The Angel's Game (14 page)

Corelli looked down and fell into a deep silence. I heard the wind scratching at the windows and sliding over the house.

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know,’ I added.

‘I sensed it.’

Corelli remained seated, not looking at me.

‘There are plenty of writers who can write this book for you, Señor Corelli. I am grateful for your offer. More than you can imagine. Goodnight.’

I began to walk away.

‘Let’s say I was able to help you get over your illness,’ he said.

I stopped halfway down the corridor and turned round. Corelli was barely a metre away, staring straight at me. I thought he was a bit taller than when I’d first seen him, there in the corridor, and that his eyes were larger and darker. I could see my reflection in his pupils getting smaller as they dilated.

‘Does my appearance worry you, Martín, my friend?’

I swallowed hard.

‘Yes,’ I confessed.

‘Please come back and sit down. Give me the opportunity to explain some more. What have you got to lose?’

‘Nothing, I suppose.’

He put his hand gently on my arm. His fingers were long and pale.

‘You have nothing to fear from me, Martín. I’m your friend.’

His touch was comforting. I allowed him to guide me back to the sitting room and sat down meekly, like a child waiting for an adult to speak. Corelli knelt down by my armchair and fixed his eyes on mine. He took my hand and pressed it tightly.

‘Do you want to live?’

I wanted to reply but couldn’t find the words. I realised that I had a lump in my throat and my eyes were filling with tears. Until then I had not understood how much I longed to keep on breathing, to keep on opening my eyes every morning and be able to go out into the street, to step on stones and look at the sky, and, above all, to keep on remembering.

I nodded.

‘I’m going to help you, Martín, my friend. All I ask of you is that you trust me. Accept my offer. Let me help you. Let me give you what you most desire. That is my promise.’

I nodded again.

‘I accept.’

Corelli smiled and bent over to kiss me on the cheek. His lips were icy cold.

‘You and I, my friend, are going to do great things together. You’ll see,’ he whispered.

He offered me a handkerchief to dry my tears. I did so without feeling the silent shame of weeping before a stranger, something I had not done since my father died.

‘You’re exhausted, Martín. Stay here for the night. There are plenty of bedrooms in this house. I can assure you that tomorrow you’ll feel better, and that you’ll see things more clearly.’

I shrugged my shoulders, though I realised that Corelli was right. I could barely stand up and all I wanted to do was sleep deeply. I couldn’t even bring myself to get up from the armchair, the most comfortable and most comforting in the universal history of all armchairs.

‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay here.’

‘Of course. I’m going to let you rest. Very soon you’ll feel better. I give you my word.’

Corelli went over to the chest of drawers and turned off the gas lamp. The room was submerged in a bluish dusk. My eyelids were pressing down heavily and a sense of intoxication filled my head, but I managed to make out Corelli’s silhouette crossing the room and disappearing into the shadows. I closed my eyes and heard the murmur of the wind behind the windowpanes.

25

I dreamed that the house was slowly sinking. At first, little teardrops of dark water began to appear through the cracks in the tiles, in the walls, in the relief on the ceiling, through the holes of the door locks. It was a cold liquid that crept slowly and heavily, like mercury, and gradually formed a layer covering the floor and climbing up the walls. I felt the water going over my feet, rising fast. I stayed in the armchair, watching as the water level rose to my throat and then, in just a few seconds, reached the ceiling. I felt myself floating and could see pale lights rising and falling behind the windows. There were human figures also suspended in that watery darkness. Trapped in the current as they floated by, they stretched their hands out to me, but I could not help them and the water dragged them away inexorably. Corelli’s one hundred thousand francs flowed around me, undulating like paper fish. I crossed the room to a closed door at the other end. A thread of light shone through the lock. I opened the door and saw that it led to a staircase descending to the deepest part of the house. I went down.

At the bottom of the stairs an oval room opened up, and in its centre I could distinguish a group of figures gathered in a circle. When they became aware of my presence they turned round and I saw that they were dressed in white and wore masks and gloves. Strong white lights burned over what seemed to be an operating table. A man whose face had no features or eyes was arranging the objects on a tray of surgical instruments. One of the figures stretched out his hand to me, inviting me to draw closer. I went over to them and felt that they were taking hold of me, grabbing my head and my body and lifting me onto the table. The lights were blinding, but I managed to see that all the figures were identical and had the face of Doctor Trías. I laughed to myself. One of the doctors was holding a syringe and injected it into my neck. I didn’t feel the prick, just a pleasant, muzzy sensation of warmth spreading through my body. Two of the doctors placed my head in some holding contraption and proceeded to adjust the crown of screws that held a padded plate at one end. I felt them tying down my arms and legs with straps. I put up no resistance. When my whole body had been immobilised from head to toe, one of the doctors handed a scalpel to another of his clones, who then leaned over me. I felt someone take my hand and hold it. It was a boy who looked at me tenderly and had the same face I had on the day my father was killed.

I saw the blade of the scalpel coming down in the liquid darkness and felt the metal making a cut across my forehead. There was no pain. I could feel something issuing out of the cut and saw a black cloud bleeding slowly from the wound and spreading into the water. The blood rose towards the lights in spirals, like smoke, twisting into ever-changing shapes. I looked at the boy, who was smiling at me and holding my hand tightly. Then I noticed it. Something was moving inside me. Something that, until just a minute ago, had been gripping my mind like pincers. I felt it being dislodged, like a thorn stuck right into the marrow that was being pulled out with pliers. I panicked and wanted to get up, but I was immobilised. The boy kept his eyes on mine and nodded. I thought I was going to faint, or wake up, and then I saw it. I saw it reflected in the lights of the operating theatre. Two black filaments were emerging from the wound, creeping over my skin. It was a black spider the size of a fist. It ran across my face and before it could jump onto the table, one of the surgeons skewered it with a scalpel. He lifted it up so that I could see it. The spider kicked its legs and bled, silhouetted against the light. A white stain covered its carapace suggesting the shape of wings spread open. An angel. After a while the spider’s legs went limp and its body withered. It was still held aloft, and when the boy reached out to touch it, it crumbled into dust. The doctors undid my ties and loosened the contraption that had gripped my skull. With their help I sat up on the table and put my hand on my forehead. The wound was closing. When I looked around me once more, I realised I was alone.

The lights of the operating theatre went out and the room was dark. I went back to the staircase and ascended the steps that led back to the sitting room. The light of dawn was filtering through the water, trapping a thousand floating particles. I was tired. More than I’d ever been in my whole life. I dragged myself to the armchair and let myself fall into it. My body collapsed, and when I was finally at rest on the chair I could see a trail of tiny bubbles beginning to move around the ceiling. A small air chamber was being formed at the top and I realised that the water level was starting to come down. The water, thick and shiny like jelly, gushed out through the cracks in the windows as if the house were a submarine emerging from the deep. I curled up in the armchair, succumbing to a sense of weightlessness and peace which I hoped would never end. I closed my eyes and listened to the murmur of the water around me. I opened them again and saw drops raining down from on high, slowly, like tears caught in mid-flight. I was tired, very tired, and all that I wanted to do was fall into a deep sleep.

I opened my eyes to the intense brightness of a warm noon. Light fell like dust through the French windows. The first thing I noticed was that the hundred thousand francs were still on the table. I stood up and went over to the window. I drew aside the curtain and an arm of blinding light inundated the room. Barcelona was still there, shimmering like a mirage. I realised that the humming in my ears, which only the sounds of the day used to disguise, had disappeared completely. I heard an intense silence, as pure as crystal water, which I didn’t remember ever having experienced before. Then I heard myself laughing. I brought my hands to my head and touched my skin: I felt no pressure whatsoever. I could see clearly and felt as if my five senses had only just awoken. I could even smell the old wood of the coffered ceiling and columns. I looked for a mirror but there wasn’t one in the sitting room. I went out in search of a bathroom or another room where I might find a mirror and be able to see that I hadn’t woken up in a stranger’s body, that the skin I could feel and the bones were my own. All the rooms in the house were locked. I went through the whole floor without being able to open a single door. When I returned to the sitting room I noticed that where I had dreamed there was a door leading to the basement there was only a painting of an angel crouching on a rock that looked out over an endless lake. I went to the stairs that led to the upper floors, but as soon as I’d gone up one flight I stopped. A heavy, impenetrable darkness seemed to reside beyond.

‘Señor Corelli?’ I called out.

My voice was lost as if it had hit something hard, without leaving an echo or trace. I went back to the sitting room and gazed at the money on the table. One hundred thousand francs. I took the money and felt its weight. The paper begged to be stroked. I put it in my pocket and set off again down the passage that led to the exit. The dozens of faces in the portraits were still staring at me with the intensity of a promise. I preferred not to confront their looks and continued walking towards the door, but just as I was nearing the end of the passage I noticed that among the frames there was an empty one, with no inscription or photograph. I became aware of a sweet scent, a scent of parchment, and realised it was coming from my fingers. It was the perfume of money. I opened the main door and stepped out into the daylight. The door closed heavily behind me. I turned round to look at the house, dark and silent, oblivious to the radiant clarity of the day, the blue skies and brilliant sun. I checked my watch. It was after one o’clock. I had slept more than twelve hours in a row on an old armchair, and yet I had never felt better in all my life. I walked down the hill towards the city with a smile on my face, certain that, for the first time in a long while, perhaps for the first time in my whole life, the world was smiling at me.

Act Two

Lux Aeterna

1

I celebrated my return to the world of the living by paying homage to one of the most influential temples in town: the main offices of the Banco Hispano Colonial on Calle Fontanella. The sight of a hundred thousand francs sent the manager, the auditors and the army of cashiers and accountants into ecstasy, and elevated me to the ranks of clients who inspired a devotion and warmth that was almost saintly. Having sorted out formalities with the bank, I decided to deal with another Horseman of the Apocalypse by walking up to a newspaper stand in Plaza Urquinaona. I opened a copy of
The Voice of Industry
and looked for the local news section, which had once been mine. Don Basilio’s expert touch was still apparent in the headlines and I recognised almost all of the bylines, as if not a day had gone by. Six years of General Primo de Rivera’s lukewarm dictatorship had brought to the city a poisonous, murky calm that didn’t sit well with the reporting of crime and sensational stories. I was about to close the newspaper and collect my change when I saw it. Just a brief news item in a column highlighting four different incidents, on the last page of the section.

MIDNIGHT FIRE IN THE RAVAL QUARTER ONE DEAD AND TWO BADLY INJURED

Joan Marc Huguet/Barcelona

A serious fire started in the early hours of Friday morning at 6, Plaza dels Àngels, head office of the publishing firm Barrido & Escobillas. The firm’s director, Don José Barrido, died in the blaze, and his partner, Don José Luis López Escobillas, was seriously injured. An employee, Don Ramón Guzmán, was also badly injured, trapped by the flames as he attempted to rescue the other two men. Firefighters are speculating that the blaze may have been started by a chemical product that was being used for renovation work in the offices. Other causes are not being ruled out, however, as eyewitnesses claim to have seen a man leaving the building moments before the fire began. The victims were taken to the Clínico hospital, where one was pronounced dead on arrival. The other two remain in a critical condition.

I got there as quickly as I could. The smell of burning reached as far as the Ramblas. A group of neighbours and onlookers had congregated in the square opposite the building, and plumes of white smoke rose from the rubble by the entrance. I saw some of the firm’s employees trying to salvage what little remained from the ruins. Boxes of scorched books and furniture bitten by flames were piled up in the street. The facade of the building was blackened and the windows had been blasted out by the fire. I broke through the circle of bystanders and went in. A powerful stench stuck in my throat. Some of the staff from the publishing house who were busy rescuing their belongings recognised me and mumbled a greeting, their heads bowed.

‘Señor Martín . . . what a tragedy.’

I crossed what had once been the reception and went into Barrido’s office. The flames had devoured the carpets and reduced the furniture to glowing skeletons. In one corner, the coffered ceiling had collapsed, opening a pathway of light towards the rear patio along which floated a bright beam of ashes. One chair had miraculously survived the fire. It was in the middle of the room and sitting on it was Lady Venom, crying, her eyes downcast. I knelt down in front of her. She recognised me and smiled between her tears.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

She nodded.

‘He told me to go home, you know? He said it was late and I should get some rest because today was going to be a very long day. We were finishing the monthly accounts . . . If I’d stayed another minute . . .’

‘What happened, Herminia?’

‘We were working late. It was almost midnight when Señor Barrido told me to go home. The publishers were expecting a gentleman . . .’

‘At midnight? Which gentleman?’

‘A foreigner, I think. It had something to do with a proposal. I’m not sure. I would happily have stayed on, but Señor Barrido told me—’

‘Herminia, that gentleman, do you remember his name?’

She gave me a puzzled look.

‘I’ve already told the inspector who came here this morning everything I can remember. He asked for you.’

‘An inspector? For me?’

‘They’re talking to everyone.’

‘Of course.’

Lady Venom looked straight at me, eying me with distrust, as if she were trying to read my thoughts.

‘They don’t know whether he’ll come out of this alive,’ she murmured, referring to Escobillas. ‘We’ve lost everything, the archives, the contracts . . . everything. The publishing house is finished.’

‘I’m sorry, Herminia.’

A crooked, malicious smile appeared.

‘You’re sorry? Isn’t this what you wanted?’

‘How can you think that?’

She looked at me suspiciously.

‘Now you’re free.’

I was about to touch her arm but Herminia stood up and took a step back, as if my presence scared her.

‘Herminia--’

‘Go away,’ she said.

I left Herminia among the smoking ruins. When I went back outside I bumped into a group of children rummaging through the rubble. One of them had disinterred a book from the ashes and was examining it with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. The cover had been disfigured by the fire and the edges of the pages were charred, but otherwise the book was unspoilt. From the lettering on the spine, I knew that it was one of the instalments of
City of the Damned
.

‘Señor Martín?’

I turned to find three men wearing cheap suits that were at odds with the humid, sticky air. One of them, who seemed to be in charge, stepped forward and proffered me the friendly smile of an expert salesman. The other two, who seemed as rigid and unyielding as a hydraulic press, glued their openly hostile eyes on mine.

‘Señor Martín, I’m Inspector Víctor Grandes and these are my colleagues Officers Marcos and Castelo from the investigation and security squad. I wonder if you would be kind enough to spare us a few minutes.’

‘Of course,’ I replied.

The name Víctor Grandes rang a bell from my days as a reporter. Vidal had devoted some of his columns to him, and I particularly recalled one in which he described Grandes as a revelation, a solid figure whose presence in the squad confirmed the arrival of a new generation of elite professionals, better prepared than their predecessors, incorruptible and tough as steel. The adjectives and the hyperbole were Vidal’s, not mine. I imagined that Inspector Grandes would have moved up the ranks since then, and his presence was proof that the police were taking the fire at Barrido & Escobillas seriously.

‘If you don’t mind we can go to a nearby café so that we can talk undisturbed,’ said Grandes, his obliging smile not diminishing one inch.

‘As you wish.’

Grandes took me to a small bar on the corner of Calle Doctor Dou and Calle Pintor Fortuny. Marcos and Castelo walked behind us, never taking their eyes off me. Grandes offered me a cigarette, which I refused. He put the packet back in his pocket and didn’t open his mouth again until we reached the café and I was escorted to a table at the back, where the three men positioned themselves around me. Had they taken me to a dark, damp dungeon the meeting would have seemed more friendly.

‘Señor Martín, you must already know what happened early this morning.’

‘Only what I’ve read in the paper. And what Lady Venom told me . . .’

‘Lady Venom?’

‘I’m sorry. Miss Herminia Duaso, the directors’ assistant.’

Marcos and Castelo exchanged glances that were priceless. Grandes smiled.

‘Interesting nickname. Tell me, Señor Martín, where were you last night?’

How naive of me; the question caught me by surprise.

‘It’s a routine question,’ Grandes explained. ‘We’re trying to establish the whereabouts of anyone who might have been in touch with the victims during the last few days. Employees, suppliers, family . . .’

‘I was with a friend.’

As soon as I opened my mouth I regretted my choice of words. Grandes noticed it.

‘A friend?’

‘Well he’s really someone connected to my work. A publisher. Last night I’d arranged a meeting with him.’

‘Can you tell me until what time you were with this person?’

‘Until late. In fact, I ended up sleeping at his house.’

‘I see. And this person you describe as being connected to your work, what is his name?’

‘Corelli. Andreas Corelli. A French publisher.’

Grandes wrote the name down in a little notebook.

‘The surname sounds Italian,’ he remarked.

‘As a matter of fact, I don’t really know what his nationality is.’

‘That’s understandable. And this Señor Corelli, whatever his citizenship may be, would he be able to corroborate the fact that last night you were with him?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘I suppose so.’

‘You suppose so?’

‘I’m sure he would. Why wouldn’t he?’

‘I don’t know, Señor Martín. Is there any reason why you would think he might not?’

‘No.’

‘That’s settled then.’

Marcos and Castelo were looking at me as if I’d done nothing but tell lies since we sat down.

‘One last thing. Could you explain the nature of the meeting you had last night with this publisher of indeterminate nationality?’

‘Señor Corelli had arranged to meet me because he wanted to make me an offer.’

‘What type of offer?’

‘A professional one.’

‘I see. To write a book, perhaps?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Tell me, is it usual after a business meeting to spend the night in the house of, how shall I put it, the contracting party?’

‘No.’

‘But you say you spent the night in this publisher’s house.’

‘I stayed because I wasn’t feeling well and I didn’t think I’d be able to get back to my house.’

‘The dinner upset you, perhaps?’

‘I’ve had some health problems recently.’

Grandes nodded, looking duly concerned.

‘Dizzy spells, headaches . . .’ I added.

‘But it’s reasonable to assume that now you’re feeling better?’

‘Yes. Much better.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. In fact, you’re looking enviably well. Don’t you agree?’

Castelo and Marcos nodded.

‘Anyone would think you’ve had a great weight taken off your shoulders,’ the inspector pointed out.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m talking about the dizzy spells and the aches and pains.’

Grandes was handling this farce with an exasperating sense of timing.

‘Forgive my ignorance regarding your professional life, Señor Martín, but isn’t it true that you signed an agreement with the two publishers that didn’t expire for another six years?’

‘Five.’

‘And didn’t this agreement tie you, so to speak, exclusively to Barrido & Escobillas?’

‘Those were the terms.’

‘Then why would you need to discuss an offer with a competitor if your agreement didn’t allow you to accept it?’

‘It was just a conversation. Nothing more.’

‘Which nevertheless turned into a soirée at this gentleman’s house.’

‘My agreement doesn’t forbid me to speak to third parties. Or spend the night away from home. I’m free to sleep wherever I wish and to speak to whomever I want.’

‘Of course. I wasn’t trying to imply that you weren’t, but thank you for clarifying that point.’

‘Can I clarify anything else?’

‘Just one small detail. Now that Señor Barrido has passed away, and supposing that, God forbid, Señor Escobillas does not recover from his injuries and also dies, the publishing house would be dissolved and so would your contract. Am I wrong?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t really know how the company was set up.’

‘But would you say that it was likely?’

‘Possibly. You’d have to ask the publishers’ lawyer.’

‘In fact, I already have. And he has confirmed that, if what nobody wants to happen does happen and Señor Escobillas passes away, that is exactly how things will stand.’

‘Then you already have the answer.’

‘And you would have complete freedom to accept the offer of Señor . . .’

‘Corelli.’

‘Tell me, have you accepted it already?’

‘May I ask what this has to do with the cause of the fire?’ I snapped.

‘Nothing. Simple curiosity.’

‘Is that all?’ I asked.

Grandes looked at his colleagues and then at me.

‘As far as I’m concerned, yes.’

I made as if to stand up, but the three policemen remained glued to their seats.

‘Señor Martín, before I forget,’ said Grandes. ‘Can you confirm whether you remember that a week ago Señor Barrido and Señor Escobillas paid you a visit at your home, at number 30, Calle Flassaders, in the company of the aforementioned lawyer?’

‘They did.’

‘Was it a social or a courtesy call?’

‘The publishers came to express their wish that I should return to my work on a series of books I’d put aside for a few months while I devoted myself to another project.’

‘Would you describe the conversation as friendly and relaxed?’

‘I don’t remember anyone raising his voice.’

‘And do you remember replying to them, and I quote, “In a week you and that idiot partner of yours will be dead”? Without raising your voice, of course.’

I sighed.

‘Yes,’ I admitted.

‘What were you referring to?’

‘I was angry and said the first thing that came into my head, inspector. That doesn’t mean that I was serious. Sometimes one says things one doesn’t mean.’

‘Thank you for your candour, Señor Martín. You have been very helpful. Good afternoon.’

I walked away from that place with all three sets of eyes fixed like daggers on my back, and with the firm belief that if I’d replied to every one of the inspector’s questions with a lie I wouldn’t have felt as guilty.