The Angel's Game (18 page)

Isabella followed my eyes upwards, looking puzzled.

‘Who are you talking to?’

‘I’m not talking to anyone; I’m giving a monologue. It’s the inebriated man’s prerogative. But tomorrow morning first thing I’m going to talk to your father and put an end to this absurdity.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s sworn to kill you if he sees you. He’s got a double-barrelled shotgun hidden under the counter. He’s like that. He once killed a mule with it. It was in the summer, near Argentona—’

‘Shut up. Not another word. Silence.’

Isabella nodded and looked at me expectantly. I began searching for my key. At that point I couldn’t cope with this garrulous adolescent’s drama. I needed to collapse onto my bed and lose consciousness, preferably in that order. I continued looking for a couple of minutes, but in vain. Finally, without saying a word, Isabella came over to me and rummaged through the pocket of my jacket, which my hands had already explored a hundred times, and found the key. She showed it to me, and I nodded, defeated.

Isabella opened the door to the apartment, keeping me upright, then guided me to my bedroom as if I were an invalid, and helped me onto my bed. After settling my head on the pillows, she removed my shoes. I looked at her in confusion.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to take your trousers off.’

She loosened my collar, sat down beside me and smiled with a melancholy expression that belied her youth.

‘I’ve never seen you so sad, Señor Martín. It’s because of that woman, isn’t it? The one in the photograph.’

She held my hand and stroked it, calming me.

‘Everything passes, believe me. Everything.’

Despite myself, I could feel my eyes filling with tears and I turned my head so that she couldn’t see my face. Isabella turned off the light on the bedside table and stayed there, sitting close to me in the dark, listening to the weeping of a miserable drunk, asking no questions, offering no opinion, offering nothing other than her company and her kindness, until I fell asleep.

7

I was woken by the agony of the hangover - a press clamping down on my temples - and the scent of Colombian coffee. Isabella had set a table by my bed with a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a plate with bread, cheese, ham and an apple. The sight of the food made me nauseous, but I stretched out my hand to reach for the coffee pot. Isabella, who had been watching from the doorway, rushed forward and poured a cup for me, full of smiles.

‘Drink it like this, good and strong; it will work wonders.’

I accepted the cup and drank.

‘What’s the time?’

‘One o’clock in the afternoon.’

I snorted.

‘How long have you been awake?’

‘About seven hours.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Cleaning, tidying up, but there’s enough work here for a few months,’ Isabella replied.

I took another long sip of coffee.

‘Thanks,’ I mumbled. ‘For the coffee. And for cleaning up, although you don’t have to do it.’

‘I’m not doing it for you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m doing it for myself. If I’m going to live here, I’d rather not have to worry about getting stuck to something if I lean on it accidentally.’

‘Live here? I thought we’d said that—’

As I raised my voice, a stab of pain scythed through my brain.

‘Shhhh,’ whispered Isabella.

I nodded, agreeing to a truce. I couldn’t quarrel with Isabella now, and I didn’t want to. There would be time enough to take her back to her family once the hangover had beaten a retreat. I finished my coffee in one long gulp and got up. Five or six thorns pierced my head. I groaned. Isabella caught hold of my arm.

‘I’m not an invalid. I can manage on my own.’

She let go of me tentatively. I took a few steps towards the corridor, with Isabella following close behind, as if she feared I was about to topple over at any moment. I stopped in front of the bathroom.

‘May I pee on my own?’

‘Mind how you aim,’ the girl murmured. ‘I’ll leave your breakfast in the gallery.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You have to eat something.’

‘Are you my apprentice or my mother?’

‘It’s for your own good.’

I closed the bathroom door and sought refuge inside. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to what I was seeing. The bathroom was unrecognisable. Clean and sparkling. Everything in its place. A new bar of soap on the sink. Clean towels that I didn’t even know I owned. A smell of bleach.

‘Good God,’ I mumbled.

I put my head under the tap and let the cold water run for a couple of minutes, then went out into the corridor and slowly made my way to the gallery. If the bathroom was unrecognisable, the gallery now belonged to another world. Isabella had cleaned the windowpanes and the floor and tidied the furniture and armchairs. A diaphanous light filtered through the tall windows and the smell of dust had disappeared. My breakfast awaited on the table opposite the sofa, over which the girl had spread a clean throw. The books on the shelves seemed to have been reorganised and the glass cabinets had recovered their transparency. Isabella served me a second cup of coffee.

‘I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work.’

‘Pouring you a coffee?’

She had tidied up the books that lay scattered around in piles on tables and in corners. She had emptied magazine racks that had been overflowing for a decade or more. In just seven hours she had swept away years of darkness, and still she had the time and energy to smile.

‘I preferred it as it was,’ I said.

‘Of course you did, and so did the hundred thousand cockroaches you had as lodgers. I’ve sent them packing with the help of some ammonia.’

‘So that’s the stink I can smell?’

‘This
“
stink” is the smell of cleanliness,’ Isabella protested. ‘You could be a little bit grateful.’

‘I am.’

‘It doesn’t show. Tomorrow I’ll go up to the study and—’

‘Don’t even think about it.’

Isabella shrugged her shoulders, but she still looked determined and I knew that in twenty-four hours the study in the tower was going to suffer an irreparable transformation.

‘By the way, this morning I found an envelope in the corridor. Somebody must have slipped it under the door last night.’

I looked at her over my cup.

‘The main door downstairs is locked,’ I said.

‘That’s what I thought. Frankly, I did find it rather odd and, although it had your name on it—’

‘You opened it.’

‘I’m afraid so. I didn’t mean to.’

‘Isabella, opening other people’s letters is not a sign of good manners. In some places it’s even considered a crime that can be punished by a prison sentence.’

‘That’s what I tell my mother - she always opens my letters. And she’s still free.’

‘Where’s the letter?’

Isabella pulled an envelope out of the pocket of the apron she had donned and handed it to me, averting her eyes. The envelope had serrated edges and the paper was thick, porous and ivory-coloured, with an angel stamped on the red wax - now broken - and my name written in red, perfumed ink. I opened it and pulled out a folded sheet.

Dear David,

I hope this finds you in good health and that you have banked the agreed money without any problems. Do you think we could meet tonight at my house to start discussing the details of our project? A light dinner will be served around ten o’clock. I’ll be waiting for you.

Your friend,
ANDREAS CORELLI

I folded the sheet of paper and put it back in the envelope. Isabella looked at me with curiosity.

‘Good news?’

‘Nothing that concerns you.’

‘Who is this Señor Corelli? He has nice handwriting, not like yours.’

I looked at her severely.

‘If I’m going to be your assistant, it’s only logical that I should know who your contacts are. In case I have to send them packing, that is.’

I grunted.

‘He’s a publisher.’

‘He must be a good one, just look at the writing paper and envelope he uses. What book are you writing for him?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘How can I help you if you won’t tell me what you’re working on? No, don’t answer; I’ll shut up.’

For ten miraculous seconds, Isabella was silent.

‘What’s this Señor Corelli like, then?’

I looked at her coldly.

‘Peculiar . . .’

‘Birds of a feather . . .’

Watching that girl with a noble heart I felt, if anything, more miserable, and understood that the sooner I got her away from me, even at the risk of hurting her, the better it would be for both of us.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘I’m going out tonight, Isabella.’

‘Shall I leave some supper for you? Will you be back very late?’

‘I’ll be having dinner out and I don’t know when I’ll be back, but by the time I return, whenever it is, I want you to have left. I want you to collect your things and go. I don’t care where to. There’s no place for you here. Do you understand?’

Her face grew pale, and her eyes began to water. She bit her lip and smiled at me, her cheeks lined with falling tears.

‘I’m not needed here. Understood.’

‘And don’t do any more cleaning.’

I got up and left her alone in the gallery. I hid in the study, up in the tower, and opened the windows. I could hear Isabella sobbing down in the gallery. I gazed at the city stretching out under the midday sun then turned my head to look in the other direction, where I thought I could almost see the shining tiles covering Villa Helius. I imagined Cristina, Señora de Vidal, standing by the windows of her tower, looking down at the Ribera quarter. Something dark and murky filled my heart. I forgot Isabella’s weeping and wished only for the moment when I would meet Corelli, so that we could discuss his accursed book.

I stayed in the study as the afternoon spread over the city like blood floating in water. It was hot, hotter than it had been all summer, and the rooftops of the Ribera quarter seemed to shimmer like a mirage. I went down to the lower floor and changed my clothes. The house was silent, and in the gallery the shutters were half-closed and the windows tinted with an amber light that spread down the corridor.

‘Isabella?’ I called.

There was no reply. I went over to the gallery and saw that the girl had left. Before doing so, however, she had cleaned and put in order a collection of the complete works of Ignatius B. Samson. For years they had collected dust and oblivion in a glass cabinet that now shone immaculately. She had taken one of the books and left it open on a lectern. I read a line at random and felt as if I were travelling back to a time when everything seemed simple and inevitable.

‘
Poetry is written with tears, novels with blood, and history with invisible ink,’ said the cardinal, as he spread poison on the knife-edge by the light of a candelabra
.

The studied naivety of those lines made me smile and brought back a suspicion that had never really left me: perhaps it would have been better for everyone, especially for me, if Ignatius B. Samson had never committed suicide and David Martín had never taken his place.

8

It was getting dark when I went out. The heat and the humidity had encouraged many of my neighbours to bring their chairs out into the street, hoping for a breeze that never came. I dodged the improvised rings of people sitting around front doors and on street corners, and made my way to the railway station, where there was always a queue of taxis waiting for customers. I got into the first cab in the rank. It took us about twenty minutes to cross the city and climb the hill on whose slopes lay Gaudí’s ghostly forest. The lights in Corelli’s house could be seen from afar.

‘I didn’t know anyone lived here,’ the driver remarked.

As soon as I’d paid for my ride, including a tip, he sped off, not wasting a second. I waited a few moments, savouring the strange silence that filled the place. Not a single leaf moved in the wood that covered the hill behind me. A starlit sky with wisps of cloud spread in every direction. I could hear the sound of my own breathing, of my clothes rustling as I walked, of my steps getting closer to the door. I rapped with the knocker, then waited.

The door opened a few moments later. A man with drooping eyes and drooping shoulders nodded when he saw me and beckoned me in. His outfit suggested that he was some sort of butler or servant. He made no sound at all. I followed him down the passageway with the portraits on either side, and when we came to the end, he showed me into the large sitting room with its view over the whole city in the distance. He bowed slightly and left me on my own, walking away as slowly as he had when he brought me in. I went over to the French windows and looked through the net curtains, killing time while I waited for Corelli. A couple of minutes had gone by before I noticed that someone was observing me from a corner of the room. He was sitting in an armchair, completely still, half in darkness, the light from an oil lamp revealing only his legs and his hands as they rested on the arms of the chair. I recognised him by the glow of his unblinking eyes and by the angel-shaped brooch he always wore on his lapel. As soon as I looked at him he stood up and came over to me with quick steps - too quick - and a wolfish smile that froze my blood.

‘Good evening, Martín.’

I nodded, trying to smile back.

‘I’ve startled you again,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. May I offer you something to drink, or shall we go straight to dinner?’

‘To tell you the truth, I’m not hungry.’

‘It’s the heat, I’m sure. If you like, we can go into the garden and talk there.’

The silent butler reappeared and proceeded to open the doors to the garden, where a path of candles placed on saucers led to a white metal table with two chairs facing each other. The flame from the candles burned bright and did not flicker. The moon cast a soft, bluish hue. I sat down, and Corelli followed suit, while the butler poured us two glasses from a decanter of what I thought must be wine or some sort of liqueur I had no intention of tasting. In the light of the waxing moon, Corelli seemed younger, his features sharper. He observed me with an intensity verging on greed.

‘Something is bothering you, Martín.’

‘I suppose you’ve heard about the fire.’

‘A terrible end, and yet there was poetic justice in it.’

‘You think it just that two men should die in such a way?’

‘Would a gentler way have seemed more acceptable? Justice is an affectation of perspective, not a universal value. I’m not going to pretend to feel dismayed when I don’t, and I don’t suppose you will either, however hard you try. But if you prefer, we can have a minute’s silence.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

‘Of course not. It’s only necessary when one has nothing valid to say. Silence makes even idiots seem wise for a minute. Anything else worrying you, Martín?’

‘The police seem to think I have something to do with what happened. They asked me about you.’

Corelli nodded, unconcerned.

‘The police must do their work and we must do ours. Shall we close this matter?’

I nodded. Corelli smiled.

‘A while ago, as I was waiting for you, I realised that you and I have a small rhetorical conversation pending. The sooner we get it out of the way, the sooner we can get started. I’d like to begin by asking what faith means to you.’

I pondered for a moment.

‘I’ve never been a religious person. Rather than believe or disbelieve, I doubt. Doubt is my faith.’

‘Very prudent and very bourgeois. But you don’t win a game by hitting the balls out of court. Why would you say that so many different beliefs have appeared and disappeared throughout history?’

‘I don’t know. Social, economic or political factors, I suppose. You’re talking to someone who left school at the age of ten. History has never been my strong point.’

‘History is biology’s dumping ground, Martín.’

‘I think I wasn’t at school the day that lesson was taught.’

‘This lesson is not taught in classrooms, Martín. It is taught through reason and the observation of reality. This lesson is the one nobody wants to learn and is therefore the one we must examine carefully in order to be able to do our work. All business opportunities stem from someone else’s inability to resolve a simple and inevitable problem.’

‘Are we talking about religion or economics?’

‘You choose the label.’

‘If I understand you correctly, you’re suggesting that faith, the act of believing in myths, ideologies or supernatural legends, is the consequence of biology.’

‘That’s exactly right.’

‘A rather cynical view, coming from a publisher of religious texts,’ I remarked.

‘A dispassionate and professional view,’ Corelli explained. ‘Human beings believe just as they breathe - in order to survive.’

‘Is that your theory?’

‘It’s not a theory, it’s a statistic.’

‘It occurs to me that at least three quarters of the world would disagree with that assertion,’ I said.

‘Of course. If they agreed they wouldn’t be potential believers. Nobody can really be convinced of something he or she doesn’t
need
to believe in through some biological imperative.’

‘Are you suggesting then that it is part of our nature to be deceived?’

‘It is part of our nature to survive. Faith is an instinctive response to aspects of existence that we cannot explain by any other means - be it the moral void we perceive in the universe, the certainty of death, the mystery of the origin of things, the meaning of our own lives, or the absence of meaning. These are basic and extremely simple aspects of existence, but our own limitations prevent us from responding in an unequivocal way, and for that reason we generate an emotional response, as a defence mechanism. It’s pure biology.’

‘According to you, then, all beliefs or ideals are nothing more than fiction.’

‘All interpretation or observation of reality is necessarily fiction. In this case, the problem is that man is a moral animal abandoned in an amoral universe and condemned to a finite existence with no other meaning than to perpetuate the natural cycle of the species. It is impossible to survive in a prolonged state of reality, at least for a human being. We spend a good part of our lives dreaming, especially when we’re awake. As I said, pure biology.’

I sighed.

‘And after all this, you want me to invent a fable that will make the unwary fall on their knees and persuade them that they have seen the light, that there is something to believe in, something to live and die for - even to kill for.’

‘Exactly. I’m not asking you to invent anything that hasn’t already been invented, one way or another. I’m only asking you to help me give water to the thirsty.’

‘A praiseworthy and pious proposition,’ I said with irony.

‘No, simply a commercial proposition. Nature is one huge free market. The law of supply and demand is a molecular fact.’

‘Perhaps you should find an intellectual to do this job. I can assure you that most of them have never seen a hundred thousand francs in their lives. I bet they’d be prepared to sell their soul, or even invent it, for a fraction of that amount.’

The metallic glow in his eyes made me suspect that Corelli was about to deliver another of his hard-hitting pocket sermons. I visualised the credit in my account at the Banco Hispano Colonial and told myself that a hundred thousand francs were well worth the price of listening to a Mass, or a collection of homilies.

‘An intellectual is usually someone who isn’t exactly distinguished by his intellect,’ Corelli asserted. ‘He claims that label to compensate for his own inadequacies. It’s as old as that saying: tell me what you boast of and I’ll tell you what you lack. Our daily bread. The incompetent always present themselves as experts, the cruel as pious, sinners as excessively devout, usurers as benefactors, the small-minded as patriots, the arrogant as humble, the vulgar as elegant and the feeble-minded as intellectual. Once again, it’s all the work of nature. Far from being the sylph to whom poets sing, nature is a cruel, voracious mother who needs to feed on the creatures she gives birth to in order to stay alive.’

Corelli and his fierce biological poetics were beginning to make me feel queasy. I was uncomfortable at the barely contained vehemence of the publisher’s words, and I wondered whether there was anything in the universe that did not seem repugnant and despicable to him, including myself.

‘You should give inspirational talks in schools and churches on Palm Sunday. You’d be a tremendous success,’ I suggested.

Corelli laughed coldly.

‘Don’t change the subject. What I’m searching for is the opposite of an intellectual, in other words, someone intelligent. And I have found that person.’

‘You flatter me.’

‘Better still, I pay you. And I pay you very well, which is the only real form of flattery in this whorish world. Never accept medals unless they come printed on the back of a cheque. They only benefit those who give them. And since I’m paying you, I expect you to listen and follow my instructions. Believe me when I say that I have no interest at all in making you waste your time. While you’re in my pay, your time is also my time.’

His tone was friendly, but his eyes shone like steel and left no room for misunderstandings.

‘You don’t need to remind me every five minutes.’

‘Forgive my insistence, dear Martín. If I’m making your head spin with all these details it’s only because I’m trying to get them out of the way sooner rather than later. What I want from you is the form, not the content. The content is always the same and has been in place ever since human life began. It’s engraved on your heart with a serial number. What I want you to do is find an intelligent and seductive way of answering the questions we all ask ourselves and you should do so using your own reading of the human soul, putting into practice your art and your profession. I want you to bring me a narrative that awakens the soul.’

‘Nothing more . . .’

‘Nothing less.’

‘You’re talking about manipulating feelings and emotions. Would it not be easier to convince people with a rational, simple and straightforward account?’

‘No. It’s impossible to initiate a rational dialogue with someone about beliefs and concepts if he has not acquired them through reason. It doesn’t matter whether we’re looking at God, race, or national pride. That’s why I need something more powerful than a simple rhetorical exposition. I need the strength of art, of stagecraft. We think we understand a song’s lyrics, but what makes us believe in them, or not, is the music.’

I tried to take in all his gibberish without choking.

‘Don’t worry, there’ll be no more speeches for today,’ Corelli interjected. ‘Now let’s discuss practical matters: we’ll meet about once a fortnight. You will inform me of your progress and show me the work you’ve produced. If I have any changes or observations to make, I will point them out to you. The work will continue for twelve months, or whatever fraction of that time you need to complete the job. At the end of that period you will hand in all the work and the documents it generated, with no exceptions: they belong to the sole proprietor and guarantor of the rights, in other words, me. Your name will not appear as the author of the document and you will agree not to claim authorship after delivery, or to discuss the work you have written or the terms of this agreement, either in private or in public, with anybody. In exchange, you will receive the initial payment of one hundred thousand francs, which has already been paid to you, and, upon receipt of the work to my satisfaction, an additional bonus of fifty thousand francs.’

I gulped. One is never wholly conscious of the greed hidden in one’s heart until one hears the sweet sound of silver.

‘Don’t you want to formalise the contract in writing?’

‘Ours is a gentleman’s agreement, based on honour: yours and mine. It has already been sealed. A gentleman’s agreement cannot be broken because it breaks the person who has signed it,’ said Corelli in a tone that made me think it might have been better to sign a piece of paper, even if it had to be written in blood. ‘Any questions?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I don’t follow you, Martín.’

‘Why do you want all this material, or whatever you wish to call it? What do you plan to do with it?’

‘Problems of conscience, at this stage, Martín?’

‘Perhaps you think of me as someone with no principles, but if I’m going to take part in the project you’re proposing, I want to know what the objective is. I think I have a right to know.’

Corelli smiled and placed his hand on mine. I felt a shiver at the contact of his skin, which was icy cold and smooth as marble.

‘Because you want to live.’

‘That sounds vaguely threatening.’

‘A simple and friendly reminder of what you already know. You’ll help me because you want to live and because you don’t care about the price or the consequences. Because not that long ago you saw yourself at death’s door and now you have an eternity before you and the opportunity of a life. You will help me because you’re human. And because, although you don’t want to admit it, you have faith.’

I withdrew my hand from his reach and watched him get up from his chair and walk over to the end of the garden.