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

“Nothing more …”

“Nothing less.”

“You’re talking about manipulating feelings and emotions. Would it not be easier to convince people with a rational, simple, and straightforward account?”

“No. It’s impossible to initiate a rational dialogue with someone about beliefs and concepts if he has not acquired them through reason. It doesn’t matter whether we’re looking at God, race, or national pride. That’s why I need something more powerful than a simple rhetorical exposition. I need the strength of art, of stagecraft. We think we understand a song’s lyrics, but what makes us believe in them, or not, is the music.”

I tried to swallow his nonsense without choking.

“Don’t worry, there’ll be no more speeches for today,” Corelli interjected. “Now let’s discuss practical matters. We’ll meet about once a fortnight. You will inform me of your progress and show me the work you’ve produced. If I have any changes or observations to make, I will point them out to you. The work will continue for twelve months or whatever fraction of that time you need to complete the job. At the end of that period you will hand in all the work and the documents it generated, with no exceptions: they belong to the sole proprietor and guarantor of the rights—in other words, me. Your name will not appear as the author of the document and you will agree not to claim authorship after delivery or discuss the work you have written or the terms of this agreement, either in private or in public, with anybody. In exchange, you have already received an initial payment of one hundred thousand francs, and upon delivery of the work to my satisfaction, you will receive a bonus of fifty thousand francs.”

I gulped. One is never wholly conscious of the greed hidden in one’s heart until one hears the sweet sound of silver.

“Don’t you want to

formalize the contract in writing?”

“Ours is a gentleman’s agreement, based on honor, yours and mine. It has already been sealed. A gentleman’s agreement cannot be broken without breaking the person who has entered into it,” said Corelli in a tone that made me think it might have been better to sign a piece of paper, even in blood. “Any questions?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I don’t follow you, Martín.”

“Why do you want all this material, or whatever you wish to call it? What do you plan to do with it?”

“Problems of conscience at this stage, Martín?”

“Perhaps you think of me as someone with no principles, but if I’m going to take part in the project you’re proposing, I want to know what the objective is. I think I have a right to know.”

Corelli smiled and placed his hand on mine. I felt a shiver at the contact of his skin, which was icy cold and smooth as marble.

“Because you want to live.”

“That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“A simple and friendly reminder of what you already know. You’ll help me because you want to live and because you don’t care about the price or the consequences. Because not that long ago you saw yourself at death’s door and now you have an eternity before you and the opportunity of a life. You will help me because you’re human. And because, although you don’t want to admit it, you have faith.”

I withdrew my hand from his reach and watched him get up from his chair and walk to the end of the garden.

“Don’t worry, Martín. Everything will turn out all right. Trust me,” said Corelli in a sweet, almost paternal tone.

“May I leave now?”

“Of course. I don’t want to keep you any longer than is necessary. I’ve enjoyed our conversation. I’ll let you go now so you can start mulling over all the things we’ve discussed. You’ll see that, once the indigestion has passed, the real answers will come to you. There is nothing in the path of life that we don’t already know before we start. Nothing important is learned; it is simply remembered.”

He signaled to the taciturn butler, who was waiting at the edge of the garden.

“A car will pick you up and take you home. We’ll meet again in two weeks’ time.”

“Here?”

“It’s in the lap of the Gods,” Corelli said, licking his lips as if he’d made a delicious joke.

The butler came over and motioned for me to follow him. Corelli nodded and sat down, his eyes lost once more to the city below.

9

The car—for want of a better word—was waiting by the door of the large, old house. It was not an ordinary automobile but a collector’s item. It reminded me of an enchanted carriage, a cathedral on wheels, its chrome and curves engineered by science, its hood topped by a silver angel like a ship’s figurehead. In other words, a Rolls-Royce. The butler opened the door for me and took his leave with a bow. I stepped inside: it looked more like a hotel room than a motorcar. The engine started up as soon as I settled in the seat, and we set off down the hill.