The Angel's Game

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  I sighed, laughing quietly.

  “I see you don’t believe me.”

  “Señor Corelli, I’m an author of penny dreadfuls that don’t even bear my name. My publishers, whom you seem to know, are a couple of second-rate crooks who are not worth their weight in manure, and my readers don’t even know I exist. I’ve spent years earning my living in this trade and I have yet to write a single page that satisfies me. The woman I love thinks I’m wasting my life and she’s right. She also thinks I have no right to desire her because we’re a pair of insignificant souls whose only reason for existence is the debt of gratitude we owe to a man who pulled us both out of poverty, and perhaps she’s right about that too. It doesn’t matter. Before I know it, I’ll be thirty and I’ll realize that every day I look less like the person I wanted to be when I was fifteen. If I reach thirty, that is, because recently my health has been about as consistent as my work. Right now I’m satisfied if I manage one or two decent sentences in an hour. That’s the sort of author and the sort of man I am. Not the sort who receives visits from Parisian publishers with blank checks for writing a book that will change his life and make all his dreams come true.”

  Corelli observed me with a serious expression, carefully weighing every word.

  “I think you judge yourself too severely, a quality that always distinguishes people of true worth. Believe me when I say that throughout my professional life I’ve come across hundreds of characters for whom you wouldn’t have given a damn but who had an extremely high opinion of themselves. But I want you to know that, even if you don’t believe me, I know exactly what sort of author and what sort of man you are. I’ve been watching you for years, as you are well aware. I’ve read all your work, from the very first story you wrote for The Voice of Industry to The Mysteries of Barcelona, and now each of the installments of the Ignatius B. Samson series. I dare say I know you better than you know yourself. Which is why I’m sure that in the end you will accept my offer.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “I know we have something, or a great deal, in common. I know you lost your father, and so did I. I know what it is like to lose one’s father when you still need him. Yours was snatched from you in tragic circumstances. Mine, for reasons that are neither here nor there, rejected me and threw me out of his house—perhaps that was even more painful. I know that you feel lonely, and believe me when I tell you that this is a feeling I have also experienced. I know that in your heart you harbor great expectations, none of which have come true, and that, although you’re not aware of it, this is slowly killing you with every passing day.”

  His words brought about a long silence.

  “You know a lot of things, Señor Corelli.”

  “Enough to think that I would like to be better acquainted with you and become your friend. I don’t suppose you have many friends. Neither do I. I don’t trust people who say they have a lot of friends. It’s a sure sign that they don’t really know anyone.”

  “But you’re not looking for a friend. You’re looking for an employee.”

  “I’m looking for a temporary partner. I’m looking for you.”

  “You seem very sure of yourself.”

  “It’s a fault I was born with,” Corelli replied, standing up. “Another is my gift for seeing into the future. That’s why I realize that perhaps it’s still too soon: hearing the truth from my lips is not enough for you yet. You need to see it with your own eyes. Feel it in your flesh. And believe me, you’ll feel it.”

  He held out his hand and waited until I took it.

  “Can I at least be reassured that you will think about what I’ve told you and that we’ll speak again?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what to say, Señor Corelli.”

  “Don’t say anything right now. I promise that next time we meet you’ll see things more clearly.”

  With those words he gave me a friendly smile and walked off toward the stairs.

  “Will there be a next time?” I asked.

  Corelli stopped and turned.

  “There always is.”

  “Where?”

  In the last rays of daylight falling on the city his eyes glowed like embers.

  I saw him disappear through the door to the staircase. Only then did I realize that during the entire conversation I had not once seen him blink.

  14

  The doctor’s surgery was on a top floor with a view of the sea gleaming in the distance and the slope of Calle Muntaner dotted with trams that slid down to the Ensanche between grand houses and imposing edifices. The place smelled clean. The waiting rooms were tastefully decorated. The paintings were calming, with landscapes full of hope and peace. The shelves displayed books that exuded authority. Nurses moved about like ballet dancers and smiled as they went by. It was a purgatory for people with well-lined pockets.

  “The doctor will see you now, Señor Martín.”

  Dr. Trías was a man with a patrician air and an impeccable appearance who radiated serenity and confidence with every gesture. Gray, penetrating eyes behind rimless glasses. A kind, friendly smile, never frivolous. Dr. Trías was accustomed to jousting with death and the more he smiled the more frightening he became. Judging by the way he escorted me to his room and asked me to sit down, I got the feeling that although some days before, when I had begun to undergo medical tests, he had spoken about recent medical breakthroughs in the fight against the symptoms I had described to him, as far as he was concerned there was no doubt.

  “How are you?” he asked, his eyes darting hesitantly between me and the folder on his desk.

  “You tell me.”

  He smiled faintly, like a good player.

  “The nurse tells me you’re a writer, although here, on the form you filled in when you arrived, I see you put down that you are a mercenary.”

  “In my case there’s no difference at all.”

  “I believe some of my patients have read your books.”

  “I hope it has not caused permanent neurological damage.”

  The doctor smiled as if he’d found my comment amusing and then adopted a more serious expression, implying that the banal and kind preambles to our conversation had come to an end.

  “Señor Martín, I notice that you have come here on your own. Don’t you have any close family? A wife? Siblings? Parents still alive?”

  “That sounds a little ominous,” I ventured.

  “Señor Martín, I’m not going to lie to you. The results of the first tests are not as encouraging as we’d hoped.”

  I looked at him. I didn’t feel fear or unease. I didn’t feel anything.

  “Everything points to the fact that you have a growth lodged in the left lobe of your brain. The results confirm what I feared from the symptoms you described to me and there is every indication that it might be a carcinoma.”

  For a few seconds I was unable to say anything at all. I couldn’t even pretend to be surprised.

  “How long have I had it?”

  “It’s impossible to say for sure, but I assume the tumor has been growing there for some time, which would explain the symptoms you told me about and the difficulties you have recently experienced with your work.”

  I took a deep breath and nodded. The doctor observed me patiently, with a kindly mien, letting me take my time. I tried to start various sentences that never reached my lips. Finally our eyes met.

  “I suppose I’m in your hands, doctor. You’ll have to tell me which treatment to follow.”

  I saw his despairing look as he realized I had not wanted to understand what he was telling me. I nodded once more, fighting the tide of nausea that was beginning to rise up my throat. The doctor poured me a glass of water from a jug and handed it to me. I drank it in one gulp.

  “There is no treatment,” I said.

  “There is. There are a lot of things we can do to relieve the pain and ensure maximum comfort and peace—”

  “But I’m going to die.”

 
“Yes.”

  “Soon.”

  “Possibly.”

  I smiled to myself. Even the worst news is a relief when all it does is confirm what you already knew without wanting to know.

  “I’m twenty-eight,” I said, without quite knowing why.

  “I’m sorry, Señor Martín. I’d like to have given you better news.”

  I felt as if I had finally confessed to a lie or a minor sin and the large slab of remorse that had been pressing down on me was instantly removed.

  “How much longer do I have?”

  “It is difficult to determine exactly. I’d say a year, a year and a half at most.”

  His tone clearly implied that this was a more than optimistic prognosis.

  “And of that year, or whatever it is, how long do you think I’ll still be able to work and cope on my own?”

  “You’re a writer and you work with your brain. Unfortunately that is where the problem is located and where we will first meet limitations.”

  “Limitations is not a medical term, doctor.”

  “The most likely outcome is that as the disease progresses the symptoms you’ve been experiencing will become more intense and more frequent and after a time you’ll have to be admitted to hospital so that we can take care of you.”

  “I won’t be able to write.”

  “You won’t even be able to think about writing.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know. Nine or ten months. Perhaps more, perhaps less. I’m very sorry, Señor Martín.”

  I nodded and stood up. My hands were shaking and I needed some air.

  “Señor Martín, I realize you need time to think about all the things I’ve told you, but it is important that we start your treatment as soon as possible—”

  “I can’t die yet, doctor. Not yet. I have things to do. Afterwards I’ll have a whole lifetime in which to die.”

  15

  That night I went up to the study in the tower and sat at my typewriter, even though I knew that my brain was a blank. The windows were wide open, but Barcelona no longer wanted to tell me anything; I was unable to finish a single page. Anything I did manage to conjure up seemed banal and empty. It was enough to reread my words to understand that they were barely worth the ink with which they’d been typed. I was no longer able to hear the music that issues from a decent piece of prose. Bit by bit, like slow, pleasant poison, the words of Andreas Corelli began to drip into my thoughts.

  I still had at least a hundred pages to go for my umpteenth delivery of those comic book adventures that had provided both Barrido and Escobillas with such bulging pockets, but in that moment I knew I was never going to finish it. Ignatius B. Samson had been left lying on the rails in front of that tram, exhausted, his soul bled dry, poured into too many pages that should never have seen the light of day. But before departing he had conveyed to me his last wishes: that I should bury him without any fuss and that, for once in my life, I should have the courage to use my own voice. His legacy to me was his considerable repertoire of smoke and mirrors. And he asked me to let him go, because he had been born to be forgotten.

  I took the finished pages of his last novel and set fire to them, sensing that a tombstone was being lifted off me with every page I threw into the flames. A moist, warm breeze blew that night over the rooftops and as it came in through my windows it took with it the ashes of Ignatius B. Samson, scattering them through the streets of the old city, where they would always remain—even if his words were lost forever and his name slipped from the memory of even his most devoted readers.

  The following day I turned up at the offices of Barrido & Escobillas. The receptionist was new, almost a child, and didn’t recognize me.

  “Your name?”

  “Hugo, Victor.”

  The receptionist smiled and connected to the switchboard to let Herminia know.

  “Doña Herminia, Señor Hugo Victor is here to see Señor Barrido.”

  I saw her nod and disconnect the switchboard.

  “She says she’ll be right out.”

  “Have you been working here long?”

  “A week,” the girl replied earnestly.

  Unless I was mistaken, she was the eighth receptionist Barrido & Escobillas had employed since the start of the year. The firm’s employees who reported directly to the artful Herminia didn’t last long because as soon as Lady Venom discovered that they had one ounce of common sense more than she had—which happened nine times out of ten—fearing she might be overshadowed, she would accuse them of theft or some other absurd transgression and make a scene until Escobillas kicked them out, threatening them with a hired assassin if they let the cat out of the bag.

  “How good to see you, David,” said Lady Venom. “You’re looking very handsome. You seem well.”

  “That’s because I was run over by a tram. Is Barrido in?”

  “The things you come out with! He’s always in for you. He’s going to be very pleased when I tell him you’ve come to pay us a visit.”

  “You can’t imagine how pleased.”

  Lady Venom took me to Barrido’s office, which was decorated like a chancellor’s palatial rooms in a comic opera, with a profusion of carpets, busts of emperors, still lifes, and leather-bound volumes bought in bulk that I imagined were probably blank inside. Barrido gave me the oiliest of smiles and shook my hand.

  “We’re all waiting impatiently for the next installment. I must tell you, we’ve been reprinting the last two and they’re flying out the window. Another five thousand copies, how about that?”

  I thought it was more likely at least fifty thousand, but I just nodded enthusiastically. Barrido & Escobillas had perfected what was known among Barcelona publishers as the double print run, and theirs was as neatly arranged as a bunch of flowers. Every title had an official print run of a few thousand copies that was declared and on which a ridiculously small margin was paid to the author. Then, if the book took off, they would print a covert edition—or several—of tens of thousands of copies that were never declared and for which the author never saw a penny. This edition could be distinguished from the official one because Barrido had the books printed on the sly in an old sausage plant in Santa Perpètua de Mogoda and if you leafed through the pages they gave off the unmistakable smell of vintage pork.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  Barrido and Lady Venom exchanged looks but kept on grinning. Just then, Escobillas materialized through the door and looked at me with that dry, disdainful air he had, as if he were measuring you for a coffin.

  “Look who has come to see us. Isn’t this a nice surprise?” Barrido asked his partner, who replied with a nod.

  “What bad news?” asked Escobillas.

  “Is there a bit of a delay, Martín, my friend?” Barrido added in a friendly tone. “I’m sure we can accommodate—”

  “No. There’s no delay. Quite simply, there’s not going to be another book.”

  Escobillas took a step forward and raised his eyebrows. Barrido giggled.

  “What do you mean, there’s not going to be another book?” asked Escobillas.

  “I mean that yesterday I burned it and there’s not a single page of the manuscript left.”

  A heavy silence fell. Barrido made a conciliatory gesture and pointed to what was known as the visitors’ armchair, a black, sunken throne in which authors and suppliers were cornered so that they could meet Barrido’s eyes from the appropriate height.

  “Martín, sit down and tell me what this is about. There’s something worrying you, I can see. You can be open with us, we’re like family.”

  Lady Venom and Escobillas nodded with conviction, showing the measure of their esteem in a look of spellbound devotion. I decided to remain standing. They all did the same, staring at me as if I were a pillar of salt that was about to start talking. Barrido’s face hurt from so much smiling.

  “And?”

  “Ignatius B. Samson has committed suicide. He left a
twenty-page unpublished story in which he dies together with Chloé Permanyer, locked in an embrace after swallowing poison.”

  “The author dies in one of his own novels?” asked Herminia, confused.

  “It’s his avant-garde farewell to the world of writing installments. A detail I was sure you would love.”

  “And could there not be an antidote, or …” Lady Venom asked.

  “Martín, I don’t need to remind you that it is you, and not the allegedly deceased Ignatius, who has a contract,” said Escobillas.

  Barrido raised his hands to silence his colleague.

  “I think I know what’s wrong, Martín. You’re exhausted. You’ve been overloading your brain for years without a break—something this house values and is grateful for—you just need a breather. I can understand. We do understand, don’t we?”

  Barrido glanced at Escobillas and at Lady Venom, who nodded and tried to look serious.

  “You’re an artist and you want to make art, high literature, something that springs from your heart and will engrave your name in golden letters on the steps of history.”

  “The way you put it makes it sound ridiculous,” I said.

  “Because it is,” said Escobillas.

  “No, it isn’t,” Barrido cut in. “It’s human. And we’re human. I, my partner, and Herminia, who, being a woman and a creature of delicate sensitivity, is the humanest of all, isn’t that right, Herminia?”

  “Indeed,” Lady Venom agreed.

  “And as we’re human, we understand you and want to support you. Because we’re proud of you and convinced that your success will be our success and because in this firm, when all’s said and done, what matters is the people, not the numbers.”

  At the end of his speech, Barrido paused theatrically. Perhaps he expected me to break into applause, but when he saw that I wasn’t moved he charged on, unimpeded, with his exposition.

  “That is why I’m going to propose the following. Take six months, nine if need be, because, after all, this is like a birth. Lock yourself up in your study to write the great novel of your life. When you’ve finished it, bring it to us and we’ll publish it under your name, putting all our irons in the fire and all our resources behind you. Because we’re on your side.”