‘You don’t ask after Cristina,’ he would sometimes say, maliciously.
‘What do you want me to ask?’
‘Whether she asks after you.’
‘Does she ask after me, Don Pedro?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there you are.’
‘The fact is, she did mention you the other day.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘You’re not going to like it.’
‘Go on.’
‘She didn’t say it in so many words, but she seemed to imply that she couldn’t understand how you could prostitute yourself by writing second-rate serials for that pair of thieves; that you were throwing away your talent and your youth.’
I felt as if Vidal had just plunged a frozen dagger into my stomach.
‘Is that what she thinks?’
Vidal shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, as far as I’m concerned she can go to hell.’
I worked every day except Sundays, which I spent wandering the streets, always ending up in some bar on the Paralelo where it wasn’t hard to find company and passing affection in the arms of another solitary soul like myself. It wasn’t until the following morning, when I woke up lying next to a stranger, that I realised they all looked like her: the colour of their hair, the way they walked, a gesture or a glance. Sooner or later, to fill the painful silence of farewells, those one-night stands would ask me how I earned my living, and when, surrendering to my vanity, I explained that I was a writer, they would take me for a liar, because nobody had ever heard of David Martín, although some of them did know of Ignatius B. Samson, and had heard people talk about City of the Damned. After a while I began to say that I worked at the customs offices in the port, or that I was a clerk in a solicitors’ office called Sayrach, Muntaner and Cruells.
One afternoon I was sitting in the Café de la Ópera with a music teacher called Alicia, helping her get over – or so I imagined – someone who was hard to forget. I was about to kiss her when I saw Cristina’s face on the other side of the glass pane. When I reached the street, she had already vanished among the crowds in the Ramblas. Two weeks later Vidal insisted on inviting me to the premiere of Madame Butterfly at the Liceo. The Vidal family owned a box in the dress circle and Vidal liked to attend once a week during the opera season. When I met him in the foyer I discovered that he had also brought Cristina. She greeted me with an icy smile and didn’t speak to me again or even glance at me until, halfway through the second act, Vidal decided to go down to the adjoining Círculo club to say hello to one of his cousins. We were left alone together in the box, with no other shield than Puccini and the hundreds of faces in the semi-darkness of the theatre. I held back for about ten minutes before turning to look her in the eye.
‘Have I done something to offend you?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Can we pretend to be friends then, at least on occasions like this?’
‘I don’t want to be your friend, David.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you don’t want to be my friend either.’
She was right, I didn’t want to be her friend.
‘Is it true that you think I prostitute myself?’
‘Whatever I think doesn’t matter. What matters is what you think.’
I sat there for another five minutes and then stood up and left without saying a word. By the time I reached the wide Liceo staircase I’d already promised myself that I would never give her a second thought, look, or a kind word.
The following afternoon I saw her in front of the cathedral, and when I tried to avoid her she waved at me and smiled. I stood there, glued to the spot, watching her approach.
‘Aren’t you going to invite me for a drink?’
‘I’m a streetwalker and I’m not free for another two hours.’
‘Well then, let me invite you. How much do you charge for accompanying a lady for an hour?’
I followed her reluctantly to a chocolate shop on Calle Petritxol. We ordered two cups of hot chocolate and sat facing one another, seeing who would break the silence first. For once, I won.
‘I didn’t mean to offend you yesterday, David. I don’t know what Don Pedro told you, but I’ve never said such a thing.’
‘Maybe you only thought it, which is why he would have told me.’
‘You have no idea what I think,’ she replied harshly. ‘Nor does Don Pedro.’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Fine.’
‘What I said was very different. I said that I didn’t think you were doing what you felt inside.’
I smiled and nodded. The only thing I felt at that moment was the need to kiss her. Cristina held my gaze defiantly. She didn’t turn her face when I stretched out my hand and touched her lips, sliding my fingers down her chin and neck.
‘Not like this,’ she said at last.
By the time the waiter brought the steaming cups of chocolate she had already left. Months went by before I even heard her name again.
One day towards the end of September, when I had just finished a new instalment of City of the Damned, I decided to take a night off. I could feel the approach of one of those storms of nausea and burning stabs in my brain. I gulped down a handful of codeine pills and lay on my bed in the darkness waiting for the cold sweat and the trembling of my hands to stop. I was on the point of falling asleep when I heard the doorbell. I dragged myself to the hall and opened the door. Vidal, in one of his impeccable Italian silk suits, was lighting a cigarette in a beam of light that seemed painted for him by Vermeer himself.
‘Are you alive, or am I speaking to an apparition?’ he asked.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve come all the way from Villa Helius just to throw that at me.’
‘No. I’ve come because I haven’t heard from you in two months and I’m worried about you. Why don’t you get a telephone installed in this mausoleum, like normal people would?’
‘I don’t like telephones. I like to see people’s faces when they speak and for them to see mine.’
‘In your case I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror recently?’
‘That’s your department.’
‘There are bodies in the mortuary at the Clínico hospital with a rosier face than yours. Go on, get dressed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I say so. We’re going out for a stroll.’
Vidal would not take no for an answer. He dragged me to the car, which was waiting in Paseo del Borne, and told Manuel to start the engine.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘Surprise.’
We crossed the whole of Barcelona until we reached Avenida Pedralbes and started the climb up the hillside. A few minutes later we glimpsed Villa Helius, with all its windows lit up, projecting a bubble of bright gold across the twilight. Giving nothing away, Vidal smiled mysteriously at me. When we reached the mansion he told me to follow him and led me to the large sitting room. A group of people was waiting for me there, and as soon as they saw me, they started to clap. I recognised Don Basilio, Cristina, Sempere – both father and son – and my old schoolteacher Doña Mariana; some of the authors who, like me, published their work with Barrido & Escobillas, and with whom I had established a friendship; Manuel, who had joined the group, and a few of Vidal’s conquests. Vidal offered me a glass of champagne and smiled.