“And until then?”

“Until then, forget about Carax.”

“The Semperes never forget. It’s a congenital illness.”

“In that case I feel sorry for you.”

“Then perform an act of charity.”

Rosiers hesitated. “Julián had a good friend. I believe he was his best friend. His name was Jean-Raymond Planaux. He had nothing to do with this absurd business of ours. An intelligent, levelheaded guy, with no nonsense about him. If anyone knows anything about Julián, he’ll be the one.”

“Where can I find him?”

“In the catacombs.”

I should have started there. Since this was Carax we were dealing with, it seemed inevitable that if there was any hope left of finding his trail on the face of this earth, it would be in a setting straight out of one of his books: the catacombs of Paris.

* * *

Jean-Raymond de Planaux Flavieu was a solid-looking bear of a man, a trifle intimidating at first sight, but who soon revealed his friendly disposition and a tendency to joke. He worked in the marketing office of the firm managing the Paris catacombs and was in charge of their advertising, tourist promotion, and everything related to that particular context of the hereafter.

“Welcome to the world of death, kid,” he said, giving me a handshake that crunched my bones. “What can I do for you?”

“I wondered whether you could help me find a friend of yours.”

“Is he alive?” He laughed. “I don’t spend much time among the living.”

“Julián Carax.”

As soon as I’d uttered that name, Monsieur Planaux frowned, canceled his happy expression, and leaned forward with a threatening and protective air, cornering me against the wall.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Julián Sempere. My parents named me after Monsieur Carax.”

“I don’t care whether they named you after the inventor of the public urinal.”

Fearing for my safety, I tried to take a step backward. The thick wall, probably connected to the catacombs, stopped me. I could see myself wedged in there in perpetuity between a hundred thousand skulls.

“My parents knew Monsieur Carax,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “Daniel and Bea.”

Planaux’s eyes drilled into mine for a few seconds. I reckoned there was a fifty percent chance that he would smash my face in. The other fifty percent looked uncertain.

“Are you the son of Daniel and Beatriz?”

I nodded.

“From the Sempere bookshop?”

I nodded again.

“Prove it.”

For almost an hour I recited the same speech I’d delivered to Carax’s old agents and to his publisher. Planaux listened to me attentively, and I thought I glimpsed an air of sadness that intensified as I reeled off my story.

When I’d finished, he pulled a cigar out of his jacket and lit it, producing a cloud of smoke that threatened to bury the whole of Paris. “Do you know how Julián and I met?”

I shook my head.

“When I was young, we worked together in a third-rate publishing house. That was before realizing that this death business has much more future than literature. I was one of the sales reps, and would go out to sell the junk we mostly published. Carax worked for a salary, writing horror stories for us. The amount of cigars like this one we smoked late at night, in the café below the publishing company, watching all the girls go by . . . Those were the days. Don’t be stupid: don’t grow old, it doesn’t bring you any nobility, knowledge, or shit skewered on a stick that’s worth it. I think that’s an expression from your country I once heard Julián use, and I found it very apt.”