1

THE OLD CATHEDRAL

Sunday, July 24

I

 was enjoying the best Spanish tortilla in the world, the egg still runny and the potatoes cooked but firm, when I took the call that changed my life. For the worse, I should add.

It was the eve of El Día de Santiago, and in Vitoria we were celebrating El Día de la Blusa, an homage to the youngsters who enlivened the early-­August celebrations by wearing traditional smocks. The bar where I was trying to finish my tasty snack was so crowded and noisy that when I realized my cell phone was vibrating in my shirt pocket, I had to go out into Calle del Prado.

“What’s wrong, Estíbaliz?”

My partner didn’t usually bother me on my days off, and El Día de la Blusa and the evening before were too sacred for anyone to even think about going to work. The entire city was in a state of commotion.

At first, the noise of the brass bands and the flood of people following them prevented my hearing what Estíbaliz was trying to say.

“Unai, you have to come to the Old Cathedral,” she insisted.

Her tone of voice, and the undercurrent of urgency and bewilderment, struck me as odd. Estíbaliz has more guts than me, and that’s saying something.

I understood immediately that something serious must have happened.

Trying to get away from the ever-­present racket that was engulfing the city, I walked automatically toward La Florida Park so that our conversation could be at least minimally productive.

“What happened?” I asked, trying to shake off the effects of the last glass of Rioja.

“You won’t believe it. It’s exactly the same as twenty years ago.”

“What are you talking about, Estí? I’m not at my sharpest today.”

“Some archaeologists from the company restoring the cathedral found two naked corpses in the crypt. A boy and a girl, with their hands resting on each other’s cheek. You remember that, don’t you? Come right now, Unai. This is serious, very serious.” She told me where to find her and ended the call.

It can’t be, I thought.

It can’t be.

I didn’t even say good-­bye to my friends in the cuadrilla. They were going to stay in Sagartoki’s, in the midst of that flood of humans. It was unlikely any of them would even pay attention to their phone if I called to say that El Día de la Blusa was over for me.

With my colleague’s words echoing in my brain, I headed for the Plaza de la Virgen Blanca. I passed my own doorway and went up Calle de la Correría, one of the oldest streets in the medieval heart of the city.

It was a bad choice. Like everywhere else in the city center that day, it was packed. La Malquerida and the other bars lining the Old City were crammed with locals. It took me more than fifteen minutes to reach La Burullería Square, at the rear of the cathedral, where I’d agreed to meet Estíbaliz.

In the fifteenth century, the square had been the market of the burulleros, or weavers, who made the city one of the main trading arteries in northern Spain, and it had retained their name. As I walked across the cobblestones, the bronze statue of Ken Follett seemed to watch me go by,...