“As you wish. But wait for the next stop. I don’t want any accidents on my shift.”
The tram climbed almost at walking pace, hugging the shade of the trees and peeping over the walls and gardens of castlelike mansions that I imagined filled with statues, fountains, stables, and secret chapels. I looked out from one side of the platform and noticed the White Friar villa, silhouetted between the trees. As the train approached the corner with Calle Román Macaya, it slowed down until it almost came to a halt. The driver rang his bell, and the conductor threw me a sharp look. “Go on, smartie. Off you get, number thirty-two is just there.”
I got off and heard the clattering of the blue tram as it disappeared into the mist. The Aldaya residence was on the opposite side of the street from The White Friar, guarded by a large wrought-iron gate woven with ivy and dead leaves. Set in the iron bars, barely visible, was a small door, firmly locked. Above the gate, knotted into the shape of black iron snakes, was the number 32. I tried to peer into the property from there but could make out only the angles and arches of a dark tower. A trail of rust bled from the keyhole in the door. I knelt down and tried to get a better view of the courtyard from that position. All I could see was a tangle of weeds and the outline of what seemed to be a fountain or a pond from which an outstretched hand emerged, pointing up to the sky. It took me a few moments to realize that it was a stone hand and that there were other limbs and shapes I could not quite make out submerged in the fountain. Farther away, veiled by the weeds, I caught sight of a marble staircase, broken and covered in rubble and fallen leaves. The glory and fortune of the Aldayas had faded a long time ago. The place was a graveyard.
I walked back a few steps and then turned the corner to have a look at the south wing of the house. From here you could get a better view of one of the mansion’s towers. At that moment I noticed a human figure at the edge of my vision, an emaciated man in blue overalls, who brandished a large broom with which he was attacking the dead leaves on the pavement. He regarded me with some suspicion, and I imagined he must be the caretaker of one of the neighboring properties. I smiled as only someone who has spent many hours behind a counter can do.
“Good morning,” I intoned cordially. “Do you know whether the Aldayas’ house has been closed for long?”
He stared at me as if I had inquired about the sex of angels. The little man touched his chin with yellowed fingers that betrayed a weakness for cheap unfiltered Celtas. I regretted not having a packet on me with which to win him over. I rummaged in the pocket of my jacket to see what offering I could come up with.
“At least twenty or twenty-five years, and let’s hope it continues that way,” said the caretaker in that flat, resigned tone of people beaten into servility.
“Have you been here long?”
The man nodded. “Yours truly has been employed here with the Miravells since 1920.”
“You wouldn’t have any idea what happened to the Aldaya family, would you?”
“Well, as you know, they lost everything at the time of the Republic,” he said. “He who makes trouble…What little I know is what I’ve heard in the home of the Miravells, who used to be friends of the Aldayas. I think the eldest son, Jorge, went abroad, to Argentina. It seems they had factories there. Very rich people. They always fall on their feet. You wouldn’t have a cigarette, by any chance?”
“I’m sorry, but I can offer you a Sugus candy—it’s a known fact that they have as much nicotine in them as a Montecristo cigar, as well as bucketloads of vitamins.”
The caretaker frowned in disbelief, but he accepted. I offered him the lemon Sugus candy Fermín had given me an eternity ago, which I’d found in my pocket, hidden in a fold of the lining. I hoped it would not be rancid.
“It’s good,” ruled the caretaker, sucking at the rubbery sweet.
“You’re chewing the pride of the national sweets industry. The Generalissimo swallows them by the handful, like sugared almonds. And tell me, did you ever hear any mention of the Aldayas’ daughter, Penélope?”
The caretaker leaned on his broom in the manner of Rodin’sThinker.
“I think you must be mistaken. The Aldayas didn’t have any daughters. They were all boys.”
“Are you sure? I know that a young girl called Penélope Aldaya lived in this house around the year 1919. She was probably Jorge’s sister.”
“That might be, but as I said, I’ve been here only since 1920.”
“What about the property? Who owns it now?”
“As far as I know, it’s still for sale, though they were talking about knocking it down to build a school. That’s the best thing they could do, frankly. Tear it down to its foundations.”
“What makes you say that?”
The caretaker gave me a guarded look. When he smiled, I noticed he was missing at least four upper teeth. “Those people, the Aldayas. They were a shady lot, if you listen to what they say.”
“I’m afraid I don’t. What do they say about them?”
“You know. The noises and all that. Personally, I don’t believe in that kind of stuff, don’t get me wrong, but they say that more than one person has soiled his pants in there.”
“Don’t tell me the house is haunted,” I said, suppressing a smile.
“You can laugh. But where there’s smoke…”
“Have you seen anything?”
“Not exactly, no. But I’ve heard.”
“Heard? What?”