‘All you have to do is convince the sanctimonious that they are free of all sin and they’ll start throwing stones, or bombs, with gusto. In fact, it doesn’t take much, because they can be convinced with the bare minimum of encouragement and excuses. I don’t know whether I’m making myself clear.’

‘You are making yourself abundantly clear. Your arguments have the subtlety of a blast furnace.’

‘I’m not sure I like that condescending tone, Martín. Does this mean you think this project isn’t on a par with your moral or intellectual purity?’

‘Not at all,’ I mumbled faint-heartedly.

‘What is it, then, something tickling your conscience, dear friend?’

‘The usual thing. I’m not sure I’m the nihilist you need.’

‘Nobody is. Nihilism is an attitude, not a doctrine. Place the flame from a candle under the testicles of a nihilist and notice how quickly he sees the light of existence. Something else is bothering you.’

I raised my head and summoned up the most defiant tone I was capable of, looking the boss in the eye.

‘Perhaps what’s bothering me is that I understand everything you say, but I don’t feel it.’

‘Do I pay you to have feelings?’

‘Sometimes feeling and thinking are one and the same. The idea is yours, not mine.’

The boss smiled, and allowed a dramatic pause, like a schoolteacher preparing the lethal sword thrust with which to silence an unruly pupil.

‘And what do you feel, Martín?’

The irony and disdain in his voice encouraged me and I gave vent to the humiliation accumulated during all those months in his shadow. Anger and shame at feeling terrified by his presence and allowing his poisonous speeches. Anger and shame because he had proved to me that, even if I would rather believe the only thing I had in me was despair, my soul was as petty and miserable as his sewer humanism claimed. Anger and shame at feeling, knowing, that he was always right, especially when it hurt to accept that.

‘I’ve asked you a question, Martín. What is it you feel?’

‘I feel that the best course would be to leave things as they are and give you back your money. I feel that, whatever it is you are proposing with this absurd venture, I’d rather not take part in it. And, above all, I feel regret for ever having met you.’

The boss lowered his eyelids and sank into a long silence. He turned and walked a few steps towards the cemetery gates. I watched his dark silhouette outlined against the marble garden, a motionless shape under the rain. I felt afraid, a murky fear that was beginning to grow inside me, inspiring a childish wish to beg forgiveness and accept any punishment in exchange for not having to bear that silence. And I felt disgust. At his presence and, in particular, at myself.

The boss turned round and came over to me again. He stopped just centimetres from me and put his face close to mine. I felt his cold breath on my skin and drowned in his black, bottomless eyes. This time his voice and his tone were like ice, devoid of that studied humanity that peppered his conversation and his gestures.

‘I will only tell you once. You fulfil your obligations and I’ll fulfil mine. It’s the only thing you can and must feel.’

I was not aware that I was nodding repeatedly until the boss pulled the sheaf of papers from his pocket and handed it to me. He let the pages fall before I was able to catch them and a gust of wind swept them away, scattering them near the cemetery gates. I rushed to recover them from the rain, but some of the pages had fallen into puddles and were bleeding in the water, the words coming off the paper in filaments. I gathered them together in a fistful of wet paper. When I looked up again, the boss had gone.

27

If ever I had needed to see a friendly face, it was then. The old building of The Voice of Industry peered over the cemetery walls. I set off in that direction, hoping to find my former master Don Basilio, one of those rare souls immune to the world’s stupidity, who always had good advice. When I walked into the newspaper offices I discovered that I still recognised most of the staff. It seemed as if not a minute had passed since I’d left the place so many years ago. Those who, in turn, recognised me gave me suspicious looks and turned their heads to avoid having to greet me. I slipped into the editorial department and went straight to Don Basilio’s office, which was at the far end. It was empty.

‘Who are you looking for?’

I turned round and saw Rosell, one of the journalists who’d already seemed old to me even when I was working there. Rosell had penned the poisonous review of The Steps of Heaven describing me as a ‘writer of classified advertisements’.

‘Señor Rosell, I’m Martín. David Martín. Don’t you remember me?’

Rosell spent a few moments inspecting me, pretending to have great difficulty recognising me, but finally he nodded.

‘Where’s Don Basilio?’

‘He left two months ago. You’ll find him at the offices of La Vanguardia. If you see him, give him my regards.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘I’m sorry about your book,’ said Rosell with an obliging smile.

I crossed the editorial department, cutting a path between unfriendly looks, twisted smiles and venomous whispers. Time cures all, I thought, except the truth.

Half an hour later, a taxi dropped me off at the door of the main offices of La Vanguardia in Calle Pelayo. In contrast to the rather forbidding shabbiness of my old newspaper, everything here spoke of elegance and opulence. I made myself known at the reception and a chirpy young boy who looked like an unpaid trainee, reminding me of myself in my youth, was dispatched to let Don Basilio know he had a visitor. My old friend’s leonine presence remained unscathed by the passage of time. If anything, with his new attire matching the exclusive scenery, Don Basilio struck as formidable a figure as he had in his days at The Voice of Industry. His eyes lit up with joy when he saw me, and, breaking his iron protocol, he greeted me with an embrace that could easily have lost me two or three ribs had there not been an audience present – happy or not, Don Basilio had to keep up appearances and a certain reputation.

‘Getting a little respectable, are we, Don Basilio?’

My old boss shrugged his shoulders, making a gesture to indicate that he was playing down the new decor.

‘Don’t let it impress you.’

‘Don’t be modest, Don Basilio; you’ve ended up with the jewel in the crown. Are you taking them in hand?’

Don Basilio pulled out his perennial red pencil and showed it to me, winking as he did so.

‘I get through four a week.’

‘Two fewer than at The Voice.’

‘Give me time. I have one or two experts here who punctuate with a pistol and think that an intro is a starter from the province of Logroño.’

Despite his words, it was obvious that Don Basilio felt comfortable in his new home, and he looked healthier than ever.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve come to ask me for work, because I might even give it to you,’ he threatened.

‘That’s very kind of you, Don Basilio, but you know I gave up the cloth and journalism isn’t for me.’

‘Then let me know how this grumpy old man can be of service.’

‘I need some information about an old case for a story I’m working on. The death of a well-known lawyer called Marlasca, Diego Marlasca.’

‘What year are we talking about?’

‘Nineteen hundred and four.’

Don Basilio sighed.

‘That’s going back a long way. A lot of water has flowed by since then.’

‘Not enough to wash the matter away.’

Don Basilio put a hand on my shoulder and asked me to follow him into the editorial department.

‘Don’t worry; you’ve come to the right place. These good people maintain an archive that would be the envy of the Vatican. If there was anything in the press, we’ll find it for you. Besides, the archivist is a good friend of mine. Let me warn you that next to him I’m Snow White. Pay no attention to his unfriendly disposition. Deep down – very deep down – he’s kindness itself.’