‘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.
‘Happy twenty-eighth birthday, David.’
I’d forgotten.
After the meal I excused myself for a moment and went out into the garden for some fresh air. A starry night cast a silver veil over the trees. I’d been there only for a minute or so when I heard footsteps approaching and turned to find the last person I was expecting to see: Cristina Sagnier. She smiled at me, as if apologising for the intrusion.
‘Pedro doesn’t know I’ve come out to speak to you,’ she said.
She had dropped the ‘Don’, but I pretended not to notice.
‘I’d like to talk to you, David,’ she said, ‘but not here, not now.’
Even in the shadows of the garden I was unable to hide my bewilderment.
‘Can we meet tomorrow somewhere?’ she asked. ‘I promise I won’t take up much of your time.’
‘Where shall we meet?’
‘Could it be at your house? I don’t want anyone to see us, and I don’t want Pedro to know I’ve spoken with you.’
‘As you wish…’
Cristina smiled with relief.
‘Thanks. Will tomorrow be all right? In the afternoon?’
‘Whenever you like. Do you know where I live?’
‘My father knows.’
She leaned over a little and kissed me on the cheek.
‘Happy birthday, David.’
Before I could say anything, she had vanished across the garden. When I went back to the sitting room she had already left. Vidal glanced at me coldly from one end of the room and only smiled when he realised that I was watching him.
An hour later Manuel, with Vidal’s approval, insisted on driving me home in the Hispano-Suiza. I sat next to him, as I did whenever we were alone in the car: the chauffeur would take the opportunity to give me driving tips and, unbeknown to Vidal, would even let me take the wheel for a while. That night Manuel was quieter than usual and did not say a word until we reached the town centre. He looked thinner than the last time I’d seen him and I had the feeling that age was beginning to take its toll.
‘Is anything wrong, Manuel?’ I asked.
The chauffeur shrugged his shoulders.
‘Nothing important, Señor Martín.’
‘If there’s anything worrying you…’
‘Just a few health problems. When you get to my age, everything is a worry, as you know. But I don’t matter any more. The one who matters is my daughter.’
I wasn’t sure how to reply, so I simply nodded.
‘I’m aware that you hold a certain affection for her, Señor Martín. For my Cristina. A father can see these things.’
Again I just nodded. We didn’t exchange any more words until Manuel stopped the car at the entrance to Calle Flassaders, held out his hand to me, and once more wished me a happy birthday.