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

“And how do you achieve it?”

“You begin by going down to the gallery, taking pen and paper—”

“Digging your elbows in and squeezing your brain until it hurts. I know.”

She looked into my eyes, hesitating. She’d been staying in my house for a week and a half and I still showed no signs of sending her home. I imagined she was asking herself when I was going to do it or why I hadn’t done it yet. I also asked myself that very question and could find no answer.

“I like being your assistant, even if you are the way you are,” she said at last.

The girl was staring at me as if her life depended on a kind word. I yielded to temptation. Good words are a vain benevolence that demands no sacrifice and is more appreciated than real acts of kindness.

“I also like you being my assistant, Isabella, even if I am the way I am. And I will like it even more when there is no longer any need for you to be my assistant as you will have nothing more to learn from me.”

“Do you think I have potential?”

“I have no doubt whatsoever. In ten years you’ll be the teacher and I’ll be the apprentice,” I said, repeating words that still tasted of treason.

“You liar,” she said, kissing me sweetly on the cheek before running off down the stairs.

14

That afternoon I left Isabella sitting at the desk we had set up for her in the gallery, facing her blank pages, while I went over to Gustavo Barceló’s bookshop on Calle Fernando hoping to find a good, readable edition of the Bible. All the sets of New and Old Testaments I had in the house were printed in microscopic type on thin, almost translucent onionskin paper, and reading them induced not so much fervor and divine inspiration as migraines. Barceló, who among many other things was an avid collector of holy books and apocryphal Christian texts, had a private room at the back of his shop filled with a formidable assortment of Gospels, lives of saints and holy people, and all kinds of other religious texts.

When I walked into the bookshop, one of the assistants rushed into the backroom office to alert the boss. Barceló emerged looking euphoric.

“Bless my eyes! Sempere told me you’d been reborn, but this is quite something. Next to you, Valentino looks like someone just back from the salt mines. Where have you been hiding, you rogue?”

“Oh, here and there,” I said.

“Everywhere except at Vidal’s wedding party. You were sorely missed, my friend.”

“I doubt that.”

The bookseller nodded, implying that he understood my wish not to discuss the matter.

“Will you accept a cup of tea?”

“Or two. And a Bible. If possible, one that is easy to read.”

“That won’t be a problem,” said the bookseller. “Dalmau?”

The shop assistant called Dalmau came over obligingly.

“Dalmau, our friend Martín here needs a Bible that is legible, not decorative. I’m thinking of Torres Amat, 1825

. What do you think?”

One of the peculiarities of Barceló’s bookshop was that books were spoken of as if they were exquisite wines, cataloged by bouquet, aroma, consistency, and vintage.

“An excellent choice, Señor Barceló, although I’d be more inclined toward the updated and revised edition.”

“Eighteen sixty?”

“Eighteen ninety-three.”

“Of course. That’s it! Wrap it up for our friend Martín and put it on the house.”

“Certainly not,” I objected.