Carlos Zafon - The Midnight Palace

I always imagined that the vision I saw was the spirit of the mother Ben had never met and, somewhere in my heart, I maintained the childish hope that, if one day I managed to fall into a deep sleep, a similar apparition would also take care of me. That was the only secret I did not share with anyone, not even Ben .

Calcutta, 25 May 1932

For over thirty-five years, as head of St Patrick’s, Thomas Carter had taught his pupils literature, history and arithmetic with the confidence of a jack of all trades and master of none. The only subject he was never able to deal with properly was the subject of their departure. Year after year, the boys and girls whom the law would soon place outside the influence and protection of his institution would file past him, their faces revealing a mixture of anticipation and fear. And as he watched them walk out of the orphanage, Thomas Carter would think of their lives as the blank pages of a book in which he had written the initial chapters of a story he would never be allowed to finish.

Beneath the austere expression of a man not given to displays of emotion, nobody feared the date on which those blank books would leave his desk for ever more than Thomas Carter. They would pass into unknown hands, perhaps to more unscrupulous pens who would inscribe a sombre twist in the plot, a lifetime away from the dreams and the expectations with which his pupils undertook their solitary flight into the streets of Calcutta.

Experience had taught him to abandon any desire to find out how his students fared once he could no longer offer guidance and shelter. For Thomas Carter, saying goodbye usually went hand in hand with the bitter taste of disappointment – sooner or later he would discover that the young people who had been robbed of a past were also, it seemed, being robbed of a future.

That hot night in May, as he listened to the young people’s voices in the courtyard, where they were having a small farewell party, Thomas Carter stared at the city lights from the darkness of his office. Flocks of black clouds fled across a canopy of stars towards the horizon.

Once again he had refused the invitation to the party and instead had remained in his armchair, sitting quietly with no light other than the multicoloured reflections from the paper lanterns with which Vendela and the pupils had decorated the trees in the courtyard and the facade of St Patrick’s, as if it were a ship ready to be launched. There would be time enough to utter words of farewell in the few days remaining until he had to comply with the law and return the children to the streets from which he had rescued them.

As had become the custom in recent years, it wasn’t long before Vendela knocked on his door. For once, she came in without waiting for a reply and closed the door behind her. Carter noticed the nurse’s cheerful face and smiled in the dark.

‘We’re getting old, Vendela,’ said the headmaster.

‘You’re getting old, Thomas,’ she corrected him. ‘I’m maturing. Aren’t you coming down to the party? The kids would love to see you. I’ve reminded them you aren’t exactly the life and soul of a party … But if they haven’t listened to me for the past few years then they’re not going to start now.’

Carter lit a small lamp on his desk and gestured to Vendela to take a seat.

‘How long have we been together, Vendela?’ he asked.

‘Twenty-seven years and eight months, Mr Carter. More than I endured with my dear late husband, God rest his soul.’

Carter laughed. ‘How have you managed to put up with me all this time? Don’t hold back. Today’s a holiday and I’m in a good mood.’

Vendela shrugged and fiddled with a piece of scarlet streamer that was tangled in her hair.

‘The pay isn’t bad and I like the children. You’re not coming down, are you?’

Carter shook his head slowly.

‘I don’t want to ruin the party,’ he explained. ‘And besides, I couldn’t bear to hear another of Ben’s jokes.’

‘Ben’s very calm tonight,’ said Vendela. ‘He’s sad, I suppose. The boys have already given Ian his ticket.’

Carter’s face lit up. The members of the Chowbar Society – whose clandestine existence had been known to Carter for some time – had for months been saving money to buy a ticket on a ship to Southampton, which they planned to give to their friend Ian as a goodbye present. For years Ian had been expressing his desire to study medicine, and Mr Carter, at Ben and Isobel’s suggestion, had written to a number of English schools, supporting the boy and recommending him for a scholarship. The news of the scholarship had arrived a year ago, but the cost of the journey to London turned out to be far higher than anyone had expected.

Faced with this problem, Roshan suggested robbing the offices of a shipping company that was two blocks away from the orphanage. Siraj proposed they organise a raffle. Carter took out a sum from his meagre personal savings and Vendela did the same, but it was not enough.

So Ben decided to write a three-act play entitled The Spectres of Calcutta – a phantasmal piece of gibberish in which everyone died, including the stagehands. With Isobel playing the lead as Lady Windmare, the rest of the group performing secondary roles and an over-the-top production courtesy of Ben, it enjoyed remarkable success with its audiences – though not with its critics – in various schools in the city. As a result, enough money was collected to pay for Ian’s journey.

‘Ian had tears in his eyes when he received the gift,’ said Vendela.

‘He is a wonderful lad, a little insecure but wonderful. He’ll make good use of the ticket and the scholarship,’ said Carter proudly.

‘He asked after you. He wanted to thank you for your help.’

‘You didn’t tell him I contributed money from my own pocket, did you?’ asked Carter in alarm.

‘I did, but Ben denied it, saying you’d spent the year’s entire budget on your gambling debts.’

The noise from the party echoed through the courtyard. Carter frowned.

‘That boy is a devil. If he wasn’t about to leave, I would throw him out.’

‘You adore the boy, Thomas.’ Vendela laughed as she stood up. ‘And he knows it.’

The nurse made her way to the door, turning as she reached it. She didn’t give up easily.

‘Why don’t you come down?’

‘Goodnight, Vendela.’

‘You’re a boring old man.’

‘And proud of it …’

Recognising the futility of her task, Vendela mumbled a few words and left Carter alone. The director of St Patrick’s turned his desk lamp off and walked stealthily to the window to peer at the party through the slats of his blind. The garden was lit with flares, and lanterns cast a copper glow over the familiar smiling faces under the full moon. Although none of them knew it, they each had a one-way ticket to somewhere, but only Ian knew his destination.

‘In twenty minutes it will be midnight,’ Ben announced.

His eyes shone as he watched the firecrackers spreading a shower of golden sparks into the air.

‘I hope Siraj has some good stories tonight,’ said Isobel as she stared at the bottom of her glass, holding it up to the light as if she expected to find something in it.

‘The best,’ Roshan assured them. ‘Tonight is our last night. The end of the Chowbar Society.’

‘I wonder what will become of the Palace,’ said Seth.

For years none of them had referred to the dilapidated old house by any other name.