Slowly, she took my hand and brought it to her lips.
‘Not today,’ she murmured.
I knew I was going to lose her as soon as the night was over, and the pain and loneliness that were gnawing at her went away. I knew she was right, not because what she had said was true, but because, deep down, we both believed it and it would always be the same. We hid like two thieves in one of the rooms without daring to light a single candle, without even daring to speak. I undressed her slowly, going over her skin with my lips, conscious that I would never do so again. Cristina gave herself with anger and abandon, and when we were overcome by exhaustion she fell asleep in my arms without feeling the need to say anything. I fought off sleep, enjoying the warmth of her body and thinking that if the following day death should come to take me away, I would go in peace. I caressed Cristina in the dark, listening to the storm outside as it left the city, knowing that I was going to lose her but also knowing that, for a few minutes, we had belonged to one another, and to nobody else.
When the first breath of dawn touched the windows I opened my eyes and found the bed empty. I went out into the corridor and as far as the gallery. Cristina had left the album and had taken Vidal’s novel. I went through the whole house, which already smelled of her absence, and one by one blew out the candles I had lit the night before.
17
Nine weeks later I was standing in front of number 17, Plaza de Cataluña, where the Catalonia bookshop had opened its doors two years earlier. I was staring in amazement at what seemed to be an endless display filled with copies of a novel called The House of Ashes by Pedro Vidal. I smiled to myself. My mentor had even used the title I had suggested to him years before when I had given him the idea for the story. I decided to go in and ask for a copy. I opened it at random and began to reread passages I knew by heart, for I had only finished going over them a couple of months earlier. I didn’t find a single word in the whole book that I hadn’t put there myself, except for the dedication: ‘For Cristina Sagnier, without whom…’
When I handed the book back to the shop assistant he told me not to think twice about buying it.
‘We received it two days ago and I’ve already read it,’ he added. ‘A great novel. Take my advice and buy it now. I know the papers are praising it to the skies and that’s usually a bad sign, but in this case it’s the exception that proves the rule. If you don’t like it, bring it to me and I’ll give you your money back.’
‘Thanks,’ I replied. Knowing what I knew his recommendation was flattering. ‘But I’ve read it too.’
‘May I interest you in something else?’
‘You don’t have a novel called The Steps of Heaven?’
The bookseller thought for a moment.
‘That’s the one by Martín, isn’t it? I heard a rumour he also wrote City…’
I nodded.
‘I’ve asked for it, but the publishers haven’t sent me any copies. Let me have a good look.’
I followed him to the counter, where he consulted one of his colleagues, who shook his head.
‘It was meant to arrive yesterday, but the publisher says he has no copies. I’m sorry. If you like, I’ll reserve one for you when we get them…’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll come back another day. And thank you very much.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what can have happened. As I say, I should have had it…’
When I left the bookshop I went over to a newspaper stand at the top of the Ramblas. There I bought a copy of every newspaper, from La Vanguardia to The Voice of Industry. I sat down in the Canaletas Café and began delving into their pages. Each paper carried a review of the novel I had written for Vidal, full page, with large headlines and a portrait of Don Pedro looking meditative and mysterious, wearing a new suit and puffing on a pipe with studied disdain. I began to read the headlines and then the first and last paragraphs of the reviews.
The first one I found opened with these words: ‘The House of Ashes is a mature, rich work of great quality which takes its place among the best examples of contemporary literature.’ Another paper informed the reader that ‘nobody in Spain writes better than Pedro Vidal, our most respected and noteworthy novelist’, and a third asserted that this was a ‘superlative novel, of masterful craftsmanship and exquisite quality’. A fourth newspaper summed up the great international success of Vidal and his work: ‘Europe bows to the master’ (although the novel had only come out two days earlier in Spain and, were it to be translated, wouldn’t appear in any other country for at least a year). The piece then went into a long-winded ramble about the great international acclaim and huge respect that Vidal’s name aroused among ‘the most famous international experts’, even though, as far as I knew, none of his other books had been translated into any language, except for a novel whose translation into French he himself had financed and which had only sold a hundred and twenty-six copies. Miracles aside, the consensus of the press was that ‘a classic has been born’, and that the novel marked ‘the return of one of the greats, the best pen of our times: Vidal, undisputed master’.
On the opposite page in some of those papers, covering a far more modest space of one or two columns, I also found a few reviews of a novel by someone called David Martín. The most favourable began like this: ‘A first novel, written in a pedestrian style, The Steps of Heaven, by the novice David Martín, shows the author’s lack of skill and talent from the very first page.’ The last review I could bring myself to read, published in The Voice of Industry, opened succinctly with a short introduction in bold letters that stated: ‘David Martín, a completely unknown author, and writer of classified advertisements, surprises us with what is perhaps this year’s worst literary debut.’
I left the newspapers and the coffee I had ordered on the table and made my way down the Ramblas to the offices of Barrido & Escobillas. On the way I passed four or five bookshops, all of which were decorated with countless copies of Vidal’s novel. In none did I see a single copy of mine. My experience in the Catalonia bookshop was repeated in each place.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what can have happened. It was meant to arrive the day before yesterday, but the publisher says he’s run out of stock and doesn’t know when he’ll be reprinting. If you’d care to leave me your name and a telephone number, I can let you know if it arrives… Have you asked in Catalonia? Well, if they don’t have it…’
The two partners received me with grim, unfriendly expressions: Barrido, behind his desk, stroking a fountain pen, and Escobillas, standing behind him, boring through me with his eyes. Lady Venom, who sat on a chair next to me, was licking her lips with anticipation.
‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am, my dear Martín,’ Barrido was explaining. ‘The problem is as follows. The booksellers place their orders based on the reviews that appear in the papers – don’t ask me why. If you go into the warehouse next door you’ll see that we have three thousand copies of your novel just lying there.’
‘With all the expense and the loss which that entails,’ Escobillas completed in a clearly hostile tone.
‘I stopped by the warehouse before coming here and I saw for myself that there were three hundred copies. The manager told me that’s all they printed.’
‘That’s a lie,’ Escobillas proclaimed.
Barrido interrupted him in a conciliatory tone.
‘Please excuse my partner, Martín. You must understand that we’re just as indignant as you, or even more so, about the disgraceful treatment the press has given a book with which all of us at the firm were so in love. But I beg you to understand that, despite our faith in your talent, our hands are tied because of all the confusion created by the malicious press. However, don’t be disheartened. Rome was not built in a day. We’re doing everything in our power to give your work the promotion its estimable literary merit deserves-’
‘With a three-hundred-copy print run.’
Barrido sighed, hurt by my lack of trust.