The Angel's Game (35 page)

4

On our way home we stopped at a grocer’s in Calle Comercio to buy some milk and bread. Isabella told me she was going to ask her father to deliver an order of fine foods and I’d better eat everything up.

‘How are things in the bookshop?’ I asked.

‘The sales have gone right down. I think people feel sad about coming to the shop, because they remember poor Señor Sempere. As things stand, it’s not looking good.’

‘How are the accounts?’

‘Below the waterline. In the weeks I’ve been working there I’ve gone through the ledgers and realised that Señor Sempere, God rest his soul, was a disaster. He’d simply give books to people who couldn’t afford them. Or he’d lend them out and never get them back. He’d buy collections he knew he wouldn’t be able to sell just because the owners had threatened to burn them or throw them away. He supported a whole host of second-rate bards who didn’t have a penny to their name by giving them small sums of money. You can imagine the rest.’

‘Any creditors in sight?’

‘Two a day, not counting letters and final demands from the bank. The good news is that we’re not short of offers.’

‘To buy the place?’

‘A couple of sausage merchants from Vic are very interested in the premises.’

‘And what does Sempere’s son say?’

‘He just says that pork can be mightier than the sword. Realism isn’t his strong point. He says we’ll stay afloat and I should have faith.’

‘And do you?’

‘I have faith in arithmetic, and when I do the sums they tell me that in two months’ time the bookshop window will be full of chorizo and slabs of bacon.’

‘We’ll find a solution.’

Isabella smiled.

‘I was hoping you’d say that. And speaking of unfinished business, please tell me you’re no longer working for the boss.’

I showed her my hands were clean.

‘I’m a free agent once more.’

She accompanied me up the stairs and was about to say goodbye when she appeared to hesitate.

‘What?’ I asked her.

‘I’d decided not to tell you, but . . . I’d rather you heard it from me than from someone else. It’s about Señor Sempere.’

We went into the house and sat down in the gallery by the open fire, which Isabella revived by throwing on a couple of logs. The ashes of Marlasca’s
Lux Aeterna
were still visible and my former assistant threw me a glance I could have framed.

‘What were you going to tell me about Sempere?’

‘It’s something I heard from Don Anacleto, one of the neighbours in the building. He told me that on the afternoon Señor Sempere died he saw him arguing with someone in the shop. Don Anacleto was on his way back home and he said that their voices could be heard from the street.’

‘Who was he arguing with?’

‘It was a woman. Quite old. Don Anacleto didn’t think he’d ever seen her around there, though he did say she looked vaguely familiar - but you never know with Don Anacleto, he likes to chatter on more than he likes sugared almonds.’

‘Did he hear what they were arguing about?’

‘He thought they were talking about you.’

‘About me?’

Isabella nodded.

‘Sempere’s son had gone out for a moment to deliver an order in Calle Canuda. He wasn’t away for more than ten or fifteen minutes. When he got back he found his father lying on the floor, behind the counter. Señor Sempere was still breathing but he was cold. By the time the doctor arrived, it was too late . . .’

I felt the whole world collapsing on top of me.

‘I shouldn’t have told you . . .’ whispered Isabella.

‘No. You did the right thing. Did Don Anacleto say anything else about the woman?’

‘Only that he heard them arguing. He thought it was about a book. Something she wanted to buy and Señor Sempere didn’t want to sell to her.’

‘And why did he mention me? I don’t understand.’

‘Because it was your book.
The Steps of Heaven
. It was Señor Sempere’s only copy, in his personal collection, and was not for sale . . .’

I was filled with a dark certainty.

‘And the book . . . ? ’ I began.

‘It’s no longer there. It disappeared,’ Isabella explained. ‘I checked the sales ledger, because Señor Sempere always made a note of every book he sold, with the date and the price, and this one wasn’t there.’

‘Does his son know?’

‘No. I haven’t told anybody except you. I’m still trying to understand what happened that afternoon in the bookshop. And why. I thought perhaps you might know . . .’

‘I suspect the woman tried to take the book by force, and in the quarrel Señor Sempere suffered a heart attack. That’s what happened,’ I said. ‘And all over a damned book of mine.’

I could feel my stomach churning.

‘There’s something else,’ said Isabella.

‘What?’

‘A few days later I bumped into Don Anacleto on the stairs and he told me he’d remembered how he knew that woman. He said that at first he couldn’t put his finger on it, but now he was sure he’d seen her, many years ago, in the theatre.’

‘In the theatre?’

Isabella nodded.

I was silent for a long while. Isabella watched me anxiously.

‘Now I’m not happy about leaving you here. I shouldn’t have told you.’

‘No, you did the right thing. I’m fine. Honestly.’

Isabella shook her head.

‘I’m staying with you tonight.’

‘What about your reputation?’

‘It’s your reputation that’s in danger. I’ll just go to my parents’ store to phone the bookshop and let him know.’

‘There’s no need, Isabella.’

‘There would be no need if you’d accepted that we live in the twentieth century and had installed a telephone in this mausoleum. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour. No arguments.’

During Isabella’s absence, the death of my old friend Sempere began to weigh on my conscience. I recalled how the old bookseller had always told me that books have a soul, the soul of the person who has written them and of those who have read them and dreamed about them. I realised that until the very last moment he had fought to protect me, giving his own life for a bundle of paper and ink on which, he felt, my soul had been inscribed. When Isabella returned, carrying a bag of delicacies from her parents’ shop, she only needed to take one look at me.

‘You know that woman,’ she said. ‘The woman who killed Sempere . . .’

‘I think so. Irene Sabino.’

‘Isn’t she the one in the old photographs we found? The actress?’

I nodded.

‘Why would she want your book?’

‘I don’t know.’

Later, after sampling one or two treats from Can Gispert, we sat together in the large armchair in front of the hearth. We were both able to fit in, and Isabella leaned her head on my shoulder while we stared at the flames.

‘The other night I dreamed that I had a son,’ she said. ‘I dreamed that he was calling to me but I couldn’t reach him because I was trapped in a place that was very cold and I couldn’t move. He kept calling me and I couldn’t go to him.’

‘It was only a dream.’

‘It seemed real.’

‘Maybe you should write it as a story,’ I suggested.

Isabella shook her head.

‘I’ve been thinking about that. And I’ve decided that I’d rather live my life than write about it. Please don’t take it badly.’

‘I think it’s a wise decision.’

‘What about you? Are you going to live your life?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve already lived quite a lot of it.’

‘What about that woman? Cristina?’

I took a deep breath.

‘Cristina has left. She’s gone back to her husband. Another wise decision.’

Isabella pulled away and frowned at me.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘I think you’re mistaken.’

‘What about?’

‘The other day Gustavo Barceló came by and we talked about you. He told me he’d seen Cristina’s husband, what’s his name . . .’

‘Pedro Vidal.’

‘That’s the one. And Señor Vidal had told him that Cristina had gone off with you, that he hadn’t seen her or heard from her in over a month. As a matter of fact, I was surprised not to find her here, but I didn’t dare ask . . .’

‘Are you sure that’s what Barceló said?’

Isabella nodded.

‘Now what have I said?’ she asked in alarm.

‘Nothing.’

‘There’s something you’re not telling me . . .’

‘Cristina isn’t here. I haven’t seen her since the day Señor Sempere died.’

‘Where is she then?’

‘I don’t know.’

Little by little we grew silent, curled up in the armchair by the fire, and in the small hours Isabella fell asleep. I put my arm round her and closed my eyes, thinking about all the things she had said and trying to find some meaning. When the light of dawn appeared through the windowpanes of the gallery, I opened my eyes and saw that Isabella was already awake.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

‘I’ve been meditating,’ she declared.

‘And?’

‘I’m thinking about accepting Sempere’s proposal.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘No.’ She laughed.

‘What will your parents say?’

‘They’ll be upset, I suppose, but they’ll get over it. They would prefer me to marry a prosperous merchant who sold sausages rather than books, but they’ll just have to put up with it.’

‘It could be worse,’ I remarked

Isabella agreed.

‘Yes. I could end up with a writer.’

We looked at one another for a long time, until she extracted herself from the armchair. She collected her coat and buttoned it up, her back turned to me.

‘I must go,’ she said.

‘Thanks for the company,’ I replied.

‘Don’t let her escape,’ said Isabella. ‘Search for her, wherever she may be, and tell her you love her, even if it’s a lie. We girls like to hear that kind of thing.’

She turned round and leaned over to brush my lips with hers. Then she squeezed my hand and left without saying goodbye.

5

I spent the rest of that week scouring Barcelona for anyone who might remember having seen Cristina over the last month. I visited the places I’d shared with her and traced Vidal’s favourite route through cafés, restaurants and elegant shops, all in vain. I showed everyone I met a photograph from the album Cristina had left in my house and asked whether they had seen her recently. Somewhere, I forget where, I came across a person who recognised her and remembered having seen her with Vidal some time or other. Other people even remembered her name, but nobody had seen her in weeks. On the fourth day, I began to suspect that Cristina had left the tower house that morning after I went to buy the train tickets, and had evaporated off the face of the earth.

Then I remembered that Vidal’s family kept a room permanently reserved at the Hotel España, on Calle Sant Pau, behind the Liceo theatre. It was used whenever a member of the family visited the opera and didn’t feel like returning to Pedralbes in the early hours. I knew that Vidal and his father had also used it - at least in their golden years - to enjoy the company of young ladies whose presence in their official residences in Pedralbes would have led to undesirable rumours - due either to the low or the high birth of the lady in question. More than once Vidal had offered the room to me when I still lived in Doña Carmen’s
pensión
in case, as he put it, I felt like undressing a damsel somewhere that wasn’t quite so alarming. I didn’t think Cristina would have chosen the hotel room as a refuge - if she knew of its existence, that is - but it was the only place left on my list and nowhere else had occurred to me.

It was getting dark when I arrived at the Hotel España and asked to speak to the manager, presenting myself as Señor Vidal’s friend. When I showed him Cristina’s photograph, the manager, a gentleman who mistook frostiness for discretion, smiled politely and told me that ‘other’ members of Vidal’s staff had already been there a few weeks earlier, asking after that same person, and he had told them what he was telling me now: he had never seen that lady in the hotel. I thanked him for his icy kindness and walked away in defeat.

As I passed the glass doors that led into the dining room, I thought I registered a familiar profile. The boss was sitting at one of the tables, the only guest there, eating what looked like lumps of sugar. I was about to make a quick getaway when he turned and waved at me, smiling. I cursed my luck and waved back. He signalled for me to join him. I walked through the dining-room door, dragging my feet.

‘What a lovely surprise to see you here, dear friend. I was just thinking about you,’ said Corelli.

I shook hands with him reluctantly.

‘I thought you were out of town,’ I said.

‘I came back sooner than planned. Would you care for a drink?’

I declined. He asked me to sit down at his table and I obeyed. The boss wore his usual three-piece suit of black wool and a red silk tie. As always, he was impeccably attired, but something didn’t quite add up. It took me a few seconds to notice what it was - the angel brooch was not in his lapel. Corelli followed the direction of my gaze.

‘Alas, I’ve lost it, and I don’t know where,’ he explained.

‘I hope it wasn’t too valuable.’

‘Its value was purely sentimental. But let’s talk about more important matters. How are you, my dear friend? I’ve missed our conversations enormously, despite our occasional disagreements. It’s difficult to find a good conversationalist.’

‘You overrate me, Señor Corelli.’

‘On the contrary.’

A brief silence followed, those bottomless eyes drilling into mine. I told myself that I preferred him when he embarked on his usual banal conversations - when he stopped speaking his face seemed to change and the air thickened around him.

‘Are you staying here?’ I asked to break the silence.

‘No, I’m still in the house by Güell Park. I had arranged to meet a friend here this afternoon, but he seems to be late. The manners of some people are deplorable.’

‘There can’t be many people who dare to stand you up, Señor Corelli.’

The boss looked me straight in the eye.

‘Not many. In fact, the only person I can think of is you.’

The boss took a sugar lump and dropped it into his cup. A second lump followed, and then a third. He tasted the coffee and added four more lumps. Then he picked up yet another and popped it in his mouth.

‘I love sugar,’ he said.

‘So I see.’

‘You haven’t told me anything about our project, Martín, dear friend,’ he cut in. ‘Is there a problem?’

I winced.

‘It’s almost finished,’ I said.

The boss’s face lit up with a smile I tried to ignore.

‘That is wonderful news. When will I be able to see it?’

‘In a couple of weeks. I need to do some revisions. Pruning and finishing touches more than anything else.’

‘Can we set a date?’

‘If you like . . .’

‘How about Friday? That’s the twenty-third. Will you accept an invitation to dine and celebrate the success of our venture?’

Friday 23 January was exactly two weeks away.

‘Fine,’ I agreed.

‘That’s confirmed, then.’

He raised his sugar-filled cup as if he were drinking a toast and downed the contents in one.

‘How about you?’ he asked casually. ‘What brings you here?’

‘I was looking for someone.’

‘Someone I know?’

‘No.’

‘And have you found the person?’

‘No.’

The boss savoured my silence.

‘I get the impression that I’m keeping you here against your will, dear friend.’

‘I’m just a little tired, that’s all.’

‘Then I won’t take up any more of your time. Sometimes I forget that although I enjoy your company, perhaps mine is not to your liking.’

I smiled meekly and took the opportunity to stand up. I saw myself reflected in his pupils, a pale doll trapped in a dark well.

‘Take care of yourself, Martín. Please.’

‘I will.’

I took my leave with a quick nod and headed for the exit. As I walked away I heard him putting another sugar lump in his mouth and crunching it between his teeth.

When I turned into the Ramblas I noticed that the canopies outside the Liceo were lit up and a long row of cars, guarded by a small regiment of chauffeurs in uniform, was waiting by the pavement. The posters announced
Così fan tutte
and I wondered if Vidal had felt like forsaking his castle to go along. I scanned the circle of drivers that had formed on the central pavement and soon spotted Pep among them. I beckoned him over.

‘What are you doing here, Señor Martín?’

‘Where is she?’

‘Señor Vidal is inside, watching the performance.’

‘Not “he”. “She”. Cristina. Señora de Vidal. Where is she?’

Poor Pep swallowed hard.

‘I don’t know. Nobody knows.’

He told me that Vidal had spent weeks attempting to find her and that his father, the patriarch of the clan, had even hired various members of the police force to try to discover where she was.

‘At first, Señor Vidal thought she was with you . . .’

‘Hasn’t she called, or sent a letter, a telegram . . . ? ’

‘No, Señor Martín. I swear. We’re all very worried, and Señor Vidal, well . . . I’ve never seen him like this in all the years I’ve known him. This is the first time he’s gone out since Señorita Cristina, I mean Señora Cristina . . .’

‘Do you remember whether Cristina said something, anything, before she left Villa Helius?’

‘Well . . .’ said Pep, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘You could hear her arguing with Señor Vidal. She seemed sad to me. She spent a lot of time by herself. She wrote letters and every day she went to the post office in Paseo Reina Elisenda to post them.’

‘Did you ever speak to her alone?’

‘One day, shortly before she left, Señor Vidal asked me to drive her to the doctor.’

‘Was she ill?’

‘She couldn’t sleep. The doctor prescribed laudanum.’

‘Did she say anything to you on the way there?’

Pep hesitated.

‘She asked after you, in case I’d heard from you or seen you.’

‘Is that all?’

‘She just seemed very sad. She started to cry, and when I asked her what was the matter she said she missed her father - Señor Manuel . . .’

I suddenly understood and cursed myself for not having thought of it sooner. Pep looked at me in surprise and asked me why I was smiling.

‘Do you know where she is?’ he asked.

‘I think so,’ I murmured.

I thought I could hear a voice calling from the other side of the street and glimpsed a familiar figure in the Liceo foyer. Vidal hadn’t even managed to last the first act. Pep turned to attend to his master’s call, and before he had time to tell me to hide, I had already disappeared into the night.