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

“Because you’ve written it. Pedro always says that the only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him. The person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction.”

“He must have read that on a postcard.”

“In fact he took it from one of your books. I know because I’ve read it too.”

“Plagiarism doesn’t prevent it being nonsense.”

“I think it makes sense.”

“Then it must be true.”

“May I read it then?”

“No.”

…

That evening, sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, looking up occasionally, we ate the remains of the bread and cheese. Cristina had little appetite and examined every morsel of bread in the light of the oil lamp before putting it in her mouth.

“There’s a train leaving the Estación de Francia for Paris tomorrow at midday,” she said. “Is that too soon?”

I couldn’t get the image of Andreas Corelli out of my mind; I imagined him coming up the stairs and calling at my door at any moment.

“I suppose not,” I agreed.

“I know a little hotel opposite the Luxembourg Gardens where they rent out rooms by the month. It’s a bit expensive, but …” she added.

I preferred not to ask her how she knew of the hotel.

“The price doesn’t matter, but I don’t speak French.”

“I do.”

I looked down.

“Look at me, David.”

I raised my eyes reluctantly.

“If you’d rather I left …”

I shook my head. She held my hand and brought it to her lips.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll see,” she said. “I know. It will be the first thing in my life that will work out all right.”

I looked at her, a broken woman with tears in her eyes, and didn’t wish for anything in the world other than the ability to give her back what she’d never had.

We lay down on the sofa in the gallery under a couple of blankets, staring at the embers in the fireplace. I fell asleep stroking Cristina’s hair, thinking it was the last night I would spend in that house, the prison in which I had buried my youth. I dreamed that I was running through the streets of a Barcelona strewn with clocks whose hands were turning backwards. Alleyways and avenues twisted as I ran, as if they had a will of their own, creating a living labyrinth that blocked me at every turn. Finally, under a midday sun that burned in the sky like a red-hot metal sphere, I managed to reach the Estación de Francia and sped toward the platform where the train was beginning to pull away. I ran after it but the train gathered speed and, despite my efforts, all I managed to do was touch it with the tips of my fingers. I kept on running until I was out of breath, and when I reached the end of the platform I fell into a void. When I glanced up it was too late. The train was disappearing into the distance, Cristina’s face staring back at me from the last window.

…

I opened my eyes and knew that Cristina was not there. The fire was reduced to a handful of ashes. I stood up and looked through the windows. Dawn was breaking. I pressed my face against the glass and noticed a flickering light shining from the windows of the study. I went to the spiral staircase that led up to the tower. A copper-colored glow spilled down over the steps. I climbed them slowly. When I reached the study I stopped in the doorway. Cristina was sitting on the floor with her back to me. The trunk by the wall was open. Cristina was holding the folder containing the boss’s manuscript and was untying the ribbon.

When she heard my footsteps she stopped.

“What are you doing up here?” I asked, trying to hide the note of alarm in my voice.

Cristina turned and smiled.