Carlos Zafon: The Prince Of Mist

Max gave a little nod as he tried to recover his breath.

‘Sounds amazing, doesn’t it?’ Roland laughed. ‘There’s also a library, but I’ll stick my hand in the fire if it has more than sixty books.’

‘And what do people do round here?’ Max managed to say. ‘Other than cycle.’

‘Good question, Max. I see you’re beginning to get the idea. Shall we go?’

Max sighed and they returned to their bikes.

‘But this time I set the pace,’ Max demanded. Roland shrugged his shoulders and pedalled off.

*

For a couple of hours Roland guided Max up and down the small town and the surrounding area. They gazed at the cliffs to the south. That was the best place to go snorkelling, Roland told him, pointing offshore. An old cargo ship had sunk there in 1918 and was now covered in all kinds of strange seaweed, like some underwater jungle. Roland explained that one night, during a terrible storm, the ship had run aground on the dangerous rocks that lay a few metres beneath the surface. The waves were so furious and the night so dark – lit only by occasional flashes of lightning – that all the crew members drowned. All except one. The sole survivor of the tragedy was an engineer who, as a way of thanking providence for saving his life, had settled in the town and built a lighthouse high up on the steep cliffs that had presided over the scene that night. That man, who was now fairly old, was still the keeper of the lighthouse and was none other than Roland’s adoptive grandfather. After the shipwreck, a couple from the town had taken him to hospital and looked after him until he made a full recovery. Some years later, the same couple died in a car accident and the lighthouse keeper, Victor Kray, decided to take in their son Roland, who was barely a year old at the time.

‘I’m sorry,’ offered Max.

‘Never mind. It was a long time ago. I barely remember a thing,’ replied Roland.

Roland now lived with the former engineer in the lighthouse cottage, although he spent most of his time in a hut he had built himself on the beach, at the foot of the cliffs. To all intents and purposes, the lighthouse keeper was his real grandfather. Roland’s voice seemed to betray a slight bitterness as he recounted these facts. Max listened in silence, not daring to ask any questions.

After the story of the shipwreck the two boys walked through the streets near the old church, and Max met some of the locals – kind people who were quick to welcome him to the town.

Before long, Max decided he didn’t need to get to know the whole town in one morning. He was exhausted. If, as it seemed, he was going to spend a few years there, there’d be plenty of time to discover its mysteries – if there were any to discover.

‘That’s true.’ Roland nodded. ‘Listen. In the summer, I go diving at the sunken ship almost every morning. Would you like to come with me tomorrow?’

‘If you swim the way you ride a bike I’ll drown,’ said Max.

‘I have an extra pair of flippers and a mask.’

The offer was tempting.

‘All right. Do I need to bring anything?’

Roland shook his head.

‘I’ll bring everything. Well… come to think of it, you bring breakfast. I’ll pick you up from your house at nine o’clock.’

‘Nine thirty.’

‘Don’t oversleep.’

As Max pedalled back towards the beach house, the church bells announced that it was three o’clock and the sun began to hide behind a blanket of dark clouds that spoke of rain.

*

Max could hear the storm creeping in behind him, its shadow casting a gloomy shroud over the surface of the road. He turned around briefly and caught a glimpse of the darkness clawing at his back. In just a few minutes the sky changed into a vault of lead and the sea took on a metallic tint like mercury. The first flashes of lightning were accompanied by gusts of wind that propelled the storm in from the sea. Max pedalled hard, but the rain caught him when he was still half a kilometre from home. When he reached the white fence he looked as if he’d just emerged from the sea and was drenched to the bone. He left the bicycle in the shed and went into the house through the back door. The kitchen was deserted, but an appetising smell wafted towards him. On the table, Max found a tray with sandwiches and a jug of home-made lemonade. Next to it was a note in Andrea Carver’s elegant handwriting. ‘Max, this is your lunch. Your father and I will be in town all afternoon running errands. Don’t even THINK of using the upstairs bathroom. Irina is coming with us.’

Max left the note on the table and decided to take the tray up to his room. The morning’s marathon had left him exhausted. The house was silent and it seemed he was alone. Alicia wasn’t in, or else she’d locked herself in her room. Max went straight upstairs, changed into dry clothes and lay on his bed. Outside, the rain was hammering down and the thunder rattled the windowpanes. Max turned on the small lamp on his bedside table and picked up the book on Copernicus his father had given him. He’d started reading the same paragraph at least four times but his mind was elsewhere and the mysteries of the universe suddenly seemed too far removed from his own life. All he could think of was how much he was looking forward to going diving around the sunken ship with his new friend Roland the next morning. He wolfed down the sandwiches and then closed his eyes, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. He loved the sound of the rain and the water rushing down the guttering along the edge of the roof.

Whenever it poured like this, Max felt as if time was pausing. It was like a ceasefire during which you could stop whatever you were doing and just stand by a window for hours, watching the performance, an endless curtain of tears falling from heaven. He put the book back on the bedside table and turned off the light. Slowly, lulled by the hypnotic sound of the rain, he surrendered to sleep.

The voices of his family on the lower floor and the sound of Irina running up and down the stairs woke Max. It was already dark, but he could see through the window that the storm had passed, leaving a canopy of stars behind it. He glanced at his watch: he’d slept for almost six hours. Just as he was sitting up he heard someone rapping on his door.

‘Dinner time, sleeping beauty,’ roared Maximilian Carver on the other side.

For a second, Max wondered why his father was sounding so cheerful. Then he remembered the cinema session he had promised them that morning at breakfast.

‘I’m just coming,’ he replied, his mouth still feeling pasty from the sandwiches.

‘You’d better be,’ said the watchmaker as he went down the stairs.

Although he didn’t feel the least bit hungry, Max came down to the kitchen and sat at the table with the rest of the family. Alicia stared idly at her plate, as usual, not touching her food. Irina was devouring her portion with relish and babbling to her loathsome cat, which sat at her feet, its eyes glued to her every movement. As they ate Mr Carver told them that he’d found some excellent premises in the town’s centre where he’d be able to set up his shop and restart his business.

‘And what have you done today, Max?’ asked Andrea Carver.

‘I’ve been into town.’ The rest of the family looked at him, expecting more details. ‘I met a boy called Roland. Tomorrow we’re going diving.’

‘There, you see? Max has already made a friend,’ stated Maximilian Carver triumphantly. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

‘And what’s this Roland like, Max?’ asked Andrea Carver.

‘I don’t know. He’s friendly. He lives with his grandfather, the lighthouse keeper. He’s been showing me around the town.’