The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten 2)

Vidal shrugged.

“An admirer. Or admiress. I don’t know. Open it.”

I opened the envelope with care and pulled out a folded sheet of paper on which, in the same writing, was the following:

Dear friend:

I’m taking the liberty of writing to you to express my admiration and to congratulate you on the success you have obtained this season with The Mysteries of Barcelona in the pages of The Voice of Industry. As a reader and lover of good literature, I have had great pleasure in discovering a new voice brimming with talent, youth, and promise. Allow me, then, as proof of my gratitude for the hours of pleasure provided by your stories, to invite you to a little surprise that I trust you will enjoy tonight at midnight at El Ensueño del Raval. You are expected.

Affectionately,

A.C.

“Interesting,” mumbled Vidal, who had been reading over my shoulder.

“What do you mean, interesting?” I asked. “What sort of a place is this El Ensueño?”

Vidal pulled a cigarette out of his platinum case.

“Doña Carmen doesn’t allow smoking in the pension,” I warned him.

“Why? Does it ruin the perfume from the sewers?”

Vidal lit the cigarette with twice the enjoyment, as one relishes all forbidden things.

“Have you ever known a woman, David?”

“Of course I have. Dozens of them.”

“I mean in the biblical sense.”

“As in Mass?”

“No, as in bed.”

“Ah.”

“And?”

The truth is that I had nothing much to tell that would impress someone like Vidal. My adventures and romances had been characterized until then by their modesty and a consistent lack of originality. Nothing in my brief catalog of pinches, cuddles, and kisses stolen in doorways or the back row of the picture house could aspire to deserve the consideration of Pedro Vidal—Barcelona’s acclaimed master of the art and science of bedroom games.

“What does this have to do with anything?” I protested.

Vidal adopted a patronizing air and launched into one of his speeches.

“In my younger days the normal thing, at least among my sort, was to be initiated in these matters with the help of a professional. When I was your age my father, who was and still is a regular of the most refined establishments in town, took me to a place called El Ensueño, just a few meters away from that macabre palace that our dear Count Güell insisted Gaudí should build for him near the Ramblas. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard the name.”

“The name of the count or the brothel?”

“Very funny. El Ensueño used to be an elegant establishment for a select and discerning clientele. In fact, I thought it had closed down years ago, but I must be wrong. Unlike literature, some businesses are always on an upward trend.”

“I see. Is this your idea? Some sort of joke?”

Vidal shook his head.

“One of the idiots at the newspaper, then?”

“I detect a certain hostility in your words, but I doubt that anyone who devotes his life to the noble profession of the press, especially those at the bottom of the ranks, could afford a place like El Ensueño, if it’s the same place I remember.”