Carlos Zafon - The Midnight Palace

‘What’s left of it,’ he replied. ‘Looking for accommodation?’

‘I’m looking for information,’ replied Seth, trying to smile back at the beggar in a friendly manner.

‘This world is full of ignoramuses: nobody is looking for information. Except you. So what do you want to find out, young man?’

‘Do you know this place?’

‘I live in it,’ answered the beggar. ‘Once it was my prison; today it’s my home. Providence has been generous to me.’

‘You were imprisoned in Curzon Fort?’ asked Seth, incredulous.

‘Once upon a time I made some big mistakes … and I had to pay for them.’

‘How long were you in prison, sir?’ asked Seth.

‘Right to the end.’

‘So you were here the night of the fire?’

The beggar drew aside the rags draped over his body and Seth stared in horror at the purple scars covering his chest and neck.

‘Maybe you could help me,’ continued Seth. ‘Two friends of mine are in danger. Do you remember a prisoner called Jawahal?’

The beggar closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

‘None of us called each other by our real names,’ he explained. ‘Our name, like our freedom, was something we left by the entrance when we came here. We hoped that if we managed to keep our name separate from the horror of this place, we might be able to recover it when we left, clean and untouched by memories. It didn’t turn out that way of course …’

‘The man I’m referring to was convicted of murder,’ Seth replied. ‘He was young. He was the one who started the fire that destroyed the prison and then escaped.’

The beggar stared at him in surprise.

‘The one who started the fire? The fire started in the boiler room. An oil valve exploded. I was outside my cell, doing my work shift. That was what saved me.’

‘But he set it all up,’ Seth insisted. ‘And now he’s trying to kill my friends.’

The beggar tilted his head to one side but then nodded.

‘That may be so, son. But what does it matter any more? I wouldn’t worry about your friends. There’s not much this man, Jawahal, can do to them now.’

Seth frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

The beggar laughed.

‘The night of the fire I was even younger than you are now. In fact, I was the youngest in the prison. This man, whoever he was, must be well over a hundred by now.’

Seth rubbed his temples, totally confused.

‘Just a moment,’ he said. ‘Didn’t the prison burn down in 1916?’

‘1916?’ The beggar laughed again. ‘Dear boy, what are you going on about? Curzon Fort burnt down in the early hours of 26 April 1857. Seventy-five years ago.’

Seth stared open-mouthed at the beggar, who was studying him with curiosity and some concern at his evident dismay.

‘What’s your name?’ the man asked.

‘Seth, sir,’ replied the boy, whose face had gone pale.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help you, Seth.’

‘You have,’ replied Seth. ‘Now how can I help you?’

The beggar’s eyes shone and he smiled bitterly.

‘Can you make time go backwards, Seth?’ The beggar stared at the palms of his hands.

Seth shook his head.

‘Then you can’t help me … Go back to your friends, Seth. But don’t forget me.’

‘I won’t, sir.’

Michael stopped by the entrance to the street that led to Aryami Bose’s house and stared in shock at the smoking ruins of what had once been the old lady’s home. People had drifted in from the streets and were standing in the courtyard, watching in silence as the police searched the debris and questioned the neighbours. Michael hurried over and pushed through the circle of onlookers. A police officer stopped him.

‘I’m sorry, lad. You can’t come through.’

Michael looked over the policeman’s shoulder and saw two of the man’s colleagues lifting a fallen beam that was still glowing.

‘What about the woman who lives in the house?’ asked Michael.

The policeman seemed suspicious. ‘You knew her?’

‘She’s my friends’ grandmother,’ Michael replied. ‘Where is she? Is she dead?’

The officer observed him impassively for a few seconds then shook his head.

‘We can’t find any trace of her,’ he said. ‘One of the neighbours says he saw someone running down the street shortly after the flames burst through the roof. But I’ve already told you more than I should. Off you go now.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Michael. He made his way back through the mass that was gathering in the hope of some gruesome discovery.

Once he was free of the crowd, Michael examined the adjacent buildings, trying to guess where the old lady might have fled. Both ends of the street merged into the Black Town, with its tangle of buildings, bazaars and palaces. Aryami Bose could be anywhere.

For a few moments Michael considered the options, then finally decided to head for the banks of the Hooghly River, to the west. There thousands of pilgrims immersed themselves in the sacred waters of the Ganges, hoping heaven might purify them, although mostly they received only fevers and diseases in return.

With the sun beating down on him, Michael wove his way through the throng that flooded the streets, a constant gabble of merchants, quarrels and unheeded prayers. The voice of Calcutta. Some twenty metres behind him a figure wrapped in a dark shawl peered out from an alleyway and began to follow him through the crowd.

Ian opened his eyes with the absolute certainty that his persistent insomnia would allow him no more than a few hours’ respite, despite the exhaustion brought about by recent events. Judging from the quality of the light bathing the room in the western tower of the engineer’s house, he calculated that it must be somewhere around mid-afternoon. The hunger pangs that had assaulted him at dawn had returned with a vengeance, making him grit his teeth. As Ben used to joke, parodying the words of the writer Tagore, whose castle was only a short distance away: when the stomach speaks, the wise man listens.

As Ian slipped quietly from the room, he noticed with some envy that Ben and Sheere were still enjoying the sleep of the righteous. He suspected that when they woke up even Sheere would be prepared to swallow the first edible object within reach, and as far as Ben was concerned, there was no doubt whatsoever. Ian imagined his best friend was probably busy dreaming about a tray of gastronomic delights and a sumptuous dessert of chhena sweets – a mixture of lime juice and boiled milk that all sweet-toothed Bengalis adored.

Aware that he had already been granted more sleep than expected, he decided to venture out in search of provisions with which to placate his hunger and that of his friends. With a bit of luck he’d be back before either of them had even had time to yawn.

As he crossed the large hall containing the model town and made for the spiral staircase, he was pleased to see that in daylight the house looked considerably less menacing and that nothing else had changed. Ian noticed that the building was remarkably efficient at insulating them from the soaring temperatures outside. It wasn’t hard to imagine the stifling heat beyond those walls, yet the engineer’s house felt almost spring-like. Downstairs, he walked through some of the galaxies on the floor mosaic then opened the door to the outside world, hoping he wouldn’t forget the combination of the eccentric lock that sealed Chandra Chatterghee’s sanctuary.

The sun beat down mercilessly on the dense vegetation of the garden. The lake, which the night before had resembled a sheet of polished ebony, now threw bright reflections against the front of the house. Ian walked towards the secret tunnel beneath the wooden bridge and entered the passageway. Before its pungent stench could fill his lungs, he was out again, passing through the entry that led to the street. There, he threw an imaginary coin in the air and decided to begin his search for food by heading west.