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

That afternoon I went back to Sempere & Sons and, feeling I was now a man of the world as well as a man of means, I made it known to the bookseller that I intended to buy that old copy of Great Expectations I had been forced to return to him years before.

“Name your price,” I said. “Charge me for all the books I haven’t paid you for all these years.”

Sempere, I remember, gave me a wistful smile and put a hand on my shoulder.

“I sold it this morning,” he confessed.

6

Three hundred and sixty-five days after I had written my first story for The Voice of Industry I arrived as usual at the newspaper offices but found the place almost deserted. There were just a handful of journalists, colleagues who, months ago, had given me affectionate nicknames and even words of encouragement but who now ignored my greeting and gathered in a circle to whisper among themselves. In less than a minute they had picked up their coats and disappeared as if they feared they would catch something from me. I sat alone in that cavernous room staring at the strange sight of dozens of empty desks. Slow, heavy footsteps behind me announced the approach of Don Basilio.

“Good evening, Don Basilio. What’s going on here today? Why has everyone left?”

Don Basilio looked at me sadly and sat at the desk next to mine.

“There’s a Christmas dinner for the staff. At the Set Portes restaurant,” he said quietly. “I don’t suppose they mentioned anything to you.”

I feigned a carefree smile and shook my head.

“Aren’t you going?” I asked.

Don Basilio shook his head.

“I’m no longer in the mood.”

We looked at each other in silence.

“What if I take you somewhere?” I suggested. “Wherever you fancy. Can Solé, if you like. Just you and me, to celebrate the success of The Mysteries of Barcelona.”

Don Basilio smiled, slowly nodding.

“Martín,” he said at last. “I don’t know how to say this to you.”

“Say what to me?”

Don Basilio cleared his throat.

“I’m not going to be able to publish any more installments of The Mysteries of Barcelona.”

I gave him a puzzled look. Don Basilio looked away.

“Would you like me to write something else? Something more like Galdós?”

“Martín, you know what people are like. There have been complaints. I’ve tried to put a stop to this, but the editor is a weak man and doesn’t like unnecessary conflicts.”

“I don’t understand, Don Basilio.”

“Martín, I’ve been asked to be the one to tell you.”

Finally, he shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m fired,” I mumbled.

Don Basilio nodded.

Despite myself, I felt my eyes filling with tears.

“It might feel like the end of the world to you now, but believe me when I say that it’s the best thing that could have happened to you. This place isn’t for you.”