‘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.’
A heavy silence fell. Barrido made a conciliatory gesture and pointed to what was known as the visitors’ armchair, a black, sunken throne in which authors and suppliers were cornered so that they could meet Barrido’s eyes from the appropriate height.
‘Martín, sit down and tell me what this is about. There’s something worrying you, I can see. You can be open with us – we’re like family.’
Lady Venom and Escobillas nodded with conviction, showing the measure of their esteem in a look of spellbound devotion. I decided to remain standing. They all did the same, staring at me as if I were a pillar of salt that was about to start talking. Barrido’s face hurt from so much smiling.
‘And?’
‘Ignatius B. Samson has committed suicide. He left a twenty-page unpublished story in which he dies together with Chloé Permanyer, locked in an embrace after swallowing poison.’
‘The author dies in one of his own novels?’ asked Herminia, confused.
‘It’s his avant-garde farewell to the world of writing instalments. A detail I was sure you would love.’
‘And could there not be an antidote, or…? ’ Lady Venom asked.
‘Martín, I don’t need to remind you that it is you, and not the allegedly deceased Ignatius, who has a contract-’ said Escobillas.
Barrido raised his hands to silence his colleague.
‘I think I know what’s wrong, Martín. You’re exhausted. You’ve been overloading your brain for years without a break – something this house values and is grateful for. You just need a breather. I can understand. We do understand, don’t we?’
Barrido glanced at Escobillas and at Lady Venom, who nodded and tried to look serious.
‘You’re an artist and you want to make art, high literature, something that springs from your heart and will engrave your name in golden letters on the steps of history.’
‘The way you put it makes it sound ridiculous,’ I said.
‘Because it is,’ said Escobillas.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Barrido cut in. ‘It’s human. And we’re human. I, my partner and Herminia, who, being a woman and a creature of delicate sensitivity, is the most human of all, isn’t that right, Herminia?’
‘Indeed,’ Lady Venom agreed.
‘And as we’re human, we understand you and want to support you. Because we’re proud of you and convinced that your success will be our success and because in this firm, when all’s said and done, what matters is the people, not the numbers.’
At the end of his speech, Barrido gave a theatrical pause. Perhaps he expected me to break into applause, but when he saw that I wasn’t moved he charged on unimpeded with his exposition.
‘That is why I’m going to propose the following: take six months, nine if need be, because after all this is like a birth, and lock yourself up in your study to write the great novel of your life. When you’ve finished it, bring it to us and we’ll publish it under your name, putting all our irons in the fire and all our resources behind you. Because we’re on your side.’
I looked at Barrido and then at Escobillas. Lady Venom was about to burst into tears from the emotion.
‘With no advance, needless to say.’
Barrido clapped his hands euphorically in the air.
‘What do you say?’
I began work that very day. My plan was as simple as it was crazy. During the day I would rewrite Vidal’s book and at night I’d work on mine. I would polish all the dark arts Ignatius B. Samson had taught me and place them at the service of what little decency and dignity was left in my heart. I would write out of gratitude, despair and vanity. I would write especially for Cristina, to prove to her that I too was able to pay the debt I had with Vidal and that even if he was about to drop dead, David Martín had earned himself the right to look her in the eye without feeling ashamed of his ridiculous hopes.
I didn’t return to Doctor Trías’s surgery. I didn’t see the point. The day I could no longer write another word, or imagine one, I would be the first to know. My trustworthy and unscrupulous chemist supplied me with as many codeine treats as I requested without asking any questions, as well as the occasional delicacy that set my veins alight, obliterating both pain and consciousness. I didn’t tell anyone about my visit to the doctor or about the test results.
My basic needs were covered by a weekly delivery which I ordered from Can Gispert, a wonderful grocer’s emporium on Calle Mirallers, behind the cathedral of Santa María del Mar. The order was always the same. It was usually brought to me by the owners’ daughter, a girl who stared at me like a frightened fawn when I told her to wait in the entrance hall while I fetched the money to pay her.
‘This is for your father, and this is for you.’
I always gave her a ten-céntimo tip, which she accepted without saying a word. Every week the girl rang my doorbell with the delivery, and every week I paid her and gave her a ten-céntimo tip. For nine months and a day, the time it took me to write the only book that would bear my name, that young girl, whose name I didn’t know and whose face I forgot every week until I saw her standing in the doorway again, was the person I saw the most.
Without warning, Cristina had stopped coming to our afternoon meetings. I was beginning to fear that Vidal might have got wind of our ploy. Then, one afternoon, when I was waiting for her after about a week’s absence, I opened the door thinking it was her, and instead there was Pep, one of the servants at Villa Helius. He brought me a parcel sent by Cristina. It was carefully sealed and contained the whole of Vidal’s manuscript. Pep explained that Cristina’s father had suffered an aneurysm which had left him practically disabled, and she’d taken him to a sanatorium in Puigcerdà, in the Pyrenees, where apparently there was a young doctor who was an expert in the treatment of such ailments.
‘Señor Vidal has taken care of everything,’ Pep explained. ‘No expense spared.’
Vidal never forgot his servants, I thought, not without some bitterness.
‘She asked me to deliver this to you by hand. And not to tell anyone about it.’
The young man handed me the parcel, relieved to be free of the mysterious item.
‘Did she leave an address where I could find her if I needed to?’
‘No, Señor Martín. All I know is that Señorita Cristina’s father has been admitted to a place called Villa San Antonio.’
A few days later, Vidal paid me one of his surprise visits and spent the whole afternoon in my house, drinking my anisette, smoking my cigarettes and talking to me about his chauffeur’s misfortune.
‘It’s hard to believe. A man who was as strong as an ox, and suddenly he’s struck down, just like that. He doesn’t even know who he is any more.’
‘How is Cristina?’
‘You can imagine. Her mother died years ago and Manuel is the only family she has left. She took a family album with her and shows him photographs every day to see whether the poor fellow can remember anything.’
While Vidal spoke, his novel – or should I say my novel – rested face down on the table in the gallery, a pile of papers only half a metre away from his hands. He told me that in Manuel’s absence he had urged Pep – apparently a good horseman – to get stuck into the art of driving, but so far the young man was proving hopeless.
‘Give him time. A motor car isn’t a horse. The secret is practice.’
‘Now that you mention it, Manuel taught you how to drive, didn’t he?’
‘A little,’ I admitted. ‘And it’s not as easy as it seems.’
‘If the novel you’re writing doesn’t sell, you can always become my chauffeur.’
‘Let’s not bury poor Manuel yet, Don Pedro.’
‘That comment was in bad taste,’ Vidal admitted. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘How’s your novel going, Don Pedro?’