Carlos Zafon: The Prince Of Mist

The bicycles Maximilian Carver had rescued from their exile in the garden shed were in much better shape than Max had imagined. He had expected two wiry, rusty skeletons when in fact they looked as if they’d hardly been used. Aided by a couple of dusters and a special liquid for cleaning metal his mother always used, Max discovered that beneath the layers of grime both bicycles looked almost new. With his father’s help he greased the chains and the sprockets and pumped up the tyres.

‘We’ll probably have to change the inner tubes at some point,’ Mr Carver explained, ‘but for the time being they’ll do.’

One of the bicycles was smaller than the other, and as he cleaned them Max couldn’t help thinking about the house’s previous owners. He asked himself whether Dr Fleischmann had bought the bicycles years ago, hoping to go for rides with his son Jacob along the beach road. Maximilian Carver saw a shadow of guilt in his son’s eyes.

‘I’m sure the old doctor would have wanted you to use the bike.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Max muttered. ‘Why did they leave them here?’

‘Sometimes memories follow you wherever you go – you don’t need to take them with you,’ Mr Carver replied. ‘I suppose nobody ever used them. Get on. Let’s try them out.’

Max adjusted the height of his seat and checked the tension of his brake cables.

‘We’d better put some more oil on the brakes,’ Max suggested.

‘Just what I thought,’ the watchmaker agreed and got down to work. ‘Listen, Max…’

‘Yes, Dad?’

‘Don’t worry too much about the bikes, OK? What happened to that poor family has nothing to do with us. I probably shouldn’t have told you the story,’ he added, worry clouding his face.

‘It’s no big deal.’ Max tightened the brake again. ‘Now it’s perfect.’

‘Off you go, then.’

‘Aren’t you coming with me?’ asked Max.

‘I’d love to, but I have to see someone called Fred at ten, in the town. He’s going to rent me some premises for my shop. Got to think about the business. But if you’re still up for it, maybe tomorrow I’ll give you a hammering you’ll never forget.’

‘In your dreams.’

‘I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is.’

‘Deal.’

Maximilian Carver began gathering up the tools and cleaning his hands with one of the rags. Max watched his father and wondered what he’d been like at his age. People always said that the two of them were alike, but they also said that Irina was like Andrea Carver. Max couldn’t see the resemblance for all the tea in China. It seemed like another of those silly things that whole hordes of unbearable relatives who turned up for Christmas loved to repeat year after year like parrots. Which was a pity, because he wanted it to be true. He wanted to resemble his father.

‘Max in one of his trances,’ Mr Carver observed with a smile.

‘Did you know that there’s a walled garden full of statues behind the house, near the wood?’ Max asked, surprising even himself with the question.

‘I suppose there are a lot of things around here that we still haven’t seen. The garden shed is full of boxes and the basement looks like a museum. If we sold all the junk in this house to an antique dealer I wouldn’t even have to open a shop; we could live off the profits.’

Maximilian Carver threw his son an inquisitive glance.

‘Listen. If you don’t try it out, that bike will get covered in filth again and turn into a fossil.’

‘It already is,’ said Max, leaping onto the bicycle Jacob Fleischmann had never had the chance to use.

Max pedalled towards the town along the beach road, with its long row of houses similar to the Carvers’ new home. The road led straight to the entrance of the small bay, and the harbour used by fishermen. There were only four or five boats moored along the ancient docks, mostly small wooden rowing boats, no more than four metres long, which the local fishermen used, casting their old nets into the sea about a hundred metres from the coastline.

Max dodged through the maze of boats being repaired on the dock and the piles of wooden crates from the local fish market. With his eyes fixed on the beacon at the end, he set off along the breakwater that curved around the port like a half-moon. When he got there, he left the bike leaning against the side of the beacon and sat down to rest on one of the boulders on the seaward side of the breakwater that was eroded by the force of the waves. From there he could gaze at the dazzling light of the ocean spreading out before him towards eternity.

He’d only been sitting there a few moments when he saw another bicycle approaching along the quay. It was ridden by a tall, slim boy who, Max reckoned, must be sixteen or seventeen. He pedalled up to the beacon and left his bike next to Max’s. Then he pushed a shock of hair away from his face and walked over to where Max was sitting.

‘Hello there. Have you just moved into the house at the end of the beach?’

Max nodded. ‘I’m Max.’

The boy had deeply tanned skin and penetrating green eyes. He held out his hand.

‘Roland. Welcome to Boring-on-Sea.’

Max smiled and shook Roland’s hand.

‘How’s the house? Do you like it?’ asked the boy.

‘Opinion is divided. My father loves it. The rest of the family don’t see it that way,’ Max explained.

‘I met your father a few months ago, when he came to the town,’ said Roland. ‘He seemed like good fun. A watchmaker, isn’t that right?’

Max nodded again. ‘Yes, he is good fun…sometimes. Other times he gets silly ideas into his head, like moving here.’

‘Why did you move?’ asked Roland.

‘The war,’ replied Max. ‘My father thinks it isn’t a good time to be living in the city. I suppose he’s right.’

‘The war,’ Roland repeated, his eyes downcast. ‘I’ll be called up in September.’

Max was lost for words. Noticing his silence, Roland smiled.

‘It has its plus side,’ he added. ‘This could be the last summer I have to spend in this place.’

Max smiled back timidly, thinking that in a few years’ time, if the war hadn’t ended, he would also have to enlist. Even on a radiant day such as this, the spectre of war shrouded the future in darkness.

‘I suppose you haven’t seen the town yet,’ said Roland.

Max shook his head.

‘Right, new boy. Get on your bike. I’m giving you the guided tour.’

*

Max had to struggle to keep up with Roland. They’d only pedalled about two hundred metres from the end of the breakwater and already he could feel sweat sliding down his forehead and his body. Roland turned and gave him a teasing grin.

‘Lack of practice, eh? Life in the big city has knocked you out of shape?’ he shouted without slowing down.

Max followed Roland along the promenade and into the streets of the town. When Max began to flag, Roland reduced his speed and stopped in the middle of a square by a large stone fountain from which fresh water gushed invitingly.

‘I wouldn’t recommend a drink,’ said Roland, reading his thoughts. ‘Stitch.’

Max took a deep breath and dipped his head under the jet of cold water.

‘We’ll go slower,’ Roland conceded.

Max kept his head immersed in the basin for a few seconds, then straightened up, water dripping down his head and onto his clothes.

‘I didn’t think you’d even last that long, to tell you the truth. This,’ he said pointing around him, ‘is the centre of town. The main square containing the town hall. That building over there is the court but it’s not used any more. There’s a market here on Sundays. And on summer evenings, they show films on the wall of the town hall. Usually old movies with the reels all jumbled up.’