The Angel's Game Page 11

  “You’re an ace driver!” Manuel had concluded. “If you’re ever stuck with your stories, you could consider a future in racing.”

  I smiled, remembering that moment which I thought I had lost. Cristina handed me the album.

  “Keep it. My father would have liked you to have it.”

  “It’s yours, Cristina. I can’t accept it.”

  “I would rather you kept it.”

  “It’s in storage then, until you want to come and collect it.”

  I turned the pages, revisiting faces I remembered and gazing at others I had never seen. There was the wedding photograph of Manuel Sagnier and his wife, Marta, whom Cristina resembled a great deal, studio portraits of her uncles and grandparents, a picture of a street in the Raval quarter with a procession going by, another of the San Sebastián bathing area on La Barceloneta beach. Manuel had collected old postcards of Barcelona and newspaper cuttings with photos of a very young Vidal—one of him posing by the doors of the Hotel Florida at the top of Mount Tibidabo and another where he stood arm in arm with a staggering beauty in the halls of La Rabasada casino.

  “Your father worshipped Don Pedro.”

  “He always said we owed everything to him,” Cristina answered.

  I continued to travel through poor Manuel’s memories until I came to a page with a photograph that didn’t seem to fit in with the rest. It was a picture of a girl of about eight or nine, walking along a small wooden jetty that stretched out into a sheet of luminous sea. She was holding the hand of an adult, a man dressed in a white suit who was partly cut off by the frame. At the end of the jetty you could make out a small sailboat and an endless horizon on which the sun was setting. The girl, who was standing with her back to the camera, was Cristina.

  “This is my favorite,” said Cristina.

  “Where was it taken?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember that place or that day. I’m not even sure whether that man is my father. It’s as if the moment never existed. I found the picture years ago in my father’s album and I’ve never known what it means. It seems to be trying to say something to me.”

  I went on turning the pages while Cristina told me who each person was.

  “Look, this is me when I was fourteen.”

  “I know.”

  Cristina looked at me sadly.

  “I didn’t realize, did I?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “You’ll never be able to forgive me.”

  I preferred to go on turning the pages rather than look into her eyes.

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “Look at me, David.”

  I closed the album and did as she asked.

  “It’s a lie,” she said. “I did realize. I realized every day, but I thought I had no right.”

  “Why?”

  “Because our lives don’t belong to us. Not mine, not my father’s, not yours …”

  “Everything belongs to Vidal,” I said bitterly.

  Slowly, she took my hand and brought it to her lips.

  “Not today,” she murmured.

  I knew I was going to lose her as soon as the night was over and the pain and loneliness that were gnawing at her went away. I knew she was right, not because what she had said was true but because, deep down, we both believed it and it would always be the same. We hid like two thieves in one of the rooms without daring to light a single candle, without even daring to speak. I undressed her slowly, going over her skin with my lips, conscious that I would never do so again. Cristina gave herself with anger and abandon, and when we were overcome by exhaustion she fell asleep in my arms without feeling the need to say anything. I fought off sleep, enjoying the warmth of her body and thinking that if the following day death should come to take me away, I would go in peace. I caressed Cristina in the dark, listening to the storm outside as it left the city, knowing that I was going to lose her but also knowing that, for a few minutes, we had belonged to each other and to nobody else.

  When the first light of dawn touched the windows I opened my eyes and found the bed empty. I went out into the corridor and as far as the gallery. Cristina had left the album and had taken Vidal’s novel. I went through the whole house, which already smelled of her absence, and one by one blew out the candles I had lit the night before.

  17

  Nine weeks later I was standing in front of 17 Plaza de Cataluña, where the Catalonia bookshop had opened its doors two years earlier. I was staring in amazement at what seemed to be an endless display of copies of a novel called The House of Ashes, by Pedro Vidal. I smiled to myself. My mentor had even used the title I had suggested to him years before, when I had given him the idea for the story. I decided to go in and ask for a copy. I opened it at random and began to reread passages I knew by heart, for I had finished going over them only a couple of months earlier. I didn’t find a single word in the whole book that I hadn’t put there myself, except for the dedication: “For Cristina Sagnier, without whom …”

  When I handed the book back to the shop assistant he told me not to think twice about buying it.

  “We received it two days ago and I’ve already read it,” he added. “A great novel. Take my advice and buy it now. I know the papers are praising it to the skies and that’s usually a bad sign, but in this case it’s the exception that proves the rule. If you don’t like it, bring it to me and I’ll give you your money back.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. Knowing what I knew, his recommendation was flattering. “But I’ve read it too.”

  “May I interest you in something else?”

  “You don’t have a novel called The Steps of Heaven?”

  The bookseller thought for a moment.

  “That’s the one by Martín, isn’t it? I heard a rumor he also wrote City—”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve asked for it, but the publishers haven’t sent me any copies. Let me have a good look.”

  I followed him to the counter, where he consulted with one of his colleagues, who shook his head.

  “It was meant to arrive yesterday, but the publisher says he has no copies. I’m sorry. If you like, I’ll reserve one for you when we get them.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll come back another day. And thank you very much.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what can have happened. As I say, I should have had it …”

  I left the bookshop and went to a newspaper stand at the top of the Ramblas, where I bought a copy of every newspaper, from La Vanguardia to The Voice of Industry. I sat down in the Canaletas Café and began delving into their pages. Each paper carried a review of the novel I had written for Vidal, full page, with large headlines and a portrait of Don Pedro looking meditative and mysterious, wearing a new suit and puffing on a pipe with studied disdain. I began to read the headlines and then the first and last paragraphs of the reviews.

  The first one I read opened with these words: “The House of Ashes is a mature, rich work of great quality that takes its place among the best examples of contemporary literature.” Another paper informed the reader that “nobody in Spain writes better than Pedro Vidal, our most respected and noteworthy novelist,” and a third asserted that this was a “superlative novel, of masterful craftsmanship and exquisite quality.” A fourth newspaper summed up the great international success of Vidal and his work: “Europe bows to the master” (although the novel had come out in Spain only two days earlier and, were it to be translated, wouldn’t appear in any other country for at least a year). The piece went into a long-winded ramble about the great international acclaim and huge respect that Vidal’s name aroused among “the most famous international experts,” even though, as far as I knew, none of his other books had been translated into any other language, except for a novel whose translation into French he himself had underwritten and that sold only 126 copies. Miracles aside, the consensus of the press was that “a classic has been born” and that the novel marked “the return of one of the grea
ts, the best pen of our times: Vidal, undisputed master.”

  On the opposite page in some of those papers, covering a far more modest space of one or two columns, I also found a few reviews of a novel by someone called David Martín. The most favorable began like this: “A first novel written in a pedestrian style, The Steps of Heaven by David Martín shows the author’s lack of skill and talent from the very first page.” The last review I could bring myself to read, published in The Voice of Industry, opened succinctly with a short introduction in boldface that stated: “David Martín, a completely unknown author and writer of classified advertisements, surprises us with what is perhaps this year’s worst literary debut.”

  I left the newspapers and the coffee I had ordered on the table and made my way down the Ramblas to the offices of Barrido & Escobillas. On the way I passed four or five bookshops, all of which were adorned with countless copies of Vidal’s novel. In none did I see a single copy of mine. My experience in the Catalonia bookshop was repeated in each place.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what can have happened. It was meant to arrive the day before yesterday, but the publisher says he’s run out of stock and doesn’t know when he’ll be reprinting. If you’d care to leave me your name and a telephone number, I can let you know if it arrives … Have you asked in Catalonia? Well, if they don’t have it …”

  The two partners received me with grim, unfriendly expressions, Barrido, behind his desk, stroking a fountain pen and Escobillas, standing behind him, boring through me with his eyes. Lady Venom, who sat on a chair next to me, was licking her lips in anticipation.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, my dear Martín,” Barrido was explaining. “The problem is as follows. The booksellers place their orders based on the reviews that appear in the papers, don’t ask me why. If you go into the warehouse next door you’ll see that we have three thousand copies of your novel just lying there.”

  “With all the expense and the loss which that entails,” Escobillas added in a clearly hostile tone.

  “I stopped by the warehouse before coming here and I’ve seen for myself that there are three hundred copies. The manager told me that’s all they printed.”

  “That’s a lie,” Escobillas proclaimed.

  Barrido interrupted him in a conciliatory tone.

  “Please excuse my partner, Martín. You must understand that we’re just as indignant as you, even more so, about the disgraceful treatment the press has given a book with which all of us at the firm were so in love. But I beg you to understand that, despite our faith in your talent, our hands are tied because of all the confusion created by the malicious press. Don’t be disheartened. Rome was not built in a day. We’re doing everything in our power to give your work the promotion its estimable literary merit deserves—”

  “With a three-hundred-copy print run.”

  Barrido sighed, hurt by my lack of trust.

  “It’s a five-hundred-copy print run,” Escobillas specified. “The other two hundred were collected by Barceló and Sempere in person yesterday. The rest will go out with our next delivery; they couldn’t go out with this one because there were too many new titles. If you bothered to understand our problems and weren’t so selfish you would recognize this.”

  I looked at the three of them in disbelief.

  “Don’t tell me you’re not going to do anything.”

  Barrido gave me a mournful look.

  “And what would you have us do, my friend? We have bet everything on you. Try to help us a little.”

  “If only you’d written a book like the one your friend Vidal has written,” said Escobillas.

  “Now that was one hell of a novel,” Barrido asserted. “Even The Voice of Industry says so.”

  “I knew this was going to happen,” Escobillas went on. “You’re so ungrateful.”

  Lady Venom, sitting by my side, was looking at me sadly. I thought she was going to take my hand to comfort me so I quickly moved it away. Barrido gave me one of his unctuous smiles.

  “Maybe it’s all for the best, Martín. Maybe it’s a sign from our Lord, who in his infinite wisdom wants to show you the way back to the work that has given so much happiness to the readers of City of the Damned.”

  I burst out laughing. Barrido joined in and, at a signal from him, so did Escobillas and Lady Venom. I watched the choir of hyenas and told myself that, under other circumstances, this would have seemed a moment of delicious irony.

  “That’s better. I like to see you handling this with a positive attitude,” Barrido said. “What do you say? When will we have the next installment by Ignatius B. Samson?”

  The three of them looked at me expectantly. I cleared my throat so I could speak clearly and smiled at them.

  “You can go screw yourselves.”

  18

  On leaving, I wandered aimlessly for hours round the streets of Barcelona. I was finding it difficult to breathe, as if something were pressing down on my chest. A cold sweat covered my forehead and hands. When evening fell, not knowing where else to hide, I started to make my way back home. As I passed Sempere & Sons, I saw the bookseller filling his shop window with copies of my novel. It was already late and the shop was closed, but the light was still on. I tried to rush past, but Sempere noticed me and smiled with a sadness that I had never seen on his face before. He went over to the door and opened it.

  “Come in for a while, Martín.”

  “Some other day, Señor Sempere.”

  “Do it for me.”

  He took me by the arm and dragged me into the bookshop. I followed him to the back room and he offered me a chair. He poured two glasses of something that looked thicker than tar and motioned to me to down it in one. He did the same.

  “I’ve been glancing through Vidal’s book,” he said.

  “This season’s success story,” I said.

  “Does he know you wrote it?”

  “What does it matter?” I asked.

  Sempere looked at me the same way he’d looked at that eight-year-old boy who had come to his house one distant day, with a bruised face and broken teeth.

  “Are you all right, Martín?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Sempere shook his head, muttering to himself, and got up to take something from one of the shelves. It was a copy of my novel. He handed it to me with a pen and smiled.

  “Please sign it for me.”

  When I’d finished writing something for him, Sempere took the book from my hands and placed it carefully in the glass case behind the counter where he displayed first editions that were not for sale. It was his private shrine.

  “You don’t have to do that, Señor Sempere,” I mumbled.

  “I’m doing it because I want to and because the occasion demands it. This book is a piece of your heart, Martín. And it is also a piece of my heart, for the small part I played in it. I’ll place you between Le Père Goriot and L’Éducation Sentimentale.”

  “That’s a sacrilege.”

  “Nonsense. It’s one of the best books I’ve sold in the last ten years, and I’ve sold a lot,” old Sempere said.

  Sempere’s kind words could only scratch the surface of the cold, impenetrable calm that was beginning to invade me. I ambled back to my house, in no hurry.

  When I walked into the tower house I poured myself a glass of water. As I drank it in the kitchen, in the dark, I began laughing.

  …

  The following morning I received two courtesy calls. The first one was from Pep, Vidal’s new chauffeur. He was bringing a message from his boss, summoning me to a lunch at La Maison Dorée—doubtless the celebratory lunch he had promised me some time ago. Pep seemed a little stiff and anxious to leave as soon as possible. The air of complicity he’d once had with me had evaporated. He wouldn’t come in, preferring to wait on the landing. Without looking straight at me, he handed me Vidal’s note, and as soon as I told him I would go he left without saying good-bye.

  The second visit, half an h
our later, brought my two publishers to my door, accompanied by a forbidding-looking gentleman with piercing eyes, who identified himself as a lawyer. The formidable trio arrived displaying a mixture of mourning and belligerence, leaving me in no doubt as to the purpose of the occasion. I invited them into the gallery, where they proceeded to sit down on the sofa, lined up from left to right in descending order of height.

  “May I offer you anything? A small glass of cyanide?”

  I was not expecting a smile and I didn’t get one. After a brief preamble from Barrido concerning the terrible losses that the fiasco associated with the failure of The Steps of Heaven was going to cause the publishing house, the lawyer went on to give a brisk exposition that in plain language said that if I didn’t return to my work in the guise of Ignatius B. Samson and hand in a manuscript for the City of the Damned series within a month and a half, they would proceed to sue me for breach of contract, damages, and five or six other legal terms that escaped me because by then I wasn’t paying attention. It was not all bad news. Despite the aggravations caused by my behavior, Barrido and Escobillas had found a pearl of generosity in their hearts to smooth away our differences and establish a new alliance, a friendship, that would benefit both sides.

  “If you want, you can buy all the copies of The Steps of Heaven that haven’t been distributed at a special rate of 75 percent of the cover price, since there is clearly no demand for the title and it will be impossible for us to include it in our next delivery,” Escobillas explained.

  “Why don’t you give me back my rights? After all, you didn’t pay a penny for the book and you’re not planning on trying to sell a single copy.”

  “We can’t do that, dear friend,” Barrido assured me. “Even if no advance was paid out to you personally, the edition has required a huge outlay and the agreement you signed with us was for twenty years, automatically renewable under the same terms if our firm decides to exercise its rights. You have to understand that we are also entitled to something. The author can’t get everything.”