Barcelona Shadows Read Free

Lerrouxists and the regionalists tied in the 12th November elections, and he won’t be chosen until 29th December). No one notices One Eye except me, but he can’t see me or hear me now because I’m just a shadow waiting forhis soul. One Eye doesn’t get what it is the filthy rich see in that German chap, some guy named Bagner. How many times have the same clowns looked on as some singer bellows out fucking opera, in German, which not even Christ himself understands. Good music is hearing whores scream in a warm bed, he thinks. And he laughs, revealing his missing teeth. Today he won’t rob anyone, even though it’d be like taking sweets from a baby. Today he has come to see her, which is why I’ve come to find him. He has something she might be interested in, because opera and money are not her only passions.
    He hears the clip-clop of the horses and knows they are on their way. He can almost see them, dripping with jewels, with their fur coats and their husbands by the arm. How he’d love to have his way with some of them, to show them what a bravura performance is. One Eye shields himself from unwanted glances, in the darkness of the lampless street, until he sees her pass by. She is different from the rest. She walks alone, her head held high, with short, quick steps. Her lips pressed tightly together, her face impassive, like a wax figure. She has her hands crossed over her breasts, which are wrapped in a spectacular deep-red dress, a fancy number that goes all the way down to her ankles. Her hair, pulled back in a bun, reveals a long neck that resembles a column of smoke. One Eye licks his lips in desire. Approaching her is like leaning out of the highest window in a building: the sensation of being about to fall is as powerful as it is irresistible.
    One Eye goes out onto Unió Street and follows her for a bit, while there are still people around. It is dark, but not yet dark enough to be the witching hour. The people of ill repute are getting ready to start the night. The worst of them all has just leftthe Liceu. When she turns onto Oleguer, he quickens his step. He pants, he’s too old for this, goddamnittohell, and shouts, “Ma’am!”
    She turns and glances at him, but doesn’t speak. One Eye runs towards her, unaware that it is the last thing he will do before he dies.
    When Moisès Corvo and Juan Malsano show up there, two hours later, the narrow street is jammed with people.
    “Sherlock Holmes is a pedant. A piece of shit who never leaves his office, thinking he can solve every case like it was some maths problem, just because he’s educated.”
    “But he does solve them, right?” Malsano plays along, fanning the flames. He knows how to provoke him.
    “He botches it from the very beginning: for him everything is logic, logic and more logic. Even the most irrational.”
    “And that’s not how it is…”
    “No! You already know that! The world doesn’t work that way: there are errors, misunderstandings, improvisation. Holmes underestimates the surprise factor.”
    “But he solves the cases,” declares Malsano.
    “Literature. It’s impossible to arrive at the solution to any case by following a chain of deductions, there will always be someone to break it. Criminals play by their own rules.”
    “And Holmes doesn’t.” Beneath Malsano’s moustache lies a mocking little smile.
    “Not Holmes, and even less Dupin.”
    “Who?”
    Moisès Corvo pushes aside a man on tiptoe who is trying to catch a glimpse of the dead body. One of the few men, in fact, since most of those present are women. They wear revolted expressions but don’t want to give up their front-row view of OneEye. The outraged man attempts to challenge him, but when he realizes that stocky Moisès would probably just lay him out as company for the deceased, he decides to pipe down and hope that none of the coarse women start laughing at him.
    “Dupin, Edgar Allan Poe’s detective, is even worse than Holmes. Holmes, at