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

“The things you come out with! He’s always in for you. He’s going to be very pleased when I tell him you’ve come to pay us a visit.”

“You can’t imagine how pleased.”

Lady Venom took me to Barrido’s office, which was decorated like a chancellor’s palatial rooms in a comic opera, with a profusion of carpets, busts of emperors, still lifes, and leather-bound volumes bought in bulk that I imagined were probably blank inside. Barrido gave me the oiliest of smiles and shook my hand.

“We’re all waiting impatiently for the next installment. I must tell you, we’ve been reprinting the last two and they’re flying out the window. Another five thousand copies, how about that?”

I thought it was more likely at least fifty thousand, but I just nodded enthusiastically. Barrido & Escobillas had perfected what was known among Barcelona publishers as the double print run, and theirs was as neatly arranged as a bunch of flowers. Every title had an official print run of a few thousand copies that was declared and on which a ridiculously small margin was paid to the author. Then, if the book took off, they would print a covert edition—or several—of tens of thousands of copies that were never declared and for which the author never saw a penny. This edition could be distinguished from the official one because Barrido had the books printed on the sly in an old sausage plant in Santa Perpètua de Mogoda and if you leafed through the pages they gave off the unmistakable smell of vintage pork.

“I’m afraid I have bad news.”

Barrido and Lady Venom exchanged looks but kept on grinning. Just then, Escobillas materialized through the door and looked at me with that dry, disdainful air he had, as if he were measuring you for a coffin.

“Look who has come to see us. Isn’t this a nice surprise?” Barrido asked his partner, who replied with a nod.

“What bad news?” asked Escobillas.

“Is there a bit of a delay, Martín, my friend?” Barrido added in a friendly tone. “I’m sure we can accommodate—”

“No. There’s no delay. Quite simply, there’s not going to be another book.”

Escobillas took a step forward and raised his eyebrows. Barrido giggled.

“What do you mean, there’s not going to be another book?” asked Escobillas.

“I mean that yesterday I burned it and there’s not a single page of the manuscript left.”

A heavy silence fell. Barrido made a conciliatory gesture and pointed to what was known as the visitors’ armchair, a black, sunken throne in which authors and suppliers were cornered so that they could meet Barrido’s eyes from the appropriate height.

“Martín, sit down and tell me what this is about. There’s something worrying you, I can see. You can be open with us, we’re like family.”

Lady Venom and Escobillas nodded with conviction, showing the measure of their esteem in a look of spellbound devotion. I decided to remain standing. They all did the same, staring at me as if I were a pillar of salt that was about to start talking. Barrido’s face hurt from so much smiling.

“And?”

“Ignatius B. Samson has committed suicide. He left a

twenty-page unpublished story in which he dies together with Chloé Permanyer, locked in an embrace after swallowing poison.”

“The author dies in one of his own novels?” asked Herminia, confused.

“It’s his avant-garde farewell to the world of writing installments. A detail I was sure you would love.”

“And could there not be an antidote, or …” Lady Venom asked.

“Martín, I don’t need to remind you that it is you, and not the allegedly deceased Ignatius, who has a contract,” said Escobillas.

Barrido raised his hands to silence his colleague.

“I think I know what’s wrong, Martín. You’re exhausted. You’ve been overloading your brain for years without a break—something this house values and is grateful for—you just need a breather. I can understand. We do understand, don’t we?”

Barrido glanced at Escobillas and at Lady Venom, who nodded and tried to look serious.

“You’re an artist and you want to make art, high literature, something that springs from your heart and will engrave your name in golden letters on the steps of history.”

“The way you put it makes it sound ridiculous,” I said.

“Because it is,” said Escobillas.