The Angel's Game (11 page)

“Thank you,” I said.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Just a bit dizzy.”

The stranger sat down next to me. He wore a dark, exquisitely tailored three-piece suit with a small silver brooch on his lapel, an angel with outspread wings that I readily recognized. It occurred to me that the presence of an impeccably dressed gentleman here on the roof terrace was rather unusual. As if he could read my thoughts, the stranger smiled at me.

“I hope I didn’t alarm you,” he ventured. “I suppose you weren’t expecting to meet anyone up here.”

I looked at him in confusion and saw my face reflected in his black pupils as they dilated like an ink stain on paper.

“May I ask what brings you here?”

“The same thing as you: great expectations.”

“Andreas Corelli,” I mumbled.

His face lit up.

“What a great pleasure it is to meet you in person at last, my friend.”

He spoke with a light accent that I was unable to identify. My instinct told me to get up and leave as fast as possible, before the stranger could utter another word, but there was something in his voice, in his eyes, that transmitted calm and trust. I decided not to ask myself how he could have known he would find me there, when even I had not known where I was. He held out his hand and I shook it. His smile seemed to promise redemption.

“I suppose I should thank you for all the kindness you have shown me over the years, Señor Corelli. I’m afraid I’m indebted to you.”

“Not at all. I’m the one who is indebted to you, my friend, and I should excuse myself for approaching you in this way, at so inconvenient a place and time, but I confess that I’ve been wanting to speak to you for a while and have never found the opportunity.”

“Go ahead then. What can I do for you?” I asked.

“I want you to work for me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I want you to write for me.”

“Of course. I’d forgotten you’re a publisher.”

The stranger laughed. He had a sweet laugh, the laugh of a child who has never misbehaved.

“The best of them all. The publisher you have been waiting for all your life. The publisher who will make you immortal.”

The stranger offered me one of his business cards, which was identical to the one I still had, the one I was holding when I awoke from my dream of Chloé.

“I’m flattered, Señor Corelli, but I’m afraid it’s not possible for me to accept your invitation. I have a contract with—”

“Barrido & Escobillas. I know. Riffraff with whom, without wishing to offend you, you should have no dealings whatsoever.”

“It’s an opinion shared by others.”

“Señorita Sagnier, perhaps?”

“You know her?”

“I’ve heard of her. She seems to be the sort of woman whose respect and admiration one would give anything to win, don’t you agree? Doesn’t she encourage you to abandon those parasites and be true to yourself?”

“It’s not that simple. I have an exclusive contract that ties me to them for six more years.”

“I know, but that needn’t worry you. My lawyers are studying the matter and I can assure you there are a number of ways in which legal ties can be rendered null and void, should you wish to accept my proposal.”

“And your proposal is?”

Corelli gave me a mischievous smile, like a schoolboy sharing a secret.

“That you devote a year exclusively to working on a book I would commission, a book whose subject matter you and I would discuss when we signed the contract and for which I would pay you, in advance, the sum of one hundred thousand francs.”

I looked at him in astonishment.

“If that sum does not seem adequate I’m open to considering any other sum you might think more appropriate. I’ll be frank, Señor Martín, I’m not going to quarrel with you about money. And between you and me, I don’t think you’ll want to either, because I know that when I tell you the sort of book I want you to write for me, the price will be the least of it.”

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.

T
he 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.”

T
hat 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.