The First Prehistoric Serial Killer and Other Stories Read online

  I looked spectacular on the day of the launch. I’d lost four kilos and wore a cerise silk bodycon dress that had cost a bomb and sparked a lot of comment. The chief executive came, as did the Minister of Culture, the President of the Parliament and the mayor. Eudald Mataplana didn’t, but his absence was no surprise because Eudald was a bit of an idiot and it was just like him to do that kind of thing. Some artists move heaven and earth to secure an interview or appear on TV, while others play hard to get and attract interviews that way, because they never normally grant them and claim they have a phobia when it comes to TV studios. Eudald Mataplana was one such artist: he organized a party and went AWOL; an exhibition of his work took place and he didn’t bother to put in an appearance. In the end, everyone described him as a prickly character with a fondness for enfant terrible antics, and journalists frequently came to blows trying to get a statement, interview or photo out of him. The gossips said it was all part of a strategy dreamed up by his agent, but how could you tell? In this country, envy is the mother of all rumours.

  Still Life No. 41 was the piece that received by far the most praise. Everyone agreed that the sculpture of a male corpse in the foetal position was easily the most accomplished. The critics praised it to the skies – what a masterpiece! what sensibility! – and it reduced the viewing public to silence. It was certainly the subtlest of all the exhibits, because the figure was clothed from head to foot and its eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. Nevertheless, the consensus was that the expression of grief glimpsed behind those glasses (by the way, they were fabulously expensive Armanis) was incredibly moving. Eudald Mataplana thus succeeded in rekindling his status as a cult figure for the country’s most sophisticated elites.

  As the days went by, big crowds came to see the exhibition. At times there were even long queues. We also began to notice that, with each day, the smell got stronger and stronger in the room where Still Life No. 41 was on display, and that the sculpture’s face and hands were changing shape and colour. Initially they were a marble white like the corpse depicted by Rembrandt in his Anatomy Lesson of Dr Nicolaes Tulp, but then they gradually turned a repugnant green and few people dared to look at them for long. After day three, the sculpture began to swell and stuck out its tongue. Everybody thought that was hilarious.

  We thought, reasonably enough, that Eudald Mataplana had done it on purpose and that the strong smell and changes to the figure were the result of his absolute mastery of the raw materials; nobody, absolutely nobody, had anything but outright praise for the artist’s audacity and technical prowess.

  “Madame Director,” said Sadurní, tapping on the door and walking into my office, “there is a gentleman here who would like to speak to you.”

  Sadurní is one of the museum security guards who were on duty that day.

  “A gentleman?”

  “A visitor. He says it’s important and that if you won’t see him he’ll go straight to the police.”

  “If I must,” I said with a deep sigh. “Tell him to come in. But you stay near the door, right, Sadurní?”

  Most of the loonies who slip into museums are harmless enough, but one can’t be too careful. When the man walked into my office, I asked him to leave the door ajar on the pretext that my air conditioning wasn’t working. He introduced himself and said he was a doctor.

  “What the hell do you think you are doing displaying that decomposing corpse in the main room?” he blasted.

  I smiled at him. A pity I was on the verge of marriage, because the guy was gorgeous and I could have done with a little fling to break my boring routine. Anyway, the anecdote about the doctor who’d been fooled by the incomparable art of Eudald Mataplana would be good publicity for the exhibition, and I began mentally drawing up a press release describing our encounter.

  “Don’t worry,” I replied, still smiling. “It’s only a sculpture. And it’s extremely well made.”

  “It is not a sculpture,” the doctor replied solemnly. “It is a dead man.”

  “You are quite wrong, it is a sculpture,” I assured him. “No need to worry.”

  “Sculptures do not suppurate liquids. Nor do they create a stink. And nor do they attract insects.”

  “Oh, that’s all the invention of an artist who is simply a genius.”

  “Now, miss, I’m the doctor here, and —”

  “Would you mind telling me what your field is?” I asked, showing that I was beginning to lose my temper. I was actually delighted by his wrong-headedness and already relishing the pleasure I would derive from telling the story to my friends over cocktails that night.

  “I am a psychiatrist. But I can assure you I recognize a dead man when I see one.”

  I smiled yet again. I’d always thought psychiatrists were fascinating. And I had never yet dated one.

  “I quite understand if the sculpture has upset you. If you like, we could go for a coffee and talk about it … I’m Fefa, by the way,” I added, holding my hand out to shake his.

  “Please follow me,” he insisted in an authoritarian tone. “You must see this for yourself.”

  At that moment in stepped Sadurní, who’d inevitably been listening to our exchange.

  “I’m sorry, Madame Director. Forgive me for meddling in something that’s none of my business, but I do think you should go and have a look. The room really stinks.”

  I sighed. All right, I’d see this joke through to the bitter end, then I’d have more material for my press release and more to gossip about with my friends. I got up from my extremely uncomfortable designer chair and accompanied them.

  The museum had had no visitors that day. As soon as I entered the main room, I understood why.

  “My God, it really does stink to high heaven…! And where have all these flies come from?”

  “Corpses attract insects. And you’re lucky you’ve got air conditioning!” the doctor replied, giving me a good, hard look up and down.

  “I don’t believe it. It can’t be true,” I said, shuddering.

  “Take a close look. What do you see?”

  “It’s green … and black in some places. And the skin is covered in blebs …”

  “I’m no expert,” he said, straightening his glasses and staring surreptitiously down my cleavage, “but I would estimate that this man has been dead at least a week. Take a look – his epidermis has separated from his dermis and the gases have caused his stomach to expand. That’s why he’s so inflated.”

  “I think he’s vomited too …” I mumbled.

  “Miss, that’s the fluid created by his decomposing internal organs that are then expelled through the nose and mouth.”

  “My God!” I exclaimed, jumping backwards. “There are maggots everywhere …!”

  I don’t remember any more, because I fainted at that point.

  The police took less than a minute to identify the corpse, which carried an ID card: it was Eudald Mataplana. As his head was completely shaven and he was wearing sunglasses, no one had recognized him. No one had missed him either, which didn’t mean very much because he was a man with few friends – you know, who you’d call real friends.

  After finding no traces of blood, the police first concluded he must have had a massive heart attack. Their second theory was that it was a case of self-immolation: he’d been out of his mind and decided to poison himself so that he could become one of his own exhibits. Their thinking had some logic to it, but both theories were wrong. When the autopsy was carried out, the pathologist discovered a tiny hole in his shirt and a small wound in his thorax.

  “The police believe it was murder,” I announced at the press conference I called, to which I wore a white dress and a very fetching pink foulard. “The assassin stuck a thin, cylindrical pin through the ribs and across the pericardium, perforating the heart. As the wound was so tiny, his own blood plugged it as it dried, and that’s why there was no blood,” I explained, putting on a brave face as I read word for word the notes I’d cribbed from my secretary, who�
��d had a fling with the pathologist and snaffled a copy of the autopsy report for me. I added, absolutely confident that everyone would understand my mistake: “I think it was quite reasonable for me not to realize it wasn’t a sculpture, don’t you agree?”

  Well, no, they didn’t, and the next day the newspapers crucified me. It was evident I’d been under pressure with the launch, got my knickers in a twist and made a big error of judgement. I should have sent the item down to the basement. But it was too late now to put that right.

  They’re now saying it was one of his students. The girl had got tired of Eudald Mataplana taking every opportunity to feel her up, and, in a rage, had stuck into him one of the steel pins she was attaching to Still Life No. 17, a life-sized sculpture of a sick woman weaving while sitting in a wheelchair. They found traces of blood on the pin, and the installers immediately identified the girl who’d helped them mount the work. She’s currently in the slammer.

  I really couldn’t care less about the student, Eudald Mataplana, his sculptures or the whole fucking show. All I know is that I’m out of work and that Daddy’s calls haven’t helped this time because of all the fallout from the scandal hitting the headlines. Mummy says I should forget it, as my hands are already full with the preparations for my wedding and Cancún honeymoon, but then she belongs to another generation and doesn’t understand it’s hardly the done thing any more not to work outside the home. I’m not awfully enthusiastic about having to clock in every morning, but we modern women, even if we belong to the upper classes, have to work, or at least go through the motions of working. Daddy says I shouldn’t worry, that as soon as things calm down he’ll pick up his telephone again. I’m going to think of it as paid holidays, because I gather I have a right to unemployment benefit, even though I technically resigned.

  As Daddy says to console me, I’m young and have a whole lifetime in front of me. When I get back from Cancún, we’ll see how things are. For the moment, I have a coffee date with that psychiatrist, whose name is Lluís and who is awfully nice. And, you know, if I’m bored when I get back from honeymoon and can’t find my kind of work, I can always go into politics. Become an MP or something of the sort. Who knows, I am renowned for my drive and might make Secretary of State. Or Minister of Culture … Yes, it would be great to be a minister of something. Though I’m not sure … If I were a minister, I’d have to live in Madrid. And it’s very cold in Madrid in winter, and very hot in summer … And they don’t have a beach … Or a Port Olímpic. Or ski slopes nearby. And Mummy would be terribly distraught if I upped and went to live that far away …!

  Happy Families

  2 February

  A couple came to look at the house today. We’re very hopeful. He must be around fifty (though he has worn well, it has to be said) and we reckoned she’s a gorgeous thirty-five. We deduced from their conversation with the estate agent that they’re newlyweds and that, even in these crisis-ridden times, they have no money problems whatsoever. Apparently they liked the mansion, and we really hope they take it on. If only they would, because we’ve been bored to death here ever since Santi went over a precipice in his Alfa Romeo and his children put the place up for sale. The situation is getting tense. If nobody buys the house soon, things are bound to take a turn for the worse.

  Over recent years we’ve had several visitors who seemed interested, but today’s couple gave out good vibrations. They really need a house. Of course, we don’t like the idea of our mansion being in the hands of people who aren’t family, but we can’t do much about that. Santi’s children, who prefer to live in Sant Cugat, are determined to sell come what may, and it’s only a matter of time before they find a buyer, however much their father grumbles. Meanwhile, the cobwebs are having a field day and Anastase, who is allergic to dust, sneezes the whole day long.

  The presence of new tenants would at least liven the place up. Ever since the house has been uninhabited, we’ve become a lethargic lot, always fighting amongst ourselves. But you said this, no, I said that, if this, if that … Nights are unbearably long when there’s nobody to tease, and daytime is a dead loss. The prospect that somebody might once more walk these passageways, watch TV and frolic in the bedrooms has put us all in a good mood.

  The wife’s name is Jacqueline and she speaks with a foreign accent. After exploring the house from top to bottom, she said it was adorable and that, as it’s so spacious, if they take it, she’ll have a small gym built. She loved the idea of being able to organize big parties in the main reception room, and even praised the ambience in the garden (it’s romantic, she reckons). In truth, no gardener has been near it in years, so it’s wild and full of weeds. More like a jungle. Her husband and the estate agent smiled at each other but didn’t contradict her.

  Her husband is an Andreu and belongs to the Dalmau clan. He’s as tall as a tree, and spent the whole time he visited the house thinking about laying his wife. He said the house and land were a pretty good investment and, as far as he was concerned, if she liked it, then full steam ahead. The beautiful Jacqueline, who dresses very fashionably, wrinkled her nose and said they shouldn’t rush things. As the rich are always very hoity-toity, we took no notice.

  Besides, Andreu is right: this house is a first-rate investment. Santi’s children are prepared to sell it at a knockdown price just to get rid of it, even if for a mansion of this nature, on three floors, with eight bedrooms and twelve bathrooms (not forgetting the garden with its pond, arbour and Olympic swimming pool), knock-down still means loads. At the low end, around three million euros was the figure we heard them mention to the agent. Santi is pulling his hair out (metaphorically speaking) because he says the mansion is worth double that, but most of us here are desperate for them to buy. If only we could be so lucky this time.

  7 February

  The three came back this afternoon with an architect who gave the mansion a general survey. He found no serious structural problems and declared the house to be in excellent shape for its age. We already knew that, but it’s good to have confirmation from an expert. The architect’s presence has given us a boost, because it means the couple are really interested. Santi continues to be very annoyed and keeps cursing his children, but the rest of us can’t keep our feet on the ground. Finally we’ll have something to laugh about …!

  You know, whatever people might say, a ghost’s life in an uninhabited house is no great shakes.

  Once you get accustomed to wailing, crossing through walls and coexisting with other ghosts, being a wandering soul in an empty house is the most tedious thing on earth. Flesh-and-blood people bring joy to our lives with their idiocies; and what’s more, if they have a sense of humour and don’t suffer from weak hearts, we can play little jokes on them now and then and piss ourselves laughing. All us ghosts love a bit of fun (as well as watching TV), even though we must take care to ensure the living don’t die from the shock or run off scared.

  In our case, we’re fortunate, because we’re a happy band of souls in purgatory and are good company. For better or worse, this family has seen more than its fair share of violent or premature deaths, the necessary prerequisites for becoming a ghost. We have this peculiar tendency not to die peacefully in our beds, and for a time the rumour did the rounds that the house was cursed and that was the reason for so many unfortunate occurrences. The unvarnished truth is that some us were unlucky, and others plain stupid.

  In any case, despite being over the moon at the idea of the house being inhabited again, we’re all agreed on one thing: not one of us wants to have to share eternity with a stranger. It’s one thing for complete unknowns to settle in temporarily on the other side of the mirror and help us while away our time, but quite another for us to have to live with them forever and ever, amen. Fine as an emergency antidote to our boredom, but as Santi says with great common sense, eternity is a family matter, and no two ways about it!

  8 February

  The mansion dates from 1730 and is close to Tibidabo. Old Sebastià Moli
na, who lived on the Carrer del Pi in the city centre, had it built thinking that his family could spend August there, so it was originally conceived as a summer residence. At the end of the nineteenth century, the Molinas left the Old City to live on the right-hand side of the Eixample that at the time was very trendy, but, as the area soon began to go downhill, in 1929 Lluís decided to move all his family to the mansion on a permanent basis. When the army rebelled in 1936, Lluís recounts, many of their neighbours shut up their grand houses and went to live in the countryside to avoid confrontation with the lunatic anarchists of the FAI, but our family hung on heroically in Barcelona until the Francoist troops liberated the city. However, we’re not all fascists, not by any stretch of the imagination. In the sixties, some of us were so radical we even joined the Communist Party.

  Ever since old Molina built Villa Diana, it has been handed down from father to daughter and mother to son. It has never had a change of name, and isn’t called Villa Diana because old Molina’s wife was a Diana (in fact, she was an Engràcia), but to honour the Roman equivalent of the Greek goddess of the woods. As one can easily deduce from the name he chose to baptize the residence, Molina the patriarch was a Freemason.