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

“And it’s great for rhymes.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

During the day we would both work on our respective manuscripts. We would have dinner together and then she’d show me the pages she’d written that day and we’d discuss them. I swore I would be frank and give her appropriate suggestions, not just empty words to keep her happy. Sundays would be our day off and I’d take her to the pictures, to the theater, or out for a walk. She would help me find documents in libraries and archives and it would be her job to make sure the larder was always well stocked thanks to her connection with the family emporium. I would make breakfast and she’d make dinner. Lunch would be prepared by whoever was free at the moment. We divided up the chores and I promised to accept the irrefutable fact that the house needed to be cleaned regularly. I would not attempt to find her a boyfriend under any circumstances and she would refrain from questioning my motives for working for the boss and from expressing her opinion on the matter unless I asked for it. The rest we would make up as we went along.

I raised my cup of coffee and we toasted my unconditional surrender.

In just a couple of days I had given myself over to the peace and tranquillity of the vassal. Isabella awoke slowly and by the time she had emerged from her room, her eyes half closed, wearing a pair of my slippers that were much too big for her, I had breakfast ready, with coffee and the morning paper, a different one each day.

…

Routine is the housekeeper of inspiration. Only forty-eight hours after the establishment of the new regime, I discovered that I was beginning to recover the discipline of my most productive years. The hours of being locked up in the study crystallized into pages and more pages in which, not without some anxiety, I began to see the work taking shape, reaching the point at which it stopped being an idea and became a reality.

The text flowed, brilliant, electric. It read like a legend, a mythological saga about miracles and hardships, peopled with characters and scenes that were knotted around a prophecy of hope for the race. The narrative prepared the way for the arrival of a warrior savior who would liberate the nation of all pain and injustice in order to give it back the pride and glory that had been snatched away by its enemies, foes who had conspired since time immemorial against the people, whoever that people might be. The mechanics of the plot were impeccable and would work equally well for any creed, race, or tribe. Flags, gods, and proclamations were the jokers in a pack that always dealt the same cards. Given the nature of the work, I had chosen one of the most complex and difficult techniques to apply to any literary text: the apparent absence of technique. The language resounded plain and simple, the voice was honest and clean, a consciousness that did not narrate but simply revealed. Sometimes I would stop to reread what I’d written and, overcome with blind vanity, I’d feel that the mechanism I was setting up worked with perfect precision. I realized that for the first time in a long while I had spent whole hours without thinking about Cristina or Pedro Vidal. Life, I told myself, was improving. Perhaps for that very reason, because it seemed that at last I was going to get out of the predicament into which I’d fallen, I did what I’ve always done when I’ve got myself back on the rails: I ruined it all.

…

One morning, after breakfast, I donned one of my respectable suits. I stepped into the gallery to say good-bye to Isabella and saw her leaning over her desk, rereading pages from the day before.

“Are you not writing today?” she asked without looking up.

“I’m taking a day off for meditation.”

I noticed the set of pen nibs and the inkpot decorated with Muses next to her notebook.

“I thought you considered them corny,” I said.

“I do, but I’m a seventeen-year-old girl and I have every right in the world to like corny things. It’s like you with your cigars.”

The smell of eau de cologne reached her and she looked at me questioningly. When she saw that I’d dressed to go out, she frowned.

“You’re off to do some more detective work?” she asked.

“A bit.”

“Don’t you need a bodyguard? A Dr. Watson? Someone with a little common sense?”

“Don’t learn how to find excuses for not writing before you learn how to write. That’s a privilege of professionals and you have to earn it.”

“I think that if I’m your assistant that should cover everything.”

“Actually, there is something I wanted to ask you. No, don’t worry. It’s to do with Sempere. I’ve heard that he’s hard up and that the bookshop is at risk.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Unfortunately it is, but it’s all right because we’re not going to allow matters to get any worse.”

“Señor Sempere is very proud and he’s not going to let you … You’ve already tried, haven’t you?”

I nodded.

“That’s why I thought we need to be a little shrewder and resort to something more cunning.”

“Your speciality.”

I ignored her disapproving tone. “This is what I’ve planned: you drop by the bookshop, as if you just happened to be passing, and tell Sempere that I’m an ogre, that you’re sick of me—”

“Up to now it sounds 100 percent credible.”