On Thursday at midday, Eulalia came over to my table during one of her breaks and asked me whether, apart from reading missals, I ate every now and then. So I asked her to lunch at nearby Casa Leopoldo, which had just opened to the public. While we enjoyed a delicious oxtail stew, she told me she’d been in the same job for over two years and had spent two more years working on a novel that was proving difficult to finish. It was set in the library on Calle del Carmen and the plot was based on a series of mysterious crimes that took place there.
‘I’d like to write something similar to those novels that were published some years ago by Ignatius B. Samson,’ she said. ‘Ever heard of them?’
‘Vaguely,’ I replied.
Eulalia couldn’t quite find a way forward with her writing so I suggested she give it all a slightly sinister tone and focus the story on a secret book possessed by a tormented spirit, with subplots that were apparently supernatural in content.
‘That’s what Ignatius B. Samson would do, in your place,’ I suggested.
‘And what are you doing reading all about angels and devils? Don’t tell me you’re a repentant ex-seminarist.’
‘I’m trying to find out what the origins of different religions and myths have in common,’ I explained.
‘What have you discovered so far?’
‘Almost nothing. I don’t want to bore you with my lament.’
‘You won’t bore me. Go on.’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Well, what I’ve found most interesting so far is that, generally speaking, beliefs arise from an event or character that may or may not be authentic, and rapidly evolve into social movements that are conditioned and shaped by the political, economic and societal circumstances of the group that accepts them. Are you still awake?’
Eulalia nodded.
‘A large part of the mythology that develops around each of these doctrines, from its liturgy to its rules and taboos, comes from the bureaucracy generated as they develop and not from the supposed supernatural act that originated them. Most of the simple, wellintentioned anecdotes are a mixture of common sense and folklore, and all the belligerent force they eventually develop comes from a subsequent interpretation of those principles, or even their distortion, at the hands of bureaucrats. The administrative and hierarchic aspects seem to be crucial in the evolution of belief systems. The truth is first revealed to all men, but very quickly individuals appear claiming sole authority and a duty to interpret, administer and, if need be, alter this truth in the name of the common good. To this end they establish a powerful and potentially repressive organisation. This phenomenon, which biology shows us is common to any social group, soon transforms the doctrine into a means of achieving control and political power. Divisions, wars and break-ups become inevitable. Sooner or later, the word becomes flesh and the flesh bleeds.’
I thought I was beginning to sound like Corelli and I sighed. Eulalia gave a hesitant smile.
‘Is that what you’re looking for? Blood?’
‘It’s the caning that leads to learning, not the other way round.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’
‘I have a feeling you went to a convent school.’
‘The Sisters of the Holy Infant Jesus. The black nuns. Eight years.’
‘Is it true what they say, that girls from convent schools are the ones who harbour the darkest and most unmentionable desires?’
‘I bet you’d love to find out.’
‘You can put all the chips on “yes”.’
‘What else have you learned in your crash course on theology?’
‘Not much else. My initial conclusions have left an unpleasant aftertaste – it’s so banal and inconsequential. All this seemed more or less evident already without the need to swallow whole encyclopedias and treatises on where to tickle angels – perhaps because I’m unable to understand anything beyond my own prejudices or because there is nothing else to understand and the crux of the matter lies in simply believing or not believing, without stopping to wonder why. How’s my rhetoric? Are you still impressed?’
‘It’s giving me goose pimples. A shame I didn’t meet you when I was a school girl with dark desires.’
‘You’re cruel, Eulalia.’
The librarian laughed heartily, looking me in the eye.
‘Tell me, Ignatius B., who has broken your heart and left you so angry?’
‘I see books aren’t the only things you read.’
We sat a while longer at the table, watching the waiters coming and going across the dining room of Casa Leopoldo.
‘Do you know the best thing about broken hearts?’ the librarian asked.
I shook my head.
‘They can only really break once. The rest is just scratches.’
‘Put that in your book.’
I pointed to her engagement ring.
‘I don’t know who the idiot is, but I hope he knows he’s the luckiest man in the world.’
Eulalia smiled a little sadly. We returned to the library and to our places: she went to her desk and I to my corner. I said goodbye to her the following day, when I decided that I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, read another line about revelations and eternal truths. On my way to the library I had bought her a white rose in one of the stalls on the Ramblas and I left it on her empty desk. I found her in one of the passages, sorting out some books.
‘Are you abandoning me so soon?’ she said when she saw me. ‘Who is going to flirt with me now?’
‘Who isn’t?’
She came with me to the exit and shook my hand at the top of the flight of stairs that led to the courtyard of the old hospital. Halfway down I stopped and turned round. She was still there, watching me.
‘Good luck, Ignatius B., I hope you find what you’re looking for.’
12
While I was having dinner with Isabella at the gallery table, I noticed my new assistant was casting me sidelong glances.
‘Don’t you like the soup? You haven’t touched it…’ the girl ventured.
I looked at the plate I had allowed to grow cold, took a spoonful and pretended I was tasting the most exquisite delicacy.
‘Delicious,’ I remarked.
‘And you haven’t said a word since you returned from the library,’ Isabella added.
‘Any other complaints?’
Isabella looked away, upset. I ate some of the cold soup with little appetite, as it gave me an excuse for not speaking.
‘Why are you so sad? Is it because of that woman?’
I went on stirring my spoon around in the soup. Isabella didn’t take her eyes off me.
‘Her name is Cristina,’ I said eventually. ‘And I’m not sad. I’m pleased for her because she’s married my best friend and she’s going to be very happy.’
‘And I’m the Queen of Sheba.’
‘You’re a busybody, that’s what you are.’
‘I prefer you like this, when you’re in a foul mood, because you tell the truth.’
‘Then let’s see how you like this: clear off to your room and leave me in peace, for Christ’s sake!’
She tried to smile, but by the time I stretched out my hand towards her, her eyes had filled with tears. She took my plate and hers and fled to the kitchen. I heard the plates falling into the sink and then a few moments later the door of her bedroom slammed shut. I sighed and savoured the glass of red wine left on the table, an exquisite vintage from Isabella’s parents’ shop. After a while I went along to her bedroom door and knocked gently. She didn’t reply, but I could hear her crying. I tried to open the door, but the girl had locked herself in.
I went up to the study, which after Isabella’s visit smelled of fresh flowers and looked like the cabin in a luxury cruiser. She had tidied up all the books, dusted and left everything shiny and unrecognisable. The old Underwood looked like a piece of sculpture and the letters on the keys were clearly visible again. A neat pile of paper, containing summaries of religious textbooks and catechisms, lay on the desk next to the day’s mail. A couple of cigars on a saucer emitted a delicious scent: Macanudos, one of the Caribbean delicacies supplied to Isabella’s father on the quiet by a contact in the state tobacco industry. I took one of them and lit it. It had an intense flavour that seemed to hold all the aromas and poisons a man could wish for in order to die in peace.