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

“I didn’t know anyone lived here,” the driver remarked.

As soon as I’d paid for my ride, including a tip, he sped off, not wasting a second. I waited a few moments, savoring the strange silence that filled the place. Not a single leaf moved in the wood that covered the hill behind me. A starlit sky with wisps of cloud spread in every direction. I could hear the sound of my own breathing, of my clothes rustling as I walked, of my steps getting closer to the door. I rapped with the knocker, then waited.

The door opened a few moments later. A man with drooping eyes and drooping shoulders nodded when he saw me and beckoned me in. His outfit suggested that he was some sort of butler or servant. He made no sound at all. I followed him down the passageway with the portraits on either side, and when we came to the end he showed me into the large sitting room with its view over the whole city in the distance. He bowed slightly and left me on my own, walking away as slowly as he had when he brought me in. I went over to the French windows and looked through the net curtains, killing time while I waited for Corelli. A couple of minutes had gone by when I noticed that someone was observing me from a corner of the room. He was sitting in an armchair, completely still, half in darkness, the light from an oil lamp revealing only his legs and his hands as they rested on the arms of the chair. I recognized him by the glow of his unblinking eyes and by the angel-shaped brooch on his lapel. As soon as I looked at him he stood up and came over to me with quick steps—too quick—and a wolfish smile.

“Good evening, Martín.”

I nodded, trying to smile back.

“I’ve startled you again,” he said. “I’m sorry. May I offer you something to drink, or shall we go straight to dinner?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not hungry.”

“It’s the heat, I’m sure. If you like, we can go into the garden and talk there.”

The silent butler reappeared and proceeded to open the doors to the garden, where a path of candles placed on saucers led to a white metal table with two chairs facing each other. The flame from the candles burned bright and unflickering. The moon cast a soft bluish hue. I sat down, and Corelli followed suit, while the butler poured us two glasses from a decanter of what I thought must be wine or some sort of liqueur I had no intention of tasting. In the light of the waxing moon, Corelli seemed younger, his features sharper. He observed me with an intensity verging on greed.

“Something is bothering you, Martín.”

“I suppose you’ve heard about the fire.”

“A terrible end, and yet there was poetic justice in it.”

“You think it just that two men should die in such a way?”

“Would a gentler way have seemed more acceptable? Justice is an affectation of perspective, not a universal value. I’m not going to pretend to feel dismayed when I don’t, and I don’t suppose you will either, however hard you try. But if you prefer, we can observe a moment’s silence.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Of course not. It’s only necessary when one has nothing valid to say. Silence makes even idiots seem wise for a minute. Anything else worrying you, Martín?”

“The police seem to think I have something to do with what happened. They asked me about you.”

Corelli nodded, unconcerned.

“The police must do their work and we must do ours. Shall we close this matter?”

I nodded. Corelli smiled.

“A while ago, as I was waiting for you, I realized that you and I have a small rhetorical conversation pending. The sooner we get it out of the way, the sooner we can get started. I’d like to begin by asking what faith means to you.”

I pondered for a moment.

“I’ve never been a religious person. Rather than believe or disbelieve, I doubt. Doubt is my faith.”

“Very prudent and very bourgeois. But you don’t win a game by hitting the balls out of court. Why would you say that so many different beliefs have appeared and disappeared throughout history?”

“I don’t know. Social, economic, or political factors, I suppose. You’re talking to someone who

left school at the age of ten. History has never been my strong point.”

“History is biology’s dumping ground, Martín.”

“I think I wasn’t in school the day that lesson was taught.”

“This lesson is not taught in classrooms, Martín. It is taught through reason and the observation of reality. This lesson is the one nobody wants to learn and is therefore the one we must examine carefully in order to be able to do our work. All business opportunities stem from someone else’s inability to resolve a simple and inevitable problem.”

“Are we talking about religion or economics?”