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

“There are plenty of writers who can write this book for you, Señor Corelli. I am grateful for your offer. More than you can imagine. Good night.”

I began to walk away.

“Let’s say I was able to help you get over your illness,” he said.

I stopped halfway down the corridor and turned round. Corelli was barely a meter away, staring straight at me. I thought he was a bit taller, there in the corridor, than when I’d first seen him and that his eyes were larger and darker. I could see my reflection in his pupils getting smaller as they dilated.

“Does my appearance worry you, Martín, my friend?”

I swallowed hard.

“Yes,” I confessed.

“Please come back and sit down. Give me the opportunity to explain some more. What have you got to lose?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

He put his hand gently on my arm. His fingers were long and pale.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Martín. I’m your friend.”

His touch was comforting. I allowed him to guide me back to the sitting room and sat down meekly, like a child waiting for an adult to speak. Corelli knelt down by my armchair and fixed his eyes on mine. He took my hand and pressed it tightly.

“Do you want to live?”

I wanted to reply but couldn’t find the words. I realized that my eyes were filling with tears. Until then I had not understood how much I longed to keep on breathing, to keep on opening my eyes every morning and be able to go out into the street, to step on stones and look at the sky, and, above all, to keep on remembering.

I nodded.

“I’m going to help you, Martín, my friend. All I ask of you is that you trust me. Accept my offer. Let me help you. Let me give you what you most desire. That is my promise.”

I nodded again.

“I accept.”

Corelli smiled and bent over to kiss me on the cheek. His lips were icy cold.

“You and I, my friend, are going to do great things together. You’ll see,” he whispered.

He offered me a handkerchief to dry my tears. I did so without feeling the silent shame of weeping before a stranger, so

mething I had not done since my father died.

“You’re exhausted, Martín. Stay here for the night. There are plenty of bedrooms in this house. I can assure you that tomorrow you’ll feel better and that you’ll see things more clearly.”

I shrugged my shoulders, though I realized that Corelli was right. I could barely stand and all I wanted to do was sleep deeply. I couldn’t even bring myself to get up from the armchair, the most comfortable and most comforting in the universal history of all armchairs.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay here.”

“Of course. I’m going to let you rest. Very soon you’ll feel better. I give you my word.”

Corelli went over to the chest of drawers and turned off the gas lamp. The room was submerged in a bluish dusk. My eyelids were pressing down heavily and a sense of intoxication filled my head, but I managed to make out Corelli’s silhouette crossing the room and disappearing into the shadows. I closed my eyes and heard the murmur of the wind behind the windowpanes.

25

I dreamed that the house was slowly sinking. At first, little teardrops of dark water began to appear through the cracks in the tiles, in the walls, in the relief on the ceiling, through the holes of the door locks. It was a cold liquid that crept slowly and heavily, like mercury, and gradually formed a layer covering the floor and climbing up the walls. I felt the water going over my feet, rising fast. I stayed in the armchair, watching as the water level rose to my throat and then, in just a few seconds, reached the ceiling. I felt myself floating and could see pale lights rising and falling behind the windows. There were human figures also suspended in that watery darkness. Trapped in the current as they floated by, they stretched their hands out to me, but I could not help them and the water dragged them away inexorably. Corelli’s one hundred thousand francs flowed around me, undulating like paper fish. I crossed the room to a closed door at the other end. A thread of light shone through the lock. I opened the door and saw that it led to a staircase descending to the deepest part of the house. I went down.

At the bottom of the stairs an oval room opened up, and in its center I could distinguish a group of figures gathered in a circle. When they became aware of my presence they turned round and I saw that they were dressed in white and wore masks and gloves. Strong white lights burned over what seemed to be an operating table. A man whose face had no features or eyes was arranging the objects on a tray of surgical instruments. One of the figures stretched out his hand to me, inviting me to draw closer. I went over to them and felt them take hold of me, grabbing my head and my body and lifting me onto the table. The lights were blinding, but I managed to see that all the figures were identical and had the face of Dr. Trías. I laughed to myself. One of the doctors was holding a syringe and injected it into my neck. I didn’t feel the prick, just a pleasant, muzzy sensation of warmth spreading through my body. Two of the doctors placed my head in some holding contraption and proceeded to adjust the crown of screws that held a padded plate at one end. I felt them tying down my arms and legs with straps. I put up no resistance. When my whole body had been immobilized from head to toe, one of the doctors handed a scalpel to another of his twins, who then leaned over me. I felt someone take my hand and hold it. It was a boy who looked at me tenderly and had the same face I had on the day my father was killed.