The Angel's Game (24 page)

21

When I returned to the tower house, I looked with different eyes at the building that had been my home and my prison for too many years. I went through the front door feeling as if I was entering the jaws of a being made of stone and shadow, and ascended the wide staircase, penetrating the bowels of this creature; when I opened the door of the main floor, the long corridor that faded into darkness seemed, for the first time, like the antechamber of a poisoned and distrustful mind. At the far end, outlined against the scarlet twilight that filtered through from the gallery, was the silhouette of Isabella advancing towards me. I closed the door and turned on the light.

Isabella had dressed as a refined young lady, with her hair up and a few touches of make-up that made her look ten years older.

‘You’re looking very attractive and elegant,’ I said coldly.

‘Like a girl your age, don’t you think? Do you like the dress?’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘It was in one of the trunks in the room at the end. I think it belonged to Irene Sabino. What do you think? Doesn’t it fit me well?’

‘I told you to get someone to take everything away.’

‘And I did. This morning I went to the parish church but they told me they couldn’t collect, and we’d have to take it to them ourselves.’

I looked at her but didn’t say anything.

‘It’s the truth,’ she added.

‘Take that off and put it back where you found it. And wash your face. You look like—’

‘A tart?’ Isabella completed.

I shook my head and sighed.

‘No. You could never look like a tart, Isabella.’

‘Of course. That’s why you don’t fancy me,’ she muttered, turning round and heading for her room.

‘Isabella,’ I called.

She ignored me.

‘Isabella,’ I repeated, raising my voice.

She threw me a hostile glance before slamming the bedroom door shut. I heard her beginning to move things about. I walked over to the door and rapped with my knuckles. There was no reply. I rapped again. Not a word. I opened the door and found her gathering the few things she’d brought with her and putting them in her bag.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘I’m leaving, that’s what I’m doing. I’m going and I’m leaving you in peace. Or in war, because with you one never knows.’

‘May I ask where you’re going?’

‘What do you care? Is that a rhetorical or an ironic question? It’s obvious that you don’t give a damn about anything, but as I’m such an idiot I can’t tell the difference.’

‘Isabella, wait a moment . . .’

‘Don’t worry about the dress, I’m taking it off right now. And you can return the nibs, because I haven’t used them and I don’t like them. They’re kitsch and childish.’

I moved closer and put a hand on her shoulder. She jumped away as if a snake had brushed against her.

‘Don’t touch me.’

I withdrew to the doorway in silence. Isabella’s hands and lips were shaking.

‘Isabella, forgive me. Please. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

She looked at me with tears in her eyes and gave a bitter smile.

‘You’ve done nothing but that. Ever since I got here. You’ve done nothing but insult me and treat me as if I were a poor idiot who didn’t understand a thing.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated. ‘Leave your things. Don’t go.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m asking you, please, not to go.’

‘If I need pity and charity, I can find it elsewhere.’

‘It’s not pity, or charity, unless that’s what you feel for me. I’m asking you to stay because I’m the idiot here, and I don’t want to be alone. I can’t be alone.’

‘Great. Always thinking of others. Buy yourself a dog.’

She let the bag fall on the bed and faced me, drying her tears as the pent-up anger slowly dissipated.

‘Well then, since we’re playing at telling the truth, let me tell you that you’re always going to be alone. You’ll be alone because you don’t know how to love or how to share. You’re like this house: it makes my hair stand on end. I’m not surprised your lady in white left you, or that everyone else has too. You don’t love and you don’t allow yourself to be loved.’

I stared at her, crushed, as if I’d just been given a beating and didn’t know where the blows had come from. I searched for words but could only stammer.

‘Is it true you don’t like the pen set?’ I managed at last.

Isabella rolled her eyes, exhausted.

‘Don’t look at me like a beaten dog. I might be stupid, but not that stupid.’

I didn’t reply but remained leaning against the doorframe. Isabella observed me with an expression somewhere between suspicion and pity.

‘I didn’t mean to say what I said about your friend, the one in the photographs. I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.

‘Don’t apologise. It’s the truth.’

I left the room, eyes downcast, and took refuge in the study, where I gazed at the dark city buried in mist. After a while I heard her hesitant footsteps on the staircase.

‘Are you up there?’ she called out.

‘Yes.’

Isabella came into the room. She had changed her clothes and washed the tears from her face. She smiled and I smiled back at her.

‘Why are you like that?’

I shrugged my shoulders. Isabella came over and sat next to me, on the windowsill. We enjoyed the play of silences and shadows over the rooftops of the old town. After a while, she grinned at me and said, ‘What if we were to light one of those cigars my father gives you and share it?’

‘Certainly not.’

Isabella sank back into silence, but every now and then she glanced at me and smiled. I watched her out of the corner of my eye and realised that just by looking at her it was easier to believe there might be something good and decent left in this lousy world and, with luck, in myself.

‘Are you staying?’ I asked.

‘Give me a good reason why I should. An honest reason. In other words, coming from you, a selfish one. And it had better not be a load of drivel or I’ll leave right away.’

She barricaded herself behind a defensive look, waiting for one of my usual flattering remarks, and for a moment she seemed to be the only person in the world to whom I couldn’t and didn’t wish to lie. I looked down and for once I spoke the truth, even if it was only to hear it myself.

‘Because you’re the only friend I have left.’

The hard expression in her eyes disappeared, and before I could discern any pity, I looked away.

‘What about Señor Sempere and that pedant, Barceló?’

‘You’re the only one who has dared tell me the truth.’

‘What about your friend, the boss, doesn’t he tell you the truth?’

‘The boss is not my friend. And I don’t think he’s ever told the truth in his entire life.’

Isabella looked at me closely.

‘You see? I knew you didn’t trust him. I noticed it in your face from the very first day.’

I tried to recover some of my dignity, but all I found was sarcasm.

‘Have you added face-reading to your list of talents?’

‘You don’t need any talent to read a face like yours,’ Isabella retorted. ‘It’s like reading
Tom Thumb
.’

‘And what else can you read in my face, dearest fortune-teller?’

‘That you’re scared.’

I tried to laugh without much enthusiasm.

‘Don’t be ashamed of being scared. To be afraid is a sign of common sense. Only complete idiots are not afraid of anything. I read that in a book.’

‘The coward’s handbook?’

‘You needn’t admit it if it’s going to undermine your sense of masculinity. I know you men believe that the size of your stubbornness should match the size of your privates.’

‘Did you also read that in your book?’

‘No, that wisdom’s homemade.’

I let my hands fall, surrendering in the face of the evidence.

‘All right. Yes, I admit that I do feel a vague sense of anxiety.’

‘You’re the one who’s being vague. You’re scared stiff. Admit it.’

‘Don’t get things out of proportion. Let’s say that I have some reservations concerning my publisher, which, given my experience, is understandable. As far as I know, Corelli is a perfect gentleman and our professional relationship will be fruitful and positive for both parties.’

‘That’s why your stomach rumbles every time his name crops up.’

I sighed. I had no arguments left.

‘What can I say, Isabella?’

‘That you’re not going to work for him any more.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘And why not? Can’t you just give him back his money and send him packing?’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Why not? Have you got yourself into trouble?’

‘I think so.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. In any case, I’m the only one to blame, so I must be the one to solve it. It’s nothing that should worry you.’

Isabella looked at me, resigned for the time being but not convinced.

‘You really are a hopeless person. Did you know that?’

‘I’m getting used to the idea.’

‘If you want me to stay, the rules here must change.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘No more enlightened despotism. From now on, this house is a democracy.’

‘Liberty, equality and fraternity.’

‘Watch it where fraternity is concerned. But no more ordering around, and no more little Mr Rochester numbers.’

‘Whatever you say, Miss Eyre.’

‘And don’t get your hopes up, because I’m not going to marry you even if you go blind.’

I put out my hand to seal our pact. She shook it with some hesitation and then gave me a hug. I let myself be wrapped in her arms and leaned my face on her hair. Her touch was full of peace and welcome, the life light of a seventeen-year-old girl, and I wanted to believe that it resembled the embrace my mother had never had time to give me.

‘Friends?’ I whispered.

‘Till death us do part.’

22

The new regulations of the Isabellian reign came into effect at nine o’clock the following morning, when my assistant turned up in the kitchen and informed me how things were going to be from then on.

‘I’ve been thinking that you need a routine in your life. Otherwise you get sidetracked and act in a dissolute manner.’

‘Where did you get that expression from?’

‘From one of your books. Dis-so-lute. It sounds good.’

‘And it’s great for rhymes.’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

During the day we would both work on our respective manuscripts. We would have dinner together and then she’d show me the pages she’d written that day and we’d discuss them. I swore I would be frank and give her appropriate suggestions, not just empty words to keep her happy. Sundays would be our day off and I’d take her to the pictures, to the theatre or out for a walk. She would help me find documents in libraries and archives and it would be her job to make sure the larder was always well stocked thanks to her connection with the family emporium. I would make breakfast and she’d make dinner. Lunch would be prepared by whoever was free at that moment. We divided up the chores and I promised to accept the irrefutable fact that the house needed to be cleaned regularly. I would not attempt to find her a boyfriend under any circumstances and she would refrain from questioning my motives for working for the boss or from expressing her opinion on the matter unless I asked for it. The rest we would make up as we went along.

I raised my cup of coffee and we toasted my unconditional surrender.

In just a couple of days I had given myself over to the peace and tranquillity of the vassal. Isabella awoke slowly, and by the time she emerged from her room, her eyes half-closed, wearing a pair of my slippers that were much too big for her, I had the breakfast ready, with coffee and the morning paper, a different one each day.

Routine is the housekeeper of inspiration. Only forty-eight hours after the establishment of the new regime, I discovered that I was beginning to recover the discipline of my most productive years. The hours of being locked up in the study crystallised into pages and more pages, in which, not without some anxiety, I began to see the work taking shape, reaching the point at which it stopped being an idea and became a reality.

The text flowed, brilliant, electric. It read like a legend, a mythological saga about miracles and hardships, peopled with characters and scenes that were knotted around a prophecy of hope for the race. The narrative prepared the way for the arrival of a warrior saviour who would liberate the nation of all pain and injustice in order to give it back the pride and glory that had been snatched away by its enemies - foes who had conspired since time immemorial against the people, whoever that people might be. The mechanics of the plot were impeccable and would work equally well for any creed, race or tribe. Flags, gods and proclamations were the jokers in a pack that always dealt the same cards. Given the nature of the work, I had chosen one of the most complex and difficult techniques to apply to any literary text: the apparent absence of technique. The language resounded plain and simple, the voice was honest and clean, a consciousness that did not narrate, but simply revealed. Sometimes I would stop to reread what I’d written and, overcome with blind vanity, I’d feel that the mechanism I was setting up worked with perfect precision. I realised that for the first time in a long while I had spent whole hours without thinking about Cristina or Pedro Vidal. Life, I told myself, was improving. Perhaps for that very reason, because it seemed that at last I was going to get out of the predicament into which I’d fallen, I did what I’ve always done when I’ve got myself back on the rails: I ruined it all.

One morning, after breakfast, I donned one of my respectable suits. I stepped into the gallery to say goodbye to Isabella and saw her leaning over her desk, rereading pages from the day before.

‘Are you not writing today?’ she asked without looking up.

‘I’m having a day off for meditation.’

I noticed the set of pen nibs and the ink pot decorated with muses next to her notebook.

‘I thought you considered it kitsch,’ I said.

‘I do, but I’m a seventeen-year-old girl and I have every right in the world to like kitsch things. It’s like you with your cigars.’

The smell of eau de cologne reached her and she looked at me questioningly. When she saw that I’d dressed to go out she frowned.

‘You’re off to do some more detective work?’ she asked.

‘A bit.’

‘Don’t you need a bodyguard? A Doctor Watson? Someone with a little common sense?’

‘Don’t learn how to find excuses for not writing before you learn how to write. That’s a privilege of professionals and you have to earn it.’

‘I think that if I’m your assistant, that should cover everything.’

I smiled meekly.

‘Actually, there
is
something I wanted to ask you. No, don’t worry. It’s to do with Sempere. I’ve heard that he’s hard up and that the bookshop is at risk.’

‘That can’t be true.’

‘Unfortunately it is, but it’s all right because we’re not going to allow matters to get any worse.’

‘Señor Sempere is very proud and he’s not going to let you . . . You’ve already tried, haven’t you?’

I nodded.

‘That’s why I thought we need to be a little shrewder, and resort to something more cunning,’ I said.

‘Your speciality.’

I ignored her disapproving tone. ‘This is what I’ve planned: you drop by the bookshop, as if you just happened to be passing, and tell Sempere that I’m an ogre, that you’re sick of me—’

‘Up to now it sounds one-hundred-per-cent credible.’

‘Don’t interrupt. You tell him all that and also tell him that what I pay you to be my assistant is a pittance.’

‘But you don’t pay me a penny . . .’

I sighed. This required patience.

‘When he says he’s sorry to hear it, and he will, make yourself look like a damsel in distress and confess, if possible with a tear or two, that your father has disinherited you and wants to send you to a nunnery. Tell him you thought that perhaps you could work in his shop for a few hours a day, for a trial period, in exchange for a three-per-cent commission on what you sell. That way, you can carve out a future for yourself far from the convent, as a liberated woman devoted to the dissemination of literature.’

Isabella grimaced.

‘Three per cent? Do you want to help Sempere or fleece him?’

‘I want you to put on a dress like the one you wore the other night, get yourself all spruced up, as only you know how, and pay him a visit while his son is in the shop, which is usually in the afternoons.’

‘Are we talking about the handsome one?’

‘How many sons does Señor Sempere have?’

Isabella made her calculations and, when she began to understand what was going on, she threw me a sulphurous look.

‘If my father knew the kind of perverse mind you have, he’d buy himself that shotgun.’

‘All I’m saying is that the son must see you. And the father must see the son seeing you.’

‘You’re even worse than I imagined. Now you’re devoting yourself to the white slave trade.’

‘It’s pure Christian charity. Besides, you were the first to admit that Sempere’s son is good-looking.’

‘Good-looking and a bit slow.’

‘Don’t exaggerate. Sempere junior is just shy in the presence of females, which does him credit. He’s a model citizen who, despite being aware of his enticing appearance, exercises extreme self-control out of respect and devotion to the immaculate purity of Barcelona’s womenfolk. Don’t tell me this doesn’t bestow an aura of nobility that appeals to your instincts, both maternal and the rest.’

‘Sometimes I think I hate you, Señor Martín.’

‘Hold on to that feeling, but don’t blame poor young Sempere for my deficiencies as a human being because, strictly speaking, he’s a saint.’

‘We agreed that you wouldn’t try to find me a boyfriend.’

‘I’ve said nothing about a boyfriend. If you’ll let me finish, I’ll tell you the rest.’

‘Go on, Rasputin.’

‘When the older Sempere says yes to you, and he will, I want you to spend two or three hours a day at the counter in the bookshop.’

‘Dressed like what? Mata Hari?’

‘Dressed with the decorum and good taste that is characteristic of you. Pretty, suggestive, but without standing out. As I’ve said, if necessary you can rescue one of Irene Sabino’s dresses, but it must be modest.’

‘Two or three of them look fantastic on me,’ Isabella commented, licking her lips in anticipation.

‘Then wear whichever one covers you the most.’

‘You’re a reactionary. What about my literary education?’

‘What better classroom than Sempere & Sons? You’ll be surrounded by masterpieces from which you can learn in bulk.’

‘And what should I do? Take a deep breath to see if something sticks?’

‘It’s just for a few hours a day. After that you can continue your work here, as you have until now, receiving my advice, which is always priceless and will turn you into a new Jane Austen.’

‘And where’s the cunning plan?’

‘The cunning plan is that every day I’ll give you a few pesetas, and every time you are paid by a customer and open the till you’ll slide them in discreetly.’

‘So that’s your plan . . .’

‘That’s the plan. As you can see, there’s nothing perverse about it.’

Isabella frowned again.

‘It won’t work. He’ll notice there’s something wrong. Señor Sempere is nobody’s fool.’

‘It will work. And if Sempere seems puzzled, you tell him that when customers see a pretty girl behind the counter, they let go of the purse strings and become more generous.’

‘That might be so in the cheap haunts you frequent, not in a bookshop.’

‘I beg to differ. If I were to go into a bookshop and come across a shop assistant who is as pretty and charming as you are, then I might even be capable of buying the latest national book award winner.’

‘That’s because your mind is as filthy as a hen house.’

‘I also have - or should I say “we have” - a debt of gratitude towards Sempere.’

‘That’s a low blow.’

‘Then don’t make me aim even lower.’

Every self-respecting act of persuasion must first appeal to curiosity, then to vanity, and lastly to kindness or remorse. Isabella looked down and slowly nodded.

‘And when were you planning to set this plan of the bounteous goddess in motion?’

‘Don’t put off for tomorrow what you can do today.’

‘Today?’

‘This afternoon.’

‘Tell me the truth. Is this a strategy for laundering the money the boss pays you, and to purge your conscience, or whatever it is you have where there should be one?’

‘You know my motives are always selfish.’

‘And what if Señor Sempere says no?’

‘Just make sure the son is there and you’re dressed in your Sunday best, but not for Mass.’

‘It’s a degrading and offensive plan.’

‘And you love it.’

At last Isabella smiled, cat-like.

‘What if the son suddenly grows bold and allows his hands to wander?’

‘I can guarantee the heir won’t dare lay a finger on you unless it’s in the presence of a priest waving a marriage certificate.’

‘That sounds a bit extreme.’

‘Will you do it?’

‘For you?’

‘For literature.’