Marina Carlos Ruiz Zafon - [Free] Marina Carlos Ruiz Zafon [PDF] [EPUB] Carlos Mon, 08 Apr GMT Carlos Ruiz Zafón - Wikipedia MsBook. Marina Carlos Ruiz Zafon Yuecheore - [Free] Marina Carlos Ruiz Zafon Yuecheore [PDF]. [EPUB] -. MARINA CARLOS RUIZ ZAFON YUECHEORE. Marina Carlos Ruiz Zafon - [Free] Marina Carlos Ruiz Zafon [PDF] [EPUB] Carlos Ruiz Zafón. (Spanish pronunciation: ['ka?los 'rwi??a'fon];.
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Marinas eyes wandered and her face took on a serious expression that made her look older. I was hypnotised by her. I dont suppose youve heard of the legend, she began. I thought so, she pronounced. Well, you see, they say death has messengers who roam the streets in search of dimwits and numbskulls, people who never think about such things.
At this point she fixed her pupils on mine. When one of those unfortunate souls runs into a messenger of death, as he inevitably will sooner or later, Marina continued, he is led unwittingly into a trap.
A door into hell. These messengers cover their faces to conceal the fact that they dont have eyes, only two black holes full of live worms. When its too late for any possible escape, the messenger reveals his face and the victim realises the horror that awaits him. Her words seemed to hang in the air while my stomach tightened. Only then did Marina let slip that malicious smile.
A cats smile. Youre pulling my leg, I said at last. Five or ten minutes went by in silence, perhaps more. An eternity. A light breeze caressed the cypress trees. Two white doves fluttered about between the tombs. An ant was climbing up my trouser leg. Very little else was happening. Soon one of my legs started to fall asleep and I feared my head would follow suit. I was about to protest when Marina raised a hand, signalling me to be quiet before Id even said a word.
She pointed towards the cemetery entrance. Someone had just come in. The someone in question seemed to be a woman, wrapped in a black velvet cloak with a hood covering her face.
Her hands were crossed over her chest and she wore gloves, also black. The cloak was so long you couldnt see her feet. From where we sat it looked as if the faceless figure were gliding along without touching the ground. For some reason I felt a shiver. I whispered. Hiding behind the columns of the long platform on which we were sitting, we spied on the lady in black. She was advancing through the graves carrying a red rose between her gloved fingers: it looked like a fresh knife wound.
The woman walked over to a tombstone just beneath our observation point and stopped with her back to us.
For the first time I noticed that, unlike all the other graves, this one had no name on it. All I could see was a shape engraved on the marble: a symbol that looked like an insect, a black butterfly with open wings.
The lady in black stood silently at the foot of the grave for almost five minutes. Finally she leaned forward, left the red rose on the tombstone and walked away slowly, just as she had come. Like an apparition. Marina looked at me nervously and drew closer to whisper something.
When her lips touched my ear I felt a tingling on the nape of my neck, like a centipede dancing the bossa nova. I discovered her by chance three months ago, Marina explained, when I came here with Germn to lay flowers on his aunt Remes grave.
This lady comes here on the last Sunday of every month at ten oclock in the morning and every time she leaves an identical rose on that grave. She always wears the same cloak, gloves and hood. And she always comes alone. You never see her face. She never speaks to anyone. Who is buried there?
The strange symbol engraved on the tombstone intrigued me. I dont know. Theres no name for it in the cemetery registry. And who is that lady? Marina was about to reply when she glimpsed the ladys figure disappearing through the cemetery gates. She took my hand and rose hurriedly. Or well lose her. Are we going to follow her?
I asked. You wanted action, didnt you? By the time we reached Calle Doctor Roux, the woman in black was heading for the Bonanova area. It was raining softly again, although the sun seemed unwilling to hide. We followed the lady through that curtain of golden tears, crossing Paseo de la Bonanova and walking up towards the lower slopes of the hills, past mansions and small palaces that had known better times. The lady made her way into the web of deserted streets, which were blanketed with shiny leaves like scales shed by a giant serpent.
Then she stopped at a crossroads, not moving, a living statue. Shes seen us. I whispered, hiding with Marina behind a thick tree trunk carved with initials. For a moment I was afraid she was going to spin round and notice us. But no. After a while she took a left turn and disappeared. Marina and I glanced at one another and resumed our pursuit.
The trail led us to a narrow cul-de-sac crossed by the open section of the railway line that climbed up to the hilltop village of Vallvidrera. We stopped there. There was no sign of the woman in black, although wed seen her enter the alleyway. The turrets of my boarding school could be glimpsed in the distance, high above roofs and treetops.
She must have gone into her home, I said. She must live around here. These houses are all deserted. Nobody lives here. Marina pointed to the faades hidden behind iron gates and walls. All that remained standing were a couple of abandoned warehouses and a large old stately residence that looked as if a fire had raged inside it decades ago. The lady had vanished before our very eyes. We ventured further up the alley. On the ground a puddle reflected the sky; raindrops distorted our reflections.
At the end of the narrow lane a wooden gate swung to and fro in the breeze. Mar- ina looked at me but didnt say anything. We approached it quietly and I leaned over to have a quick look. The gate, set in a red-brick wall, gave onto a courtyard. What had once been a garden was now entirely choked by weeds. Peering through the undergrowth, we could just about make out the front of an odd-looking building covered in ivy. It took me a few seconds to realise I was staring at a greenhouse built on a metal frame.
The plants hissed, like a swarm of bees lying in wait. You first, said Marina waving me in.
I plucked up some courage and stepped into the mass of weeds. Without warning, Marina took my hand and followed me.
As my feet sank into a blanket of rotting vegetation, I had a fleeting vision of dark snakes coiling around my ankles.
We pressed ahead through a jungle of sharp branches, getting scratched in the process, until we came to a clearing in front of the greenhouse. Marina let go of my hand to gaze at the building. The ivy had spread like a cobweb over the whole structure, making it look like a palace submerged in a deep lake. Im afraid shes given us the slip, I said. No one has set foot in here for years. Marina agreed with me reluctantly. She took one last look at the greenhouse. She seemed disappointed but didnt say anything else.
Silent defeats taste better, I thought. Come on, lets go, I suggested, offering her my hand in the hope that she would take it again for our walk back through the undergrowth. Marina ignored me, frowned and started to walk around the greenhouse.
I sighed and followed her half-heartedly. That girl was as stubborn as a mule. Marina, I began. Not here.
I found her at the back of the building, facing what looked like the entrance. She turned towards me, then raised a hand to touch the glass pane and wipe off the dirt that covered an inscription. I recognised the same black butterfly Id seen on the anonymous grave in the cemetery. Marina placed her hand on it. Slowly, the door opened. A foul sweet odour issued from within, like the stench of poisoned reservoirs and wells. Ignoring what little common sense I had left, I stepped into the darkness.
The unpaved floor oozed with moisture. Plumes of vapour danced up and the resulting condensation dripped down in warm drops that you could feel and hear but barely see. A strange sound throbbed in the darkness. A metallic murmur, like the sound of a Venetian blind quivering. Marina kept advancing slowly. It was hot and damp. My clothes were clinging to me and beads of sweat covered my forehead. I turned to look at Marina and in the half-light saw that the same was happening to her.
That eerie sound was still stirring in the shadows. It seemed to come from every corner. What is that? I shrugged. We moved further into the greenhouse, stopping at a point where a few shafts of light filtered down from the dome. Marina was about to say something when again we heard that weird rattling. Close to us, about two metres away. Directly above our heads. We exchanged glances and slowly raised our eyes to look at a shadowy area in the roof of the glasshouse.
I felt Marinas hand clasp mine tightly. She was trembling. We were both trembling. We were surrounded by angular figures dangling in the void. I could see a dozen of them, perhaps more. Legs, arms, hands and eyes shining in the dark. A whole pack of lifeless bodies swung over us. When they brushed against one another they produced that soft metallic sound. We took a step back, and before we knew what was happening Marina had caught her ankle on a lever connected to a pulley system.
The lever gave way. In a tenth of a second the army of frozen figures dropped into the space below. I threw myself over Marina to protect her and we both fell flat on our faces.
The whole place shuddered violently and I could hear the roar of the old glass structure as it vibrated. I was afraid that the glass panes would shatter and a rain of shards would skewer us to the ground. Just then something cold touched the back of my neck.
I opened my eyes. A face was smiling at me. Bright yellow eyes flashed.
They were lifeless. Glass eyes in a face carved out of lacquered wood. I heard Marina stifle a scream next to me. Theyre dolls, I said, almost breathless. We stood up to have a closer look at the beings.
Figures made out of wood, metal and clay suspended from hundreds of cables attached to a piece of stage machinery. The lever Marina had unwittingly activated had released the pulley mechanism holding them up. They had stopped falling about half a metre from the ground and looked like hanged men performing a gruesome dance.
What the hell. I studied the group of dolls. One figure was dressed as a magician, another as a policeman; there was a dancer, an elegant lady in a maroon gown, a strongman. They were all built to human scale and wore luxurious fancy-dress costumes which time had turned to rags. But something bound them together, lending them a strange quality that betrayed their common source.
Theyre unfinished, I discovered. Marina immediately understood what I meant. Each one of those beings lacked something. When was Carlos Ruiz Herrero born?
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