Cristina slept well into the afternoon. I took advantage of her sleep to go over to the grocer’s shop next to the market and buy some milk, bread and cheese. The rain had stopped at last, but the streets were full of puddles and you could feel the dampness in the air, like a cold dust that permeated your clothes and your bones. While I waited for my turn in the shop I had the feeling that someone was watching me. When I went outside again and crossed Paseo del Borne, I turned and saw that a boy was following me. He could not have been more than five years old. I stopped and looked at him. The boy held my gaze.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said. ‘Come here.’

The boy came closer, until he was standing about two metres away. His skin was pale, almost blue, as if he’d never seen the sunlight. He was dressed in black and wore new, shiny, patent leather shoes. His eyes were dark, with pupils so large they left no space for the whites.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

The boy smiled and pointed at me with his finger. I was about to take a step towards him but he ran off, disappearing into Paseo del Borne.

When I got back to my front door I found an envelope stuck in it. The red wax seal with the angel was still warm. I looked up and down the street, but couldn’t see anybody. I went in and double-locked the main door behind me. Then I paused at the foot of the staircase and opened the envelope.

Dear friend,

I deeply regret that you were unable to come to our meeting last night. I trust you are well and there has been no emergency or setback. I am sorry I couldn’t enjoy the pleasure of your company, but I hope that whatever it was that did not allow you to join me is quickly and favourably resolved and that next time it will be easier for us to meet. I must leave the city for a few days, but as soon as I return I’ll send word. Hoping to hear from you and to learn about your progress in our joint project, please accept, as always, my friendship and affection,

ANDREAS CORELLI

I crushed the letter in my fist and put it in my pocket, then went quietly into the apartment and closed the door. I peeked into the bedroom and saw that Cristina was still asleep. Then I went to the kitchen and began to prepare coffee and a light lunch. A few minutes later I heard Cristina’s footsteps behind me. She was looking at me from the doorway, clad in an old jumper of mine that went halfway down her thighs. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were still swollen. Her lips and cheeks had dark bruises, as if I’d hit her hard. She avoided my eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘Are you hungry?’ I asked.

She shook her head, but I ignored the gesture and motioned for her to sit at the table. I poured her a cup of coffee with milk and sugar and gave her a slice of freshly baked bread with some cheese and a little ham. She made no move to touch her plate.

‘Just a bite,’ I suggested.

She nibbled the cheese and gave me a smile.

‘It’s good,’ she said.

We ate in silence. To my surprise, Cristina finished off half the food on her plate. Then she hid behind the cup of coffee and gave me a fleeting look.

‘If you want, I’ll leave today,’ she said at last. ‘Don’t worry. Pedro gave me money and-’

‘I don’t want you to go anywhere. I don’t want you to go away ever again. Do you hear me?’

‘I’m not good company, David.’

‘That makes two of us.’

‘Did you mean it? What you said about going far away?’

I nodded.

‘My father used to say that life doesn’t give second chances.’

‘Only to those who never had a first chance. Actually, they’re second-hand chances that someone else hasn’t made use of, but that’s better than nothing.’

She smiled faintly.

‘Take me for a walk,’ she suddenly said.

‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I want to say goodbye to Barcelona.’

40

Halfway through the afternoon the sun appeared from behind the blanket of clouds left by the storm. The shining streets were transformed into mirrors, on which pedestrians walked, reflecting the amber of the sky. I remember that we went to the foot of the Ramblas where the statue of Columbus peered out through the mist. We walked without saying a word, gazing at the buildings and the crowds as if they were a mirage, as if the city were already deserted and forgotten. Barcelona had never seemed so beautiful and so sad to me as it did that afternoon. When it began to grow dark we walked to the Sempere & Sons bookshop and stood in a doorway on the opposite side of the street, where nobody could see us. The shop window of the old bookshop cast a faint light over the damp, gleaming cobblestones. Inside we could see Isabella standing on a ladder, sorting out the books on the top shelf, as Sempere’s son pretended to be going through an accounts book, looking furtively at her ankles all the while. Sitting in a corner, old and tired, Señor Sempere watched them both with a sad smile.

‘This is the place where I’ve found almost all the good things in my life,’ I said without thinking. ‘I don’t want to say goodbye.’

When we returned to the tower house it was already dark. As we walked in we were greeted by the warmth of the fire which I had left burning when we went out. Cristina went ahead down the corridor and, without saying a word, began to get undressed, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor. I found her lying on the bed, waiting. I lay down beside her and let her guide my hands. As I caressed her I could feel her muscles going tense. There was no tenderness in her eyes, just a longing for warmth, and an urgency. I abandoned myself to her body, charging at her with anger, feeling her nails dig into my skin. I heard her moan with pain and with life, as if she lacked air. At last we collapsed, exhausted and covered in sweat. Cristina leaned her head on my shoulder and looked into my eyes.

‘Your friend told me you’d got yourself into trouble.’

‘Isabella?’

‘She’s very worried about you.’

‘Isabella has a tendency to believe she’s my mother.’

‘I don’t think that’s what she was getting at.’

I avoided her eyes.

‘She told me you were working on a new book, commissioned by a foreign publisher. She calls him the boss. She says he’s paying you a fortune but you feel guilty for having accepted the money. She says you’re afraid of this man, the boss, and there’s something murky about the whole business.’

I sighed with annoyance.

‘Is there anything Isabella hasn’t told you?’

‘The rest is between us,’ she answered, winking at me. ‘Was she lying?’

‘She wasn’t lying, she was speculating.’

‘And what’s the book about?’

‘It’s a story for children.’

‘Isabella told me you’d say that.’

‘If Isabella has already given you all the answers, why are you questioning me?’

Cristina looked at me severely.

‘For your peace of mine, and Isabella’s, I’ve abandoned the book. C’est fini,’ I assured her.

Cristina frowned and looked dubious.

‘And this man, the boss, does he know?’

‘I haven’t spoken to him yet. But I suppose he has a good idea. And if he doesn’t, he soon will.’

‘So you’ll have to give him back the money?’

‘I don’t think he’s bothered about the money in the least.’

Cristina fell into a long silence.

‘May I read it?’ she asked at last.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s a draft and it doesn’t make any sense yet. It’s a pile of ideas and notes, loose fragments. Nothing readable. It would bore you.’

‘I’d still like to read it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’ve written it. Pedro always says that the only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him; the person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction.’