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

“Nosing around.”

She followed the direction of my gaze to the folder in her hands and adopted a mischievous expression.

“What’s in here?”

“Nothing. Notes. Comments. Nothing of any interest …”

“You liar. I bet this is the book you’ve been working on,” she said, “I’m dying to read it.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said in the most relaxed tone I could muster.

Cristina frowned. I took advantage of the moment to kneel down beside her and delicately snatch the folder away.

“What’s the matter, David?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” I assured her with a stupid smile plastered across my lips.

I tied the ribbon again and put the folder back in the trunk.

“Aren’t you going to lock it?” asked Cristina.

I turned round, ready to offer some excuse, but Cristina had already disappeared down the stairs. I sighed and closed the lid of the trunk.

I found her in the bedroom. For a moment she looked at me as if I were a stranger.

“Forgive me,” I began.

“You don’t have to ask me to forgive you,” she replied. “I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in where I have no business.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said icily, her tone cutting the air.

I put off a second remark for a more auspicious moment.

“The ticket office at the Estación de Francia will be open soon,” I said. “I thought I’d go there so that I can buy the tickets first thing. Then I’ll go to the bank and withdraw some money.”

“Very good.”

“Why don’t you get a bag ready in the meantime? I’ll be back in a couple of hours at the most.”

Cristina barely smiled.

“I’ll be here.”

I went over to her and held her face in my hands.

“By tomorrow night we’ll be in Paris,” I said.

I kissed her on the forehead and left.

41

The large clock suspended from the ceiling of the Estación de Francia was reflected in the shining surface of the floor beneath my feet. The hands pointed to seven thirty-five in the morning, but the ticket offices hadn’t opened yet. A porter, armed with a large broom and an exaggerated manner, was polishing the floor, whistling a popular folk song and, within the limits imposed by his limp, jauntily moving his hips. As I had nothing better to do, I stood there observing him. He was a small man who looked as if the world had wrinkled him up to such a degree that it had taken everything from him except his smile and the pleasure of being able to clean that bit of floor as if it were the Sistine Chapel. There was nobody else around, but finally he realized that he was being watched. When his fifth pass over the floor brought him to my observation post on one of the wooden benches surrounding the vestibule, the porter stopped and leaned on his mop with both hands.

“They never open on time,” he explained, pointing toward the ticket offices.

“Then why do they have a notice saying they open at seven?”