Carlos Zafon - The Midnight Palace

Michael stopped to watch the evening haze spread over the eastern bank of the Hooghly. Dozens of human figures, partly covered in white threadbare robes, were dipping into the river, the sum of their voices lost in the murmur of the current. The sound of doves flapping their wings, rising above the jungle of palaces and faded domes along the luminous river, made him think of a shadowy Venice.

‘Are you looking for me?’ said the old woman. She was sitting a few metres away, her face hidden by a veil.

Michael looked at her and she lifted the veil. Aryami Bose’s deep eyes were pale in the evening light.

‘We don’t have much time,’ said Michael. ‘Not any more.’

Aryami nodded and slowly rose to her feet. Michael offered her his arm and the two set off under cover of dusk towards the house of Chandra Chatterghee.

The five friends gathered around Aryami Bose. Patiently, they waited for the old lady to get comfortable and to honour the debt she owed them by offering up the truth. Nobody dared speak before she did. The dreadful urgency that was gnawing at their insides became a momentary calm as they began to worry that the secret Aryami had hidden from them so carefully might prove to be insurmountable.

Aryami looked at the faces of the youngsters with deep sadness and gave them a faint smile. She cast her eyes down and sighed, examining the palms of her small nervous hands as she began to speak. This time her voice seemed to lack the authority and determination they had learned to expect from her. At the end of her journey fear had undermined her resilience; she was now just an old woman, frail and frightened, a girl who had lived too long.

‘Before I begin, let me tell you that if I have lied, and I have been obliged to do so on numerous occasions, it has always been in order to protect someone. And if I lied to you, it was because I was certain that in doing so I would protect you, Ben, and your sister Sheere from something that might hurt you even more than the actions of a maddened criminal. Nobody can know how much I’ve suffered, having to carry this burden on my own from the day you were born. Listen carefully and rest assured that whatever I say will be the truth, as far as I know it, although there is nothing as terrible and difficult to believe as the stark reality of facts.

‘It feels like years have passed since I told you the story of my daughter Kylian. I told you about her, about her extraordinary radiance and how, among all her suitors, the one she chose to be her husband was a man of humble origins and great talent, a young engineer with a promising future. But I also told you that since childhood this man had borne a heavy load on his shoulders, a secret that would lead to his death and to the death of many others. Although this may seem contradictory, let me start this tale at the end, not the beginning, in response to the findings you have so cleverly disentangled.

‘Chandra Chatterghee was always a dreamer, a man possessed by a vision of a better and fairer future for his people, whom he could see dying in poverty in the streets. Meanwhile, behind the walls of their sumptuous homes, those whom he considered to be invaders, exploiters of our people’s natural legacy, were living a life of luxury at the expense of the millions of wretched souls inhabiting the great roofless orphanage that is India.

‘His dream was to provide the nation with an instrument for progress and the creation of wealth, as he believed this would eventually break the oppressive yoke of the Crown. It would be an instrument that would open up new routes between cities, new enclaves, ensuring a future for Indian families. He dreamed of an invention made of iron and fire: the railway. For Chandra, railway tracks were the arteries that would carry the new blood of progress throughout the land, and he conceived a heart from which all this energy would flow: his masterpiece, Jheeter’s Gate Station.

‘But the line separating dreams from nightmares is as fine as a needle, and very soon the shadows of the past returned. A high-ranking officer in the British army, Colonel Arthur Llewelyn, had enjoyed a meteoric career built on his exploits and the slaughter of innocent people – old and young, unarmed men and terrified women – in towns and villages throughout the whole Bengali Peninsula. Wherever the message of peace and a united India arrived, so too did his rifles and bayonets. A very gifted man with a promising future, as his superiors claimed with pride, but also a murderer hiding behind the Crown’s flag and the power of its army.

‘It didn’t take long for Llewelyn to notice Chandra’s talent and, without too many problems, he managed to draw a black ring around him, blocking his projects. A few weeks later not a single door in Calcutta, indeed in the entire province, was open to him. Except, of course, Llewelyn’s. He proposed a series of jobs for the army – bridges, railway lines … Every offer he made was rejected by your father; he preferred to support himself with the paltry sums he received from Bombay publishers in exchange for his manuscripts. In time, Llewelyn’s noose slackened and Chandra began to work once more on his grand plan.

‘After some years had gone by, Llewelyn’s anger was rekindled. His own career was floundering and he urgently needed some dramatic incident, a new bloodbath, with which to recapture the attention of the London authorities and restore his reputation as the panther of Bengal. His solution was clear: to put pressure on Chandra but this time using different weapons.

‘For years Llewelyn had been investigating the engineer, and finally his henchmen sniffed out the series of crimes linked to Jawahal. Llewelyn almost let the case come to light. Then, just at the point when your father was more enmeshed than ever in his Jheeter’s Gate project, he intervened, closing down the case but threatening to reveal the truth unless your father created a new weapon for him, a deadly instrument of repression that would put an end to the riots that the pacifists and pro-independence campaigners kept strewing in Llewelyn’s path. Chandra had to comply, therefore the Firebird was born, a machine that could turn a city or a village into an ocean of flames in a matter of seconds.

‘Chandra developed the railway and the Firebird side by side, under constant pressure from Llewelyn, whose greed, together with the suspicions he was starting to arouse among his superiors, threatened to expose him. A man who until then had been considered calm, even-tempered and dutiful was now showing himself to be an obsessive maniac whose desire for success and recognition blocked his own chances of survival.

‘Chandra realised that Llewelyn’s downfall was only a matter of time, so he played along with him and made him believe that he would hand over the finished project sooner than planned. This only increased Llewelyn’s mania and tore apart what little sanity he had left.

‘In 1915, a year before the opening of Jheeter’s Gate and the railway line extending from it, Llewelyn ordered the slaughter of a defenceless crowd, with no possible justification, and was thrown out of the British army in a scandal that even reached the House of Commons. His star would never shine again.

‘His madness now took on new dimensions. Llewelyn gathered a group of officers who were loyal to him – like Llewelyn, they had been stripped of their rank and instructed to give up their weapons. With this horde of butchers he set up a sinister paramilitary squad that operated in secret. They sported their old uniforms and medals in a grotesque parody, congregating in Llewelyn’s former residence so that they could maintain the fiction that they were a secret elite unit and that it would not be long before they would force out the very men who had signed their expulsion orders. Needless to say, Llewelyn never admitted that he’d been downgraded and disciplined. According to him and his collaborators, they had all resigned in order to found a new military order.