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

“You say buried … Where is Diego Marlasca buried?”

“In the family vault in San Gervasio cemetery, I think, not far from the house where the widow lives. May I ask you why you are so interested in this matter? And don’t tell me your curiosity was aroused just because you live in the tower house.”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“If you want a friendly piece of advice, look at me and learn from my mistakes. Let it go.”

“I’d like to. The problem is that I don’t think the matter will let me go.”

Salvador watched me for a long time. Then he took a piece of paper and wrote down a number.

“This is the telephone number of the downstairs neighbors. They’re good people and the only ones who have a telephone in the whole building. You can get hold of me there or leave me a message. Ask for Emilio. If you need any help, don’t hesitate to call. And watch out. Jaco disappeared from the scene many years ago, but there are still people who don’t want this business stirred up again. A hundred thousand francs is a lot of money.”

I took the note and put it away.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all. Anyhow, what more can they do to me now?”

“Would you have a photograph of Diego Marlasca? I haven’t found one anywhere in the tower house.”

“I don’t know … I think I must have one somewhere. Let me have a look.”

Salvador walked over to a desk in a corner of the sitting room and pulled out a brass box full of bits of paper.

“I still have things from the case. As you see, even after all these years I haven’t learned my lesson. Here. Look. This photograph was given to me by the widow.”

He handed me an old studio portrait of a tall, good-looking man in his forties posed against a velvet backdrop and smiling for the camera. I tried to read those clear eyes, wondering how they could possibly conceal the dark world I had found in the pages of Lux Aeterna.

“May I keep it?”

Salvador hesitated.

“I suppose so. But don’t lose it.”

“I promise I’ll return it.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful and I’d be much happier. And that if you’re not, and you get into a mess, you’ll call me.”

We shook on it.

“I promise.”

30

The sun was setting as I left Ricardo Salvador on his cold roof terrace and returned to Plaza Real. The square was bathed in a dusty light that tinted the figures of passersby with a reddish hue. From there I set off walking and ended up at the only place in town where I always felt welcome and protected. When I reached Calle Santa Ana, the Sempere & Sons bookshop was about to close. Twilight was advancing over the city and the sky was breached by a line of blue and purple. I stopped in front of the shop window and saw that Sempere’s son was saying good-bye to a customer at the front door. When he saw me he smiled and greeted me with a shyness that spoke of his innate decency.

“I was just thinking about you, Martín. Everything all right?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

“It shows in your face. Here, come in, I’ll make you some coffee.”

He held the shop door open and showed me in. I stepped into the bookshop and breathed in that perfume of paper and magic that strangely no one had ever thought of bottling. Sempere’s son took me to the back room, where he set about preparing a pot of coffee.

“How is your father? He looked fragile the other day.”

Sempere’s son nodded, as if appreciative of my concern. I realized that he probably didn’t have anyone to talk to about him.