The Cemetery of Forgotten Books 01 - The Shadow Of The Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

Author:Carlos Ruiz Zafon [Zafon, Carlos Ruiz]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ORION
Published: 2009-04-15T23:00:00+00:00

30

A front door of rotted wood let us into a courtyard guarded by gas lamps that flickered above gargoyles and angels, their features disintegrating on the old stone. A staircase led to the first floor, where a rectangle of light marked the main entrance to the hospice. The gaslight radiating from this opening gave an ochre tone to the miasma that emanated from within. An angular, predatory figure observed us coolly from the shadows of the door, her eyes the same colour as her habit. She held a steaming wooden bucket that gave off an indescribable stench.

‘Hail-Mary-Full-Of-Grace-Conceived-Without-Sin!’ Fermín called out enthusiastically.

‘Where’s the coffin?’ answered the voice from up high, serious and taciturn.

‘Coffin?’ Fermín and I replied in unison.

‘Aren’t you from the undertaker’s?’ asked the nun in a weary voice.

I wondered whether that was a comment on our appearance or a genuine question. Fermín’s face lit up at such a providential opportunity.

‘The coffin is in the van. First we’d like to examine the customer. A pure technicality.’

I felt overpowered by nausea.

‘I thought Señor Collbató was going to come in person,’ said the nun.

‘Señor Collbató begs to be excused, but a rather complicated embalming has cropped up at the last moment. A circus strongman.’

‘Do you work with Señor Collbató in the funeral parlour?’

‘We’re his right and left hands, respectively. Wilfred the Hairy at your service, and here, at my side, my apprentice and student, Sansón Carrasco.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I rounded off.

The nun gave us a brief looking-over and nodded, indifferent to the pair of scarecrows reflected in her eyes.

‘Welcome to Santa Lucía. I’m Sister Hortensia, the one who called you. Follow me.’

We followed Sister Hortensia without a word through a cavernous corridor whose smell reminded me of the subway tunnels. It was flanked by doorless frames through which you could make out candlelit halls filled with rows of beds, piled up against the wall and covered with mosquito nets that moved in the air like shrouds. I could hear groans and see glimpses of human shapes through the netting.

‘This way,’ Sister Hortensia beckoned, a few yards ahead of us.

We entered a wide vault which I had no difficulty in imagining as the stage for The Tenebrarium described by Fermín. The darkness obscured what at first seemed like a collection of wax figures, sitting or abandoned in corners, with dead, glassy eyes that shone like tin coins in the candlelight. I thought that perhaps they were dolls or remains of the old museum. Then I realized that they were moving, though very slowly, even stealthily. It was impossible to tell their age or gender. The rags covering them were the colour of ash.

‘Señor Collbató said not to touch or clean anything,’ said Sister Hortensia, looking slightly apologetic. ‘We just placed the poor thing in one of the boxes that was lying around here, because he was beginning to drip.’

‘You did the right thing. You can’t be too careful,’ agreed Fermín.

I threw him a despairing look. He shook his head calmly, indicating that I should leave him in charge of the situation.

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