Juan Gomez-Jurado - The Traitor's emblem

“Of course.”

She put her hand on the door, but before opening it she turned quickly and kissed Paul on the cheek. Then she ran down the steps and disappeared. For a few moments he scanned the street anxiously, as though she would return, retracing her steps. Then finally he shut the door, rested his forehead on the frame, and sighed.

His heart and stomach felt heavy and strange. He couldn’t give the feeling a name, so for want of anything better he decided-correctly-that it was love, and he felt happy.

“So, the knight in shining armor has received his reward, isn’t that right, boys?”

On hearing the voice he knew so well, Paul turned as fast as he could.

The feeling changed instantly from happiness to fear.

There they were, seven of them.

They stood in a broad semicircle in the entrance, blocking the way in to the main room. Jurgen was at the center of the group, slightly to the fore, as though he couldn’t wait to get his hands on Paul.

“This time you’ve gone too far, Cousin. I don’t like people who don’t know their place in life.”

Paul didn’t reply, knowing that nothing he said would make any difference. If there was one thing Jurgen couldn’t abide, it was humiliation. That it should have happened in public, and in front of all his friends-and at the hands of his poor dumb cousin, the servant, the black sheep of the family-was inconceivable. Jurgen had resolved to cause Paul a lot of pain. The more-and the more visible-the better.

“After this, you’ll never want to play the knight again, you piece of shit.”

Paul looked around desperately. The woman in charge of the cloakroom had disappeared, no doubt on the orders of the birthday boy. Jurgen’s friends had spaced themselves out across the middle of the entrance hall, removing any escape route, and were advancing toward him slowly. If he turned and tried to open the door to the street, they’d grab him from behind and throw him to the ground.

“You’re trem-bling,” chanted Jurgen.

Paul ruled out the corridor that led to the servants’ quarters, which was practically a dead end, and the only route they’d left open to him. Although he’d never gone hunting in his life, Paul had heard all too often the story of how his uncle had bagged each of the specimens that hung on his study wall. Jurgen wanted to force him in that direction, because down there, no one would be able to hear his cries.

There was only one option.

Without another moment’s thought, he ran straight at them.

Jurgen was so surprised to see Paul speeding toward them that he simply turned his head as he passed. Krohn, who was two meters behind, had a little more time to react. He planted both feet firmly on the floor and prepared himself to thump the boy who was running toward him, but before Krohn could punch him in the face, Paul launched himself onto the floor. He fell on his left hip-which gave him a bruise he’d have for two weeks-but the momentum allowed him to slide across the polished marble tiles like hot butter on a mirror, finally coming to rest at the foot of the staircase.

“What are you waiting for, idiots? Get him!” shouted Jurgen, exasperated.

Without stopping to look back, Paul got to his feet and raced up the stairs. He’d run out of ideas, and it was only survival instinct that kept his legs moving. His feet, which had been bothering him all day, were beginning to hurt terribly. Halfway up the stairs to the second floor he almost tripped and rolled down, but managed to get his balance back just in time as the hands of one of Jurgen’s friends brushed his heels. Grabbing the bronze banister, he continued up and up until, on the last flight between the third and fourth floors, he slipped suddenly on one of the steps and fell, his arms flung out in front of him, almost knocking his teeth out on the edge of the staircase.

The first of his pursuers had caught up with him, but he in turn tripped at the crucial moment, and was only just able to grab hold of the edge of Paul’s apron.

“I’ve got him! Quick!” said his captor, gripping the banister with his other hand.

Paul tried to get to his feet, but the other boy pulled on the apron and Paul slid down a step, banging his head. He kicked out blindly, striking the boy, but he didn’t manage to free himself. Paul struggled for what seemed an eternity with the knot of his apron, hearing the others closing in on him.

Damn it, why did I have to do it up so tight? he thought as he struggled.

Suddenly his fingers found the exact spot to pull, and the apron came undone. Paul fled and reached the fourth and final floor of the house. With nowhere else to go, he ran through the first door he saw and closed it, fastening the bolt.

“Where’s he gone?” Jurgen screamed when he reached the landing. The boy who’d grabbed Paul’s apron was now clutching his injured knee. He gestured to the left of the corridor.

“Let’s go!” said Jurgen to the others, who had stopped a few steps below.

They didn’t move.

“What the hell are you…”

He stopped abruptly. His mother was watching him from farther down the stairs.

“I’m disappointed in you, Jurgen,” she said icily. “We’ve gathered together the best of Munich in order to celebrate your birthday, and then you disappear in the middle of the party to mess around on the stairs with your friends.”

“But…”

“Enough. I want you all to go down at once and rejoin the guests. We’ll talk later.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Jurgen, humiliated in front of his friends for the second time that day. Gritting his teeth, he set off down the stairs.

That isn’t the only thing that will happen later. You’ll pay for this one, too, Paul.

“It’s good to see you again.”

Paul was concentrating on calming down and recovering his breath. It took him a few moments to comprehend where the voice was coming from. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the door, afraid that any moment Jurgen might fight his way through. But when he heard those words, Paul jumped to his feet.

“Eduard!”

Without realizing it, he’d gone into his elder cousin’s room, a place he hadn’t visited in months. It all looked the same as it had before Eduard left: an organized, tranquil space, but one that reflected its owner’s personality. There were posters on the wall, Eduard’s collection of rocks, and above all, books-books everywhere. Paul had already read most of them. Spy novels, Westerns, fantasies, books on philosophy and history… They occupied the bookcases, the desk, and even the floor beside the bed. Eduard had to rest the volume he was reading on the mattress in order to turn the pages with his only hand. A number of cushions were stacked under his body to allow him to sit up, and a sad smile floated on his pale face.

“Don’t feel sorry for me, Paul. I couldn’t bear it.”

Paul looked him in the eye and understood that Eduard had been watching carefully for his reaction, and had found it strange when Paul hadn’t been surprised to see him like this.

“I’ve seen you before, Eduard. The day you came back.”

“So, how come you never visited me? I’ve seen almost no one but your mother since the day I got back. Your mother and my friends May, Salgari, Verne, and Dumas,” he said, raising the book he was reading so that Paul could see the title. It was The Count of Monte Cristo.

“They forbade me to come.”

Paul bowed his head, ashamed. Of course Brunhilda and his mother had forbidden him to see Eduard, but he could have at least tried. In truth, he had been afraid of seeing Eduard like this again, after the horrible experience of that afternoon when he had returned from the war. Eduard looked at him bitterly, no doubt aware of what Paul was thinking.