The Angel's Game (43 page)

I
returned home on the same tram, crossing a city that was growing darker by the minute. An icy wind lifted the fallen leaves from the streets. When I got out in Plaza Palacio I heard two sailors who were walking up from the docks talking about a storm that was approaching from the sea and would hit the town before nightfall. I looked up and saw a blanket of reddish clouds beginning to cover the sky. In the streets surrounding the Borne Market people were rushing to secure doors and windows, shopkeepers were closing early, and children came outside to play in the wind, lifting their arms and laughing at the distant roar of thunder. Streetlamps flickered and a flash of lightning bathed the buildings in a sudden white light. I hurried to the door of the tower house and rushed up the steps. The rumble of the storm could be felt through the walls, getting closer.

It was so cold indoors that I could see my breath as I stepped into the corridor. I went straight to the room with an old charcoal stove that I had used only four or five times since I’d lived there and lit it with a wad of old newspapers. I also lit the wood fire in the gallery and sat on the floor facing the flames. My hands were shaking, I didn’t know whether from the cold or from fear. I waited until I had warmed up, staring out at the web of white light traced by lightning across the sky.

The rain didn’t arrive until nightfall, and when it did, it plummeted in curtains of furious drops that quickly blinded the night and flooded rooftops and alleyways, hitting walls and windowpanes with tremendous force. Little by little, with the help of the stove and the fireplace, the house started to warm up, but I was still cold. I got up and went to the bedroom in search of blankets to wrap around myself. I opened the wardrobe and started to rummage in the two large drawers at the bottom. The case was still there, hidden at the back. I picked it up and placed it on the bed.

I opened the case and stared at my father’s old revolver, the only thing I had left of him. I held it, stroking the trigger with my thumb. I opened the drum and inserted six bullets from the ammunition box in the false bottom of the case. I left the box on the bedside table and took the gun and a blanket back to the gallery. Lying on the sofa wrapped in the blanket, with the gun against my chest, I abandoned myself to the storm behind the windowpanes. I could hear the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece but didn’t need to look at it to realize that there was barely half an hour to go before my meeting with the boss in the billiard room at the Equestrian Club.

I closed my eyes and imagined him traveling through the deserted streets of the city, sitting in the backseat of his car, his golden eyes shining in the dark, the silver angel on the hood of the Rolls-Royce plunging through the storm. I imagined him motionless, like a statue, not breathing or smiling, with no expression at all. I heard the crackle of burning wood and the sound of the rain on the windows; I fell asleep with the weapon in my hands and the certainty that I was not going to keep my appointment.

…

Shortly after midnight I opened my eyes. The fire was almost out and the gallery was submerged in the flickering half-light projected by the last blue flames in the embers. It continued to rain heavily. The revolver was still in my hands: it felt warm. I remained like that for a few
seconds, barely blinking. I knew that there was someone at the door before I heard the knock.

I pushed aside the blanket and sat up. I heard the knock again. Knuckles on the front door. I stood up, the gun in my hands, and went into the corridor. Again the knock. I took a few steps toward the door and stopped. I imagined him smiling on the landing, the angel on his lapel gleaming in the dark. I pulled back the hammer on the gun. Once again the sound of a hand knocking on the door. I tried to turn the light on, but there was no power. I kept walking. I was about to slide the peephole open but didn’t dare. I stood there stock-still, hardly daring to breathe, with the gun raised and pointing toward the door.

“Go away,” I called out, with no strength in my voice.

Then I heard a sob on the other side of the door and lowered the gun. I opened the door and found her there in the shadows. Her clothes were soaking and she was shivering. Her skin was frozen. When she saw me, she almost collapsed into my arms. I could find no words, I just held her tight. She smiled weakly at me and when I put my hand on her cheek she kissed it and closed her eyes.

“Forgive me,” whispered Cristina.

She opened her eyes and gave me a broken look that would have stayed with me even in hell. I smiled at her.

“Welcome home.”

I
undressed her by candlelight. I removed her shoes and dress, which were soaking wet, and her laddered stockings. I dried her body and her hair with a clean towel. She was still shaking with cold when I put her to bed and lay down next to her, hugging her to give her warmth. We stayed like that for a long time, not saying anything, just listening to the rain. Slowly I felt her body warming up and her breathing become deeper. I thought she had fallen asleep when I heard her speak.

“Your friend came to see me.”

“Isabella.”

“She told me she’d hidden my letters. She said she hadn’t done it in bad faith. She thought she was doing it for your own good. Perhaps she was right.”

I leaned over and searched her eyes. I caressed her lips and for the first time she smiled weakly.

“I thought you’d forgotten me,” she said.

“I tried.”

Her face was marked by tiredness. The months I had not seen her had drawn lines on her skin and her eyes had an air of defeat and emptiness.

“We’re no longer young,” she said, reading my thoughts.

“When have we ever been young, you and I?”

I pulled away the blanket and looked at her naked body stretched
out on the white sheet. I stroked her neck and her breasts, barely touching her skin with my fingertips. I drew circles on her belly and traced the outline of the bones of her hips. I let my fingers play with the almost transparent hair between her thighs.

Cristina watched me without saying a word, her smile sad and her eyes half open.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

I bent over her and kissed her lips. She embraced me and we remained like that as the light from the candle sputtered, then went out.

“We’ll think of something,” she whispered.

…

I woke up shortly after dawn and discovered I was alone in the bed. I sat up abruptly, fearing that Cristina had left again in the middle of the night. Then I saw her clothes and shoes on the chair and let out a deep sigh. I found her in the gallery, wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the floor by the fireplace, where a breath of blue fire emerged from a smoldering log. I sat down next to her and kissed her on the neck.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, her eyes fixed on the fire.

“You should have woken me.”

“I didn’t dare. You looked as if you were sleeping for the first time in months. I preferred to explore your house.”

“And?”

“This house is cursed with sadness,” she said. “Why don’t you set fire to it?”

“And where would we live?”

“In the plural?”

“Why not?”

“I thought you’d stopped writing fairy tales.”

“It’s like riding a bike. Once you learn …”

Cristina looked at me.

“What’s in that room at the end of the corridor?”

“Nothing. Junk.”

“It’s locked.”

“Do you want to see it?”

She shook her head.

“It’s only a house, Cristina. A pile of stones and memories. That’s all.”

Cristina nodded but looked unconvinced.

“Why don’t we go away?” she asked.

“Where to?”

“Far away.”

I couldn’t help smiling, but she didn’t smile back.

“How far?” I asked.

“Far enough that people won’t know who we are, and won’t care, either.”

“Is that what you want?” I asked.

“Don’t you?”

I hesitated for a second.

“What about Pedro?” I asked, almost choking on the words.

She let the blanket fall from her shoulders and looked at me defiantly. “Do you need his permission to sleep with me?”

I bit my tongue.

Cristina looked at me, her eyes full of tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I had no right to say that.”

I picked up the blanket and tried to cover her, but she moved away, rejecting my gesture.

“Pedro has left me,” she said in a broken voice. “He went to the Ritz yesterday to wait until I’d gone. He said he knew I didn’t love him, that I married him out of gratitude or pity. He said he doesn’t want my compassion and that every day I spend with him pretending to love him only hurts him. Whatever I did he would always love me, he said, and that is why he doesn’t want to see me again.”

Her hands were shaking.

“He’s loved me with all his heart and all I’ve done is make him miserable,” she murmured.

She closed her eyes and her face twisted in pain. A moment later she let out a deep moan and began to hit her face and body with her fists. I threw myself on her and put my arms around her, holding her still.
Cristina struggled and shouted. I pressed her against the floor, restraining her. Slowly she gave in, exhausted, her face covered in tears, her eyes reddened. We remained like that for almost half an hour, until I felt her body relaxing. I covered her with the blanket and embraced her, hiding my own tears.

“We’ll go far away,” I whispered in her ear, not knowing whether she could hear or understand me. “We’ll go far away where nobody will know who we are, and won’t care, either. I promise.”

Cristina tilted her head and looked at me, her face robbed of all expression, as if her soul had been smashed to pieces with a hammer. I held her tight and kissed her on the forehead. The rain was still whipping against the windowpanes. Trapped in that gray, pale light of a dead dawn, it occurred to me for the first time that we were sinking.

T
hat 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.

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.