I took a deep breath and nodded. The doctor observed me patiently, with a kind mien, letting me take my time. I tried to start various sentences that never reached my lips. Finally our eyes met.

‘I suppose I’m in your hands, doctor. You’ll have to tell me which treatment to follow.’

I saw his despairing look as he realised I had not wanted to understand what he was telling me. I nodded once more, fighting the tide of nausea that was beginning to rise up my throat. The doctor poured me a glass of water from a jug and handed it to me. I drank it in one gulp.

‘There is no treatment?’ I said.

‘There is. There are a lot of things we can do to relieve the pain and ensure maximum comfort and peace…’

‘But I’m going to die.’

‘Yes.’

‘Soon.’

‘Possibly.’

I smiled to myself. Even the worst news is a relief when all it does is confirm what you already knew without wanting to know.

‘I’m twenty-eight,’ I said, without quite knowing why.

‘I’m sorry, Señor Martín. I’d like to have given you better news.’

I felt as if I had finally confessed to a lie or a minor sin, and the large slab of remorse that had been pressing down on me was instantly removed.

‘How much longer do I have?’

‘It is difficult to determine exactly. I’d say a year, a year and a half at most.’

His tone clearly implied that this was a more than optimistic prognosis.

‘And of that year, or whatever it is, how long do you think I’ll still be able to work and cope on my own?’

‘You’re a writer and you work with your brain. Unfortunately that is where the problem is located and where we will first meet limitations.’

‘Limitations is not a medical term, doctor.’

‘The most likely outcome is that, as the disease progresses, the symptoms you’ve been experiencing will become more intense and more frequent and, after a time, you’ll have to be admitted to hospital so that we can take care of you.’

‘I won’t be able to write.’

‘You won’t even be able to think about writing.’

‘How long?’

‘I don’t know. Nine or ten months. Perhaps more, perhaps less. I’m very sorry, Señor Martín.’

I nodded and stood up. My hands were shaking and I needed some air.

‘Señor Martín, I realise you need time to think about all the things I’ve told you, but it is important that we start your treatment as soon as possible…’

‘I can’t die yet, doctor. Not yet. I have things to do. Afterwards I’ll have a whole lifetime in which to die.’

15

That night I went up to the study in the tower and sat at my typewriter, even though I knew that my brain was a blank. The windows were wide open, but Barcelona no longer wanted to tell me anything; I was unable to finish a single page. Anything I did manage to conjure up seemed banal and empty. It was enough to reread my words to understand that they were barely worth the ink with which they’d been typed. I was no longer able to hear the music that issues from a decent piece of prose. Bit by bit, like slow, pleasant poison, the words of Andreas Corelli began to drip into my thoughts.

I still had at least a hundred pages to go for my umpteenth delivery of those comic-book adventures that had provided both Barrido and Escobillas with such bulging pockets, but in that moment I knew I was never going to finish it. Ignatius B. Samson had been left lying on the rails in front of that tram, exhausted, his soul bled dry, poured into too many pages that should never have seen the light of day. But before departing he had conveyed to me his last wishes: that I should bury him without any fuss and that, for once in my life, I should have the courage to use my own voice. His legacy to me was his considerable repertoire of smoke and mirrors. And he asked me to let him go, because he had been born to be forgotten.

I took all the finished pages of his last novel and set fire to them, sensing that a tombstone was being lifted off me with every page I threw into the flames. A moist, warm breeze blew that night over the rooftops and as it came in through my windows it took with it the ashes of Ignatius B. Samson, scattering them through the streets of the old city, where they would always remain – however much his words were lost forever and his name slipped from the memory of even his most devoted readers.

The following day I turned up at the offices of Barrido & Escobillas. The receptionist was new, almost a child, and didn’t recognise me.

‘Your name?’

‘Hugo, Victor.’

The receptionist smiled and connected to the switchboard to let Herminia know.

‘Doña Herminia, Señor Hugo Victor is here to see Señor Barrido.’

I saw her nod and disconnect the switchboard.

‘She says she’ll be right out.’

‘Have you been working here long?’

‘A week,’ the girl replied attentively.

Unless I was mistaken, she was the eighth receptionist Barrido & Escobillas had employed since the start of the year. The firm’s employees who reported directly to the artful Herminia didn’t last long because as soon as Lady Venom discovered that they had one ounce of common sense more than she had – which happened nine times out of ten – fearing she might be overshadowed, she would accuse them of theft or some other absurd transgression and make one scene after another until Escobillas kicked them out, threatening them with a hired assassin if they let the cat out of the bag.

‘How good to see you, David,’ said Lady Venom. ‘You’re looking very handsome. You seem well.’

‘That’s because I was run over by a tram. Is Barrido in?’

‘The things you come out with! He’s always in for you. He’s going to be very pleased when I tell him you’ve come to pay us a visit.’

‘You can’t imagine how pleased.’

Lady Venom took me to Barrido’s office, which was decorated like a chancellor’s palatial rooms in a comic opera, with a profusion of carpets, busts of emperors, still-lifes and leather-bound volumes bought in bulk which, I imagined, were probably blank inside. Barrido gave me the oiliest of smiles and shook my hand.

‘We’re all waiting impatiently for the next instalment. I must tell you, we’ve been reprinting the last two and they’re flying out of the window. Another five thousand copies, how about that?’

I thought it was more likely to be at least fifty thousand, but I just nodded enthusiastically. Barrido & Escobillas had perfected what was known among Barcelona publishers as the double print run, and theirs was as neatly arranged as a bunch of flowers. Every title had an official print run of a few thousand copies, on which a ridiculous margin was paid to the author. Then, if the book took off, they would print one or many undercover editions of tens of thousands of copies, which were never declared and for which the author never saw a penny. The latter could be distinguished from the official edition because Barrido had them printed on the quiet in an old sausage plant in Santa Perpètua de Mogoda, and if you leafed through the pages they gave off the unmistakable smell of vintage pork.

‘I’m afraid I have bad news.’

Barrido and Lady Venom exchanged looks but kept on grinning. Just then, Escobillas materialised through the door and looked at me with that dry, disdainful air he had, as if he were measuring you up for a coffin.

‘Look who has come to see us. Isn’t this a nice surprise?’ Barrido asked his partner, who replied with a nod.

‘What bad news?’ asked Escobillas.

‘Is there a bit of a delay, Martín, my friend?’ Barrido added in a friendly tone. ‘I’m sure we can accommodate-’

‘No. There’s no delay. Quite simply, there’s not going to be another book.’

Escobillas took a step forward and raised his eyebrows. Barrido giggled.

‘What do you mean, there’s not going to be another book?’ asked Escobillas.

‘I mean that yesterday I burned it, and there’s not a single page of the manuscript left.’