“A man should be allowed to take some secrets to his grave,” Fermín objected.

“Too many secrets may take that man to his grave before his time.”

Fermín raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Who said that? Socrates? Myself?”

“No. For once it was Daniel Sempere Gispert, the simpleton, only a few seconds ago.”

Fermín smiled with satisfaction, peeled a lemon Sugus, and put it in his mouth. “It’s taken you years, but you’re starting to learn from the master, you rascal. Would you like a Sugus?”

I accepted the piece of candy because I knew it was the most treasured possession in my friend Fermín’s estate, and he was honoring me by sharing it.

“Have you ever heard that much-abused saying that all’s fair in love and war, Daniel?”

“Sometimes. Usually by those who favor war rather than love.”

“That’s right, because when all’s said and done, it’s a rotten lie.”

“So, is this a story of love or war?”

Fermín shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

And so, under cover of midnight, a couple of Sugus, and the spell of memories that were threatening to disappear in the mist of time, Fermín began to connect the threads that would weave the end and the beginning of our story . . .

Excerpt from The Labyrinth of the Spirits (The Cemetery of Forgotten Books, volume IV), by Julián Carax. Edited by Émile de Rosiers Castellaine. Paris: Éditions de la Lumière, 1992.

Dies Irae

Barcelona
March 1938

1

He was woken by the roll of the sea. When he opened his eyes, the stowaway perceived a darkness that seemed to stretch into infinity. The swaying of the ship, the stench of salt residue, and the sound of water scratching at the hull reminded him that he was not on dry land. He set aside the sacks that had served him as a bed and stood up slowly, scanning the long line of columns and arches that made up the ship’s hold.

The sight was dreamlike, he thought, a submerged cathedral peopled by what looked like booty taken from a hundred museums and palaces. He noticed the outline of a fleet of luxury cars, covered with semitransparent cloths, amid a set of sculptures and paintings. Next to a large grandfather clock he spotted a cage containing a splendid parrot. The bird observed him severely, questioning his stowaway status.

A bit farther on he caught sight of a copy of Michelangelo’s David, which some individual on an impulse had crowned with the three-cornered hat of the Civil Guard. Behind it, an army of ghostly dummies, all wearing period dresses, seemed caught in a never-ending Viennese waltz. On one side, leaning against the bodywork of a luxurious hearse with glass sides—coffin included—was a pile of old posters in frames. One of them announced a bullfight at the Arenas ring dating from before the war.

The name of a certain Fermín Romero de Torres appeared among the list of horseback bullfighters. As his eyes stroked the letters, the secret passenger, at the time still known by a name he would soon have to leave behind in the ashes of that war, silently mouthed those words.