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

“One of the books I consulted explained that among humans the male attains the plenitude of his fertility at the age of seventeen. The female attains it later and preserves it and somehow acts as selector and judge of the genes she agrees to reproduce. The male, on the other hand, simply offers himself and wastes away much faster. The age at which he reaches his maximum reproductive strength is also when his combative spirit is at its peak. A young man is the perfect soldier. He has great potential for aggression and a limited critical capacity—or none at all—with which to analyze it and judge how to channel it.

Throughout history societies have found ways of using this store of aggression, turning their adolescents into soldiers, cannon fodder with which to conquer their neighbors or defend themselves against their aggressors. Our protagonist was an envoy from heaven, but an envoy who, in the first flush of youth, took arms and liberated truth with blows of iron.”

“Have you decided to mix history with biology, Martín?”

“From what you said, I understood them to be one and the same thing.”

Corelli smiled. I don’t know whether he was aware of it, but when he smiled he looked like a hungry wolf. I swallowed hard and tried to ignore the goosebumps.

“I’ve given this some thought,” I said, “and I realized that most of the great religions either were born or reached their apogee at a time when the societies that adopted them had a younger and poorer demographic base. Societies in which 70 percent of the population was under the age of eighteen—half of them males with their veins bursting with violence and the urge to procreate—were perfect breeding grounds for an acceptance and explosion of faith.”

“That’s an oversimplification, but I see where you’re going, Martín.”

“I know. But with these general ideas in mind, I asked myself, why not get straight to the point and establish a mythology around this warrior messiah? A messiah full of blood and anger, who saves his people, his genes, his womenfolk, and his patriarchs from the political and racial dogma of his enemies—that is to say, from anyone who does not subject himself to his doctrine.”

“What about the adults?”

“We’ll get to the adult by having recourse to his frustration. As life advances and we have to give up the hopes, dreams, and desires of our youth, we acquire a growing sense of being a victim of the world and of other people. There is always someone else to blame for our misfortunes or failures, someone we wish to exclude. Embracing a doctrine that will turn this grudge and this victim mentality into something positive provides comfort and strength. The adult then feels part of the group and sublimates his lost desires and hopes through the community.”

“Perhaps,” Corelli granted. “What about all this iconography of death and the flags and shields? Don’t you find it counterproductive?”

“No. I think it’s essential. Clothes maketh the man, but above all they maketh the churchgoer.”

“And what do you say about women, the other half? I’m sorry, but I find it hard to imagine a substantial number of women in a society believing in pennants and shields. Boy Scout psychology is for children.”

“The main pillar of organized religion, with few exceptions, is the subjugation, repression, even the annulment of women in the group. Woman must accept the role of an ethereal, passive, and maternal presence, never of authority or independence, or she will have to suffer the consequences. She might have a place of honor in the symbolism, but not in the hierarchy. Religion and war are male pursuits. And anyhow, woman sometimes ends up becoming the accomplice in her own subjugation.”

“And the aged?”

“Old age is the lubricant of belief. When death knocks at the door, skepticism flies out the window. A serious cardiovascular fright and a person will even believe in Little Red Riding Hood.”

Corelli laughed.

“Careful, Martín, I think you’re becoming more cynical than I am.”

I looked at him as if I were an obedient pupil eager for the approval of a demanding teacher. Corelli patted me on the knee, nodding with satisfaction.

“I like it. I like the flair of it. I want you to go on turning things round and finding a shape. I’m going to give you more time. We’ll meet in two or three weeks. I’ll let you know a few days beforehand.”

“Do you have to leave the city?”

“Business matters concerning the publishing house. I’m afraid I have a few days of travel ahead of me, but I’m going away contented. You’ve done a good job. I knew I’d found my ideal candidate.”

The boss stood up and put out his hand. I dried the sweat from my palm on my trouser leg and we shook hands.

“You’ll be missed,” I began.

“Don’t exaggerate, Martín, you were doing very well.”

I watched him leave and remained where I was a good while, wondering whether the boss had risen to the bait and swallowed the tall stories I’d fed him. I was sure that I’d told him exactly what he wanted to hear. I hoped so, and I also hoped that the string of nonsense would keep him satisfied for the time being, convinced that his servant, the poor failed novelist, had become a convert. I told myself that anything that bought me time in which to discover what I had got myself into was worth a try. When I stood up and left the Shade House, my hands were still shaking.

18

Years of experience writing thrillers provide one with a set of principles on which to base an investigation. One of them is that all moderately solid plots, including those seemingly about affairs of passion, bear the unmistakable whiff of money and property. When I left the Shade House I walked to the Land Registry in Calle Consejo de Ciento and asked whether I could consult the records in which the sales and ownership of my house were listed. Books in the Land Registry archive contain almost as much information on the realities of life as the complete works of the most respected philosophers—if not more.

I began by looking up the section containing the details of my lease of 30 Calle Flassaders. There I found the necessary data with which to trace the history of the property before the Banco Hispano Colonial took ownership in 1911, as part of the appropriation of the Marlasca family assets—apparently the family had inherited the building upon the death of the owner. A lawyer named S. Valera was mentioned as having represented the family. Another leap into the past allowed me to find information relating to the purchase of the building by Don Diego Marlasca Pongiluppi in 1902 from a certain Bernabé Massot y Caballé. I made a note of all this on a slip of paper, from the name of the lawyer and all those taking part in the transactions to the relevant dates.

One of the clerks announced in a loud voice that there were fifteen minutes to closing time so I got ready to leave, but before that I hurriedly tried to consult the records for Andreas Corelli’s house next to Güell Park. After fifteen minutes of searching in vain, I looked up from the register and met the ashen eyes of the clerk. He was an emaciated character, pomade shining on moustache and hair, who oozed that belligerent apathy of those who turn their job into a platform for obstructing the lives of others.