That same evening I emptied my desk and left for good the place that had been my home, disappearing into the dark, lonely streets of the city. On my way to the pensión I stopped by the Set Portes restaurant under the arches of Casa Xifré. I stayed outside, watching my colleagues laughing and raising their glasses through the window pane. I hoped my absence made them happy or at least made them forget that they weren’t happy and never would be.

I spent the rest of that week pacing the streets, sheltering every day in the Ateneo library and imagining that when I returned to the pensión I would discover a note from the newspaper editor asking me to rejoin the team. Hiding in one of the reading rooms, I would pull out the business card I had found in my hand when I woke up in El Ensueño, and start to compose a letter to my unknown benefactor, Andreas Corelli, but I always tore it up and tried rewriting it the following day. On the seventh day, tired of feeling sorry for myself, I decided to make the inevitable pilgrimage to my maker’s house.

I took the train to Sarriá in Calle Pelayo – in those days it still operated above ground – and sat at the front of the carriage to gaze at the city and watch the streets become wider and grander the further we drew away from the centre. I got off at the Sarriá stop and from there took a tram that dropped me by the entrance to the Monastery of Pedralbes. It was an unusually hot day for the time of year and I could smell the scent of the pines and broom that peppered the hillside. I set off up Avenida Pearson, which at that time was already being developed. Soon I glimpsed the unmistakeable profile of Villa Helius. As I climbed the hill and got nearer, I could see Vidal sitting in the window of his tower in his shirtsleeves, enjoying a cigarette. Music floated on the air and I remembered that Vidal was one of the privileged few who owned a radio receiver. How good life must have looked from up there, and how insignificant I must have seemed.

I waved at him and he returned my greeting. When I reached the villa I met the driver, Manuel, who was on his way to the coach house carrying a handful of rags and a bucket of steaming-hot water.

‘Good to see you here, David,’ he said. ‘How’s life? Keeping up the good work?’

‘I do my best,’ I replied.

‘Don’t be modest. Even my daughter reads those adventures you publish in the newspaper.’

I swallowed hard, amazed that the chauffeur’s daughter not only knew of my existence but had even read some of the nonsense I wrote.

‘Cristina?’

‘I have no other,’ replied Don Manuel. ‘Don Pedro is upstairs in his study, in case you want to go up.’

I nodded gratefully, slipped into the mansion and went up to the third floor, where the tower rose above the undulating rooftop of polychrome tiles. There I found Vidal, installed in his study with its view of the city and the sea in the distance. He turned off the radio, a contraption the size of a small meteorite which he’d bought a few months earlier when the first Radio Barcelona broadcast had been announced from the studios concealed under the dome of the Hotel Colón.

‘It cost me almost two hundred pesetas, and it broadcasts a load of rubbish.’

We sat in chairs facing one another, with all the windows wide open and a breeze that to me, an inhabitant of the dark old town, smelled of a different world. The silence was exquisite, like a miracle. You could hear insects fluttering in the garden and the leaves on the trees rustling in the wind.

‘It feels like summer,’ I ventured.

‘Don’t pretend everything is OK by talking about the weather. I’ve already been told what happened,’ Vidal said.

I shrugged my shoulders and glanced over at his writing desk. I was aware that my mentor had spent months, or even years, trying to write what he called a ‘serious’ novel far removed from the light plots of his crime fiction, so that his name could be inscribed in the more distinguished sections of libraries. I couldn’t see many sheets of paper.

‘How’s the masterpiece going?’

Vidal threw his cigarette butt out of the window and stared into the distance.

‘I don’t have anything left to say, David.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Everything in life is nonsense. It’s just a question of perspective.’

‘You should put that in your book. The Nihilist on the Hill. Bound to be a success.’

‘You’re the one who is going to need a success. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ll soon be short of cash.’

‘I could always accept your charity.’

‘It might feel like the end of the world to you now, but-’

‘I’ll soon realise that this is the best thing that could have happened to me,’ I said, completing the sentence. ‘Don’t tell me Don Basilio is writing your speeches now. Or is it the other way round?’

Vidal laughed.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Don’t you need a secretary?’

‘I’ve already got the best secretary I could have. She’s more intelligent than me, infinitely more hard-working and when she smiles I even feel that this lousy world still has some future.’

‘And who is this marvel?’

‘Manuel’s daughter.’

‘Cristina.’

‘At last I hear you utter her name.’

‘You’ve chosen a bad week to make fun of me, Don Pedro.’

‘Don’t look at me all doe-eyed. Did you think Pedro Vidal was going to allow that mediocre, constipated, envious bunch to sack you without doing anything about it?’

‘A word from you to the editor could have changed things.’

‘I know. That’s why I was the one who suggested he should fire you,’ said Vidal.

I felt as if he’d just slapped me on the face.

‘Thanks for the push,’ I improvised.

‘I told him to fire you because I have something much better for you.’

‘Begging?’

‘Have you no faith? Only yesterday I was talking about you to a couple of partners who have just opened a new publishing house and are looking for fresh blood to exploit. You can’t trust them, of course.’

‘Sounds marvellous.’

‘They know all about The Mysteries of Barcelona and are prepared to make you an offer that will get you on your feet.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Of course I’m serious. They want you to write a series in instalments in the most baroque, bloody and delirious Grand Guignol tradition – a series that will tear The Mysteries of Barcelona to shreds. I think that this is the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. I told them you’d go and talk to them and that you’d be able to start work immediately.’

I heaved a deep sigh. Vidal winked and then embraced me.

7

That was how, only a few months after my twentieth birthday, I received and accepted an offer to write penny dreadfuls under the name of Ignatius B. Samson. My contract committed me to hand in two hundred pages of typed manuscript a month packed with intrigues, high-society murders, countless underworld horrors, illicit love affairs featuring cruel lantern-jawed landowners and damsels with unmentionable desires, and all sorts of twisted family sagas with backgrounds as thick and murky as the water in the port. The series, which I decided to call City of the Damned, was to appear in monthly hardback instalments with full-colour illustrated covers. In exchange I would be paid more money than I had ever imagined could be made doing something that I cared about, and the only censorship imposed on me would be dictated by the loyalty of my readers. The terms of the offer obliged me to write anonymously under an extravagant pseudonym, but it seemed a small price to pay for being able to make a living from the profession I had always dreamed of practising. I would put aside any vanity about seeing my name printed on my work, whilst remaining true to myself, to what I was.

My publishers were a pair of colourful characters called Barrido and Escobillas. Barrido, who was small, squat, and always affected an oily, sibylline smile, was the brains of the operation. He sprang from the sausage industry and although he hadn’t read more than three books in his life – and this included the catechism and the telephone directory – he was possessed of a proverbial audacity for cooking the books, which he falsified for his investors, displaying a talent for fiction that any of his authors might have envied. These, as Vidal had predicted, the firm swindled, exploited and, in the end, kicked into the gutter when the winds were unfavourable – something that always happened sooner or later.