Сантьяго Ронкальоло: Barcelona Noir

Completely overwhelmed, I had to turn away.

My eyes were lying, there was no other explanation.

Incredulous, I looked again and he was still there, erect, as if he were me, as if a mirror was reflecting my image back to me, with my arms crossed over my chest and my eyes fixed on the spot on the tombstone where the Brawner family name was written in gold letters on black marble.

I couldn’t take my eyes off that tall man, his blond hair shining in the midday sun, his skin so white nothing reflected off it; everything had become light. But what caused a lingering, blurry, indefinable fear, what made cold sweat run down my back, was the expression on his face.

I’ve been following him ever since.

“I appreciate that you came right away.”

“Inspector, I’ve always believed that a bitter drink is more difficult to swallow the longer you wait.”

“I’m going to turn on the tape recorder but I need to tell you that you can say no.”

“It’s fine, I’m all yours. My name is Jacob Zimmerman, and I was born in Hamburg, Germany, ninety-two years ago. I’ve been living in Barcelona for fifty-eight years.”

“Why did you attend Anna Brawner’s funeral?”

“Because she was my daughter-in-law.”

“So... are you related in any way to Julián Brawner?”

“Yes, he’s my grandson.”

“I’m surprised. I would have thought you didn’t know each other.”

“Yes, that’s partly true. I’d never spoken with him until today, and I’m pretty sure she never mentioned me to him. It’s an old family story. I decided to immigrate to Barcelona at the end of the 1920s, to escape from the economic crisis in my country. My wife, Edith Keller, had a boutique on the Rambla de Cataluña and I opened an antique store that I still operate. Anna Brawner’s father arrived in Barcelona in 1942 when she was barely three years old. Back then, this city was a nest of spies of many different nationalities, but especially Germans. He was posted to the German consulate, which was then in the Plaza de Cataluña, and you can imagine his mission.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Those were very hard years for everybody. In 1942, I was forty-six years old, I had a stable life and five kids. The youngest was born here and had double citizenship. At the beginning of 1943, the oldest three were kidnapped, all under the auspices of that damned treaty that General Martínez Anido and Himmler signed in ’39. Any German suspected of failing to support the Nazi cause could be detained and repatriated immediately without an extradition hearing or preliminary finding.”

Jacob Zimmerman goes silent, as if he needs his memories to send him the strength to continue. The inspector is about to ask him if he feels all right when the elderly man picks up the conversation again. His voice is charged with a repressed anger.

“They never got to Germany! They were executed somewhere on the French border.”

Silence again. This time, Gómez Triadó just waits.

“My youngest son and Anna Brawner met about twenty years later. They fell in love a few months before her father died, and since she was left all alone, my wife and I asked her to come live with us. They were happy times that made up for the tragedy of the war years. When my son finished his studies at the university, they got married, and before the year was out, she was pregnant. Excuse me... but could I have a glass of water?”

“Forgive my lack of manners. I’ll be right back.”

The old man is left alone. He puts his elbows on the table and rests his face in the palms of his hands. The darkness is soothing. He knows he needs to keep his head clear, his emotions in check. A few minutes later, the inspector is back.

“I brought you some coffee, if you’re interested.”

“No, thank you. At my age, a single cup means a lost night.”

“If you need to rest, we can stop for a few minutes.”

“No, no, I’m fine. The water will do.”

As the old man drinks, Gómez Triadó observes his wrinkled face. As he’s been telling the story, sadness has been darkening his features.

“Everything changed when Julián was nine months old.

For very strong personal reasons, she felt that she couldn’t continue to live with us, and one night she vanished with my grandson. My son couldn’t bear it, and he fell into a state of depression that ended with his suicide. We never heard from her again and then we saw the news article about her murder.

I went to the funeral this morning to tell her how much I’d grown to hate her.”

I decide to sleep at home tonight; I’ve been following him for five days. I need to get some distance or I’ll fall into the looking glass and be unable to come back. Everything is very confusing, as if I am slowly melting into him. He can sense my presence, he sees that I’m following him; I know that he knows because I’m slowly taking over the thoughts his mind generates. They come to me on a breeze that whirls around my brain, full of voices, noise, and hate.

I open the door but I don’t turn on the light; I remember a childhood game of keeping my eyes closed, trying to feel the same sensations as a blind man. The blind have always fascinated me, and blindness is what I fear most, even more than death. Now I want to move in darkness again. I move toward the sink, feeling the walls so I can count the doorways. It’s the third door. I go in. My eyes are getting used to the blackness and begin to make out blurry forms. The first thing I’ll do is shower; I’m still carrying the sweat and dirt of the last five days, plus a thin film of resentment and rage which he has passed on to me.

I thought the water would wash everything away but the only things that are gone from my body are the dirt and sweat.

I try to sleep but my mother haunts me, I feel her near me, caressing my body with a deathly touch which filters into my brain with memories of lost moments and an image that repeats with the regularity of an advertisement stuck in my head. Sleep just turns it on. Darkness is near total, and in the background there’s a thin light which attracts my gaze. I go toward it, passing leafy plants in the shadows at my sides, and I arrive at a small clearing completely covered by a bed of white flowers. It’s from here that the light is emanating. A man with a woman in his arms approaches and when he gets to me, he kneels without seeing me, his eyes red from tears. He puts her down with great care amidst the flowers and the woman looks up at me, her face a mask of agony. I wake up in anguish, the sheets wet from sweat, and dawn’s light is seeping.

I stay quiet, listening for the messages in my dreams, contemplating the dawn through the open window.

“I hope you’re not thinking something’s wrong because my husband and I attended the funeral.”

“Don’t worry,” says Inspector Gómez Triadó, “that’s why you two are here, to clear up that very point. It’s just a formality. How did you find out about her death?”

“It was in the news.”

“If you didn’t actually have much contact with her, how is it that the company you run, Mr. Cánovas — which is owned by your wife — transferred 200,000 pesetas a month to the victim’s account?”

“It was part of my inheritance from my father-in-law, it came with the company.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to stop doing it?”

“The terms of the will were clear: to keep paying until Anna Brawner’s death. And that’s what I came to do, to make sure she was dead.”

“Quite a favor the murderer did you, don’t you think?”

“Us and two other companies.”

“We know, we’ve gone over the victim’s accounts in great detail, Mrs. Cánovas.”

“My name is Teresa Puig-Grau.”