“I don’t need to pay to see snobs and halfwits congratulating one another, Martín.”
“Don’t be grumpy. I’m buying.”
Sempere declined. His son, who had witnessed the conversation from the entrance to the back room, looked at me, hesitating.
“What if I take your son with me? Will you stop talking to me?”
“It’s up to you how you waste your time and money. I’m staying here to read. Life’s too short.”
Sempere’s son was the very model of discretion. Even though we’d known each other since we were children, I couldn’t remember having had more than three or four short conversations with him. I didn’t know of any vices or weaknesses he might have, but I had it on good authority that among the girls in the quarter he was considered quite a catch, the official golden bachelor. More than one would drop by the bookshop with some excuse and stand sighing by the shop window. But Sempere’s son, even if he noticed, never tried to cash in on those promises of devotion and parted lips. Anyone else would have made a brilliant career in seduction with only a tenth of the capital. Anyone but Sempere’s son, who, one sometimes felt, deserved to be called a saint.
“At this rate, he’s going to end up on the shelf,” Sempere complained from time to time.
“Have you tried throwing a bit of chili pepper into his soup to stimulate the blood flow in key areas?” I would ask.
“You can laugh, you rascal. I’m close to seventy and I don’t have a single grandson.”
…
We were received by the head waiter I remembered from my last visit, but without the servile smile or welcoming gesture. When I told him we hadn’t made a reservation he nodded disdainfully, clicking his fingers to summon a young waiter who guided us unceremoniously to what I imagined was the worst table in the room, next to the kitchen door and buried in a dark, noisy corner. Over the next twenty-five minutes nobody came near our table, not even to offer us the menu or pour us a glass of water. The staff walked past, banging the door and utterly ignoring our presence and our attempts to attract their attention.
“Don’t you think we should leave?” Sempere’s son said at last. “I’d be happy with a sandwich in any old place.”
He’d hardly finished speaking when I saw them arrive. Vidal and his wife were advancing toward their table escorted by the head waiter and two other waiters who were falling over themselves to offer their congratulations. The Vidals sat down and a couple of minutes later the royal audience began: one after the other, all the diners in the room went over to congratulate Vidal. He received these obeisances with divine grace and sent each one away shortly afterwards. Sempere’s son, who had become aware of the situation, was observing me.
“Martín, are you all right? Why don’t we leave?”
I nodded slowly. We got up and headed for the exit, skirting the edges of the dining room on the opposite side from Vidal’s table. Before we left the restaurant we passed the head waiter, who didn’t even bother to look at us, and as we reached the main door I saw, in the mirror above the doorframe, that Vidal was leaning over and kissing Cristina on the lips. Once outside, Sempere’s son looked at me, mortified.
“I’m sorry, Martín.”
“Don’t worry. Bad choice. That’s all. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell your father about all this …”
“Not a word,” he assured me.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. What do you say if I treat you to something more plebeian? There’s an excellent eatery in Calle del Carmen.”
I’d lost my appetite, but I gladly accepted.
“Sounds like a plan.”
The place was near the library and served good homemade meals at inexpensive prices for the people of the area. I barely touched my food, which smelled infinitely better than anything I’d ever smelled at La Mai-son Dorée, but by the time dessert came round I had already drunk, on my own, a bottle and a half of red wine and my head was spinning.
“Tell me something, Sempere. What have you got against improving the human race? How is it that a young, healthy citizen blessed by the Lord Almighty with as fine a figure as yours has not yet taken advantage of the best offers on the market?”
The bookseller’s son laughed.
“What makes you think that I haven’t?”
I touched my nose with my index finger and winked at him. Sempere’s son nodded.
“You will probably take me for a prude, but I like to think that I’m waiting.”
“Waiting for what? For your equipment to get rusty?”
“You sound just like my father.”
“Wise men think and speak alike.”
“There must be something else, surely?” he asked.
“Something else?”
Sempere nodded.
“What do I know?” I said.
“I think you do know.”
“Fat lot of good it’s doing me.”
I was about to pour myself another glass when Sempere stopped me.
“Moderation,” he murmured.
“See what a prude you are?”
“We all are what we are.”
“That can be cured. What do you say you and I go out on the town?”
Sempere looked sorry for me.
“Martín, I think the best thing you can do is go home and rest. Tomorrow is another day.”
“You won’t tell your father I got plastered, will you?”
…
On my way home I stopped in at least seven bars to sample their most potent stock until, for one reason or another, I was thrown out; each time I walked on down the street in search of my next port of call. I had never been a big drinker and by the end of the afternoon I was so drunk I couldn’t even remember where I lived. I recall that a couple of waiters from the Hostal Ambos Mundos in Plaza Real took me by the arms and dumped me on a bench opposite the fountain, where I fell into a deep, thick stupor.
I dreamed that I was at Vidal’s funeral. A blood-filled sky glowered over the maze of crosses and angels surrounding the large mausoleum of the Vidal family in Montjuïc cemetery. A silent cortège of black-veiled figures encircled the amphitheater of darkened marble that formed the portico. Each carried a long white candle. The light from a hundred flames sculpted the contours of a great, grieving marble angel on a pedestal. At the angel’s feet was the open grave of my mentor and, inside it, a glass sarcophagus. Vidal’s body, dressed in white, lay under the glass, his eyes wide open. Black tears ran down his cheeks. The silhouette of his widow, Cristina, emerged from the cortège; she fell on her knees next to the body, drowning in grief. One by one, the members of the procession walked past the deceased and dropped black roses on his glass coffin, until it was completely covered and all one could see was his face. Two faceless gravediggers lowered the coffin into the grave, the base of which was flooded with a thick dark liquid. The sarcophagus floated on the sheet of blood, which slowly filtered through the cracks in the glass cover until little by little it filled the coffin, covering Vidal’s dead body. Before his face was completely submerged, my mentor moved his eyes and looked at me. A flock of black birds took to the air and I started to run, losing my way among the paths of the endless city of the dead. Only the sound of distant crying enabled me to find the exit and to avoid the laments and pleadings of the dark, shadowy figures who waylaid me, begging me to take them with me, to rescue them from their eternal darkness.
…
Two policemen woke me, tapping my leg with their truncheons. Night had fallen and it took me a while to work out whether these were normal policemen on the beat or agents of the Fates on a special mission.
“Now, sir, go and sleep it off at home, understood?”
“Yes, Colonel!”
“Hurry up or you’ll spend the night in jail. Let’s see if you find that funny.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I got up as best I could and set off toward my house, hoping to get there before my feet led me off in
to some other seedy dive. The walk, which would normally have taken me ten or fifteen minutes, took three times as long. Finally, by some miracle, I arrived at my front door only to find Isabella sitting there, like a curse, this time inside the main entrance of the building, in the courtyard.
“You’re drunk,” said Isabella.
“I must be, because in mid delirium tremens I thought I discovered you sleeping in my doorway at midnight.”
“I had nowhere else to go. My father and I quarreled and he’s thrown me out.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. My brain, dulled by alcohol and bitterness, was unable to release its torrent of denials and curses.
“You can’t stay here, Isabella.”
“Please, just for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll look for a pension. I beg you, Señor Martín.”
“Don’t give me that doe-eyed look,” I threatened.
“Besides, it’s your fault that I’ve been thrown out,” she added.
“My fault. I like that! I don’t know whether you have any talent for writing, but you certainly have plenty of imagination. For what ill-fated reason, pray tell me, is it my fault that your dear father has chucked you out?”
“When you’re drunk you have an odd way of speaking.”
“I’m not drunk. I’ve never been drunk in my life. Now answer my question.”
“I told my father you’d taken me on as your assistant and that from now on I was going to devote my life to literature and couldn’t work in the shop.”
“What?”
“Can we go in? I’m cold and my bum’s turned to stone from sitting on the steps.”
My head was going round in circles and I felt nauseated. I looked up at the faint glimmer that seeped through the skylight at the top of the stairs.
“Is this a punishment from above to make me repent my rakish ways?”
Isabella followed my eyes upwards, looking puzzled.
“Who are you talking to?”
“I’m not talking to anyone, I’m delivering 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-barrel 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, 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 nauseated, but I stretched out my hand to reach for the coffeepot. Isabella, who had been watching from the doorway, rushed forward, all smiles, and poured a cup for me.
“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 sliced 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 toward 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 unrecognizable. 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 unrecognizable, the gallery now belonged to another world. Isabella had washed 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 reorganized 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 ages. 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 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 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 with 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-colored, 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.”
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