The Angel's Game

  “It won’t be necessary.”

  The murmur of the taxi disappeared down the hill and I was left alone with the echo of the wind among the trees. Dead leaves trailed about the entrance to the park and swirled round my feet. I went up to the gates, which were closed with rusty chains, and scanned the grounds on the other side. Moonlight licked the outline of the dragon that presided over the staircase. A dark shape came slowly down the steps, watching me with eyes that shone like pearls under water. It was a black dog. The animal stopped at the foot of the steps and only then did I realize it was not alone. Two more animals were watching me. One of them had crept through the shadow cast by the guard’s house, which stood at one side of the entrance. The other, the largest of the three, had climbed onto the wall and was looking down at me from barely two meters away, steaming breath pouring out between its bared fangs. I drew away very slowly, without taking my eyes off it and without turning round. Step by step I reached the pavement opposite the entrance. Another of the dogs had scrambled up the wall and was following me with its eyes. I quickly surveyed the ground in search of a stick or a stone to use in self-defense if they decided to attack, but all I could see were dry leaves. I knew that if I looked away and started to run, the animals would chase me and I wouldn’t have gone more than twenty meters before they caught me and tore me to pieces. The largest dog advanced a few steps along the wall and I was sure it was going to pounce on me. The third one, the only one I had seen at first, which had probably acted as a decoy, was beginning to climb the lower part of the wall to join the other two. I’m done for, I thought.

  At that moment, a flash lit up the wolfish faces of the three animals, and they stopped in their tracks. I looked over my shoulder and saw the mound that rose about fifty meters from the entrance to the park. The lights in the house had been turned on, the only lights on the entire hill. One of the animals gave a muffled groan and disappeared back into the park. The others followed it a few moments later.

  Without thinking twice, I began to walk toward the house. It was a slender, angular three-story structure, shaped like a tower, its roof crowned with sharp gables, that looked down, like a sentinel, on the city with the ghostly park at its feet.

  The house was at the end of a steep slope, with steps leading up to the front door. The large windows exhaled golden haloes of light. As I climbed the stone steps I thought I noticed the outline of a figure leaning on one of the balustrades on the second floor, as still as a spider waiting in its web. I climbed the last step and stopped to catch my breath. The main door was ajar and a sheet of light stretched out toward my feet. I approached slowly and stopped in the threshold. A smell of dead flowers emanated from within. I knocked gently on the door and it opened slightly. Before me was an entrance hall and a long corridor leading into the house. I heard a dry, repetitive sound, like that of a shutter banging against the window in the wind; it came from inside the house and reminded me of a heart beating. Advancing a few steps into the hall I saw a staircase on my left that led to the upper floors. I thought I heard light footsteps, a child’s footsteps, climbing somewhere high above.

  “Good evening?” I called out.

  Before the echo of my voice had lost itself down the corridor, the percussive sound that was beating somewhere in the house stopped. Total silence now fell all around me and an icy draft kissed my cheek.

  “Señor Corelli? It’s Martín. David Martín.”

  I got no reply, so I ventured forward. The walls were covered with framed photographs of different sizes. From the poses and the clothes worn by the subjects I assumed they were all at least twenty or thirty years old. At the bottom of each frame was a small silver plaque with the name of the person in the photograph and the year it was taken. I studied those faces that were observing me from another time. Children and old people, ladies and gentlemen. They all bore the same shadow of sadness in their eyes, the same silent cry. They stared at the camera with a longing that chilled my blood.

  “Does photography interest you, Martín, my friend?” said a voice next to me.

  Startled, I turned round. Andreas Corelli was gazing at the photographs next to me with a smile tinged with melancholy. I hadn’t seen or heard him approach and when he smiled at me I felt a shiver down my spine.

  “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

  “So did I.”

  “Then let me offer you a glass of wine and we’ll drink a toast to our errors.”

  I followed him to a large room with wide French windows overlooking the city. Corelli pointed to an armchair and then filled two glasses from a decanter on a table. He handed me a glass and sat on the armchair opposite mine.

  I tasted the wine. It was excellent. I almost downed it in one and soon felt the warmth sliding down my throat, calming my nerves. Corelli sniffed at his and watched me with a friendly, relaxed smile.

  “You were right,” I said.

  “I usually am,” Corelli replied. “It’s a habit that rarely gives me any satisfaction. Sometimes I think that few things would give me more pleasure than being sure I had made a mistake.”

  “That’s easy to resolve. Ask me. I’m always wrong.”

  “No, you’re not wrong. I think you see things as clearly as I do and it doesn’t give you any satisfaction either.”

  Listening to him it occurred to me that the only thing that could give me some satisfaction at that precise moment was to set fire to the whole world and burn along with it. As if he’d read my thoughts, Corelli smiled and nodded, baring his teeth.

  “I can help you, my friend.”

  To my surprise, I found myself avoiding his eyes, concentrating instead on that small brooch with the silver angel on his lapel.

  “Pretty brooch,” I said, pointing at it.

  “A family heirloom,” Corelli replied.

  I thought we’d exchanged enough pleasantries to last the whole evening.

  “Señor Corelli, what am I doing here?”

  Corelli’s eyes shone the same color as the wine he was gently swilling in his glass.

  “It’s very simple. You’re here because at last you’ve realized that this is the place you should be. You’re here because I made you an offer a year ago. An offer that at the time you were not ready to accept but that you have not forgotten. And I’m here because I still think that you’re the person I’m looking for and that is why I preferred to wait twelve months rather than let you go.”

  “An offer you never got round to explaining in detail.”

  “In fact, the only thing I gave you was the details.”

  “One hundred thousand francs in exchange for working for you for a whole year, writing a book.”

  “Exactly. Many people would think that was the essential information. But not you.”

  “You told me that when you described the sort of book you wanted me to write for you, I’d do it even if you didn’t pay me.”

  Corelli nodded.

  “You have a good memory.”

  “I have an excellent memory, Señor Corelli, so much so that I don’t recall having seen, read, or heard about any book you’ve published.”

  “Do you doubt my solvency?”

  I shook my head, trying not to let him notice my longing and greed that gnawed at my insides. The less interest I showed, the more tempted I felt by the publisher’s promises.

  “I’m simply curious about your motives,” I said.

  “As you should be.”

  “Anyhow, may I remind you that I have an exclusive contract with Barrido & Escobillas for five more years. The other day I received a very revealing visit from them, and from a litigious-looking lawyer. Still, I suppose it doesn’t really matter, because five years is too long, and if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that I have very little time.”

  “Don’t worry about lawyers. Mine are infinitely more litigious-looking than the ones that couple of pustules use, and they’ve never lost a case. Leave all the legal details and litigation to me.”
r />   From the way he smiled when he uttered those words I thought it best never to have a meeting with the legal advisers for Éditions de la Lumière.

  “I believe you. I suppose that leaves us with the question of what the other details of your offer are—the essential ones.”

  “There’s no simple way of saying this, so I’d better get straight to the point.”

  “Please do.”

  Corelli leaned forward and locked his eyes on mine.

  “Martín, I want you to create a religion for me.”

  At first I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “What did you say?”

  Corelli held his gaze on mine, his eyes unfathomable.

  “I said that I want you to create a religion for me.”

  I stared at him for a long moment, thunderstruck.

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  Corelli shook his head, sipping his wine with relish.

  “I want you to muster all your talent and devote yourself body and soul, for one year, to working on the greatest story you have ever created: a religion.”

  I couldn’t help bursting out laughing.

  “You’re out of your mind. Is that your proposal? Is that the book you want me to write?”

  Corelli nodded calmly.

  “You’ve got the wrong writer. I don’t know anything about religion.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I do. I’m not looking for a theologian. I’m looking for a narrator. Do you know what a religion is, Martín, my friend?”

  “I can barely remember the Lord’s Prayer.”

  “A beautiful and well-crafted prayer. Poetry aside, a religion is really a moral code that is expressed through legends, myths, or any type of literary device in order to establish a system of beliefs, values, and rules with which to regulate a culture or a society.”

  “Amen,” I replied.

  “As in literature or any other act of communication, what confers effectiveness on it is the form and not the content,” Corelli continued.

  “You’re telling me that a doctrine amounts to a tale.”

  “Everything is a tale, Martín. What we believe, what we know, what we remember, even what we dream. Everything is a story, a narrative, a sequence of events with characters communicating an emotional content. We only accept as true what can be narrated. Don’t tell me you’re not tempted by the idea.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Are you not tempted to create a story for which men and women would live and die, for which they would be capable of killing and allowing themselves to be killed, of sacrificing and condemning themselves, of handing over their souls? What greater challenge for your career than to create a story so powerful that it transcends fiction and becomes a revealed truth?”

  We stared at each other for a few seconds.

  “I think you know what my answer is,” I said at last.

  Corelli smiled.

  “I do. But I think you’re the one who doesn’t yet know it.”

  “Thank you for your company, Señor Corelli. And for the wine and the speeches. Very stimulating. Be careful whom you throw them at. I hope you find your man and that the pamphlet is a huge success.”

  I stood up and turned to leave.

  “Are you expected somewhere, Martín?”

  I didn’t reply, but I stopped.

  “Don’t you feel anger, knowing there could be so many things to live for, with good health and good fortune and no ties?” said Corelli from behind me. “Don’t you feel anger when these things are being snatched from your hands?”

  I turned back slowly.

  “What is a year’s work compared with the possibility of having everything you desire come true? What is a year’s work compared with the promise of a long and fulfilling existence?”

  Nothing, I said to myself, despite myself. Nothing.

  “Is that your promise?”

  “You name the price. Do you want to set fire to the whole world and burn with it? Let’s do it together. You set the price. I’m prepared to give you what you most want.”

  “I don’t know what it is that I want most.”

  “I think you do know.”

  The publisher smiled and winked at me. He stood up and went over to a chest of drawers that had a gas lamp resting on it. He opened the first drawer and pulled out a parchment envelope. He handed it to me but I didn’t take it, so he left it on the table that stood between us and sat down again, without saying a word. The envelope was open and inside I could just make out what looked like a few wads of one-hundred-franc notes. A fortune.

  “You keep all this money in a drawer and leave the door open?” I asked.

  “You can count it. If you think it’s not enough, name an amount. As I said, I’m not going to argue with you over money.”

  I looked at the small fortune for a long moment, and in the end I shook my head. At least I’d seen it. It was real. The offer and the vanity he had awoken in me in those moments of misery and despair were real.

  “I cannot accept it,” I said.

  “Do you think it’s dirty money?”

  “All money is dirty. If it were clean nobody would want it. But that’s not the problem.”

  “So?”

  “I cannot accept it because I cannot accept your proposal. I couldn’t even do so if I wanted to.”

  Corelli considered my words.

  “May I ask why?”

  “Because I’m dying, Señor Corelli. Because I have only a few weeks left to live, perhaps only days. Because I have nothing left to offer.”

  Corelli looked down, silent. I heard the wind scratching at the windows and sliding over the house.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” I added.

  “I sensed it.”

  Corelli remained seated, not looking at me.

  “There are plenty of writers who can write this book for you, Señor Corelli. I am grateful for your offer. More than you can imagine. Good night.”

  I began to walk away.

  “Let’s say I was able to help you get over your illness,” he said.

  I stopped halfway down the corridor and turned round. Corelli was barely a meter away, staring straight at me. I thought he was a bit taller, there in the corridor, than when I’d first seen him and that his eyes were larger and darker. I could see my reflection in his pupils getting smaller as they dilated.

  “Does my appearance worry you, Martín, my friend?”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Yes,” I confessed.

  “Please come back and sit down. Give me the opportunity to explain some more. What have you got to lose?”

  “Nothing, I suppose.”

  He put his hand gently on my arm. His fingers were long and pale.

  “You have nothing to fear from me, Martín. I’m your friend.”

  His touch was comforting. I allowed him to guide me back to the sitting room and sat down meekly, like a child waiting for an adult to speak. Corelli knelt down by my armchair and fixed his eyes on mine. He took my hand and pressed it tightly.

  “Do you want to live?”

  I wanted to reply but couldn’t find the words. I realized that my eyes were filling with tears. Until then I had not understood how much I longed to keep on breathing, to keep on opening my eyes every morning and be able to go out into the street, to step on stones and look at the sky, and, above all, to keep on remembering.

  I nodded.

  “I’m going to help you, Martín, my friend. All I ask of you is that you trust me. Accept my offer. Let me help you. Let me give you what you most desire. That is my promise.”

  I nodded again.

  “I accept.”

  Corelli smiled and bent over to kiss me on the cheek. His lips were icy cold.

  “You and I, my friend, are going to do great things together. You’ll see,” he whispered.

  He offered me a handkerchief to dry my tears. I did so without feeling the silent shame of weeping before a stranger, so
mething I had not done since my father died.

  “You’re exhausted, Martín. Stay here for the night. There are plenty of bedrooms in this house. I can assure you that tomorrow you’ll feel better and that you’ll see things more clearly.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, though I realized that Corelli was right. I could barely stand and all I wanted to do was sleep deeply. I couldn’t even bring myself to get up from the armchair, the most comfortable and most comforting in the universal history of all armchairs.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay here.”

  “Of course. I’m going to let you rest. Very soon you’ll feel better. I give you my word.”

  Corelli went over to the chest of drawers and turned off the gas lamp. The room was submerged in a bluish dusk. My eyelids were pressing down heavily and a sense of intoxication filled my head, but I managed to make out Corelli’s silhouette crossing the room and disappearing into the shadows. I closed my eyes and heard the murmur of the wind behind the windowpanes.

  25

  I dreamed that the house was slowly sinking. At first, little teardrops of dark water began to appear through the cracks in the tiles, in the walls, in the relief on the ceiling, through the holes of the door locks. It was a cold liquid that crept slowly and heavily, like mercury, and gradually formed a layer covering the floor and climbing up the walls. I felt the water going over my feet, rising fast. I stayed in the armchair, watching as the water level rose to my throat and then, in just a few seconds, reached the ceiling. I felt myself floating and could see pale lights rising and falling behind the windows. There were human figures also suspended in that watery darkness. Trapped in the current as they floated by, they stretched their hands out to me, but I could not help them and the water dragged them away inexorably. Corelli’s one hundred thousand francs flowed around me, undulating like paper fish. I crossed the room to a closed door at the other end. A thread of light shone through the lock. I opened the door and saw that it led to a staircase descending to the deepest part of the house. I went down.

  At the bottom of the stairs an oval room opened up, and in its center I could distinguish a group of figures gathered in a circle. When they became aware of my presence they turned round and I saw that they were dressed in white and wore masks and gloves. Strong white lights burned over what seemed to be an operating table. A man whose face had no features or eyes was arranging the objects on a tray of surgical instruments. One of the figures stretched out his hand to me, inviting me to draw closer. I went over to them and felt them take hold of me, grabbing my head and my body and lifting me onto the table. The lights were blinding, but I managed to see that all the figures were identical and had the face of Dr. Trías. I laughed to myself. One of the doctors was holding a syringe and injected it into my neck. I didn’t feel the prick, just a pleasant, muzzy sensation of warmth spreading through my body. Two of the doctors placed my head in some holding contraption and proceeded to adjust the crown of screws that held a padded plate at one end. I felt them tying down my arms and legs with straps. I put up no resistance. When my whole body had been immobilized from head to toe, one of the doctors handed a scalpel to another of his twins, who then leaned over me. I felt someone take my hand and hold it. It was a boy who looked at me tenderly and had the same face I had on the day my father was killed.