Corelli smiled.
“I do. But I think you’re the one who doesn’t yet know it.”
“Thank you for your company, Señor Corelli. And for the wine and the speeches. Very stimulating. Be careful whom you throw them at. I hope you find your man and that the pamphlet is a huge success.”
I stood up and turned to leave.
“Are you expected somewhere, Martín?”
I didn’t reply, but I stopped.
“Don’t you feel anger, knowing there could be so many things to live for, with good health and good fortune and no ties?” said Corelli from behind me. “Don’t you feel anger when these things are being snatched from your hands?”
I turned back slowly.
“What is a year’s work compared with the possibility of having everything you desire come true? What is a year’s work compared with the promise of a long and fulfilling existence?”
Nothing, I said to myself, despite myself. Nothing.
“Is that your promise?”
“You name the price. Do you want to set fire to the whole world and burn with it? Let’s do it together. You set the price. I’m prepared to give you what you most want.”
“I don’t know what it is that I want most.”
“I think you do know.”
The publisher smiled and winked at me. He stood up and went over to a chest of drawers that had a gas lamp resting on it. He opened the first drawer and pulled out a parchment envelope. He handed it to me but I didn’t take it, so he left it on the table that stood between us and sat down again, without saying a word. The envelope was open and inside I could just make out what looked like a few wads of one-hundred-franc notes. A fortune.
“You keep all this money in a drawer and leave the door open?” I asked.
“You can count it. If you think it’s not enough, name an amount. As I said, I’m not going to argue with you over money.”
I looked at the small fortune for a long moment, and in the end I shook my head. At least I’d seen it. It was real. The offer and the vanity he had awoken in me in those moments of misery and despair were real.
“I cannot accept it,” I said.
“Do you think it’s dirty money?”
“All money is dirty. If it were clean nobody would want it. But that’s not the problem.”
“So?”
“I cannot accept it because I cannot accept your proposal. I couldn’t even do so if I wanted to.”
Corelli considered my words.
“May I ask why?”
“Because I’m dying, Señor Corelli. Because I have only a few weeks left to live, perhaps only days. Because I have nothing left to offer.”
Corelli looked down, silent. I heard the wind scratching at the windows and sliding over the house.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” I added.
“I sensed it.”
Corelli remained seated, not looking at me.