The Angel's Game (24 page)

As soon as I’d paid for my ride, including a tip, he sped off, not wasting a second. I waited a few moments, savoring 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 when 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 recognized him by the glow of his unblinking eyes and by the angel-shaped brooch 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.

“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 unflickering. 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 observe a moment’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 realized 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 in 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 lives, or the absence of meaning. These are basic and extremely simple aspects of existence, but our limitations prevent us from responding in an unequivocal way and for that reason we generate an emotional response, as a defense 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 purpose 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 souls, or even invent them, 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 visualized 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 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 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 his words, and I wondered whether there was anything in the universe that did not seem repugnant and despicable to him, including me.

“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 check. They benefit only 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 misunderstanding.

“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 since human life began. It’s engraved in 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 swallow his nonsense 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 discuss the work you have written or the terms of this agreement, either in private or in public, with anybody. In exchange, you have already received an initial payment of one hundred thousand francs, and upon delivery of the work to my satisfaction, you will receive a 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 formalize the contract in writing?”

“Ours is a gentleman’s agreement, based on honor, yours and mine. It has already been sealed. A gentleman’s agreement cannot be broken without breaking the person who has entered into it,” said Corelli in a tone that made me think it might have been better to sign a piece of paper, even 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 to the end of the garden.

“Don’t worry, Martín. Everything will turn out all right. Trust me,” said Corelli in a sweet, almost paternal tone.

“May I leave now?”

“Of course. I don’t want to keep you any longer than is necessary. I’ve enjoyed our conversation. I’ll let you go now so you can start mulling over all the things we’ve discussed. You’ll see that, once the indigestion has passed, the real answers will come to you. There is nothing in the path of life that we don’t already know before we start. Nothing important is learned; it is simply remembered.”

He signaled to the taciturn butler, who was waiting at the edge of the garden.

“A car will pick you up and take you home. We’ll meet again in two weeks’ time.”

“Here?”