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

“Do you know the best thing about broken hearts?” the librarian asked.

I shook my head.

“They can only really break once. The rest is just scratches.”

“Put that in your book.”

I pointed to her engagement ring.

“I don’t know who the idiot is, but I hope he knows he’s the luckiest man in the world.”

Eulalia smiled a little sadly. We returned to the library and to our places: she went to her desk and I to my corner. I said good-bye to her the following day, when I decided that I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, read another line about revelations and eternal truths. On my way to the library I had bought her a white rose at one of the stalls on the Ramblas and I left it on her empty desk. I found her in one of the passages, sorting out some books.

“Are you abandoning me so soon?” she said when she saw me. “Who is going to flirt with me now?”

“Who isn’t?”

She came with me to the exit and shook my hand at the top of the flight of stairs that led to the courtyard of the old hospital. Halfway down I stopped and turned round. She was still there, watching me.

“Good luck, Ignatius B. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

12

While was having dinner with Isabella at the gallery table, I noticed my new assistant was casting me a sidelong glance.

“Don’t you like the soup? You haven’t touched it,” the girl ventured.

I looked at the plate I had allowed to grow cold, took a spoonful, and pretended I was tasting the most exquisite delicacy.

“Delicious,” I remarked.

“And you haven’t said a word since you returned from the library,” Isabella added.

“Any other complaints?”

Isabella looked away, upset. Although I had little appetite, I ate some of the cold soup so as to have an excuse for not speaking.

“Why are you so sad? Is it because of that woman?”

I went on stirring my spoon around in the soup. Isabella didn’t take her eyes off me.

“Her name is Cristina,” I said eventually. “And I’m not sad. I’m pleased for her because she’s married my best friend and she’s going to be very happy.”

“And I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

“You’re a busybody. That’s what you are.”

“I prefer you like this, when you’re in a foul mood, because you tell the truth.”

“Then let’s see how you like this: clear off to your room and leave me in peace, for Christ’s sake!”

She tried to smile, but by the time I stretched out my hand to her, her eyes had filled with tears. She took my plate and hers and fled to the kitchen. I heard the plates falling into the sink and then, a few moments later, the door of her bedroom slamming shut. I savored the glass of red wine left on the table, an exquisite vintage from Isabella’s parents’ shop. After a while I went along to her bedroom door and knocked gently. She didn’t reply, but I could hear her crying. I tried to open the door, but the girl had locked herself in.

I went up to the study, which after Isabella’s visit smelled of fresh flowers and looked like the cabin of a luxury cruiser. She had tidied up all the books, dusted and left everything shiny and unrecognizable. The old Underwood looked like a piece of sculpture and the letters on the keys were clearly visible again. A neat pile of paper, containing summaries of religious textbooks and catechisms, lay on the desk next to the day’s mail. A couple of cigars on a saucer emitted a delicious scent: Macanudos, one of the Caribbean delicacies supplied to Isabella’s father on the quiet by a contact in the state tobacco industry. I took one of them and lit it. It had an intense flavor that seemed to embody all the aromas and poisons a man could wish for in order to die in peace.

I sat at the desk and went through the day’s letters, ignoring them all except one: ocher parchment embellished with the writing I would have recognized anywhere. The missive from my new publisher and patron, Andreas Corelli, summoned me to meet him on Sunday, midafternoon, at the top of the main tower of the new cable railway that had been launched to coincide with the International Exhibition.

…