”
“This is my plan: as soon as Fermín has recovered, you, Daniel, pay a casual visit to Nuria Monfort and put your cards on the table. You let her see that you know she’s lied to you and that she’s hiding something, a lot or a little—that remains to be seen.”
“What for?”
“To see how she reacts. She won’t say anything to you, of course. Or she’ll lie to you again. The important thing is to thrust the banderilla into her—forgive the bullfighting image—to see where the bull will lead us or, should I say, the young heifer. And that’s where you come in, Fermín. While Daniel is sticking his neck out, you position yourself discreetly where you can keep watch on the suspect and wait for her to take the bait. Once she’s done that, you follow her.”
“You’re assuming she’s going to go somewhere,” I protested.
“O ye of little faith! She will. Sooner or later. And something tells me that in this case it will be sooner rather than later. It’s the basis of feminine psychology.”
“And in the meantime, what are you planning to do, Dr. Freud?” I asked.
“That’s my business, and in good time you’ll know. And you’ll thank me for it.”
I looked for reassurance in Fermín’s eyes, but the poor man had slowly been falling asleep hugging Bernarda while Barceló was drawing up his triumphant plan. Fermín’s head was tilted to one side, and dribble was leaking onto his chest from the edge of a beatific smile. Bernarda was snoring loudly.
“I do hope this one proves good,” Barceló murmured.
“Fermín is a great guy,” I said.
“He must be, because I don’t think he can have won her over with his looks. Come on, let’s go.”
We turned out the light and left the room quietly, closing the door and leaving the two lovers in the hands of sleep. I thought I could see the first glimmer of daybreak through the gallery windows at the end of the corridor.
“Suppose I say no,” I said in a low voice. “Suppose I tell you to forget this.”
Barceló smiled. “Too late, Daniel. You should have sold me that book years ago, when you had the chance.”
