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

“What happened?”

“The funniest thing about all this is that Coligny had never actually set eyes on Corelli. His only contact with him was by correspondence. The root of the problem, I think, was that Monsieur Lambert signed an agreement to write a book for Éditions de la Lumière behind Coligny’s back, when Coligny had sole rights to his work. Lambert was an opium addict and had accumulated enough debts to pave the Rue de Rivoli from end to end. Coligny suspected that Corelli had offered Lambert an astronomical sum and that the poor man, who was dying, had accepted it because he wanted to leave his children well provided for.”

“What sort of book was it?”

“Something with a religious theme. Coligny mentioned the title, some fancy Latin expression that was fashionable at the time, but I can’t remember it now. As you know, the titles of missals are all pretty much the same. Pax Gloria Mundi or something like that.”

“And what happened to the book and Lambert?”

“That’s where matters become complicated. It seems that poor Lambert, in a fit of madness, wanted to burn his manuscript, so he set fire to it, and to himself, in the offices of the publishing house. A lot of people thought the opium had frazzled his brain, but Coligny suspected that it was Corelli who pushed him toward suicide.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“Who knows? Perhaps he didn’t want to pay him the sum he had promised. Perhaps it was all just Coligny’s fantasy—he seemed to be a great fan of young Beaujolais twelve months a year. He told me that Corelli had tried to kill him in order to release Lambert from his contract and that Corelli left him in peace only when he decided to terminate the agreement and let Lambert go.”

“Didn’t you say he’d never seen him?”

“Exactly. I think Coligny must have been raving. When I visited him in his apartment I saw more crucifixes, Madonnas, and figures of saints than you’d find in a shop selling Christmas mangers. I got the impression that he wasn’t all that well in the head. When I left he told me to stay away from Corelli.”

“But hadn’t he told you Corelli was dead?”

“Ecco qua.”

I fell silent. Barceló looked at me with curiosity.

“I have the feeling that my discoveries aren’t a huge surprise to you.”

I gave him a carefree smile, trying to make light of it all.

“On the contrary. Thank you for taking the time to investigate.”

“Not at all. Going to Paris in search of gossip is a pleasure in itself. You know me.”

Barceló tore the page with the information out of his notebook and handed it to me.

“In case it’s of any use to you. I’ve noted down everything I was able to discover.”

I stood up and we shook hands. He came with me to the door, where Dalmau had the parcel ready for me.

“How about a print of the Baby Jesus, one of those where he opens and closes his eyes depending how you look at it? Or one of the Virgin Mary surrounded by lambs that turn into rosy-cheeked cherubs when you move it? A wonder of stereoscopic technology.”

“The revealed word is enough for the time being.”

“Amen.”

I was grateful to the bookseller for his attempts to cheer me up, but as I walked away from the shop I was beset by anxiety and I had the feeling that the streets and my destiny rested on nothing but quicksand.

15

On my way home I stopped by a stationer’s in Calle Argenteria to look at the shop window. On a sheet of fabric was a case containing a set of nibs, an ivory pen, and a matching inkpot engraved with what looked like fairies or Muses. There was something melodramatic about the whole set, as if it had been stolen from the writing desk of some Russian novelist, the sort who would bleed to death over thousands of pages. Isabella had beautiful handwriting that I envied, as pure and clear as her conscience, and the set seemed to have been made for her. I went in and asked the shop assistant to show it to me. The nibs were gold-plated and the whole business cost a small fortune, but I decided that it would be a good idea to repay my young assistant’s kindness and patience with this little gift. I asked the man to wrap it in bright purple paper with a ribbon the size of a carriage.

When I got home I was looking forward to the selfish satisfaction that comes from arriving with a gift in one’s hand. I was about to call Isabella as if she were a faithful pet with nothing better to do than wait devotedly for her master’s return, but what I saw when I opened the door left me speechless. The corridor was as dark as a tunnel. The door of the room at the other end was open, casting a square of flickering yellow light across the floor.

“Isabella?” I called out. My mouth was dry.

“I’m here.”

The voice came from inside the room. I left the parcel on the hall table and walked down the corridor. I stopped in the doorway and looked inside. Isabella was sitting on the floor. She had placed a candle inside a tall glass and was earnestly devoting herself to her second vocation after literature: tidying up other people’s belongings.