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

Isabella got up and brought over a leather-bound volume, which she placed on the table: The 101 Best Recipes of French Cuisine, by Michel Aragon.

“That’s what you think. On the second row of the library bookshelves, I’ve found all sorts of things, including a handbook on marital hygiene by Dr. Pérez-Aguado with some very suggestive illustrations and gems such as ‘Woman, in accordance with the divine plan, has no knowledge of carnal desire and her spiritual and sentimental fulfillment is sublimated in the natural exercise of motherhood and household chores.’ You’ve got a veritable King Solomon’s mine there.”

“Can you tell me what you were looking for on the second row of the shelves?”

“Inspiration. Which I found.”

“But of a culinary persuasion. We’d agreed that you were going to write every day, with or without inspiration.”

“I’m stuck. And it’s your fault, because you’ve got me working two jobs and mixed up in your schemes with the immaculate son of Sempere.”

“Do you think it’s right to make fun of the man who’s madly in love with you?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Sempere’s son confessed to me that you’ve robbed him of sleep. Literally. He can’t sleep, he can’t eat, and he can’t even pee, poor guy, for thinking so much about you all day.”

“You’re delirious.”

“The one who is delirious is poor Sempere. You should have seen him. I came very close to shooting him, to put an end to his pain and misery.”

“But he pays no attention to me whatsoever,” Isabella protested.

“Because he doesn’t know how to open his heart and find the words with which to express his feelings. We men are like that. Brutish and primitive.”

“He had no trouble finding words to tell me off for not putting a collection of the National Episodes in the right order!”

“That’s not the same. Administrative procedure is one thing, the language of passion another.”

“Nonsense.”

“There’s no nonsense in love, my dear assistant. Changing the subject, are we having dinner or aren’t we?”

Isabella had set a table to match her banquet, using a whole arsenal of dishes, cutlery, and glasses I’d never seen before.

“I don’t know why, if you have all these beautiful things, you don’t use them. They were all in boxes, in the room next to the laundry,” said Isabella. “Typical man!”

I picked up one of the knives and examined it in the light of the candles that Isabella had placed on the table. I realized these household utensils belonged to Diego Marlasca and it made me lose my appetite altogether.

“Is anything the matter?” asked Isabella.

I shook my head. My assistant served the food and stood there looking at me expectantly. I tasted a mouthful and smiled.

“Very good,” I said.

“It’s a bit leathery, I think. The recipe said you had to cook it over a low flame for goodness knows how long, but on your stove the heat is either nonexistent or scorching, with nothing in between.”

“It’s good,” I repeated, eating without appetite.

Isabella kept giving me furtive looks. We continued to eat in silence, the tinkling of the cutlery and plates our only company.

“Were you serious about Sempere’s son?”

I nodded, without glancing up from my plate.

“And what else did he say about me?”

“He said you have a classical beauty, you’re intelligent, intensely feminine—that’s how old-fashioned he is—and he feels there’s a spiritual connection between you.”