James Jenkins - The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories. Volume 1

Esteban was thoughtful. It was the type of offer he fantasized about getting, but he didn’t want to take advantage of a melancholy old man. He looked out the window: a luxury car pulled up to collect Señor Ligotti. The chauffeur got out and opened the back door for him.

He went to the cash register. The bill had already been paid.

Adela was suspicious. Sitting at the kitchen table with her hands on her belly to feel the baby when it moved, she had listened to the story Esteban told her as he walked back and forth, more and more euphoric. She asked him to be cautious. Things didn’t happen so easily. Not to them. Nor did she believe in coincidences. Everything had a reason, a consequence.

‘It smells like fraud.’

Esteban opened the refrigerator. He looked inside, took out a slice of ham and closed it again.

‘Why would a rich old man commit a fraud? It’s absurd.’

‘We don’t know anything about him. He could be a decoy, the tip of the iceberg of something we can’t even imagine.’

‘Do you hear yourself? We should write a suspense novel together. You’re more paranoid than I am.’

‘I’m suspicious, which is different. And more intuitive than you. Let’s suppose that he really is a rich, lonely widower. An eccentric man who commits frauds in order to . . .’

‘In order to what?’

‘. . . amuse himself.’

Esteban knelt down beside Adela. He put his hands on her belly in an attempt to reassure her.

‘Some of our friends have had similar opportunities. People who make them a good offer. And we always say, “What a lucky devil!” Well, now it’s our turn. Don’t they say that babies bring good luck?’

‘That money is all we have. And we’re on the verge of being parents. At least bring a lawyer to the meeting, someone to advise you.’

‘Lawyers are expensive. I have experience with contracts, remember that I’ve signed lots of them for my books. Trust me.’

Adela felt exhausted. For eight months she’d had something living inside her that she couldn’t see but that she could feel moving within her, growing, feeding. She slept little and badly. She didn’t want to go on arguing; she got up and went silently to bed.

Esteban remained in the kitchen. He looked out the window to contemplate the pitch-­dark night, barely illuminated by the poor lighting of Colonia Juárez.

In the middle of that darkness was their new home, waiting for them.

Esteban entered the lobby of a luxurious building that housed various offices. He saw from the wall directory that the office of Ligotti Industries shared a floor with the corporate offices of Grau Press, an important transnational imprint that had rejected his work on several occasions. That coincidence upset him, stirring up old frustrations. What was wrong with his writing that made it unworthy of being included in their catalog? Grau Press published renowned authors, but also a lot of rubbish. Esteban didn’t fool himself: he knew he’d never win a prestigious award – he wrote thrillers, a genre scorned by critics – but at the same time he knew that his books had quality. And what’s more, they sold. So what was the problem? He was thinking about that when he got off the elevator on the top floor and was still considering it when, after a short wait, the secretary told him to go in.

Señor Ligotti’s office impressed him: marble floor, mahogany furniture, leather chairs, cut glass ashtrays, and books: the walls were covered with shelves. As he sat down in front of the desk and Señor Ligotti handed him the sale contract to review, he realized that a good part of that library consisted of Grau Press titles. Curiosity got the better of him and he asked his host why.

‘I know the owner, we’re good friends. Every time a new title comes out, he gives me a copy. By the way, you should publish there: it’s an important publishing house, it would get your name out there.’

‘I’ve tried, but I haven’t had any luck.’

‘Talent isn’t a question of luck. It’s all about getting a push in the right direction. I can help you.’

Esteban’s eyes shone with intensity. He began to flip through the pages of the contract and signed them without paying any attention.

‘Really? I wouldn’t dream of asking you for that favor . . .’

Señor Ligotti moved his ring-­laden fingers over the glass ashtray, producing a sound similar to the one he had made with the mug at Vips. For a moment, Esteban felt that time had stopped, that nothing else existed but that rhythmic, hypnotic tapping.

Si non oscillas, noli tintinnare.

Señor Ligotti’s voice brought him back to reality.

‘You’re not asking, I’m offering. It’s in your best interest: several of the titles you see here were published thanks to my opportune intervention. And with great success. I have a good eye, my neighbor knows it.’

‘I should sit down to write. Lately things haven’t been easy for me. Pregnancy brings a lot of worries and complications with it. For example . . .’

He was on the point of affixing his signature to the final page, but Señor Ligotti interrupted him:

‘Wait. Before we finish with this, I want us to make a verbal pact, a gentleman’s agreement.’

Esteban’s mind remained overrun with the worries he hadn’t managed to express: diapers, ultrasounds, the birth.

‘Yes?’

The old man was now holding his cane in his hands and stroking the silver handle. When had he picked it up?

‘That you let me visit you in the apartment. It’s the only condition I impose. We can talk about books, drink coffee, and discuss the progress of the work I’ll be proposing to Grau Press.’

Esteban smiled, relieved. For a moment he thought that the agreement was going to slip through his fingers.

‘Of course.’

He signed, sealing the pact.

The move happened a week later. To celebrate, Esteban organized a party attended by his writer friends and some ex-­­colleagues from when he used to work in the cultural bureaucracy. He drank one beer after another as he showed the flat to each guest who arrived. The Berlín building was an old edifice, well maintained. Just the type of place he liked. The apartment had high ceilings, thick walls, hardwood flooring. Three bedrooms, two full bathrooms. There was a fireplace in the living room, which gave a touch of elegance. And the best part: it was located on the building’s ground floor, which would save him from having to climb the stairs with the stroller.

At some point that night he went up to Clemente, an author of crime novels whom he’d known for many years and with whom he had the kind of friendship that usually develops between writers: not very honest, self-­serving, based more on gossip than a genuine interest in each other’s work.

Clemente was drinking mezcal from a mug: there weren’t enough glasses.

‘This apartment is amazing. How did you manage to pay for it?’

‘I got a loan. There’s no other way except going into debt.’

‘And the down payment? Through the roof, I’m guessing.’

‘My mother-­in-­law helped us.’

‘And how are the neighbors? Have you gone to ask them for sugar?’

Esteban was carrying two beers in his hand. One of them was for somebody else, but now he didn’t remember who. This time he responded truthfully:

‘I haven’t come across anyone. I haven’t heard them either. The good thing about old buildings is you don’t hear anything.’

‘If I were you I’d find out right away who I’m going to be surrounded by for the rest of my days.’

A couple approached to say goodbye. Esteban took advantage of the opportunity to free himself from Clemente. Their conversation was starting to bother him. He decided to avoid him the rest of the night. He was a negative guy whose paranoia was usually contagious.