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

Isabella came into the room. She had changed her clothes and washed the tears from her face. She smiled and I smiled back at her.

“Why are you like that?”

I shrugged my shoulders. Isabella came over and sat next to me, on the windowsill. We enjoyed the play of silence and shadows over the rooftops of the old town. After a while, she grinned at me and said, “What if we were to light one of those cigars my father gives you and share it?”

“Certainly not.”

Isabella sank back into silence, but every now and then she glanced at me and smiled. I watched her out of the corner of my eye and realized that just by looking at her it was easier to believe there might be something good and decent left in this lousy world and, with luck, in myself.

“Are you staying?” I asked.

“Give me a good reason why I should. An honest reason. In other words, coming from you, a selfish one. And it had better not be a load of drivel or I’ll leave right away.”

She barricaded herself behind a defensive look, waiting for one of my usual flattering remarks. I looked down and for once I spoke the truth, even if it was only to hear it myself.

“Because you’re the only friend I have left.”

The hard expression in her eyes disappeared, and before I could discern any pity I looked away.

“What about Señor Sempere and that pedant Barceló?”

“You’re the only one who has dared tell me the truth.”

“What about your friend, the boss, doesn’t he tell you the truth?”

“The boss is not my friend. And I don’t think he’s ever told the truth in his entire life.”

Isabella looked at me closely.

“You see? I knew you didn’t trust him. I noticed it in your face from the very first day.”

I tried to recover some of my dignity, but all I found was sarcasm.

“Have you added face reading to your list of talents?”

“You don’t need any talent to read a face like yours,” Isabella said. “It’s like reading Tom Thumb.”

“And what else can you read in my face, dearest fortune-teller?”

“That you’re scared.”

I tried to laugh, without much enthusiasm.

“Don’t be ashamed of being scared. To be afraid is a sign of common sense. Only complete idiots are not afraid of anything. I read that in a book.”

“The coward’s handbook?”

“You needn’t admit it if it’s going to undermine your sense of masculinity. I know you men believe that the size of your stubbornness should match the size of your privates.”

“Did you also read that in your book?”

“No, that wisdom’s homemade.”

I let my hands fall, surrendering in the face of the evidence.

“All right. Yes, I admit that I do feel a vague sense of anxiety.”

“You’re the one who’s being vague. You’re scared stiff. Admit it.”