The Angel's Game (33 page)

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 without saying a word, 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 goodbye.’

When we returned to the tower house it was already dark. As we walked in we were greeted by the warmth of the fire which 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 going tense. 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 that.’

‘If Isabella has already given you all the answers, why are you questioning me?’

Cristina looked at me severely.

‘For your peace of mine, 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 one another 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 was speeding towards the platform where the train was beginning to pull away. I ran after it but the train gathered speed and, despite all 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 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 the tower. A copper-coloured 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 along 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 vestibule 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 realised 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 hall, the porter stopped and leaned on his mop with both hands.

‘They never open on time,’ he explained, pointing towards the ticket offices.

‘Then why do they have a notice saying they open at seven?’

The little man sighed philosophically.

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

The porter continued with his cleaning and fifteen minutes later I heard the window of the 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 Four. 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 with Boulevard Raspail, near the hotel Cristina had mentioned. With that small fortune in my pocket I said goodbye, disregarding the warning given to me by the manager about the risks of walking the streets with that amount of cash in my pocket.

The sun was rising in a blue sky the colour of good luck, and a clean breeze brought with it the smell of the sea. I was walking briskly as if relieved of a tremendous burden, and I began to think that the city had decided to let me go without any ill feeling. In Paseo del Borne I stopped to buy flowers for Cristina, white roses tied with a red ribbon. I climbed the steps to the apartment, two at a time, with a smile on my lips, bearing the certainty that this would be the first day of a life I thought I had lost forever. I was about to open the door when, as I put the key in the lock, it gave way. It was open.

I stepped into the hall. The house was silent.

‘Cristina?’

I left the flowers on a shelf and put my head round the door of the bedroom. Cristina wasn’t there. I walked up the corridor to the gallery. There was no sign of her. I went to the staircase that led up to the study and called out in a loud voice.

‘Cristina?’

Nothing but an echo. I checked the clock on one of the glass cabinets in the gallery. It was almost nine. I imagined that Cristina must have gone out to get something and, being used to leaving such matters as doors and keys to the servants in Pedralbes, she had left the front door open. While I waited, I decided to lie down on the sofa in the gallery. The sun poured in through the large windows: a clean, bright winter sun that felt like a warm caress. I closed my eyes and tried to think about what I was going to take with me. I’d spent half my life surrounded by all these objects, and now, when it was time to part from them, I felt incapable of making a shortlist of the ones I considered essential. Slowly, without noticing, lying under the warmth of the sun and lulled by tepid hope, I fell asleep.

When I woke up and looked at the clock, it was twelve thirty. There was barely half an hour left before the train was due to leave. I jumped up and ran to the bedroom.

‘Cristina?’

This time I went through the whole house, room by room, until I reached the study. There was nobody, but I thought I could smell something odd. Phosphorus. The light from the windows trapped a faint web of blue filaments of smoke suspended in the air. I found a couple of burned matches on the study floor. I felt a pang of anxiety and knelt down by the trunk. I opened it and sighed with relief. The folder containing the manuscript was still there. I was about to close the lid when I noticed something: the red ribbon of the folder was undone. I picked it up and opened it, leafing through the pages, but nothing seemed to be missing. I closed it again, this time tying the ribbon with a double knot, and put it back in its place. After closing the trunk, I went down to the lower floor. I sat on a chair in the gallery, facing the long corridor that led to the front door, and waited. The minutes went by with infinite cruelty.

Slowly, the awareness of what had happened fell upon me, and my desire to believe and to trust turned to bitterness. I heard the bells of Santa María strike two o’clock. The train to Paris had left the station and Cristina had not returned. I realised then that she had gone, that those brief hours we had shared were nothing but a mirage. I went up to the study again and sat down. The dazzling day I saw through the windowpanes was no longer the colour of luck; I imagined her back in Villa Helius, seeking the shelter of Pedro Vidal’s arms. Resentment slowly poisoned my blood and I laughed at myself and my absurd hopes. I remained there, incapable of taking a single step, watching the city grow dark as the afternoon went by and the shadows lengthened. Finally I stood up and went over to the window, opened it wide and looked out. Beneath me a sheer drop, sufficiently high. Sufficiently high to crush my bones, to turn them into daggers that would pierce my body and let it die in a pool of blood on the courtyard below. I wondered whether the pain would be as bad as I imagined it, or whether the impact would be enough to numb the senses and offer a quick, efficient death.

Then I heard three knocks on the door. One, two, three. Insistent. I turned, still dazed by my thoughts. The call came again. There was someone knocking on the door. My heart skipped a beat and I rushed downstairs, convinced that Cristina had returned, that something had happened along the way that had detained her, that my miserable, despicable feelings of betrayal were unjustified and that today was, after all, the first day of that promised life. I ran to the door and opened it. She was there in the shadows, dressed in white. I was about to embrace her, but then I saw her face, wet with tears. It was not Cristina.

‘David,’ Isabella whispered in a broken voice. ‘Señor Sempere has died.’