“All you have to do is talk to her. Give her some encouragement, some advice. Listen to her, read some of her stuff, and give her a little guidance. The girl has a mind as quick as a bullet. You’re really going to like her. You’ll become friends. She could even work as your assistant.”
“I don’t need an assistant. Still less someone I don’t k
now.”
“Nonsense. Besides, you do know her. Or at least that’s what she says. She says she’s known you for years but you probably don’t remember her. It seems that the couple of simple souls she has for parents are convinced that this literature business will consign her to eternal damnation, or at least to a secular spinsterhood. They’re wavering between locking her up in a convent or marrying her off to some fool who will give her eight children and bury her forever among pots and pans. If you do nothing to save her, it’s tantamount to murder.”
“Don’t pull a Jane Eyre on me, Señor Sempere.”
“Look. I wouldn’t ask you, because I know that you like this altruism stuff about as much as you like dancing the sardana, but every time I see her come in here and look at me with those little eyes that seem to be popping with intelligence and enthusiasm, I think of the future that awaits her and it breaks my heart. I’ve already taught her all I can. The girl learns fast, Martín. She reminds me of you when you were a young lad.”
I sighed again.
“Isabella what?”
“Gispert. Isabella Gispert.”
“I don’t know her. I’ve never heard that name in my life. Someone’s been telling you a tall story.”
The bookseller shook his head and mumbled under his breath.
“That’s exactly what Isabella said you’d say.”
“So, she’s talented and she’s psychic. What else did she say?”
“She suspects you’re a much better writer than a person.”
“What an angel, this Isabelita.”
“Can I tell her to come see you? No obligation?”
I gave in. Sempere smiled triumphantly and wanted to seal the pact with an embrace, but I escaped before the old bookseller was able to complete his mission of trying to make me feel like a good Samaritan.
“You won’t be sorry, Martín,” I heard him say as I walked out the door.
3
When I got home, Inspector Víctor Grandes was sitting on the front step, calmly smoking a cigarette. With the poise of a matinee star he smiled when he saw me, as if he were an old friend making a courtesy call. I sat down next to him and he pulled out his cigarette case. Gitanes, I noticed. I accepted.
“Where are Hansel and Gretel?”
“Marcos and Castelo were unable to come. We received a tip, so they’ve gone to find an old acquaintance in Pueblo Seco who is probably in need of a little persuasion to jog his memory.”
“Poor devil.”
“If I’d told them I was coming here, they would probably have joined me. They think the world of you.”
“Love at first sight, I noticed. What can I do for you, Inspector? May I invite you upstairs for a cup of coffee?”
“I wouldn’t dare invade your privacy, Señor Martín. In fact, I simply wanted to give you the news personally before you found out from other sources.”
“What news?”
“Escobillas passed away early this afternoon in the Clínico hospital.”
“God. I didn’t know,” I said.
Grandes continued smoking in silence.