The Angel's Game

  39

  That same morning I abandoned my work for the boss. While Cristina slept I went up to the study and put the folder containing all the pages, notes, and drafts for the project in an old trunk by the wall. I wanted to set fire to it, but I didn’t have the courage. I had always felt that the pages I left behind were a part of me. Normal people bring children into the world; we novelists bring books. We are condemned to put our whole lives into them, even though they hardly ever thank us for it. We are condemned to die in their pages and sometimes even to let our books be the ones who, in the end, will take our lives. Among all the strange creatures made of paper and ink that I’d brought into the world, this one, my mercenary offering to the promises of the boss, was undoubtedly the most grotesque. There was nothing in those pages that deserved anything better than to be burned, and yet they were still flesh of my flesh and I couldn’t find the courage to destroy them. I abandoned the work in the bottom of that trunk and left the study with a heavy heart, almost ashamed of my cowardice and the murky sense of paternity inspired in me by that manuscript of shadows. The boss would probably have appreciated the irony of the situation. All it inspired in me was disgust.

  …

  Cristina slept well into the afternoon. I took advantage of her sleep to go to the grocer’s shop next to the market and buy some milk, bread, and cheese. The rain had stopped at last, but the streets were full of puddles and you could feel the dampness in the air, like a cold dust that permeated your clothes and your bones. While I waited for my turn in the shop I had the feeling that someone was watching me. When I went outside again and crossed Paseo del Borne, I turned and saw that a boy was following me. He could not have been more than five years old. I stopped and looked at him. The boy held my gaze.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I said. “Come here.”

  The boy came closer, until he was standing about two meters away. His skin was pale, almost blue, as if he’d never seen the sunlight. He was dressed in black and wore shiny new patent leather shoes. His eyes were dark, with pupils so large they left no space for the whites.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  The boy smiled and pointed at me with his finger. I was about to take a step toward him but he ran off, disappearing into Paseo del Borne.

  When I got back to my front door I found an envelope stuck in it. The red wax seal with the angel was still warm. I looked up and down the street but couldn’t see anybody. I went in and closed the main door behind me with a double lock. Then I paused at the foot of the staircase and opened the envelope.

  Dear friend,

  I deeply regret that you were unable to come to our meeting last night. I trust you are well and there has been no emergency or setback. I am sorry I couldn’t enjoy the pleasure of your company, but I hope that whatever it was that did not allow you to join me is quickly and favorably resolved and that next time it will be easier for us to meet. I must leave the city for a few days, but as soon as I return I’ll send word. Hoping to hear from you and to learn about your progress in our joint project, please accept, as always, my friendship and affection,

  ANDREAS CORELLI

  I crushed the letter in my fist and put it in my pocket, then went quietly into the apartment and closed the door. I peeked into the bedroom and saw that Cristina was still asleep. Then I went to the kitchen and began to prepare coffee and a light lunch. A few minutes later I heard Cristina’s footsteps behind me. She was looking at me from the doorway, clad in an old sweater of mine that went halfway down her thighs. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were still swollen. Her lips and cheeks had dark bruises, as if I’d hit her hard. She avoided my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked.

  She shook her head, but I ignored the gesture and motioned for her to sit at the table. I poured her a cup of coffee with milk and sugar and gave her a slice of freshly baked bread with some cheese and a little ham. She made no move to touch her plate.

  “Just a bite,” I suggested.

  She nibbled the cheese and smiled.

  “It’s good,” she said.

  We ate in silence. To my surprise, Cristina finished off half the food on her plate. Then she hid behind the cup of coffee and gave me a fleeting look.

  “If you want, I’ll leave today,” she said at last. “Don’t worry. Pedro gave me money and—”

  “I don’t want you to go anywhere. I don’t want you to go away ever again. Do you hear me?”

  “I’m not good company, David.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Did you mean it? What you said about going far away?”

  I nodded.

  “My father used to say that life doesn’t give second chances.”

  “Only to those who never had a first chance. Actually, they’re secondhand chances that someone else hasn’t made use of, but that’s better than nothing.”

  She smiled faintly.

  “Take me for a walk,” she suddenly said.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “I want to say good-bye to Barcelona.”

  40

  Halfway through the afternoon the sun appeared from behind the blanket of clouds left by the storm. The shining streets were transformed into mirrors, on which pedestrians walked, reflecting the amber of the sky. I remember that we went to the foot of the Ramblas where the statue of Columbus peered out through the mist. We walked in silence, gazing at the buildings and the crowds as if they were a mirage, as if the city were already deserted and forgotten. Barcelona had never seemed so beautiful and so sad to me as it did that afternoon. When it began to grow dark we walked to the Sempere & Sons bookshop and stood in a doorway on the opposite side of the street, where nobody could see us. The shop window of the old bookshop cast a faint light over the damp, gleaming cobblestones. Inside we could see Isabella standing on a ladder, sorting out the books on the top shelf, as Sempere’s son pretended to be going through an accounts book, looking furtively at her ankles all the while. Sitting in a corner, old and tired, Señor Sempere watched them both with a sad smile.

  “This is the place where I’ve found almost all the good things in my life,” I said without thinking. “I don’t want to say good-bye.”

  …

  When we returned to the tower house it was already dark. As we walked in we were greeted by the warmth of the fire that I had left burning when we went out. Cristina went ahead down the corridor and, without saying a word, began to get undressed, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor. I found her lying on the bed, waiting. I lay down beside her and let her guide my hands. As I caressed her I could feel her muscles tensing. There was no tenderness in her eyes, just a longing for warmth, and an urgency. I abandoned myself to her body, charging at her with anger, feeling her nails dig into my skin. I heard her moan with pain and with life, as if she lacked air. At last we collapsed, exhausted and covered in sweat. Cristina leaned her head on my shoulder and looked into my eyes.

  “Your friend told me you’d got yourself into trouble.”

  “Isabella?”

  “She’s very worried about you.”

  “Isabella has a tendency to believe she’s my mother.”

  “I don’t think that’s what she was getting at.”

  I avoided her eyes.

  “She told me you were working on a new book commissioned by a foreign publisher. She calls him the boss. She says he’s paying you a fortune but you feel guilty for having accepted the money. She says you’re afraid of this man, the boss, and there’s something murky about the whole business.”

  I sighed with annoyance.

  “Is there anything Isabella hasn’t told you?”

  “The rest is between us,” she answered, winking at me. “Was she lying?”

  “She wasn’t lying. She was speculating.”

  “And what’s the book about?”

  “It’s a story for children.”

  “Isabella told me you’d say t
hat.”

  “If Isabella has already given you all the answers, why are you questioning me?”

  Cristina looked at me severely.

  “For your peace of mind, and Isabella’s, I’ve abandoned the book. C’est fini,” I assured her.

  Cristina frowned and looked dubious.

  “And this man, the boss, does he know?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him yet. But I suppose he has a good idea. And if he doesn’t, he soon will.”

  “So you’ll have to give him back the money?”

  “I don’t think he’s bothered about the money in the least.”

  Cristina fell into a long silence.

  “May I read it?” she asked at last.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a draft and it doesn’t make any sense yet. It’s a pile of ideas and notes, loose fragments. Nothing readable. It would bore you.”

  “I’d still like to read it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve written it. Pedro always says that the only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him. The person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction.”

  “He must have read that on a postcard.”

  “In fact he took it from one of your books. I know because I’ve read it too.”

  “Plagiarism doesn’t prevent it being nonsense.”

  “I think it makes sense.”

  “Then it must be true.”

  “May I read it then?”

  “No.”

  …

  That evening, sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, looking up occasionally, we ate the remains of the bread and cheese. Cristina had little appetite and examined every morsel of bread in the light of the oil lamp before putting it in her mouth.

  “There’s a train leaving the Estación de Francia for Paris tomorrow at midday,” she said. “Is that too soon?”

  I couldn’t get the image of Andreas Corelli out of my mind; I imagined him coming up the stairs and calling at my door at any moment.

  “I suppose not,” I agreed.

  “I know a little hotel opposite the Luxembourg Gardens where they rent out rooms by the month. It’s a bit expensive, but …” she added.

  I preferred not to ask her how she knew of the hotel.

  “The price doesn’t matter, but I don’t speak French.”

  “I do.”

  I looked down.

  “Look at me, David.”

  I raised my eyes reluctantly.

  “If you’d rather I left …”

  I shook my head. She held my hand and brought it to her lips.

  “It’ll be fine. You’ll see,” she said. “I know. It will be the first thing in my life that will work out all right.”

  I looked at her, a broken woman with tears in her eyes, and didn’t wish for anything in the world other than the ability to give her back what she’d never had.

  We lay down on the sofa in the gallery under a couple of blankets, staring at the embers in the fireplace. I fell asleep stroking Cristina’s hair, thinking it was the last night I would spend in that house, the prison in which I had buried my youth. I dreamed that I was running through the streets of a Barcelona strewn with clocks whose hands were turning backwards. Alleyways and avenues twisted as I ran, as if they had a will of their own, creating a living labyrinth that blocked me at every turn. Finally, under a midday sun that burned in the sky like a red-hot metal sphere, I managed to reach the Estación de Francia and sped toward the platform where the train was beginning to pull away. I ran after it but the train gathered speed and, despite my efforts, all I managed to do was touch it with the tips of my fingers. I kept on running until I was out of breath, and when I reached the end of the platform I fell into a void. When I glanced up it was too late. The train was disappearing into the distance, Cristina’s face staring back at me from the last window.

  …

  I opened my eyes and knew that Cristina was not there. The fire was reduced to a handful of ashes. I stood up and looked through the windows. Dawn was breaking. I pressed my face against the glass and noticed a flickering light shining from the windows of the study. I went to the spiral staircase that led up to the tower. A copper-colored glow spilled down over the steps. I climbed them slowly. When I reached the study I stopped in the doorway. Cristina was sitting on the floor with her back to me. The trunk by the wall was open. Cristina was holding the folder containing the boss’s manuscript and was untying the ribbon.

  When she heard my footsteps she stopped.

  “What are you doing up here?” I asked, trying to hide the note of alarm in my voice.

  Cristina turned and smiled.

  “Nosing around.”

  She followed the direction of my gaze to the folder in her hands and adopted a mischievous expression.

  “What’s in here?”

  “Nothing. Notes. Comments. Nothing of any interest …”

  “You liar. I bet this is the book you’ve been working on,” she said, “I’m dying to read it.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” I said in the most relaxed tone I could muster.

  Cristina frowned. I took advantage of the moment to kneel down beside her and delicately snatch the folder away.

  “What’s the matter, David?”

  “Nothing’s the matter,” I assured her with a stupid smile plastered across my lips.

  I tied the ribbon again and put the folder back in the trunk.

  “Aren’t you going to lock it?” asked Cristina.

  I turned round, ready to offer some excuse, but Cristina had already disappeared down the stairs. I sighed and closed the lid of the trunk.

  I found her in the bedroom. For a moment she looked at me as if I were a stranger.

  “Forgive me,” I began.

  “You don’t have to ask me to forgive you,” she replied. “I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in where I have no business.”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said icily, her tone cutting the air.

  I put off a second remark for a more auspicious moment.

  “The ticket office at the Estación de Francia will be open soon,” I said. “I thought I’d go there so that I can buy the tickets first thing. Then I’ll go to the bank and withdraw some money.”

  “Very good.”

  “Why don’t you get a bag ready in the meantime? I’ll be back in a couple of hours at the most.”

  Cristina barely smiled.

  “I’ll be here.”

  I went over to her and held her face in my hands.

  “By tomorrow night we’ll be in Paris,” I said.

  I kissed her on the forehead and left.

  41

  The large clock suspended from the ceiling of the Estación de Francia was reflected in the shining surface of the floor beneath my feet. The hands pointed to seven thirty-five in the morning, but the ticket offices hadn’t opened yet. A porter, armed with a large broom and an exaggerated manner, was polishing the floor, whistling a popular folk song and, within the limits imposed by his limp, jauntily moving his hips. As I had nothing better to do, I stood there observing him. He was a small man who looked as if the world had wrinkled him up to such a degree that it had taken everything from him except his smile and the pleasure of being able to clean that bit of floor as if it were the Sistine Chapel. There was nobody else around, but finally he realized that he was being watched. When his fifth pass over the floor brought him to my observation post on one of the wooden benches surrounding the vestibule, the porter stopped and leaned on his mop with both hands.

  “They never open on time,” he explained, pointing toward the ticket offices.

  “Then why do they have a notice saying they open at seven?”

  The little man sighed philosophically.

  “Well, they also have timetables and in the fifteen years I’ve been
here I haven’t seen a single train leave on time,” he remarked.

  The porter continued with his cleaning and fifteen minutes later I heard the window of a ticket office opening. I walked over and smiled at the clerk.

  “I thought you opened at seven,” I said.

  “That’s what the notice says. What do you want?”

  “Two first-class tickets to Paris on the midday train.”

  “For today?”

  “If that’s not too much trouble.”

  It took him almost a quarter of an hour. Once he had finished his masterpiece, he dropped the tickets on the counter disdainfully.

  “One o’clock. Platform 4. Don’t be late.”

  I paid and, as I didn’t then leave, he gave me a hostile look.

  “Anything else?”

  I smiled and shook my head, at which point he closed the window in my face. I turned and crossed the immaculate vestibule, its brilliant shine courtesy of the porter, who waved at me from afar and wished me a bon voyage.

  …

  The central offices of the Banco Hispano Colonial on Calle Fontanella were reminiscent of a temple. A huge portico gave way to a nave, which was flanked by statues and extended as far as a row of windows that looked like an altar. On either side of this altar, like side-chapels and confessionals, were oak tables and easy chairs fit for a general, with a small army of auditors and other staff in attendance, neatly dressed and sporting friendly smiles. I withdrew four thousand francs and received instructions on how to take out money at their Paris branch, at the intersection of Rue de Rennes and Boulevard Raspail, near the hotel Cristina had mentioned. With that small fortune in my pocket I said good-bye, disregarding the warning given to me by the manager about the risks of walking the streets with that amount of cash in my pocket.