The Angel's Game (21 page)

After reading the first thirty or forty pages of circumlocutions and riddles, I found myself caught up in a precise, extravagant, and increasingly disturbing puzzle of prayers and entreaties in which death, referred to at times—in awkwardly constructed verses—as a white angel with reptilian eyes and at other times as a luminous boy, was presented as a sole and omnipresent deity made manifest in nature, desire, and the fragility of existence.

Whoever the mysterious D.M. was, death hovered over his verses
like an all-consuming and eternal force. A byzantine tangle of references to various mythologies of heaven and hell were knotted together here into a single plane. According to D.M., there was only one beginning and one end, only one creator and one destroyer who presented himself under different names to confuse men and tempt them in their weakness, a sole God whose true face was divided into two halves: one sweet and pious, the other cruel and demonic.

That much I was able to deduce, but no more, because beyond those principles the author seemed to have lost the course of his narrative and it was almost impossible to decipher the prophetic references and images that peppered the text. Storms of blood and fire pouring over cities and peoples. Armies of corpses in uniform running across endless plains, destroying all life as they passed. Babies strung up with torn flags at the gates of fortresses. Black seas where thousands of souls in torment were suspended for all eternity beneath icy, poisoned waters. Clouds of ashes and oceans of bones and rotten flesh infested with insects and snakes. The succession of hellish, nauseating images went on unabated.

As I turned the pages I had the feeling that, step by step, I was following the map of a sick and broken mind. Line after line, the author of those pages had, without being aware of it, been documenting his own descent into a chasm of madness. The last third of the book seemed to suggest an attempt at retracing his steps, a desperate cry from the prison of his insanity to escape the labyrinth of tunnels that had formed in his mind. The text ended suddenly, midway through an imploring sentence, offering no explanation.

By this time my eyelids were beginning to close. A light breeze wafted through the window. It came from the sea, sweeping the mist off the rooftops. I was about to close the book when I realized that something was trapped in my mind’s filter, something connected to the type on those pages. I returned to the beginning and started to go over the text. I found the first example on the fifth line. From then on the same mark appeared every two or three lines. One of the characters, the capital S, was always slightly tilted to the right. I took a blank page from the
drawer, slipped it in the roller of the Underwood typewriter on my desk, and wrote a sentence at random:

S
ometimes I hear the bells of
S
anta María del Mar.

I pulled out the paper and examined it under the lamp:

S
ometimes … of
S
anta María

I sighed.
Lux Aeterna
had been written on that very same typewriter and probably, I imagined, at that same desk.

T
he following morning I went out to have my breakfast in a café opposite Santa María del Mar. The Borne neighborhood was heaving with carts and people going to the market, with shopkeepers and wholesalers opening their stores. I sat at one of the outdoor tables, asked for a
café con leche
, and adopted an orphaned copy of
La Vanguardia
that was lying on the next table. While my eyes slid over the headlines and leads, I noticed a figure walking up the steps to the church door and sitting down at the top to observe me on the sly. The girl must have been about sixteen or seventeen and was pretending to jot things down in a notebook while she stole glances at me. I sipped my coffee calmly. After a while I beckoned to the waiter.

“Do you see that young lady sitting by the church door? Tell her to order whatever she likes. It’s on me.”

The waiter nodded and went up to her. When she saw him approaching she buried her head in her notebook, assuming an expression of total concentration that made me smile. The waiter stopped in front of her and cleared his throat. She looked up from her notebook and stared at him. He explained his mission and pointed in my direction. The girl looked at me in alarm. I waved at her. She went crimson. She stood up and came over to my table, with short steps, her eyes lowered.

“Isabella?” I asked.

The girl looked up and sighed, annoyed at herself.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“Supernatural intuition,” I replied.

She held out her hand and I shook it without much enthusiasm.

“May I sit down?” she asked.

She sat down without waiting for a reply. In the next half a minute the girl changed positions about six times until she returned to the original one. I observed her with a calculated lack of interest.

“You don’t remember me, do you, Señor Martín?”

“Should I?”

“For years I delivered your weekly order from Can Gispert.”

The image of the girl who for so long had brought my food from the grocer’s came into my mind, then dissolved into the more adult and slightly more angular features of this Isabella, a woman of soft shapes and steely eyes.

“The little girl I used to tip,” I said, although there was little or nothing left of the girl in her.

Isabella nodded.

“I always wondered what you did with all those coins.”

“I bought books at Sempere & Sons.”

“If only I’d known …”

“I’ll go if I’m bothering you.”

“You’re not bothering me. Would you like something to drink?”

The girl shook her head.

“Señor Sempere tells me you’re talented.”

Isabella smiled at me skeptically.

“Normally, the more talent one has, the more one doubts it,” I said. “And vice versa.”

“Then I must be quite something,” Isabella replied.

“Welcome to the club. Tell me, what can I do for you?”

Isabella took a deep breath.

“Señor Sempere told me that perhaps you could read some of my work and give me your opinion and some advice.”

I fixed my eyes on hers for a few seconds before replying. She held my gaze without blinking.

“Is that all?”

“No.”

“I could see it coming. What is chapter 2?”

Isabella hesitated for only a second.

“If you like what you read and you think I have potential, I’d like you to allow me to become your assistant.”

“What makes you think I need an assistant?”

“I can tidy up your papers, type them, correct errors and mistakes—”

“Errors and mistakes?”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you make mistakes …”

“Then what did you mean to imply?”

“Nothing. But four eyes are better than two. And besides, I can take care of your correspondence, run errands, help with research. What’s more, I know how to cook and I can—”

“Are you asking for a position as assistant or cook?”

“I’m asking you to give me a chance.”

Isabella looked down. I couldn’t help but smile. Despite myself, I really liked this curious creature.

“This is what we’ll do. Bring me the best twenty pages you’ve written, the ones you think will show me what you are capable of. Don’t bring any more because I won’t read them. I’ll have a good look at them and then, depending on what I think, we’ll talk.”

Her face lit up and for a moment the veil of tension and toughness disappeared.

“You won’t regret it,” she said.

She stood up and looked at me nervously.

“Is it all right if I bring the pages round to your house?”

“Leave them in my letter box. Is that all?”

She nodded vigorously and backed away with those short, nervous steps. When she was about to turn and start running, I called her.

“Isabella?”

Her meek eyes clouded with sudden anxiety.

“Why me?” I asked. “And don’t tell me it’s because I’m your favorite author or any of that other flattery Sempere advised you to use to
soften me up, because if you do this will be the first and last conversation we ever have.”

Isabella hesitated for a moment. Then she replied with disarming bluntness.

“Because you’re the only writer I know.”

She gave me an embarrassed smile and went off with her notebook, her unsteady walk, and her frankness. I watched her turn the corner of Calle Mirallers and vanish behind the cathedral.

W
hen I returned home an hour later, I found her sitting on my doorstep clutching what I imagined must be her story. As soon as she saw me she stood up and forced a smile.

“I told you to leave it in my letter box,” I said.

Isabella nodded and shrugged her shoulders.

“As a token of my gratitude I’ve brought you some coffee from my parents’ shop. It’s Colombian and really good. The coffee didn’t fit through your letter box so I thought I’d better wait for you.”

An excuse like that could have been invented only by a budding novelist. I sighed and opened the door.

“In.”

I went up the stairs, Isabella following like a lapdog a few steps behind.

“Do you always take that long to have your breakfast? Not that it’s any of my business, of course, but I’ve been waiting here for three-quarters of an hour, so I was beginning to worry. I said to myself, I hope he hasn’t choked on something. It would be just my luck. The one time I meet a writer in the flesh and then he goes and swallows an olive the wrong way and bang goes my literary career,” she rattled on.

I stopped halfway up the steps and looked at her with the most hostile expression I could muster.

“Isabella, for things to work out between us we’re going to have to
set down a few rules. The first is that I ask the questions and you just answer them. When there are no questions from me, you don’t give me answers or spontaneous speeches. The second rule is that I can take as long as I damn well please to have breakfast, an afternoon snack, or to daydream, and that does not constitute a matter for debate.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you. I understand that slow digestion of food is an aid to inspiration.”

“The third rule is that sarcasm is not allowed before noon. Understood?”

“Yes, Señor Martín.”

“The fourth is that you must not call me Señor Martín, not even at my funeral. I might seem like a fossil to you, but I like to think that I’m still young. In fact, I am young.”

“What should I call you?”

“By my name, David.”

The girl nodded. I opened the door of the apartment and showed her in. Isabella hesitated for a moment, then slipped in, giving a little jump.

“I think you still look quite young for your age, David.”

I stared at her in astonishment.

“How old do you think I am?”

Isabella looked me up and down, assessing.

“About thirty? But a young-looking thirty?”

“Just shut up and go and make some coffee with that concoction you’ve brought.”

“Where is the kitchen?”

“Look for it.”

We shared a delicious Colombian coffee sitting in the gallery. Isabella held her cup and watched me furtively as I read the twenty pages she had brought with her. Every time I turned a page and looked up I was confronted by her expectant gaze.

“If you’re going to sit there looking at me like an owl, this will take a long time.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Didn’t you want to be my assistant? Then assist. Look for something that needs tidying and tidy it, for example.”

Isabella looked around.

“Everything is untidy.”

“This is your chance then.”

Isabella agreed and went off, with military determination, to confront the chaos that reigned in my home. I continued reading. The story she had brought me had almost no narrative thread. With a sharp sensitivity and an articulate turn of phrase, it described the feelings and longings of a girl confined to a cold room in an attic of the Ribera quarter from which she gazed at the city with its people coming and going along dark, narrow streets. The images and the sad music of her prose spoke of a loneliness that bordered on despair. The girl in the story spent hours trapped in her world; sometimes she would sit facing a mirror and slit her arms and thighs with a piece of broken glass, leaving scars like the ones just visible under Isabella’s sleeves. I had almost finished my reading when I noticed that she was looking at me from the gallery door.

“What?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but what’s in the room at the end of the corridor?”

“Nothing.”

“It smells odd.”

“Damp.”

“I can clean it if you like …”

“No. That room is never used. And besides, you’re not my maid. You don’t need to clean anything.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“You can help by getting me another cup of coffee.”

“Why? Did the story make you drowsy?”

“What’s the time, Isabella?”

“It must be about ten o’clock.”

“And what does that mean?”

“No sarcasm before noon,” Isabella replied.

I smiled triumphantly and handed her my empty cup. She took it and headed off toward the kitchen.

When she returned with the steaming coffee, I had just read the last page. Isabella sat down opposite me. I slowly sipped the delicious brew. The girl wrung her hands and gritted her teeth, glancing now and then at the pages of her story that I had left face down on the table. She held out for a couple of minutes without saying a word.

“And?” she said at last.

“Superb.”

She beamed.

“My story?”

“The coffee.”

She gave me a wounded look and went to gather up her pages.

“Leave them where they are.”

“Why? It’s obvious that you didn’t like them and you think I’m nothing but a poor idiot.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say anything, which is worse.”

“Isabella, if you really want to devote yourself to writing, or at least to writing something others will read, you’re going to have to get used to sometimes being ignored, insulted, and despised and to almost always being considered with indifference. It’s an occupational hazard.”