The Midnight Palace - Carlos Ruiz Zafon [58]
‘If there’s one good thing about this house, it’s that it’s safe,’ said Ben. ‘If our friend Jawahal had been able to get in, he would have done so already. Our father might have had some strange inclinations, but he knew how to protect a home. I suggest we try to get some sleep. The way things are looking right now, I’d rather sleep during the day and stay awake at night.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Ian. ‘Where shall we sleep?’
‘There are several bedrooms in the towers,’ Sheere explained. ‘We can choose.’
‘I suggest we find rooms next to each other,’ said Ben.
‘Fine,’ said Ian. ‘And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to eat something either.’
‘That can wait,’ Ben replied. ‘Later on we’ll go out and find something.’
‘How can you two be hungry?’ asked Sheere.
Ben and Ian shrugged their shoulders.
‘Elemental physiology,’ replied Ben. ‘Ask Ian. He’s the doctor.’
‘As the teacher in a Bombay school once told me,’ said Sheere, ‘the main difference between a man and a woman is that the man always puts his stomach before his heart and a woman does the opposite.’
Ben considered the theory.
‘Let me quote our favourite misogynist and professional bachelor, Mr Thomas Carter: “The real difference is that, while men’s stomachs are much larger than their brains and their hearts, women’s hearts are so small they keep leaping out of their mouths.”’
Ian seemed bemused by the exchange of such illustrious quotes.
‘Cheap philosophy,’ pronounced Sheere.
‘The cheap sort, my dear Sheere, is the only philosophy worth having,’ declared Ben.
Ian raised a hand to signal a truce.
‘Goodnight to both of you,’ he said, then headed straight for one of the towers.
Ten minutes later all three had fallen into a deep sleep from which nobody could have roused them. In the end tiredness conquered fear.
SETTING OFF FROM THE Indian Museum in Chowringhee Road, Seth walked south almost a kilometre downhill. He then turned east along Park Street, heading for the Beniapukur area, where the ruins of the old Curzon Fort prison stood next to the Scottish cemetery. The dilapidated graveyard had been built on what was once the official limit of the city. In those days a high mortality rate and the speed with which bodies decomposed meant that all burial grounds had to be situated outside Calcutta for reasons of public health. Ironically, although the Scots had been in control of Calcutta’s commercial activity for decades, they discovered that they couldn’t afford a place among the graves of their English neighbours, and were therefore forced to build their own cemetery. In Calcutta the wealthy refused to yield their land to anyone poorer, even after death.
As he approached what remained of the Curzon Fort prison, Seth understood why the building had not yet become another victim of the city’s cruel demolition programme. There was no need – its structure already seemed to be hanging by an invisible string, ready to topple over the crowds at the slightest attempt to alter its balance. A fire had devoured the building, carving out gaps and destroying beams and props in its fury.
Seth approached the prison entrance, wondering how on earth he was going to discover anything among the heap of charred timber and bricks. Surely the only mementos of its past would be the metal bars and cells that had been transformed in their final hours into lethal ovens from which there was no escape.
‘Have you come on a visit, boy?’ whispered a voice behind him.
Seth spun around in alarm and realised that the words had come from the lips of a ragged old man whose feet and hands were covered in large infected sores. Dark eyes watched him nervously, and the man’s face was caked in grime, his sparse white beard evidently trimmed with a knife.
‘Is this the Curzon Fort prison,