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

Night had fallen by the time we reached the bookshop. A golden glow broke through the blue of the night outside Sempere & Sons, where about a hundred people had gathered holding candles. Some cried quietly, others looked at one another, not knowing what to do. I recognized some of the faces—friends and customers of Sempere, people to whom the old bookseller had given books as presents, readers who had been initiated into the art of reading through him. As the news spread through the area, more people arrived, all finding it hard to believe that Señor Sempere had died.

The shop lights were on and I could see Don Gustavo Barceló inside, embracing a young man who could hardly stand. I didn’t realize it was Sempere’s son until Isabella pressed my hand and led me into the bookshop. When Barceló saw me come in, he looked up and smiled dolefully. The bookseller’s son was weeping in his arms and I didn’t have the courage to go and greet him. It was Isabella who went over and put her hand on his back. Sempere’s son turned round and I saw his distraught face. Isabella led him to a chair and helped him sit down; he collapsed like a rag doll and Isabella knelt down beside him and hugged him. I had never felt as proud of anyone as I was that day of Isabella. She seemed no longer a girl but a woman, stronger and wiser than any of the rest us.

Barceló held out a trembling hand. I shook it.

“It happened a couple of hours ago,” he explained in a hoarse voice. “He’d been left alone in the bookshop for a moment and when his son returned … They say he was arguing with someone … I don’t know. The doctor said it was his heart.”

I swallowed hard.

“Where is he?”

Barceló nodded toward the door of the back room. I walked over, but before going in I took a deep breath and clenched my fists. Then I walked through the doorway and saw him: he was lying on a table, his hands crossed over his belly. His skin was as white as paper and his features seemed to have sunk in on themselves. His eyes were still open. I found it hard to breathe and felt as if I’d been dealt a strong blow to the stomach. I leaned on the table and tried to steady myself. Then I bent over him and closed his eyelids. I stroked his cheek, which was cold, and looked around me at that world of pages and dreams he had created. I wanted to believe that Sempere was still there, among his books and his friends. I heard steps behind me and turned. Barceló was accompanied by two somber-looking men, both dressed in black.

“These gentlemen are from the undertaker’s,” said Barceló.

They nodded with professional gravitas and went over to examine the body. One of them, who was tall and gaunt, took a brief measurement and said something to his colleague, who wrote down his instructions in a little notebook.

“Unless there is any change, the funeral will be tomorrow afternoon, in the Pueblo Nuevo cemetery,” said Barceló. “I thought it best to take charge of the arrangements because his son is devastated, as you can see. And with these things, the sooner—”

“Thank you, Don Gustavo.”

The bookseller glanced at his old friend and smiled tearfully.

“What are we going to do now that the old man has left us?” he said.

“I don’t know …”

One of the undertakers discreetly cleared his throat.

“If it’s all right with you, in a moment my colleague and I will go and fetch the coffin and—”

“Do whatever you have to do,” I cut in.

“Any preferences regarding the ceremony?”

I stared at him, not understanding.

“Was the deceased a believer?”

“Seño

r Sempere believed in books,” I said.

“I see,” he replied as he left the room.

I looked at Barceló, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Let me ask his son,” I added.

I went back to the front of the bookshop. Isabella glanced at me inquisitively and stood up. She left Sempere’s son and came over to me and I whispered the problem to her.

“Señor Sempere was a good friend of the local parish priest—from the church of Santa Ana right next door. People say the bigwigs in the diocese have been wanting to get rid of him for years because they consider him a rebel in the ranks, but he’s so old they decided to wait for him to die instead. He’s too tough a nut for them to crack.”

“Then he’s the man we need,” I said.

“I’ll speak to him,” said Isabella.

I pointed toward Sempere’s son.