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Carlos Ruiz Zafn is a Spanish novelist.
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Storify marina carlos ruiz zafon pdf italiano download.. Download immediato E-book di Zafon Carlos Ruiz. 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.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon - Marina
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. The policeman had no arms. The ballerina no eyes, only two empty sockets. The magician had no mouth, or hands. We stared at the figures as they swung in the spectral light.
Marina approached the ballerina, observing her carefully. She pointed to a small mark on her forehead, just beneath the dolls hairline. The black butterfly again. Marina reached out to touch it, and as she did so her fingers brushed against the dolls hair. She pulled her hand back in disgust. The hair. We examined each of the sinister marionettes and found the same mark on all of them.
I activated the lever and the pulleys began hoisting the bodies up again. As they rose, limply, I thought they looked like mechanical souls about to join their maker.
There seems to be something over there, said Marina behind me. She was pointing at an old desk in one corner of the greenhouse. A fine layer of dust covered its surface. A spider scurried over it, leaving a trail of minute footprints. I knelt down and blew the dust off the table, making it swirl into a grey cloud. On the desk was a leather-bound book, open at the middle. An old sepia-coloured photograph had been glued to the page, with the caption Arles, in neat handwriting below.
The picture showed a pair of conjoined twin girls, connected at the torso.
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Dressed in all their finery, the two sisters gave the camera the saddest smile in the world. Marina turned the pages. The book was an ordinary photo album, but there was nothing ordinary about the old images it contained.
The picture of the conjoined twins was just the beginning. As Marinas fingers turned page after page she gazed at the photographs with a mixture of fascination and repulsion.
I had a quick look and felt a strange chill down my spine. Freaks of nature. Human beings with deformities who used to be banished to the circus. The disturbing power of those images hit me like a whiplash. The cruel side of nature was displaying its monstrous face: innocent souls imprisoned within bodies that were horribly deformed. For a few minutes we leafed through the pages of that album without uttering a word. One by one, the photographs showed us what I can only describe as nightmarish creatures.
But such physical abominations didnt mask the expressions of grief, horror and loneliness burning in those faces. My God. The photographs were all identified by the year and the place they were taken. Buenos Aires, Bombay, Turin, Prague, I found it difficult to understand who would have made such a collection, or why. A catalogue straight out of hell. At last Marina looked away from the book and walked off into the shadows. I tried to do the same but felt incapable of detaching myself from the pain and the horror conveyed by those pictures.
If I lived a thousand years Id still remember the faces of each one of those poor souls. I closed the book and turned towards Mar- ina. I heard her sigh in the gloom and I felt useless, not knowing what to do or say. The images had distressed her profoundly.
Are you all right. Marina nodded, her eyes half closed. Suddenly something made a noise. I scanned the blanket of shadows enveloping us.
Again I heard that strange sound. Then I noticed the stench of rot, nauseating and powerful. It came from the darkness like the breath of a wild animal. I realised we were not alone. There was someone else there. Watching us. Marina stared at the wall of blackness, petrified. I took her hand and led her towards the doorway.
It was one oclock. We began walking back without exchanging a single word. Germn was expecting us for lunch at the house. Dont mention any of this to Germn, please, Marina begged me. I realised that in any case I wouldnt have known how to explain what had happened. As we continued on our way, the memory of the photographs and everything wed seen in that macabre greenhouse began to fade.Marina approached the ballerina, observing her carefully.
The lever gave way. Fifteen minutes later we were sitting on a bench next to the pond in the boarding-school cloister.
A spider scurried over it. An ant was climbing up my trouser leg. For the first time in his life he realised that someone actually believed in him.