The Angel's Game (47 page)

Isabella smiled.

“I was hoping you’d say that. And speaking of unfinished business, please tell me you’re no longer working for the boss.”

I showed her my hands were clean.

“I’m a free agent once more.”

She accompanied me up the stairs and was about to say good-bye when she appeared to hesitate.

“What?” I asked her.

“I’d decided not to tell you, but … I’d rather you heard it from me than from someone else. It’s about Señor Sempere.”

We went into the house and sat down in the gallery by the open fire, which Isabella revived by throwing on a couple of logs. The ashes of Marlasca’s
Lux Aeterna
were still visible and my former assistant threw me a glance I could have framed.

“What were you going to tell me about Sempere?”

“It’s something I heard from Don Anacleto, one of the neighbors in the building. He told me that on the afternoon Señor Sempere died he saw him arguing with someone in the shop. Don Anacleto was on his way back home and he said that their voices could be heard from the street.”

“Whom was he arguing with?”

“It was a woman. Quite old. Don Anacleto didn’t think he’d ever seen her around there, though he did say she looked vaguely familiar. But you never know with Don Anacleto. He likes to chatter on more than he likes sugared almonds.”

“Did he hear what they were arguing about?”

“He thought they were talking about you.”

“About me?”

Isabella nodded.

“Sempere’s son had gone out for a moment to deliver an order in Calle Canuda. He wasn’t away for more than ten or fifteen minutes. When he got back he found his father lying on the floor, behind the counter. Señor Sempere was still breathing but he was cold. By the time the doctor arrived, it was too late …”

I felt the whole world collapsing on top of me.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” whispered Isabella.

“No. You did the right thing. Did Don Anacleto say anything else about the woman?”

“Only that he heard them arguing. He thought it was about a book. Something she wanted to buy and Señor Sempere didn’t want to sell her.”

“And why did he mention me? I don’t understand.”

“Because it was your book.
The Steps of Heaven.
It was Señor Sempere’s only copy, in his personal collection, and not for sale.”

I was filled with a dark certainty.

“And the book … ?” I began.

“It’s no longer there. It disappeared,” Isabella explained. “I checked the sales ledger, because Señor Sempere always made a note of every book he sold, with the date and the price, and this one wasn’t there.”

“Does his son know?”

“No. I haven’t told anybody except you. I’m still trying to understand what happened that afternoon in the bookshop. And why. I thought perhaps you might know …”

“I suspect the woman tried to take the book by force, and in the quarrel Señor Sempere suffered a heart attack. That’s what happened,” I said. “And all over a damned book of mine.”

I could feel my stomach churning.

“There’s something else,” said Isabella.

“What?”

“A few days later I bumped into Don Anacleto on the stairs and he told me he’d remembered how he knew that woman. He said that at first he couldn’t put his finger on it, but now he was sure he’d seen her, many years ago, in the theater.”

“In the theater?”

Isabella nodded.

I was silent for a long while. Isabella watched me anxiously.

“Now I’m not happy about leaving you here. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No, you did the right thing. I’m fine. Honestly.”

Isabella shook her head.

“I’m staying with you tonight.”

“What about your reputation?”

“It’s your reputation that’s in danger. I’ll just go to my parents’ store to phone the bookshop and let him know.”

“There’s no need, Isabella.”

“There would be no need if you’d accepted that we live in the twentieth century and had installed a telephone in this mausoleum. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour. No arguments.”

…

During Isabella’s absence, the death of my friend Sempere began to weigh on my conscience. I recalled how the old bookseller had always told me that books have a soul, the soul of the person who wrote them and of those who read them and dream about them. I realized that until the very last moment he had fought to protect me, giving his own life for a bundle of paper and ink in which, he felt, my soul had been inscribed. When Isabella returned, carrying a bag of delicacies from her parents’ shop, she only needed to take one look at me.

“You know that woman,” she said. “The woman who killed Sempere.”

“I think so. Irene Sabino.”

“Isn’t she the one in the old photographs we found? The actress?”

I nodded.

“Why would she want your book?”

“I don’t know.”

Later, after sampling one or two treats from Can Gispert, we sat together in the large armchair in front of the hearth. We were both able to fit on it, and Isabella leaned her head on my shoulder while we stared at the flames.

“The other night I dreamed that I had a son,” she said. “I dreamed that he was calling to me but I couldn’t reach him because I was trapped in a place that was very cold and I couldn’t move. He kept calling me and I couldn’t go to him.”

“It was only a dream.”

“It seemed real.”

“Maybe you should write it as a story,” I suggested.

Isabella shook her head.

“I’ve been thinking about that. And I’ve decided that I’d rather live my life than write about it. Please don’t take it badly.”

“I think it’s a wise decision.”

“What about you? Are you going to live your life?”

“I’m afraid I’ve already lived quite a lot of it.”

“What about that woman? Cristina?”

I took a deep breath.

“Cristina has left. She’s gone back to her husband. Another wise decision.”

Isabella pulled away and frowned at me.

“What?” I asked.

“I think you’re mistaken.”

“What about?”

“The other day Gustavo Barceló came by and we talked about you. He told me he’d seen Cristina’s husband, what’s his name …”

“Pedro Vidal.”

“That’s the one. And Señor Vidal had told him that Cristina had
gone off with you, that he hadn’t seen her or heard from her in over a month. As a matter of fact, I was surprised not to find her here, but I didn’t dare ask.”

“Are you sure that’s what Barceló said?”

Isabella nodded.

“Now what have I said?” she asked in alarm.

“Nothing.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me …”

“Cristina isn’t here. I haven’t seen her since the day Señor Sempere died.”

“Where is she then?”

“I don’t know.”

Little by little we grew silent, curled up in the armchair by the fire, and in the small hours Isabella fell asleep. I put my arm round her and closed my eyes, thinking about all the things she had said and trying to find some meaning. When the light of dawn appeared through the windowpanes of the gallery, I opened my eyes and saw that Isabella was already awake.

“Good morning,” I said.

“I’ve been meditating,” she declared.

“And?”

“I’m thinking about accepting Sempere’s proposal.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.” She laughed.

“What will your parents say?”

“They’ll be upset, I suppose, but they’ll get over it. They would prefer me to marry a prosperous merchant who sold sausages rather than books, but they’ll just have to put up with it.”

“It could be worse,” I remarked.

Isabella agreed.

“Yes. I could end up with a writer.”

We looked at each other for a long time, until she extracted herself from the armchair. She collected her coat and buttoned it up, her back turned to me.

“I must go,” she said.

“Thanks for the company,” I replied.

“Don’t let her escape,” said Isabella. “Search for her, wherever she may be, and tell her you love her, even if it’s a lie. We girls like to hear that kind of thing.”

She turned round and leaned over to brush my lips with hers. Then she squeezed my hand and left without saying good-bye.

I
spent the rest of that week scouring Barcelona for anyone who might remember having seen Cristina over the last month. I visited the places I’d shared with her and traced Vidal’s favorite route through cafés, restaurants, and elegant shops, all in vain. I showed everyone I met a photograph from the album Cristina had left in my house and asked whether they had seen her recently. Somewhere, I forget where, I came across a person who recognized her and remembered having seen her with Vidal sometime or other. Other people even remembered her name, but nobody had seen her in weeks. On the fourth day, I began to suspect that Cristina had left the tower house that morning after I went to buy the train tickets and had evaporated off the face of the earth.

Then I remembered that Vidal’s family kept a room permanently reserved at Hotel España, on Calle Sant Pau, behind the Liceo theater. It was used whenever a member of the family visited the opera and didn’t feel like returning to Pedralbes in the early hours. I knew that Vidal and his father had also used it, at least in their golden years, to enjoy the company of young ladies whose presence in their official residences in Pedralbes would have led to undesirable rumors—due to either the low or the high birth of the lady in question. More than once Vidal had offered the room to me when I still lived in Doña Carmen’s pension in case, as he put it, I felt like undressing a damsel somewhere that wasn’t
quite so alarming. I didn’t think Cristina would have chosen the hotel room as a refuge—if she knew of its existence, that is—but it was the only place left on my list and nowhere else had occurred to me.

It was getting dark when I arrived at Hotel España and asked to speak to the manager, presenting myself as Señor Vidal’s friend. When I showed him Cristina’s photograph, the manager, a gentleman who mistook frostiness for discretion, smiled politely and told me that “other” members of Vidal’s staff had already been there a few weeks earlier, asking after that same person, and he had told them what he was telling me now: he had never seen that lady in the hotel. I thanked him for his icy kindness and walked away in defeat.

As I passed the glass doors that led into the dining room, I thought I registered a familiar profile. The boss was sitting at one of the tables, the only guest there, eating what looked like lumps of sugar. I was about to make a quick getaway when he turned and waved at me, smiling. I cursed my luck and waved back. He signaled for me to join him. I walked through the dining room door, dragging my feet.

“What a lovely surprise to see you here, dear friend. I was just thinking about you,” said Corelli.

I shook hands with him reluctantly.

“I thought you were out of town,” I said.

“I came back sooner than planned. Would you care for a drink?”

I declined. He asked me to sit down at his table and I obeyed. The boss wore his usual three-piece suit of black wool and a red silk tie. As always, he was impeccably attired, but something didn’t quite add up. It took me a few seconds to notice what it was—the angel brooch was not in his lapel. Corelli followed the direction of my gaze.

“Alas, I’ve lost it, and I don’t know where,” he explained.

“I hope it wasn’t too valuable.”

“Its value was purely sentimental. But let’s talk about more important matters. How are you, my dear friend? I’ve missed our conversations enormously, despite our occasional disagreements. It’s difficult to find a good conversationalist.”

“You overrate me, Señor Corelli.”

“On the contrary.”

A brief silence followed, those bottomless eyes drilling into mine. I told myself that I preferred him when he embarked on his usual banal conversations—when he stopped speaking his face seemed to change and the air thickened around him.

“Are you staying here?” I asked to break the silence.

“No, I’m still in the house by Güell Park. I arranged to meet a friend here this afternoon, but he seems to be late. The manners of some people are deplorable.”

“There can’t be many people who dare to stand you up, Señor Corelli.”

The boss looked me straight in the eye.

“Not many. In fact, the only person I can think of is you.”

The boss took a sugar lump and dropped it into his cup. A second lump followed, and then a third. He tasted the coffee and added four more lumps. Then he picked up yet another and popped it in his mouth.

“I love sugar,” he said.

“So I see.”

“You haven’t told me anything about our project, Martín, dear friend,” he cut in. “Is there a problem?”

I winced.

“It’s almost finished,” I said.

The boss’s face lit up with a smile I tried to ignore.

“That is wonderful news. When will I be able to see it?”

“In a couple of weeks. I need to do some revisions. Pruning and finishing touches more than anything else.”

“Can we set a date?”

“If you like.”

“How about Friday? That’s the twenty-fourth. Will you accept an invitation to dine and celebrate the success of our venture?”

Friday, 24 January, was exactly two weeks away.

“Fine,” I agreed.

“That’s confirmed, then.”

He raised his sugar-filled cup as if he were drinking a toast and downed the contents in one gulp.

“How about you?” he asked casually. “What brings you here?”

“I was looking for someone.”

“Someone I know?”

“No.”

“And have you found the person?”

“No.”

The boss savored my silence.

“I get the impression that I’m keeping you here against your will, dear friend.”

“I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”

“Then I won’t take up any more of your time. Sometimes I forget that although I enjoy your company, perhaps mine is not to your liking.”

I smiled meekly and took the opportunity to stand up. I saw myself reflected in his pupils, a pale doll trapped in a dark well.

“Take care of yourself, Martín. Please.”