Carlos Zafón - The Angel's Game

‘Happy twenty-eighth birthday, David.’

I’d forgotten.

After the meal I excused myself for a moment and went out into the garden for some fresh air. A starry night cast a silver veil over the trees. I’d been there only for a minute or so when I heard footsteps approaching and turned to find the last person I was expecting to see: Cristina Sagnier. She smiled at me, as if apologising for the intrusion.

‘Pedro doesn’t know I’ve come out to speak to you,’ she said.

She had dropped the ‘Don’, but I pretended not to notice.

‘I’d like to talk to you, David,’ she said, ‘but not here, not now.’

Even in the shadows of the garden I was unable to hide my bewilderment.

‘Can we meet tomorrow somewhere?’ she asked. ‘I promise I won’t take up much of your time.’

‘Where shall we meet?’

‘Could it be at your house? I don’t want anyone to see us, and I don’t want Pedro to know I’ve spoken with you.’

‘As you wish…’

Cristina smiled with relief.

‘Thanks. Will tomorrow be all right? In the afternoon?’

‘Whenever you like. Do you know where I live?’

‘My father knows.’

She leaned over a little and kissed me on the cheek.

‘Happy birthday, David.’

Before I could say anything, she had vanished across the garden. When I went back to the sitting room she had already left. Vidal glanced at me coldly from one end of the room and only smiled when he realised that I was watching him.

An hour later Manuel, with Vidal’s approval, insisted on driving me home in the Hispano-Suiza. I sat next to him, as I did whenever we were alone in the car: the chauffeur would take the opportunity to give me driving tips and, unbeknown to Vidal, would even let me take the wheel for a while. That night Manuel was quieter than usual and did not say a word until we reached the town centre. He looked thinner than the last time I’d seen him and I had the feeling that age was beginning to take its toll.

‘Is anything wrong, Manuel?’ I asked.

The chauffeur shrugged his shoulders.

‘Nothing important, Señor Martín.’

‘If there’s anything worrying you…’

‘Just a few health problems. When you get to my age, everything is a worry, as you know. But I don’t matter any more. The one who matters is my daughter.’

I wasn’t sure how to reply, so I simply nodded.

‘I’m aware that you hold a certain affection for her, Señor Martín. For my Cristina. A father can see these things.’

Again I just nodded. We didn’t exchange any more words until Manuel stopped the car at the entrance to Calle Flassaders, held out his hand to me, and once more wished me a happy birthday.

‘If anything should happen to me,’ he said then, ‘you would help her, wouldn’t you, Señor Martín? You would do that for me?’

‘Of course, Manuel. But nothing is going to happen to you!’

The chauffeur bade me farewell. I saw him get into the car and drive away slowly. I wasn’t absolutely sure, but I could have sworn that, after a journey in which he had hardly opened his mouth, he was now talking to himself.

I spent the whole morning running about the house, straightening things and tidying up, airing the rooms, cleaning objects and corners I didn’t even know existed. I rushed down to a florist in the market and when I returned, laden with bunches of flowers, I realised I had forgotten where I’d hidden the vases in which to put them. I dressed as if I was going out to look for work. I practised words and greetings that sounded ridiculous. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw that Vidal was right: I looked like a vampire. Finally I sat down in an armchair in the gallery to wait, with a book in my hands. In two hours I hadn’t turned over the first page. At last, at exactly four o’clock in the afternoon, I heard Cristina’s footsteps on the stairs and jumped up. By the time she rang the front doorbell I’d been at the door for an eternity.

‘Hello, David. Is this a bad moment?’

‘No, no, on the contrary. Please come in.’

Cristina smiled politely and stepped into the corridor. I led her to the reading room in the gallery, and offered her a seat. She was examining everything carefully.

‘It’s a very special place,’ she said. ‘Pedro did tell me you had an elegant home.’

‘He prefers the term “gloomy”, but I suppose it’s just a question of degrees.’

‘May I ask why you came to live here? It’s a rather large house for someone who lives alone.’

Someone who lives alone, I thought. You end up becoming what you see in the eyes of those you love.

‘The truth?’ I asked. ‘The truth is that I came to live here because for years I had seen this house almost every day on my way to and from the newspaper. It was always closed up, and I began to think it was waiting for me. In the end I dreamed, literally, that one day I would live in it. And that’s what happened.’

‘Do all your dreams come true, David?’

The ironic tone reminded me too much of Vidal.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘This is the only one. But you wanted to talk to me about something and I’m distracting you with stories that probably don’t interest you.’

I sounded more defensive that I would have wished. The same thing that had happened with the flowers was happening with my longing: once I held it in my hands, I didn’t know where to put it.

‘I wanted to talk to you about Pedro,’ Cristina began.

‘Ah.’

‘You’re his best friend. You know him. He talks about you as if you were his son. He loves you more than anyone. You know that.’

‘Don Pedro has treated me like a father,’ I said. ‘If it hadn’t been for him and for Señor Sempere, I don’t know what would have become of me.’

‘The reason I wanted to talk to you is that I’m very worried about him.’

‘Why are you worried?’

‘You know that some years ago I started work as his secretary. The truth is that Pedro is a very generous man and we’ve ended up being good friends. He has behaved very well towards my father, and towards me. That’s why it hurts me to see him like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘It’s that wretched book, the novel he wants to write.’

‘He’s been at it for years.’

‘He’s been destroying it for years. I correct and type out all his pages. Over the years I’ve been working as his secretary he’s destroyed at least two thousand pages. He says he has no talent. He says he’s a fraud. He’s constantly at the bottle. Sometimes I find him upstairs in his study, drunk, crying like a child…’

I swallowed hard.

‘He says he envies you, he wants to be like you, he says people lie and praise him because they want something from him – money, help – but he knows that his book is worthless. He keeps up appearances with everyone else, his smart suits and all that, but I see him every day, and I know he’s losing hope. Sometimes I’m afraid he’ll do something stupid. It’s been going on for some time now. I haven’t said anything because I didn’t know who to speak to. If he knew I’d come to see you he’d be furious. He always says: don’t bother David with my worries. He’s got his whole life ahead of him and I’m nothing now. He’s always saying things like that. Forgive me for telling you all this, but I didn’t know who to turn to…’

We sank into a deep silence. I felt an intense cold invading me: the knowledge that while the man to whom I owed my life had plunged into despair, I had been locked in my own world and hadn’t paused for one second to notice.

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have come…’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’ve done the right thing.’