1

‘Yes?’

‘Good day. Mr Simón Varela, please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘This is Ernest Rovira, personal secretary to the Dafonte-Llobet family.’

My name is Simón, and I am an architect. Yes, I know, neither my name nor my profession are of the greatest importance. But my mother always said manners are everything in this life. My name is Simón. Though it could just as well be Nothing. Given that nobody ever calls me. If I’m not careful, my friends don’t call me either. The two or three I have left. It wasn’t always like this. I was never one of those popular guys who are always the centre of attention, the life and soul of the party, you know. But nor was I a social pariah.

Well, I don’t think I was…

At school, I spent my hours drawing. I used to really get on my art teacher’s nerves because I was always drawing houses with twisted chimneys and colouring them with lines that went beyond the borders of the drawing. And now I’m an architect. I embarked on my degree in Barcelona, at the Polytechnic University of Catalonia, in the autumn of 1990. They were ten (yes, ten) very intense years of learning, partying, carousing… But everything must come to an end, everything must finish. By the time the twentieth century had turned into the twenty-first, and the second millennium into the third, I had decided to mark this solemn moment with the opening of my own practice here in Vigo, the city where I was born almost 37 years ago. It didn’t take me long to appreciate that humanity’s great moments are just as transitory, just as vulgar, as any others. By the time I realized, the sense of failure, and above all loneliness, had moved in with me, into a dark corner of my studio. Very few people ever come this way. The odd acquaintance seeking ideas to do up his grandparents’ old place, well-informed heirs looking for an architectural plan with which to try and get round the Coastal Law… Small subsistence projects, little else.

Hardly anybody ever called me, certainly not the personal secretary of one of the most influential families in Vigo. On a Monday, no less.

‘Excuse me… Who did you say you were?’

‘Rovira, Ernest Rovira. As I said, I am personal secretary to the Dafonte-Llobet family. Would you be so kind as to put me through to Mr Simón Varela, please?’

‘Yes, of course. Excuse me, I just wasn’t sure I had understood you correctly. I am Simón, Simón Varela.’

‘Simón Varela, the architect, I take it,’ the voice on the other end of the line sought to verify, perhaps as a result of my initial uncertainty. Even so, a man’s pride is his pride, and I was on the verge of retorting, ‘No, Simón Varela, the chicken sexer, what do you…’ But I held myself in check.

‘That’s right, Mr Rovira. How can I be of assistance?’

There was a brief silence before he replied, as if somebody on the other end of the line wasn’t entirely confident about his interlocutor’s capabilities. In the end, after a deliberately ill-concealed sigh, the voice of Mr Rovira, whoever this man might be, resurfaced.

‘You see, Don Simón’ – I absolutely hated every moment someone addressed me in these terms; truth be told, there weren’t that many occasions, but this business about ‘Don Simón’ always made me feel supremely ridiculous – ‘it is my duty to inform you of the wish of Mrs Isabel Llobet, widow of the late Don Eneas Dafonte Maristany, to hire your services as an architect. Should you be available, of course.’

This had to be some kind of joke. Someone was pulling my leg. Either that, or I’d just won the lottery. Available? To work for such people, I was capable of hopping at top speed, with my tongue hanging out, just to sign the contract. In a tenth of a second, all the years I’d spent dreaming of an important commission came rushing into my head. This might be the impetus I’d been waiting for to position myself at the forefront of architecture in the city. I tried to suppress the revolution of nerves and continue with the conversation.

‘Well, the truth is our diaries have been rather full lately, but I’m sure we could find a small gap. What is the job… if I might ask?’

‘Certainly, Don Simón’ – Don Simón… I had the impression he was enjoying himself, it must all have been a joke at my expense – ‘it’s a question of designing and directing a renovation project in one of the areas of the Great House, the old manor belonging to the Dafontes. I don’t know if you are familiar with it…’

‘I’ve heard of it, I think…’ – heard of it, what a laugh! The Great House, as everybody in Vigo knew perfectly well, was a splendid manor house on Canido Beach, in the outskirts of the city. An old, ramshackle building that dated back to the beginning of the eighteenth century, which had spent most of its history in a state of abandonment and deterioration until being bought by Eneas Dafonte at the start of the 1950s. All of us city architects were familiar with the story of this house, because the work of restoration had been one of the finest examples of respect for traditional Galician architecture carried out during years of grey, rational buildings. In effect, if this were not a joke in bad taste, I had hit the jackpot.

‘All the same, Mr Varela, please rest assured that the purpose of my call is just to establish contact and ascertain your availability. Should you wish to confirm your interest in the project, then Dona Isabel will contact you herself at a later stage.’

‘I understand, Mr Rovira. Please confirm my interest in the job and inform Mrs Llobet that she may call me at her earliest convenience.’

‘Very good, I shall tell her. Thank you for your time and attention, Mr Varela.’

‘Thank you. I shall be waiting to hear from you.’

I replaced the receiver and allowed all the tension that had been building up during the conversation to evaporate. I shouted out loud, jumped in the air, did a jig and banged my leg against a corner of my desk, but there were too many emotions in the air to notice any aches and pains at that precise moment.

As far as I was aware, the Dafonte-Llobets were famous for being one of the wealthiest and most important old families in the city, but it was also true that a certain rancid atmosphere, linked to memories from the past, enveloped their name whenever it was mentioned. What’s more, the name of one of the men in the family, Mr Xulio Dafonte, had been doing the rounds of the city’s gossip venues, with a couple of appearances in the accident and crime section of the Faro de Vigo, because of something related to one of his companies and other trouble. I suppose I should have been paying more attention to local life, but the truth is, back then, I only ever opened the newspaper to read the Garfield comic strip, the TV guide and the back page, in that order, little else. When they stopped publishing the adventures of that overweight cat, my relationship with the press went to a better place.

Such is the way of things, my excitement was soon replaced by doubt. If the Dafonte-Llobets had all the money and status I imagined, then it was also true that they could have hired the current holder of the Pritzker Architecture Prize to slap a lick of paint on their garden sheds, had they wanted to. Why me, a nobody, and not Norman Foster? Or another Galician architect – there were plenty of good ones… All this had to be some kind of joke. Though, that said, Mr Ernest, whoever that man on the other end of the line had been, had sounded very serious… Well, it was better to calm down and await the turn of events. If they wanted to call, then they would do so.

My disguise as a mature, well-grounded person steadily grew more fragile. The hours passed around me with the slowness of the seasons. A bubbling spring full of hope soon gave way to a suffocating summer crammed with delusions of grandeur. Time continued on its inexorable way, until such blazing ideas fell like leaves off my head during an uncomfortable autumn. I was already imprisoned in the whitest and coldest of winters, my earlier hope subject to terrible old age, convinced this had all been an unpleasant joke, when, as night was falling, the phone in my studio rang again. I leaped up from the sofa, clashing with the lamp on the ceiling, landed in front of the phone and, with the most poorly concealed tranquillity in the history of universal theatre, picked up the receiver.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Simón Varela?’ An old woman’s voice immediately gave me a sense of calm and sweetness that left me feeling a little disoriented.

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘Good evening, Simón. This is Isabel Llobet, I suppose Ernest has already mentioned me. Please forgive me for ringing at this hour, I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.’

Before she introduced herself, I already knew who she was, and it wasn’t exactly a scoop on my friend Ernest’s part. When I heard her speak, I realized it was her. I suppose one is the sum of one’s prejudices, and I’d imagined this woman, the matriarch of such an influential family, would possess a much stronger, harsher voice. I’d prepared myself to confront such harshness. And yet Dona Isabel spoke with the sweetness of an old granny, an elderly neighbour who’s lived in the building all her life, the one you bump into at the entrance. I realized it was her, and yet I didn’t know what my role ought to be. All I knew was that my preparations were not going to help in this conversation. I still hadn’t noticed she’d started calling me by my Christian name. As if she’d been doing this all her life.

‘No, no, not at all. There’s no need to worry about that. The truth is I hadn’t even realized what time it was, I’ve been poring over plans all afternoon.’

‘A-ha’ – now I had the sensation I’d been caught out by an all-knowing mother – ‘well, that’s good. Ernest informs me we shall have the pleasure of working with you at the house’ – hang on a minute, hadn’t I told him I needed to check my diary? Had it been so obvious? ‘You’ve no idea how pleased I am to hear that.’

‘Well, I’m pleased that you’re pleased’ – what the hell was I saying? ‘He… Well, the truth is I was able to shuffle things round a bit so I could devote some time to your project. That said, I’d be grateful to know what this is all about. Ernest – I mean, Mr Rovira – mentioned something about a renovation in the house, but he didn’t say much more than that. Perhaps you could…’

‘Of course, Simón, of course. Ernest is very serious when it comes to the question of discretion, and never says more than he has to. Don’t hold it against him, Mr Varela. The fact is the renovation is not in the house itself, but in the gardens, the old pond.’

I fell silent, trying to process all this information my brain was receiving consciously and subconsciously. Dona Isabel must have interpreted my silence as a sign of disappointment.

‘I hope you’re not feeling discouraged, Simón. I realize some alterations in the garden, an old water fountain, are not exactly suited to an architect of your stature.’

My stature? What did she mean by this? For a moment, I had the impression she was making fun of me, as if she realized I was really a nobody. That was when I understood all my masks were useless in the presence of this woman. It was she who was in charge of the situation. And, anyway, that hadn’t been my intention.

‘Oh no, Dona Isabel, not at all. I was just listening. You see, the truth is I don’t mind working inside or outside the house. Now, to be perfectly honest, I don’t quite understand why you would want to work with me. I’m well aware you could hire Michelangelo himself if you wanted to.’

‘Don’t worry about that now, my boy. At my age, one is able to discern between good and bad decisions. And I am absolutely convinced you are the right person for the job. So, tell me, can we count on you, or not?’

This woman certainly knew what she was about. For a moment, I had the sensation my reply would be just another pantomime, the decision had already been rubberstamped, and it wasn’t exactly me who’d applied his signature. But I carried on regardless.

‘Of course, Dona Isabel. I’d be honoured to work for you.’

‘Great!’ she exclaimed on the other end of the line. I was struck by the tone of her voice at that moment, since it sounded as if she was really pleased about our agreement, and not just pretending. ‘Then there’s no need to talk any further. When can you come? How about tomorrow? Five o’clock would be just fine. Then we’ll be able to discuss the matter calmly, and I shall be able to explain the job to you in more detail on the ground. Does that sound all right to you?’

All I could do was give my consent to the deluge of energy and satisfaction being exuded by this woman. The warmth and sweetness of her voice made it difficult to deduce exactly how old she would be but, taking into account the stories doing the rounds of the city, I imagined she was somewhere between seventy and seventy-five. And yet she gave off so much energy! I agreed with a simple ‘a-ha’, which today strikes me as even more ridiculous. On the other end of the line, she expressed her satisfaction and took her leave until the following day.

‘No need to talk any further. See you tomorrow then, Simón!’

‘A-ha,’ and that was all that remained to be said. And yet I still didn’t understand anything. I’d been waiting for that call all day, and now there was nothing more to be said. ‘A-ha.’ What did it all mean? Why was I the right person for the job? And what job was it exactly? Dona Isabel sounded like the most pleasant woman in the world, and yet the impression of ingenuousness soon gave way to a very different one in my imagination. It was rumoured the Dafonte-Llobet family didn’t have the cleanest of pasts. And, according to what was being printed in the newspapers, it didn’t seem their present was exactly an oasis of honesty. What was going on? For a moment, I entertained the possibility that they were using me as a scapegoat in some murky business. I have to confess I even felt a little afraid. Call me paranoid, but who was going to miss a mediocre architect like me, should I disappear off the stage the day after tomorrow? Well, I suppose my creditors would at the start of the month, but that wasn’t what I meant. I suddenly realized I was beginning to feel trapped by a net that only acquired substance in my mind. I’m not sure what I was more excited about: the certainty of a new job – a real one, this time – or the uncertainty the whole affair was shrouded in. By the time I came to, night had descended, and I felt my head was about to go ‘boom’. I decided it was better to drop the matter and wait for what the morrow would bring. Truth be told, it couldn’t be much worse than the life I already had. I lay down on the blue sofa in my studio, convinced I wouldn’t be able to shut my eyes all night. Five minutes later, I was sound asleep.

2

The pips were just marking five in the afternoon on the car radio when my old Peugeot traversed the final stretch of the driveway that crossed the Dafonte-Llobets’ estate and stopped at the front entrance of the Great House. I’d woken very early and spent the whole morning and early part of the afternoon preparing the speech I would make to Mrs Llobet. Hours and hours of practice which, once I was at the front door of her house, served only to leave one thing very clear: I had no idea how I was going to approach her. I felt as nervous as a schoolboy before his first game of truth or dare. Before getting out of my potato-on-wheels, I groomed my appearance in the rear-view mirror, quite certain I had made a mistake in my choice of tie for the occasion. Especially bearing in mind I only had two. I left the car and walked straight to the heavy wooden front door, which was wide open. As I approached from the outside, a second silhouette approached from inside the house, behind the translucent glass that decorated the inner door of the entrance. Someone was on their way to receive me.

‘Mr Varela, I presume?’

A short man with a friendly face offered me his hand from the other side of the door.

‘Yes, that’s me. I’m here to see Mrs Llobet, I have an appointment with her at five.’

‘Yes, I know, Don Simón. It was me you spoke to yesterday. I am Ernest. Please, come with me,’ and he gave me an even broader smile than before.

I suppose I’d already subconsciously realized this was Ernest as soon as I heard him come out with that bit about Don Simón. All the same, I was struck by his appearance. I had imagined Ernest Rovira to be a kind of cross between James Bond and the typical butler that is shown in Victorian films, a tall man with a striped waistcoat on top of a white shirt, and nothing like the man he really was: in his early seventies, with the look of an old, retired mathematics professor, large bald patch and metal frames that were wildly out of date. I followed the secretary down the corridor that led off one side of the hall at a quick pace. Mr Rovira had a wholesome belly, but could still move with great ease, it was obvious that he was in good shape. Or else that I wasn’t. We finished our little race in a small drawing room with windows facing the rear of the house. Ernest asked me to be so kind as to wait a minute, Dona Isabel would soon be able to receive me, and I should make myself at home. With the same cordial expression with which he had received me, he disappeared back down the way we had come.

I approached one of the windows, instinctively, I suppose, with the intention of observing as much of the famous gardens as I could discern from where I was standing. Before parking my car in front of the house, I had driven down a long dirt track after turning off the main road and passing through the gate in the walls that protected the large estate. The walls looked incredibly old, and very tall, more than three metres, made of local stone and cement. After the gate – two wrought-iron leaves that were even higher than the walls – the driveway was flanked by a small forest of firs, pines and oaks, which concealed the main building of the Great House in its interior. In fact, the house was completely invisible from the road to Canido Beach. On arriving, I had been unable to spot any pond or water fountain, so I tried again from my new position, with the same result. All I could see from the drawing-room window was a long, green field that sloped downwards with more trees on either side. At the end, about five hundred metres away, the side trees converged into a kind of large, thick oak-wood, and I could make out nothing else.

‘Good afternoon, Simón. How pleased I am to see you!’

Behind me, I heard a voice that sounded instantly familiar. I turned around, and there she was, Dona Isabel. She walked with her left hand on a silver-handled stick and with the help of Ernest, who she clung to with her right hand. She had the appearance of a much older woman. I was reminded of Jessica Tandy in Driving Miss Daisy. Her face, however, matched her voice. It was a map of the world in wrinkles, and the way it combined with the long, white hair that flowed over her cheeks created the perfect frame for two eyes as clear as limpid water and a pleasant, warm smile.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Llobet. I’m pleased to be here at last.’

‘Oh, forget the “Mrs”, my boy, I’m still quite capable of asking you to dance. Call me Isabel, as my friends do.’

I hadn’t been expecting such familiarity, but it immediately made me feel relaxed. Next to this woman, it was impossible to feel uncomfortable.

‘I see you found our “humble abode”’ – the irony in her voice was evident, though her tone was more one of resignation than mockery – ‘and right on time. I like that. I think that punctuality, the lack or excess thereof, says a lot about a person, don’t you agree?’

‘Well, in reality, I have to say I was playing with an advantage. My grandmother used to love walking along Canido Beach, so my parents and I would accompany her on weekend excursions. We always passed in front of your estate. This meant I already knew the way, Dona Isabel.’

‘Your grandmother, you say. And what was your grandmother’s name, my boy?’

‘Elisa.’

‘Elisa… Well, let me tell you your grandmother had very good taste. For walks, I mean. I also used to love the sunsets, dipping my feet in the water at low tide. There’s a beautiful light on those beaches, everything tinged an orange colour…’ the woman fell silent, her gaze lost on goodness knows what memories for two or three lengthy seconds. She gestured with her hand, as if dismissing something that wasn’t to her taste, and recovered the energy she’d shown signs of on the phone. ‘Right, right, I didn’t ask you here to talk about sunsets. What do you say we get down to business, Simón?’

‘Of course, Dona Isabel. So what’s it all about?’

‘How about we go for a walk ourselves, and I’ll show you your future workplace?’

We went out into the gardens and veered off to the side, along a narrow path I hadn’t noticed before. As we walked between the trees, Dona Isabel, leaning on my left arm, talked to me of the past, days of festivities and celebrations that had taken place in those same gardens. She recalled the visits of friends, high authorities, famous people and, as she did so, Ernest walked a couple of metres behind, his gaze fixed on the ground, as if he too were participating in those memories. And yet, in Dona Isabel’s words, there was nothing like the sadness I felt at my own situation, despite the obvious differences between us. No, she talked like someone describing a film that has finished, a story in which she played a leading role, but which has been left behind. There were times I even sensed a certain relief in her words.

‘Well, here we are.’

To begin with, I thought she meant that this was the full extent of her story. But then I realized where we were. We had reached one of the borders of the estate. We had been climbing almost all the way and were now practically above the sea, which calmly broke down below, at our feet. At this point, the garden formed a kind of mirador over the estuary, dotted with weeping willows, with a pair of benches that looked out to sea. In between was an old, rectangular pond with a water fountain. The whole ensemble had been built in old stone, but was so covered in moss and lichen you almost couldn’t see its grey colour. Inside, there was a little water, a green colour, thick and motionless, which only allowed you to guess at the muddy bottom of that small pool. As for the fountain in its centre, a square pillar arose out of the mud, made of the same stone that had been used to build the pond. It no longer flowed with water and, judging by the rust on the four bronze taps at its peak, a long time had passed since the last drop of water had fallen out of those mouths. The construction itself was a cross between the Romantic and phantasmagorical styles – old, dead stones consumed by time and vegetation. Despite all this, the place managed to exude a certain familiar atmosphere.

‘This fountain is where everything starts, Simón. My husband, Mr Eneas Dafonte Maristany, may he rest in peace, had it built when he bought the house. You may be surprised to hear this, but we are currently standing above a natural water source. Down below, there was a cave that led to the original spring. In fact, when Eneas bought the house, the terrain, as you can imagine, had been abandoned for more than a century, it was a playing field for the local children, and the cave was one of their favourite places for mucking around. They were the ones who first took him to see it. Eneas understood that water was the most beautiful symbol of the purity and wealth of the earth, so he had this fountain made to celebrate the present the earth offers us. We were never very into heraldic devices and nonsense like that, but the truth is Eneas saw in this fountain a symbol of himself, of our family. He liked to visit the mirador in the early evening and sit here, on that bench beside you, to watch the sunset with only the sound of flowing water for company.’ Once more, she interrupted her story, her gaze lost on the horizon. It was clear she missed her husband. She then picked up the thread of her story in a sadder tone, ‘The fountain dried up a few months before Eneas died. He interpreted this as a sign. “Everything must come to an end,” he used to say…’

‘Don’t become sad now, Dona Isabel,’ I made a poor attempt at consolation.

‘No, no, my boy. That’s why you’re here. I know my own hour is close.’

‘Please don’t say that,’ I interrupted her, convinced my arrogance was what this woman needed to hear, ‘you’re still full of energy.’

‘Thank you, Simón,’ my intervention had caused her to trace a thin smile, ‘I’m grateful for the attempt, but I know what I’m talking about. So please don’t interrupt me again, and listen. Eneas was able to interpret this sign. He understood the way of things. And I don’t think someone as intelligent as my husband would have chosen to marry any old fool. I also can read between the lines of life, and I realize now I mustn’t leave with this fountain’s silence. Fix the taps, Simón, rescue this place. Make the water start flowing, the stones start talking, let this become a welcoming corner where those who once loved us can come and remember.’

Dona Isabel spoke softly, but firmly. Once more, I had the impression the decision had already been taken, and everything else was a succession of formalities. I realized I neither could nor wanted to say no.

‘So when would you like me to start?’

‘I believe you already have, Simón.’

3

It wasn’t at all difficult to get on with Dona Isabel. As she herself had pointed out, she was an intelligent woman with clear ideas. After talking to her for two minutes, you immediately realized she not only knew what she wanted, but was capable of transmitting this information to others. After only a couple of hours of relaxed conversation around some cups of coffee, back in the drawing room where we had begun our meeting, the main outline had already been sketched out. All Dona Isabel wanted was to recover this space, she had no other pretensions. She didn’t want any contemporary designs, ‘scenic harmonizations’ or anything like that. She wished only to recover – to resurrect – this plot of land. She was the one who summed up my commission in the following words:

‘Bring us back to life, Simón. Go back to the source and make the sound of laughing water introduce new music of life into this family. I’d like to think one day, when I’m no longer here, these singing waters will be able to wash away all the filth that has accumulated at the bottom of the pond, making the fountain look ugly.’

I listened to her and thought that no one had ever described a simple renovation project in such lyrical terms. Especially considering that, at the moment, my work seemed to consist of only a touch of plumbing and little else. Ignorance is daring like no other hero and, sitting in the comfort of those ancestral sofas, I was convinced this job would be as simple as going down to the nearest kiosk, buying the winning lottery ticket and turning up at the bank to cash in the millions. There was no doubt in my mind that Dona Isabel was an intelligent woman with clear ideas and, if this was what she wanted, then I would serve it to her on a silver plate.

After all these questions had been more or less resolved, the conversation became more relaxed, if that were possible, and turned to other themes. Now I was the one who attracted Mrs Llobet’s attention. She asked me about my education. To start with, I was struck by the fact she knew about my years in Barcelona before I told her, but I soon realized this had to have something to do with the efficiency of the obliging Ernest, who no doubt had already taken it upon himself to learn about all the architects being considered for the job. There was no way I could have been the only candidate. Dona Isabel directed the conversation towards Modernism.

‘For me, Simón, and I don’t know if you share this vision, Catalonian Modernism, and in particular the work of Antoni Gaudí, is the most beautiful in terms of the freedom of form, colour and life being led in Spain throughout the twentieth century. It’s a shame more drops of this happiness didn’t reach us, don’t you think?’

Once more, I had no choice but to agree. I couldn’t say why, but at that moment I was quite sure Dona Isabel Llobet was perfectly aware that I had studied Catalonian Modernism, and in particular the work of Antoni Gaudí, towards the end of my degree, a long time before life had turned me into a renowned specialist in the renovation of henhouses, beach huts and other such wrecks. For a split second, I was even afraid this woman was capable of reading my thoughts. My earlier arrogance made me now feel embarrassed.

‘Not just a shame, Dona Isabel, a real tragedy.’

We took our leave of each other, having arranged a second meeting for three or four days’ time, when I would bring sketches of the renovation project with me. Dona Isabel insisted on accompanying me to the front door, leaning on her inseparable companion, Ernest. As the secretary opened the door, my gleaming potato-on-wheels appeared before us, in exactly the same place I had parked it, with exactly the same layer of grime on top I had been travelling with for goodness knows how long. The woman gazed at my car with curiosity and, for a moment, I was alarmed by the possible association of ideas: she must be thinking, if my car is this pile of junk, then the standards of my work must be pretty similar… The subconscious likes to play jokes on itself, but this time it had got it wrong. All Dona Isabel did was smile, perhaps amused by the image, or even feeling sympathetic, like someone observing a familiar scene.

‘Drive carefully, my boy, sometimes the simplest journeys are the most treacherous.’

‘Don’t worry, Dona Isabel, I shall see you soon.’

As I advanced down the driveway leading back to the world, I was able to observe in the rear-view mirror how Ernest helped Mrs Llobet back into the house. He did it with confidence, but I had the impression he did it with a measure of affection as well. How long had this strange couple been together?

Musing on such thoughts, I rejoined the traffic of a November evening, autumn closing in on a winter that had yet to come, my car on its way back to the city. The sunlight bathed everything in a gorgeous orange colour, and I fell to thinking about my grandmother many years earlier, on the same beach my car was now driving along. I recalled the sea’s reflection in her eyes full of melancholy and absence, always gazing at the sunset over the Cíes Islands. I felt well with such nostalgia, but decided it was enough thoughts for one day, if there were others to gnaw on, then tomorrow was another day. By this time, my steering wheel had already made up its mind to take the beach road – Vao, As Barcas, A Sereíña, Samil – calmly, slowly.

I spent the next two days drawing over and over again at my desk, shut up in my studio. I called it ‘the cave’, but it was really a small apartment at number 2, Paseo de Afonso XII, an old building that had been designated a protected place in the City Council’s register of historic buildings. It resembled a tower that had been erected on its own next to the mirador over the estuary, built in 1881 on an abandoned plot between Elduayen and Poboadores Streets. The sloping terrain was the reason the front of the building had only three floors, including the basement, while the rear of the building had seven. It was very striking, both because of its height and its antiquity. An architectural curiosity to house a curious architect like me. The building wasn’t such an amazing feat – truth be told, it was a miracle the behemoth was still standing – but I felt well there and was particularly fond of the apartment. It was just big enough to live and work in, and the building was located right in the city centre, next to the city’s symbol, the Olive Tree, which appears on its coat of arms, barely three hundred metres away from the Porta do Sol and right next door to the Baiona, the bar where all us city revellers tucked into a final ration of tripe after a night out on the town.

The next two days, Wednesday and Thursday, I didn’t stop working. Night and day, I came up with hundreds of drafts on my drawing board – the old desk my father had given me when I set off to study in Barcelona. I still kept it, and that was where I embarked on all my projects. I liked to scribble on sheet after sheet, coming up with the sketches of each new project before I set to work on the computer. My father had bought it for me in the hope that this drawing board would give rise to plans for some of the modern world’s new wonders, the creation of a design that would revolutionize architecture. But, after a while, everything had faded – the hopes, expectations, even my relationship with my father, both of us tired of being disappointed. When I took my place at the desk this time round, I sighed deeply, thinking perhaps this would finally be the project my father and I had dreamed of. I’d never admitted this, even to myself, always seeking shelter behind an acerbic, autocratic sense of humour, but the fact is I missed him. At this point, I started drawing.

The first drawing was a sketch of the front of the pond under the willows, the benches from which to contemplate the sea on either side. The second was a sketch just of the pond and the fountain with its taps. The third, a close-up of the taps, first without water, then with. The fourth, the ensemble again. The fifth, some details of the pond’s border, lines covered in foliage. The sixth… And so on, one after the other, almost without realizing. By the time Thursday had dawned, I already had so many sheets of paper strewn across the desk, next to it, on the floor, everywhere, it was impossible to take two steps without treading on a drawing of the fountain and mirador. I realized I was becoming obsessed with this place, which was so familiar to me I felt I could draw it in detail from every possible angle, and decided the best thing was to have a rest. I’d been working non-stop for two days and needed to reorder my ideas. I didn’t quite understand why I was turning it over in my head so much. After all, Mrs Llobet had made it quite clear what the outcome should be. And yet there was something about this project that captivated my attention. I needed to reorder my ideas, sleep, or whatever came first. Sleep won out. I collapsed on to the blue sofa and, by the time I woke up, night had extended its dominion over the world. I tried now to rearrange the chaos of drawings, to give it shape, something, in the hope that this would make me think I had got somewhere. In the end, I selected a few of the drawings by way of summary and went back to sleep.

The following day, Friday, at exactly five in the afternoon, my potato-on-wheels pulled up proudly in front of the entrance to the Great House. The ever-attentive secretary Ernest was waiting for me at the front door. I went over to him, my folder under my left arm, my right hand held out in front of me.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Rovira.’

‘Good afternoon, Don Simón. I see you continue to practise the problematic art of punctuality,’ remarked Ernest with a slightly conceited smile.

‘That’s right. And I see you continue to enjoy the possibilities of my name,’ I allowed myself to reply in a theatrically affected tone.

‘Who, me?’ the secretary pretended not to understand.

‘Listen, since it seems we’re going to work together, I suggest we come to an agreement: you call me simply Simón, and I promise I shall continue to appreciate the importance of being Ernest. Agreed?’ I again offered him my hand.

‘Right you are, simply Simón.’

The secretary flashed me a trusty smile and took my hand. I was silently grateful for this gesture of familiarity, a way to break the ice of respect this building imposed on me. The two of us entered the house, Ernest again leading me down the corridor, but this time towards another door.

‘Please wait in the library, Simón. Dona Isabel is on a call in her office. I shall inform her that you are here, and she’ll be with you in a moment.’

The secretary left me at the door of what was evidently the library and, as before, disappeared back the way he had come. I entered what turned out to be a large room covered in bookshelves that were crammed to the ceiling with books. At first sight, they didn’t seem to be in any particular order, but I presumed there was one. In the middle of the room was a large oak table, a kind of study area, books piled haphazardly, most of them to do with contemporary history, as I confirmed at a quick glance. To the left, a large gallery gave on to the gardens at the back, illuminating the room, while in the middle of the wall on the right a sculpted stone fireplace drew my attention. At the far end, between portraits I assumed to be of family members, there was another door, directly opposite the one I had just come through, behind which I could make out Dona Isabel’s voice. To begin with, her voice was no more than a murmur, the occasional pair of unintelligible words I hardly registered. But little by little, as I leafed through the books on the central table, with their images of the Second World War, the tone of the conversation increased, reaching a point at which Mrs Llobet’s firm voice could be heard through all the library.

‘An ultimatum? But who do you think you’re talking to? I’ve already said, in as many ways as possible, that in this regard you and I have nothing more to discuss. My patience has its limits, sir, and you have just overcome them! Do me the favour of never calling this house again, sir! Good day!’

The clunk of the receiver banging against the phone was the last sound before several long minutes of silence. Then the noise of doors being opened and closed, footsteps in the corridor, which I already recognized as Ernest’s, and silence again.

I was beginning to feel worried about this new situation when the far door opened and Dona Isabel finally put in an appearance. This time, however, she was seated in a wheelchair. Ernest was pushing the chair, in which the woman who barely three days earlier had been a torrent of energy now looked much older and more extenuated. Her face no longer exuded serenity, and the marks of worry and disquiet were plain to see.

‘Good afternoon, Simón. Please forgive the delay.’

‘Not at all. I’m the one who should apologize for turning up at such an inconvenient moment. I can always come back at another time, if you prefer…’

‘No, no,’ she cut in. ‘Don’t take any notice of what you may have heard. There’s no better time than this. What have you brought me, my child?’

‘Well, I…’ I didn’t know how to start. I felt in an even weaker position after the tense scene that had just passed and before the obvious effort this woman was making to pay me attention. ‘I brought some better sketches of how we could undertake the job in hand, I don’t know if now’s a good moment to show them to you…’

Dona Isabel rejected my offer with a wave of her hand.

‘It’s not necessary, Simón. There’s no time to lose, and we have every confidence in your ability. If you think you know what you have to do, then go ahead. Ernest will be permanently at your disposal. Any questions you may have, do not hesitate to ask them,’ behind her, still holding on to the chair, the secretary fixed me with his gaze; he gave off an air of determination, but I also detected a flicker of concern in his eyes. ‘When do you think you can start?’

I was completely flummoxed by this question and didn’t really know what to say.

‘I’m not sure, I need to take some measurements, prepare the plans, hire a team of people, one or two workmen, I imagine in two or three days…’

‘All right then,’ Dona Isabel intimated that my timetable was not entirely to her liking. ‘But bear in mind tomorrow is better than the day after tomorrow. Prepare your work conscientiously, but start as soon as you can. Not one minute later,’ the woman who barely three days earlier had threatened to ask me to dance was now breathing with difficulty and needed to take air so she could order the words of her discourse; she was visibly upset. ‘Anything else you need is Ernest’s responsibility. I’ve already instructed him to pay you as much as you need up front.’

‘Oh no, Dona Isabel, please,’ I felt terribly embarrassed having to discuss money at such an inopportune moment. ‘You mustn’t worry about that.’

‘Simón, my boy, please believe me if I tell you this is the last thing I’m worried about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to rest.’

‘Yes, of course, Dona Isabel. I wouldn’t want to be a burden.’

‘You’re no burden at all. There’s still a conversation you and I need to have, but I don’t have the strength right now. We’ll talk later,’ she concluded, looking exhausted, with an air of resignation.

Ernest began to push her across the library towards the corridor, presumably back to her room. As she passed in front of me, Mrs Llobet gestured with her hand, and the secretary halted. She gazed at me – my goodness, how old she looked at that moment! – and said again:

‘Simón, watch out for the simplest journeys, they can be the most treacherous.’

She fell silent, and Ernest started off again, as she waved goodbye. I was left alone in the library, surrounded by echoes I couldn’t quite fathom, utterly lost. When I finally recalled where the front door was, I emerged from the Great House, back to my studio, the folder still unopened under my arm.

Spurred on by the unusual nature of this commission, both in its forms and in its rhythm, but also encouraged by the sense of commitment I already began to feel towards Dona Isabel, I spent the whole weekend putting the basic requirements in place so that I could start the job as soon as possible. On Saturday morning, having already arranged it with Ernest, I spent a couple of hours on the estate, carrying out measurements on the ground and taking a whole load of photographs of each corner. When I got back to my studio, I called Carlito Rivera, an old friend, an Argentinian on Xílgaro Street I relied on whenever it was a question of getting one’s hands dirty. Carlito was capable of erecting a wall of sand-filled blocks on top of seawater. You only had to tell him what you wanted and where you wanted it, and he would take charge of the rest. We always worked together, and now would be no different. In the afternoon, I typed all the measurements into my computer and started work on the design of the plans. The fact is there wasn’t much room for manoeuvre, owing to the characteristics of the terrain. The fountain, with its pond three metres wide, two metres deep and half a metre high, was positioned right in front of a small mound. With regard to the original design, it was practically impossible to move it further back, since you wouldn’t even be able to walk behind it, and the situation was fairly similar at the front, unless we chose to shove it right against the wall of the mirador, which was only three metres away. There were also the two benches on either side. Neither forwards nor backwards. Unless we wanted to consider digging downwards…

By nightfall, the work was almost done. Having considered all possible options, I was convinced I’d found the best solution. We would proceed in this way. Feeling more relaxed, I reopened the folder on my hard disk where I’d stored the photographs from the morning. I wanted to see the images again. One by one, all the photographs of the old fountain passed across my computer monitor. The whole ensemble under the willows, the benches, the time-worn bronze taps, the pillar, the edge of the pool.

At this point, I noticed a detail I hadn’t given much attention to before.

The upper edge of the pond had been decorated all along its length with a series of inscriptions that resembled a frieze. The passing of the years and the way the pool had been abandoned following the death of Mr Dafonte had gradually concealed these stone inscriptions under a layer of moss, lichen and other fungi. You could still make out the engraving, but not what it said. What was it someone had etched on to these stones? Taking advantage of the high resolution of my screen and zooming in as far as possible, I was able to decipher a large number of the inscriptions. Someone, presumably Mr Dafonte, had had a series of what I interpreted to be letters and numbers etched on to the front of the pond:

8 (or S) CM1702 DB (perhaps 3?) R 1939 EDM 1940 IIL 196B

It may have been something else. The stone was covered in branches and dry leaves, and the fungi made it extremely difficult to read those signs. But, where you could read something, it was clear the stonemason in charge of etching the figures had done an excellent job. Despite the damage caused to these elongated characters by the passage of time, you could still make out the exquisite craftsmanship, the stylized writing, in the cold light of my computer. I didn’t have a clue what the inscriptions might mean. I wasn’t even sure if my interpretation was correct. The numbers seemed to refer to years, perhaps simply dates of some importance in the ancient history of an old and influential family which one of its members had wanted to record in some way. The business with the letters was a little more complicated. Having turned it over in my mind, I recalled that Dona Isabel had talked to me about her husband, Don Eneas Dafonte Maristany: E.D.M., a series of letters that appeared on the border. Perhaps the other letters also corresponded to ‘family heroes’. How could I know? The fact was the engraving had been expertly carried out, and my job was to restore the ensemble. Whatever it might mean, my concern was to rescue the engraving from the state of disrepair it had fallen into, to bring it back to light, and that was what I was going to do – from Monday onwards.

The descent of night took me by surprise once again. It had been a long, intense, sometimes wearisome day, and had lasted long enough. The next day was Sunday. I still had no motives with which to justify my hangover the following morning, so I grabbed my jacket and went out to find some.

4

Having got in touch with Carlito, on Saturday afternoon I arranged with the secretary, Mr Rovira, to start work. It was half past nine on Monday morning when my master builder and I reached the estate of the Great House in my resplendent vehicle. We went straight to the mirador, so I could allow my co-pilot to verify what needed to be done on the ground, as Dona Isabel herself had said a couple of days earlier. I left him in the company of his own tools and those the ever-attentive Mr Rovira, as far as I could see, had taken it upon himself to acquire, following the directions Carlito had given him. I realized that asking the person who hires you for tools was far from normal but, given the enormous sense of urgency Dona Isabel had imposed on us right from the start, I thought it would be no bad thing to ask for a little extra help. I then drove my car to the front entrance of the house, where my friend Ernest was waiting for me. Before I could turn off the engine, the secretary came over to my window and suggested, since I would be spending the whole day on the estate, it might be better to park the car in the garages. He said there would be plenty of room, the only other car parked by the house was his own. I went around to where Mr Rovira showed me, an old lean-to with green wooden doors to the left of the front entrance, and parked my car inside one of the garages. There I found another vehicle, an old, black Audi 100, which I assumed was the one Ernest used for getting around. I closed the door of my own car and emerged into the light. Ernest shouted to me from the front door to look for him if I needed anything and, having gestured my assent, I walked off to meet Carlito.

When I reached the mirador, I found my foreman sitting on one of the two benches next to the pond. He was staring at the abandoned pool with a mixture of surprise and distrust. On sensing my presence, he asked without diverting his gaze:

‘But… do these people have any idea what they’re doing?’

I sat down on the other bench. Carlito carried on gazing at the fountain, like someone hesitantly approaching an unfamiliar creature on the road, not sure whether it is dead or is going to attack you, or what the hell it might do next.

‘Well, the truth is I felt the same as you in the beginning. But, having spoken to the owner, it all became clear, yes,’ I replied, trying to sound as convinced as possible. I can’t have been very successful because, having pondered for several seconds, Carlito, whose face was as impassive as that of a poker player bored with the game, continued:

‘This looks to me more like a job for a plumber and a Kärcher.’

‘A what?’

‘A Kärcher. You know, one of those high-pressure cleaners.’

‘Like a vaporetto?’

‘Something like that, except it’s used for cleaning stones, not sofas.’

‘I see,’ I replied, feeling rather offended by his experienced engineer’s analytical comment. ‘Well, the fact is Dona Isabel wanted an architect, and that architect is me,’ I concluded, embellishing the ‘me’ with a gloss of pride.

‘I get you. I suppose there weren’t any other restorers of sheds available?’

The silence we both fell into, motionlessly gazing at the fountain, made the unlikelihood of my argument glaringly obvious. Who was I trying to kid?

‘It seems not…’ I finally answered, my pride a little hurt by the absurdity of the situation.

There was no point staring any longer, and the Argentinian, wanting to show he wasn’t the seated statue he resembled, changed position and, gazing out over the waves of the sea of Vigo, solemnly declared:

‘There really are some people who don’t know how to spend their money.’

Like two old pathologists undertaking their umpteenth autopsy, we slowly began our dance. We stood up and slowly prepared the tools each of us would need: plans, cameras, measuring tapes on the one hand; hammers, shovels and crowbars on the other. I believe there is a theory out there that says something like, when faced with a complex problem that has various possible solutions, the simplest-looking one is generally the best. Our plan was so simple it was almost stupid. Since we could work neither forwards nor backwards, neither to one side nor to the other, what we were going to do was work downwards. It seemed to me the best solution would be to dismantle the fountain stone by stone, piece by piece, lift it away and check what was underneath. Dona Isabel had said it had been built on top of an old natural spring, and I imagined that was where the problem lay. So the solution was simple: we would open up the cave, check what condition the spring was in, replace the system of pipes until reaching the mains if necessary and, having got rid of the blockage, reconstruct the fountain using the same materials it had been built with and give it a face that was cleaner than if it had been washed with water on midsummer’s eve. It didn’t sound too difficult. I know, I know, not exactly a job for an architect, but I had nothing better on the horizon. The other jobs I’d ‘specialized’ in were not so very different. And I preferred to play at being a caver-cum-dealer in lead than to clean up the shit under the perches of a henhouse.

Carlito was clearing the foliage that covered the front stones when I recalled the inscription that had caught my attention on Saturday night:

‘Wait, just a minute, I want to check something before we start on these stones.’

I grabbed one of the rasps and scraped away the dirt that had accumulated on the front of the pond, in search of the series of numbers and letters I’d discovered in the photos. After a little effort, I was finally able to contemplate the complete sequence with absolute certainty:

SCM ∙ 1702 ∙ DBR ∙ 1939 ∙ EDM ∙ 1940 ∙ STTL ∙ 1968

The inscription was now quite clear. Its meaning still formed part of my blessed ignorance, but at least I knew what I would have to have re-engraved, should the stones, for whatever reason, not make it back to their original position. In this business, as in everything in life, one never quite knows what is going to happen, and it’s good to be foresighted. I decided to take another couple of photographs of the sequence, now clearly visible, before starting to number and take photographs of the whole ensemble so that we could put this curious puzzle back together again. Having done all of this, we set to work on our own peculiar autopsy.

We spent the whole morning dismembering the old structure. With all the care that two featherweights like us could muster, we carried stone after stone to the front of the mirador, heaping them next to the brick wall that stopped the mirador falling into the sea, which broke down below. By the time Ernest came to inform us there were two plates of food waiting for us in the house, we only had the slabs that formed the base of the pool to lift up. We decided to postpone the exhumation of the spring until after lunch and accept Mr Rovira’s invitation.

Our food had been set out in a small dining room next to what we supposed were the house’s kitchens. The dining room wasn’t big, we were obviously not in the manor’s main dining room, but it was welcoming enough for two famished walk-ins like Carlito and me. Ernest accompanied us in the gastronomic festivities around a very different kind of receptacle than the one we had just left, a crystal plate on which lay a succulent and staggeringly large roast chicken. As the secretary set about carving and dismembering the deceased, he extolled the culinary delights of Galliformes and praised his own qualities as a chef. It was obvious – from what lay on the table – that there was no other staff in the Great House than Ernest. I wondered how long the house had been like this – a lonely old woman with only a retired mathematics professor for company.

‘Have you been working for Mrs Llobet for long?’ I asked, surprised by the sound of my own voice.

‘More than forty years,’ replied Ernest, still fiddling with his knife inside the corpse of that bird lying in state.

‘And has the house always been like this?’

‘What do you mean by “like this”, Don Simón?’

The reference to the oenological origin of my name made it abundantly clear the secretary was not exactly amused by my question. I felt ashamed of my own indiscretion and decided to soften my approach:

‘What I mean is, just the two of you here, in this… enormous house.’

‘No, of course not,’ Mr Rovira smiled again. ‘I started working for Mr Dafonte and Dona Isabel in the mid-1960s, having just turned twenty-five, as the family’s personal solicitor. My work was especially linked to anything involved with the family business. There certainly was a lot more that needed to be done back then. Almost immediately after Mr Dafonte died, I had to take charge of all the necessary procedures for the sale of Troy, the family company, practically on my own.’

‘I heard of that company, Troy, in my house once or twice. Didn’t it have something to do with the import of luxury decorative items from America?’

‘Yes, more or less, something like that. Among many other things.’

‘And wasn’t Franco’s family, in particular the dictator’s wife, one of its main customers?’ I had only just come out with these words when they began to sound very awkward in my ears.

‘Well, that may be reducing things to their most sensational level, so to speak. It might be better to talk of Troy as a transport company, in simple terms. Shutting all of that down took years, the liquidation of the company was rather complicated. After that, little by little, everything settled down and was forgotten…’

There was something in Mr Rovira’s words that didn’t sit comfortably. While Carlito, oblivious to our conversation, silently reflected on the raison d’être of chicken drumsticks, I attributed this lack of clarity on Ernest’s part to the awkwardness he felt at a relationship between the Dafonte-Llobet and Franco families.

‘Then again, there were lots more people in the house back then,’ the secretary continued, trying to change the subject, or so I thought. ‘The staff was made up of two women, two young girls in a black dress and cap and white apron, Mrs Lola, a vast woman who came over from Lalín to do the cooking, and Tobías, the estate’s overseer, a man who could draw out the most beautiful roses while at the same time tackling the most unpleasant blockages in the sewers. All of us living here on a permanent basis, together with Don Xulio and little Mariña, of course, who back then were just children.’

‘Who?’

‘Dona Isabel and Mr Dafonte’s two children.’

‘Don’t they live in the house any more?’

‘No, they left many years ago to lead their own lives in other directions – one quite different from the other, I must say.’

‘I knew nothing about that,’ I remarked, giving to understand I was unaware of the existence of any children. I imagined the name of Xulio Dafonte would not be a suitable topic for the dinner table in that house, bearing in mind the recent commentaries in the newspapers. And the fact was I had been convinced he was the couple’s only child. At such times, I thought, it seems anyone who doesn’t commit a crime does not exist for society.

‘Well, there was no reason you should, right, Don Simón?’

Second warning. I felt a little ashamed of my own indiscretion and saw myself, for a moment, like a typical gossip-monger. Now I was the one who quickly tried to change the subject:

‘And Dona Isabel? Will she not be joining us today?’

‘Not today,’ a flicker of concern seemed to flash across Ernest’s face when I made this remark. ‘She has yet to recover from the argument of the other day. She’s upstairs, in her room, resting.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Besides, I wanted to ask her something.’

‘Something related to your work?’

‘Well, yes, in a way. I’m just curious about something, it’s probably not that important.’

‘Do you think that I could help you?’

‘I’m not sure. Perhaps. As I said, it’s probably nothing.’

The secretary gave me a serious look, mixed with curiosity:

‘Try me.’

‘Are you familiar with the Dafontes’ family history?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Right… Then do you know what the inscription engraved on one of the walls of the fountain might mean?’

Something seemed to awaken a certain amount of interest in Mr Rovira’s face:

‘Inscription?’

‘Yes, a series of numbers and letters engraved on the front wall.’

Ernest allowed a strange smile to unfold from his lips:

‘I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to. As I said, when I first came to this house, there were much more important matters to attend to than old fountains and future quagmires. And, by the time my workload had decreased, the stones of the pond had already been abandoned. I’m afraid I can’t help you very much.’

Suddenly, as swiftly as it had arrived, the sense of a sudden interest in my question was completely erased from the secretary’s answer.

‘Well, as I said, I was just curious.’

‘Then I’m sorry not to be able to help you resolve this mystery.’

There was a short silence, during which Ernest must have detected a look of disappointment on my face, because he then continued:

‘What we could do, if you think it’s a good idea, is ask Dona Isabel about it.’

‘Oh no, I wouldn’t want to bother her with such nonsense, it was just a trifle, nothing else.’

‘I don’t mean now, my friend,’ Mr Rovira went back to smiling. ‘But, if you could jot down that strange combination of numbers and letters that has so intrigued you, then I’m sure I could pass it on to Mrs Llobet at a suitable moment. If you agree, that is.’

‘Well, if you think it wouldn’t be too much trouble…’

‘None at all, simply Simón.’

The secretary traced a smile of something akin to satisfaction when he read the sequence I handed him, and Carlito decided this was a good time to warn us about the risks of obesity and male impotence hidden in the hugely dangerous vice of consuming chicken wings. Ernest remarked that now he understood the secret to my co-worker’s extreme leanness, and the meal came to an end. At the beginning of the afternoon, having left the secretary in the company of three dirty plates and a sheet containing a strange alphanumerical sequence, Carlito and I set about lifting the first slabs of stone from the bottom of the pond.

The floor of the pond was made up of four slabs arranged parallel to one another, from the front of the pool to the back wall. The four slabs were identical in shape and size, four rectangles approximately two metres long and 75 centimetres wide, except for a small circular hole in the two middle ones, through which passed the pipe that channelled the water to the taps, and another two holes in each of the side stones, where it was to be supposed that the water ran out. It must have been around five o’clock, perhaps later, when we decided to start with the one on the far left. Underneath it, having made what constituted a huge effort for our feeble muscles, we found that the ground was not flat. The slab was supported at each end by other stones that acted as foundations, but the ground it lay on was clearly not level and the granite sloped down towards the centre of the pool. The two of us sensed the reason for this, but had to wait until we’d lifted the second stone, the first of the two middle ones, to be sure. Under the second stone, in the middle, half the hole that led to the cave Dona Isabel had told us about was still open, a black mouth of earth and stone through which you could glimpse the throat, even more sinister than the entrance to the hole, dark, the sound of water in the distance, drops falling on stagnant water down below, somewhere out of sight. We lifted the third stone, and the entrance to the cave was revealed in its entirety. By the time we only had the fourth stone to remove, I think our rhythm had got slower – not because of the tiredness we felt, which was a lot, but because of the certainty of what awaited us afterwards.

It was starting to get dark when the two high-wire artists that were Carlito and me found ourselves standing there, motionless in front of the black mouth that kept watching us from below, inviting us to go in, to be devoured.

‘Architects first,’ declared the Argentinian in a tone that was as solemn as it was false, while gesturing with his hand like someone reverentially allowing another to pass. I don’t know whether it’s obvious by now, but an adventurous spirit doesn’t exactly run in my genes and, if it’s true that not the brave, but the rash, are those who are least afraid, then I must be the bravest of them all because, to be quite honest, I have enough fears inside me to stop a train. Placing the tiniest bit of my body inside that cavern appealed to me about as much as spitting in the devil’s face. And then there was that little problem of mine, claustrophobia… But, having reached this point, there was no turning back. Dona Isabel had been quite clear, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. I plucked up all my courage, together with the larger of the two torches we had brought with us, and steeled myself for whatever might follow.

The inside of the cave was not as narrow as the mouth suggested. In fact, having slipped down the mud as soon as I entered and slid along for two or three metres of earth, stones and roots in the most dishonourable fashion possible, I found myself attempting to regain my dignity and composure in a natural chamber where it proved easy to stand up. As I examined the magnificent combination of rocks nature had carved out of these walls, Carlito arrived at my side, landing with about the same amount of skill as I had. The two of us stood there without moving, our feet immersed in the water that covered the floor of the cave, gazing like two sluggish astronauts who have just set foot on a new planet, with a mixture of amazement and curiosity, at the place we had just entered. We were in a rock chamber that measured ten or twelve square metres and was more than two metres high. The floor was completely covered in water, but seemed fairly flat, taking into account the unevenness of the rest of the chamber. Above us was the rock that covered our heads and turned into the wall on either side, speckled with drops of humidity, roots that came from goodness knows where and, running in a straight line, the pipe that channelled the water from the spring to the surface. We followed its route in the opposite direction with the light of our torches. We discovered where it emerged into the open, then crossed the ceiling, and finally we lowered our torches in search of its origin.

That was when we saw it.

The pipe rose to the roof from the middle of the wall right in front of us, a few metres away. But we didn’t carry on with our inspection of the pipe because something else had caught our attention.

‘What is that?’ asked the Argentinian as the light from the two torches merged on top of a strange rectangular shape in the middle of the wall opposite.

We went over, walking carefully. The water on the ground seemed fairly transparent, but the bottom of earth and stone wasn’t quite as visible as our common sense would have liked. Finally, having reached the far wall, we saw that our torches had not deceived us. It was different from the walls that formed the rest of the cave. The stone of the other walls, a large mass of granite, was perfectly visible, but here the stone could not be seen and was almost completely hidden behind a layer of earth and roots, a small forest through which the pipe disappeared. The strangest thing, however, was the object in the middle. In between the roots was a kind of cavity, a tiny shelf on which rested a box, a wooden casket no more than twenty centimetres in length. I put down my torch and picked the box up gingerly in my hands, while Carlito shed light on my every movement.

‘Now what do you suppose that is?’ my colleague asked again, trying to remain as calm as possible, but showing a certain amount of nerves and curiosity.

‘I couldn’t say,’ I answered, feeling as disoriented as he was, and a little anxious on account of my unconfessed claustrophobia. ‘It looks like a box, a chest or something. It might be better to return to the surface and examine it there more carefully.’

‘Ah, something sensible at last!’ the Argentinian nodded with great satisfaction. ‘You first, my captain. I will light the way.’

On the surface, night was taking possession of the firmament, and light was already a limited resource. Even so, with the little that remained and the help of our torches, we were able to take a good look at our strange discovery. In effect, it was a box made of oak-wood, as Carlito affirmed, who knew a lot about such things, as it transpired. The box was completely rectangular, the harmony of its forms broken only by a small lock, a golden clasp at the front, in the middle. On its lid was another inscription over two lines:

For my children,

THE COLOUR OF THE SEA

I immediately thought of Mr Dafonte. If he was the one who had had the fountain built, then it was probably him who had left this box there – for the two children I’d learned about a short while before, over lunch with Ernest.

However that may be, all of this was far too much for a couple of novices in the field of archaeology like Carlito and me, and a remark from the Argentinian about the impending arrival of an imaginary night shift made it abundantly clear our first day’s work had come to an end. We tidied up our tools, leaving them ready for the following day, and brought the day to a close. As we were heading back towards the car, I mentioned to my foreman that I would like to stop at the house for a moment to tell the secretary about our discovery and hand over the box so that he could give it to Dona Isabel.

‘Do whatever you want, but don’t take too long about it, it’s getting late.’

The truth is all I wanted to do was leave the box and go home. We had yet to reach the front door when we heard the sound of an engine starting. We were just able to glimpse a car heading down the driveway out of the estate. There was barely enough light, but we could see it was a large, black vehicle, probably Mr Rovira’s Audi.

‘Well, blow me down, there goes your man,’ snorted the foreman with false disappointment.

We knocked on the door a couple of times, all the same, but it was no use. It certainly seemed that the secretary had finished work and Dona Isabel was still resting. We didn’t want to bother anybody, and the day had been quite long enough for us as well. We got in my car, which was all alone in that large garage, and headed for the exit, convinced that the following day would be bigger and better.

Text © Pedro Feijoo

Translation © Jonathan Dunne

Other books by Pedro Feijoo are available to read in English – see the page “Novels”.