The Serpent Papers (31 page)

Bona tarda! What do you want?
I wait in the warmth of the grills and packed bodies while the patron pours me a beer – an old man with a cracked face and hands like cricket gloves. From my vantage point on the stool, I watch the world slink by. The carcasses of sleeping cars and trucks litter the backlot parking space of La Boqueria
.
Evening promenades. Students. Men with jaunty strides. The Raval arches its spine like a cat. A woman catches my eye. Beautiful, face strained, streaked by the winter sun. Brown skin over fine bones. Torn blue slippers. A child wanders with her, cloaked in rags, an infant strapped to her bosom in a black sash. Decaying clothing, hands outstretched, leading their way through the crowd.

Begging.

‘
Hola!
’ A mock-American accent behind my ear. My eyes lock on to the centre of his spine, his movements fluid, wolf-hungry, as Fabregat slides into the chair beside me. The retired inspector plain-clothed, relaxed. Charcoal jeans. Grey linen scarf thrown over his shoulders. Brow easy. Lines smoothed. Coat spattered with rain. He calls to the patron –
Bona tarda! Amic!
A plate of hot
patatas bravas
follows swiftly. Tomato sauce with chilli and paprika, a pinch of parsley and mayonnaise.
I pernil! Pata negra sisplau!
A plate of cut ham, thin strips of maroon, fissures of white fat.

‘Drink?’ Fabregat asks me, looking at my empty glass.

I nod. He holds up two fingers to the barman. ‘
Dues cerveses!
’

‘
El Llop!
’ shouts the barman. In Catalan.
The Wolf
.
‘Anything for you, my man!’

When he is finished, Fabregat wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and throws down a few euro notes.
Anem.
He leans into my ear.
Let’s go.
A wave to the bartender, and I follow him into the maze of the market stalls. He walks quickly, with purpose, zigzagging past the tradesmen, out the side, and down the back alleys running parallel to
Las Ramblas.
Thin avenues in stone.
We emerge at the southern end
,
where the underage hookers line Nou de la Rambla
and things turn cruel. Close to the statue of Columbus, barely discernible in the fog that has drifted in with the onset of darkness. The rain has stopped at least. He lights a cigarette which hangs at the corner of his mouth. ‘You want?’

I shake my head.
No.

‘You don’t smoke?’

‘Sometimes. Not now.’

I wait for him to finish.
He is strangely nervous. Still and energetic at once. Unsatisfied.

At the entrance to the police department I am struck by its simplicity. Fleshy stone squeezed between the ornamental façade of a hotel and a series of little shops. The station is deceptive. Several storeys up and many offices wide, but from the street it looks small.
Petite.
You would never notice it, but for the solitary policeman on guard, cap on his head.
Watching the street.

The policeman recognizes Fabregat.

‘
Hola!
’ he cries.
Do you remember me?

Fabregat smiles.
Of course! Of course!

A clap on the shoulder.

How does it feel to be living the high life?
the policeman asks him.

We are whisked into the belly of the beast. Down a narrow passage for the vehicles into a large inner courtyard lined with windows. Elevators. Codes for entry.

A series of checks and signatures later and I am through. Long municipal halls. A bare room. An officer and three archival boxes. Fabregat and the officer exchange a quiet set of words. A handshake, a thank you.
Calls have been made higher up. Approval given. Just this once.
The officer will observe as we work.
As long as you want.

How is your family?
the young man asks Fabregat.
Your little boy?

Good. Good
, Fabregat says.
Now. To business.

A thread of tightness has entered his voice.

These things are charged for him.

They make him angry.

* * *

Fabregat lays each of the letters out. Embalmed in thin plastic.
Five envelopes. Five sheets of membrane.
The duty officer sits uncomfortably, staring at me. Fabregat paces back and forth, around the low, thin table. Bright lights overhead.
Washed-out colours. Gather your senses.
Feelings muted.
Thudding around. Not clear. Clean them up. Parse through.
Each sheet of parchment is small. They have been cut to the same size, probably at the same time.
So the intention was to create five documents
simultaneously.
Full poem text. One complete message.
Process methodical.
They were written on the same desk, with the same ink. Each letter made in advance and then delivered at the appropriate time.
I reach for the first. Look at Fabregat.

‘May I?’

Fabregat nods. I touch the first sheet nervously. Feeling the skin between my fingers. My flesh against flesh. Taking my time. I am not expecting revelations. All I need is a tiny pulse. A quiet reassurance. A siren call to match the voice I heard inside the chapel, purple notes on a foreign wind. A song struck loud and true.
A joining.
Usually there will be something on contact. Generally manuscripts feel green or yellow, often dusty, as if viewed under a dirty film. Sometimes they sound like silver trumpets, or make dark flute calls. The worst scream. Sometimes I touch earth colours, ochres, rich autumnal spreads. Other books leave a salty taste in the mouth like pickled onions. But I have not prepared for the speed, or the sound, or the volume of this welcoming.

Hello?

The voice comes. Disembodied.

Sharp and urgent.

Hello?

I pull back, terrified.

A split second, no more. Time rears up.
Breathe quietly, study the page.
Unlocking.
Not yet, I say. Push closed. Bring the letter up to the light.
Again parchment from a modern distributor. Made traditionally. Excellent quality. Pergamenta.
Very clean and bright. Adroitly rendered. Strokes of a sable brush light on the parchment. Thin lines, sharp and precise, creating the nodes of a compass, a web of letters shooting out from the centre. I am reassured by the lettering. The formation of the web, in each layer of the rings, nine sections, with nine letters.
They are absolutely Illuminatian
.
You are on firm ground. There the golden Ouroboros. Interpreted by Rex Illuminatus as the Serpent of Knowledge. Language Bearer.
I turn the sheet over, keeping it inside the plastic.
A few cursory words. Find me in the Utterance of Birds.
I hold it up for the ex-inspector. Fabregat cannot bring himself to look. No. He shakes his head.
Not now.
I read each one in succession. The sign glares out at me.
A signature in gold ink.
A snake swallowing its tail. A colophon, matching your mother’s. Stamp of a family of scribes. And there? Above the letters, a mark that no one noticed. A pictograph, almost like a smudge, representing a bird flying – panic extrapolated into a symbol. Three quick beats of a pen.
My mind races.
All scribes work with exemplars. A text from which they copy. I know your origin point. Your source. I have caught you red-handed.

Natalia Hernández.

‘And the photographs of the victims?’ I ask.

Nothing I could have done prepares me for the reality of those pictures. Tossed like a cigarette box onto the table.
Not very nice
,
Fabregat says drily. A corpse hanging from a lamp post. Limp. Life stolen. Soul sucked out.
Violated. Tortured. Wounds swollen, skin pin-pricked.
My arms ache. My tongue swells in my mouth.

This is what he does, Anna, to women like you.

‘What do you see?’ Fabregat murmurs, close to my ear.

‘Your first victim is a sixteen-year-old choirgirl . . .’ I stammer through the obvious.

Fabregat looks at me wryly. The word ‘victim’ sits awkward and false in my mouth. It does not belong to me.
You’re in way over your head.
I panic.
Don’t lose your composure. Keep calm. There she is, Rosa Bonanova, lying flat on the mortuary table. Catholic. Virgin. Barely a woman. She’s raped and has her tongue cut out. Someone painstakingly carves nine letters and four symbols onto her body.
When I look up, the dead wait for me. I see blue uniform. Neat clips pull back auburn hair from a centre parting. Standing beside the inspector. Watching.
What is your name?
she asks me. Opening her mouth. She wants to come through me.
I want to speak through you
, she says. No. Not here.
Why? Why come then?
I hesitate.
You’re just like the others. You are selfish. You do not care.

I’m trapped. My whole body shaking
.
The officer glances at Fabregat.

‘
Nena
 . . .’ Fabregat leans in and whispers very softly, so the policeman doesn’t hear. ‘Why don’t we take a break for a moment?’

He ushers me out of the room. I stand with my back to the wall in the long hallway.
Counting. Deciding what to do.
Bringing myself back down.
Grounding.

‘It’s a lot for anybody to take on,’ Fabregat says, handing me a glass of water. ‘Are you sure you want to continue?’

Ten minutes. I just need ten minutes.

‘Where is the bathroom?’ I ask him weakly. He points vaguely in the direction.

‘Do you want me to take you there?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I’ll be fine.’

You are stupid.
Inside the locked stall, I take the ready packed capsule with its hypodermic needle out of my bag. Fit it into the plastic injector. Break open disinfectant wipes. Pull my jumper off, my shirt. Standing in my bra, I reach for the fat of my stomach, pinching it between two fingers.
The doctors tell me to use a different location every day. One of seven places, seven days a week. Rotate through. Otherwise the skin will scar. Tight knots will form in the muscle. Cause harm. Hit the needle in.
Quick and calm.
Breathe. Breathe. Count to seven. One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand.
And so it goes. And goes and goes.