The Angel's Game

  “Next stop, Puigcerdà,” he announced.

  …

  The train stopped and let out a blast of steam that inundated the platform. When I got out I was enveloped in a thick mist that smelled of electricity. Shortly afterwards, I heard the stationmaster’s bell and the train set off again. As the coaches filed past, the shape of the station began to emerge around me. I was alone on the platform. A fine curtain of snow was falling, and to the west a red sun peeped below the vault of clouds, scattering the snow with tiny bright embers. I went over to the stationmaster’s office and knocked on the glass door. He looked up, opened the door, and gazed at me distractedly.

  “Could you tell me how to find a place called Villa San Antonio?”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “The sanatorium?”

  “I think so.”

  The stationmaster adopted the pensive air of someone trying to work out how best to offer directions to a stranger. Then, with the help of a whole catalog of gestures and expressions, he came up with the following:

  “You have to walk right through the village, past the church square, until you reach the lake. On the other side of the lake there’s a long avenue with large houses on either side that leads to Paseo de la Rigolisa. There, on a corner, you’ll find a three-story house surrounded by a garden. That’s the sanatorium.”

  “And do you know of anywhere I might find accommodation?”

  “On the way you’ll pass Hotel del Lago. Tell them Sebas sent you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good luck …”

  I walked through the lonely streets of the village beneath the falling snow, looking for the outline of the church tower. On the way I passed a few locals, who bobbed their heads and looked at me suspiciously. When I reached the square, two men who were unloading coal from a cart pointed me in the right direction, and a couple of minutes later I found myself walking down a road that bordered a large, frozen lake surrounded by stately-looking mansions with pointed towers. The great expanse of white was studded with small rowing boats trapped in the ice and around it, like a ribbon, ran a promenade punctuated by benches and trees. I walked to the edge and gazed at the ice spread out at my feet. It must have been almost twenty centimeters thick and in some places it shone like opaque glass, hinting at the current of black water that flowed under its shell.

  Hotel del Lago, a two-story house painted dark red, stood at the end of the lake. Before continuing on my way, I stopped to book a room for two nights and paid in advance. The receptionist informed me that the hotel was almost empty and I could take my pick of rooms.

  “Room 101 has spectacular views of the sunrise over the lake,” he suggested. “But if you prefer a room facing north I have—”

  “You choose,” I cut in, indifferent to the majestic beauty of the landscape.

  “Then Room 101 it is. In the summer, it’s the honeymooners’ favorite.”

  He handed me the keys of the nuptial suite and informed me of the hours for dinner. I told him I’d return later and asked if Villa San Antonio was far from there. The receptionist adopted the same expression I had seen on the face of the stationmaster, first shaking his head, then giving me a friendly smile.

  “It’s quite near, about ten minutes’ walk. If you take the promenade at the end of this street, you’ll see it a short distance away. You can’t miss it.”

  …

  Ten minutes later I was standing by the gates of a large garden strewn with dead leaves half buried in the snow. Beyond the garden, Villa San Antonio rose up like a somber sentinel wrapped in a halo of golden light that radiated from the windows. As I crossed the garden my heart was pounding and my hands perspired despite the bitter cold. I walked up the stairs to the main door. The entrance hall was covered in black and white floor tiles like a chessboard and led to a staircase at the far end. There I saw a young woman in a nurse’s uniform holding the hand of a man who was trembling and seemed to be eternally suspended between two steps, as if his whole life had suddenly become trapped in that moment.

  “Good afternoon?” said a voice to my right.

  Her eyes were black and severe, her features sharp, without a trace of warmth, and she had the serious air of one who has learned not to expect anything but bad news. She must have been in her early fifties, and although she wore the same uniform as the young nurse, everything about her exuded authority and rank.

  “Good afternoon. I’m looking for someone called Cristina Sagnier. I have reason to believe she is staying here …”

  The woman observed me without batting an eyelid.

  “Nobody stays here, sir. This place is not a hotel or a guesthouse.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve just come on a long journey in search of this person …”

  “Don’t apologize,” said the nurse. “May I ask you if you are family or a close friend?”

  “My name is David Martín. Is Cristina Sagnier here? Please …”

  The nurse’s expression softened and there followed a tiny smile. I took a deep breath.

  “I’m Teresa, the sister in charge of night duty. If you’d be so kind as to follow me, Señor Martín, I’ll take you to the office of Dr. Sanjuán.”

  “How is Señorita Sagnier? Can I see her?”

  Another faint and impenetrable smile.

  “This way, please.”

  The rectangular room had four blue walls but no windows and was lit by two lamps that hung from the ceiling, giving off a metallic light. The only three objects in the room were an empty table and two chairs. It was cold and the air smelled of disinfectant. The nurse had described the room as an office, but after ten minutes of waiting on my own, anchored to one of the chairs, all I could see was a cell. Even though the door was shut I could hear voices, sometimes isolated shouts, on the other side of the wall. I was beginning to lose all notion of how long I’d been there when the door opened and a man came in. He was in his midthirties and wore a white coat. His smile was as cold as the air that filled the room. Dr. Sanjuán, I imagined. He walked round the table and sat on the other chair, planting his hands on the desk and observing me with vague curiosity for a few moments.

  “I realize you must be tired after your journey but I’d like to know why Señor Pedro Vidal isn’t here,” he said at last.

  “He wasn’t able to come.”

  The doctor kept his gaze fixed on me, waiting. His eyes were cold and he seemed like the type of person who listens but does not hear.

  “Can I see her?”

  “You can’t see anyone unless you tell me the truth about why you’re here.”

  I surrendered. I hadn’t traveled a hundred and fifty kilometers just to lie.

  “My name is Martín, David Martín. I’m a friend of Cristina Sagnier.”

  “Here we call her Señora de Vidal.”

  “I don’t care what you call her. I want to see her. Now.”

  The doctor sighed.

  “Are you the writer?”

  I stood up impatiently.

  “What sort of place is this? Why can’t I see her?”

  “Sit down, please. I beg you.”

  He pointed to the chair and waited for me to sit down again.

  “May I ask when was the last time you saw her or spoke to her?”

  “Weeks ago,” I replied. “Why?”

  “Do you know anyone who might have seen or spoken to her since then?”

  “No … I don’t know. What’s going on?”

  The doctor put his fingertips to his lips, measuring his words.

  “Señor Martín, I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  The doctor did not reply, but I glimpsed a shadow of doubt in his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  …

  We walked along a short corridor flanked by metal doors. Dr. Sanjuán went in front of me, holding a bunch of keys in his hands. As we passed I thought
I could hear voices whispering, suppressed laughter and sobs. The room was at the end of the corridor. The doctor opened the door but stopped at the threshold, his expression unreadable.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he said.

  I went in and heard the doctor shut the door behind me. Before me lay a room with a high ceiling and white walls reflected in a floor of shining tiles. On one side stood a bed—a metallic frame surrounded by a white gauze curtain. It was empty. Large French windows looked out over the snowy garden, trees, and in the distance the outline of the lake. I didn’t notice her until I’d taken a few steps into the room.

  She was sitting in an armchair by the window, wearing a white nightdress, her hair up in a plait. I went round in front of her and looked straight at her, but her eyes didn’t move. I knelt down next to her, but she didn’t even blink. I put my hand over hers, but she didn’t move a single muscle. Then I noticed the bandages covering her arms, from her wrists to her elbows, and the straps that tied her to the chair. I stroked her cheek, gathering a tear that trickled down her face.

  “Cristina,” I whispered.

  Her eyes were blank: she seemed completely unaware of my presence. I brought a chair over and sat opposite her.

  “It’s David,” I murmured.

  For a quarter of an hour we remained like that, not speaking, her hand in mine, her eyes lost, and my questions unanswered. At some point I heard the door open again and felt someone taking me gently by the arm and pulling me away. It was Dr. Sanjuán. I let myself be led to the corridor without offering any resistance. The doctor shut the door and took me back to his freezing office. I collapsed into a chair, unable to utter a single word.

  “Would you like me to leave you alone for a few minutes?” he asked.

  I nodded. The doctor left the room, closing the door behind him. I stared at my right hand, which was shaking, and clenched my fist. I hardly felt the cold of that room or heard the shouts and voices that filtered through the walls. I only knew that I needed some air and had to get out of that place.

  8

  Dr. Sanjuán found me in the hotel dining room, sitting by the fire next to a plate of food I hadn’t touched. There was nobody else there except for a maid who was going round the deserted tables, polishing the cutlery. Outside it had grown dark and the snow was still falling, like a dusting of powdered blue glass. The doctor walked over to my table and smiled at me.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” he said. “All visitors end up in this hotel. It’s where I spent my first night in the village when I arrived ten years ago. What room were you given?”

  “It’s supposed to be the newlyweds’ favorite, with views over the lake.”

  “Don’t you believe it. That’s what they say about all the rooms.”

  Away from the sanatorium and without his white coat, Dr. Sanjuán looked more relaxed, even friendly.

  “I hardly recognized you without your uniform,” I remarked.

  “Medicine is like the army. The cowl maketh the monk,” he replied. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “I see. I missed you earlier, when I went back to the office to look for you.”

  “I needed some air.”

  “I understand. I was hoping you wouldn’t be affected quite so much.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need you. Or rather, Cristina needs you.”

  I gave a deep sigh.

  “You must think I’m a coward,” I said.

  The doctor shook his head.

  “How long has she been like this?”

  “Weeks. Practically since she arrived here. And she’s getting steadily worse.”

  “Is she aware of where she is?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” the doctor replied with a shrug.

  “What happened to her?”

  Dr. Sanjuán exhaled.

  “She was found, four weeks ago, not far from here—in the village graveyard, lying on her father’s grave. She was delirious and suffering from hypothermia. They brought her to the sanatorium because one of the Civil Guards recognized her from last year, when she spent a few months here, because of her father. A lot of people in the village knew her. We admitted her and she was kept under observation for a night or two. She was dehydrated and had probably not slept in days. Every now and then she regained consciousness, and when she did, she spoke about you. She said you were in great danger. She made me swear I wouldn’t call anyone, not even her husband, until she was capable of doing so herself.”

  “Even so, why didn’t you let Vidal know what had happened?”

  “I would have but … You’ll think this is absurd.”

  “What?”

  “I was convinced that she was fleeing from something and thought it was my duty to help her.”

  “Fleeing from what?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said with an ambiguous expression.

  “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “I’m just a doctor. There are things I don’t understand.”

  “What things?”

  Dr. Sanjuán smiled nervously.

  “Cristina thinks that something, or someone, has got inside her and wants to destroy her.”

  “Who?”

  “I only know that she thinks it has something to do with you and that it frightens her. That’s why I think nobody else can help her. It’s also why I didn’t let Vidal know, as I ought to have done. Because I knew that sooner or later you would turn up here.”

  He looked at me with a strange mixture of pity and despair.

  “I’m fond of her too, Señor Martín. The months Cristina spent visiting her father … we ended up being good friends. I don’t suppose she talked to you about me—there was no reason she would have. It was a very difficult time for her. She confided a lot of things in me, and I in her, things I’ve never told anyone else. In fact, I even proposed to her. So you see, even the doctors here are slightly nuts. Of course she refused me. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  “But she’ll be all right again, won’t she, doctor? She’ll recover …”

  Dr. Sanjuán turned his head toward the fire.

  “I hope so,” he replied.

  “I want to take her away from here.”

  The doctor raised his eyebrows.

  “Take her away? Where to?”

  “Home.”

  “Señor Martín, let me be frank. Aside from the fact that you’re not a relative or, indeed, the patient’s husband—which is a legal requirement—Cristina is in no state to go anywhere.”

  “She’s better off here with you, locked up in a rambling old house, tied to a chair and full of drugs? Don’t tell me you’ve proposed to her again.”

  The doctor observed me carefully, ignoring the offense my words had clearly caused him.

  “Señor Martín, I’m glad you’re here because I believe that together we can help Cristina. I think your presence will allow her to come out of the place into which she has retreated. I believe it, because the only word she has uttered in the last two weeks is your name. Whatever happened to her, I think it had something to do with you.”

  The doctor was watching me as if he expected something from me, something that would answer all his questions.

  “I thought she had abandoned me,” I began. “We were about to run away together, leaving everything behind. I had gone out for a moment to buy the train tickets and do an errand. I wasn’t away for more than ninety minutes but when I returned home, Cristina had left.”

  “Did anything happen before she left? Did you have an argument?”

  I bit my lip.

  “I wouldn’t call it an argument.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “I caught her looking through some papers relating to my work and I think she was offended by what she must have taken as a lack of trust.”

  “Was it something important?”

  “No. Just a manuscript, a draft.”

  “May
I ask what type of manuscript it was?”

  I hesitated.

  “A fable.”

  “For children?”

  “Let’s say for a family audience.”

  “I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. There was no argument. Cristina was slightly annoyed because I wouldn’t let her have a look, but that was all. When I left, she was fine, packing a few things. That manuscript is not important.”

  The doctor acquiesced, more out of courtesy than conviction.

  “Could it be that while you were out someone else visited her?”

  “I was the only one who knew she was there.”

  “Can you think of any reason she would have decided to leave the house before you returned?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s only a question, Señor Martín. I’m trying to understand what happened between the moment you last saw her and her appearance here.”

  “Did she say what, or who, had got inside her?”

  “It’s just a manner of speaking, Señor Martín. Nothing has got inside Cristina. It’s not unusual for patients who have suffered a traumatic experience to feel the presence of dead relatives or imaginary people, or even to disappear into their own minds and close every door to the outside world. It’s an emotional response, a form of self-defense against feelings or emotions that seem unacceptable. But you mustn’t worry about that now. What matters and what’s going to help is that, if there is anyone who is important to her right now, that person is you. From what Cristina confided in me at the time, I know that she loves you, Señor Martín. She loves you as she’s never loved anyone else, and certainly as she’ll never love me. That’s why I’m asking you to help me. Don’t let yourself be blinded by fear or resentment. Help me, because we both want the same thing. We both want Cristina to be able to leave this place.”