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

“No … I don’t know. What’s going on?”

The doctor put his fingertips to his lips, measuring his words.

“Señor Martín, I’m afraid I have bad news.”

I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach.

“What’s wrong with her?”

The doctor did not reply, but I glimpsed a shadow of doubt in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said.

…

We walked along a short corridor flanked by metal doors. Dr. Sanjuán went in front of me, holding a bunch of keys in his hands. As we passed I thought

I could hear voices whispering, suppressed laughter and sobs. The room was at the end of the corridor. The doctor opened the door but stopped at the threshold, his expression unreadable.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said.

I went in and heard the doctor shut the door behind me. Before me lay a room with a high ceiling and white walls reflected in a floor of shining tiles. On one side stood a bed—a metallic frame surrounded by a white gauze curtain. It was empty. Large French windows looked out over the snowy garden, trees, and in the distance the outline of the lake. I didn’t notice her until I’d taken a few steps into the room.

She was sitting in an armchair by the window, wearing a white nightdress, her hair up in a plait. I went round in front of her and looked straight at her, but her eyes didn’t move. I knelt down next to her, but she didn’t even blink. I put my hand over hers, but she didn’t move a single muscle. Then I noticed the bandages covering her arms, from her wrists to her elbows, and the straps that tied her to the chair. I stroked her cheek, gathering a tear that trickled down her face.

“Cristina,” I whispered.

Her eyes were blank: she seemed completely unaware of my presence. I brought a chair over and sat opposite her.

“It’s David,” I murmured.

For a quarter of an hour we remained like that, not speaking, her hand in mine, her eyes lost, and my questions unanswered. At some point I heard the door open again and felt someone taking me gently by the arm and pulling me away. It was Dr. Sanjuán. I let myself be led to the corridor without offering any resistance. The doctor shut the door and took me back to his freezing office. I collapsed into a chair, unable to utter a single word.

“Would you like me to leave you alone for a few minutes?” he asked.

I nodded. The doctor left the room, closing the door behind him. I stared at my right hand, which was shaking, and clenched my fist. I hardly felt the cold of that room or heard the shouts and voices that filtered through the walls. I only knew that I needed some air and had to get out of that place.

8

Dr. Sanjuán found me in the hotel dining room, sitting by the fire next to a plate of food I hadn’t touched. There was nobody else there except for a maid who was going round the deserted tables, polishing the cutlery. Outside it had grown dark and the snow was still falling, like a dusting of powdered blue glass. The doctor walked over to my table and smiled at me.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said. “All visitors end up in this hotel. It’s where I spent my first night in the village when I arrived ten years ago. What room were you given?”

“It’s supposed to be the newlyweds’ favorite, with views over the lake.”

“Don’t you believe it. That’s what they say about all the rooms.”

Away from the sanatorium and without his white coat, Dr. Sanjuán looked more relaxed, even friendly.

“I hardly recognized you without your uniform,” I remarked.

“Medicine is like the army. The cowl maketh the monk,” he replied. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m all right.”

“I see. I missed you earlier, when I went back to the office to look for you.”

“I needed some air.”