Corelli observed me with a serious expression, carefully weighing every word.
‘I think you judge yourself too severely, a quality that always distinguishes people of true worth. Believe me when I say that throughout my professional life I’ve come across hundreds of characters for whom you wouldn’t have given a toss and who had an extremely high opinion of themselves. But I want you to know that, even if you don’t believe me, I know exactly what sort of author and what sort of man you are. I’ve been watching you for years, as you are well aware. I’ve read all your work, from the very first story you wrote for The Voice of Industry to The Mysteries of Barcelona, and now each of the instalments of the Ignatius B. Samson series. I dare say I know you better than you know yourself. Which is why I’m sure that in the end you will accept my offer.’
‘What else do you know?’
‘I know we have something, or a great deal, in common. I know you lost your father, and so did I. I know what it is like to lose one’s father when you still need him. Yours was snatched from you in tragic circumstances. Mine, for reasons that are neither here nor there, rejected me and threw me out of his house – perhaps that was even more painful. I know that you feel lonely, and believe me when I tell you that this is a feeling I have also experienced. I know that in your heart you harbour great expectations, none of which has come true, and that, although you’re not aware of it, this is slowly killing you with every passing day.’
His words brought about a long silence.
‘You know a lot of things, Señor Corelli.’
‘Enough to think that I would like to be better acquainted with you and become your friend. I don’t suppose you have many friends. Neither do I. I don’t trust people who say they have a lot of friends. It’s a sure sign that they don’t really know anyone.’
‘But you’re not looking for a friend, you’re looking for an employee.’
‘I’m looking for a temporary partner. I’m looking for you.’
‘You seem very sure of yourself.’
‘It’s a fault I was born with,’ Corelli replied, standing up. ‘Another is my gift for seeing into the future. That’s why I realise that perhaps it’s still too soon: hearing the truth from my lips is not enough for you yet. You need to see it with your own eyes. Feel it in your flesh. And, believe me, you’ll feel it.’
He held out his hand and waited until I took it.
‘Can I at least be reassured that you will think about what I’ve told you and that we’ll speak again?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know what to say, Señor Corelli.’
‘Don’t say anything right now. I promise that next time we meet you’ll see things more clearly.’
With those words he gave me a friendly smile and walked off towards the stairs.
‘Will there be a next time?’ I asked.
Corelli stopped and turned.
‘There always is.’
‘Where?’
In the last rays of daylight falling on the city his eyes glowed like embers.
I saw him disappear through the door to the staircase. Only then did I realise that during the entire conversation I had not once seen him blink.
14
The doctor’s surgery was on a top floor with a view of the sea gleaming in the distance and the slope of Calle Muntaner, dotted with trams, which slid down to the Ensanche between grand houses and imposing edifices. The place smelled clean. The waiting rooms were tastefully decorated. The paintings were calming, with landscapes full of hope and peace. The shelves displayed books that exuded authority. Nurses moved about like ballet dancers and smiled as they went by. It was a purgatory for people with well-lined pockets.
‘The doctor will see you now, Señor Martín.’
Doctor Trías was a man with a patrician air and an impeccable appearance, who radiated serenity and confidence with every gesture. Grey, penetrating eyes behind rimless glasses. A kind, friendly smile, never frivolous. Doctor Trías was a man accustomed to jousting with death, and the more he smiled the more frightening he became. Judging by the way he escorted me to his room and asked me to sit down I got the feeling that, although some days before, when I had begun to undergo medical tests, he had spoken about recent medical breakthroughs in the fight against the symptoms I had described to him, as far as he was concerned, there was no doubt.
‘How are you?’ he asked, his eyes darting hesitantly between me and the folder on his desk.
‘You tell me.’
He smiled faintly, like a good player.
‘The nurse tells me you’re a writer, although here, on the form you filled in when you arrived, I see you put down that you are a mercenary.’
‘In my case there’s no difference at all.’
‘I believe some of my patients have read your books.’
‘I hope it has not caused permanent neurological damage.’
The doctor smiled as if he’d found my comment amusing, and then adopted a more serious expression, implying that the banal and kind preambles to our conversation had come to an end.
‘Señor Martín, I notice that you have come here on your own. Don’t you have any close family? A wife? Siblings? Parents still alive?’
‘That sounds a little ominous,’ I ventured.
‘Señor Martín, I’m not going to lie to you. The results of the first tests are not as encouraging as we’d hoped.’
I looked at him. I didn’t feel fear or unease. I didn’t feel anything.
‘Everything points to the fact that you have a growth lodged in the left lobe of your brain. The results confirm what I feared from the symptoms you described to me, and there is every indication that it might be a carcinoma.’
For a few seconds I was unable to say anything at all. I couldn’t even pretend to be surprised.
‘How long have I had it?’
‘It’s impossible to say for sure, but I presume the tumour has been growing there for some time, which would explain the symptoms you told me about and the difficulties you have recently experienced with your work.’
I took a deep breath and nodded. The doctor observed me patiently, with a kind mien, letting me take my time. I tried to start various sentences that never reached my lips. Finally our eyes met.
‘I suppose I’m in your hands, doctor. You’ll have to tell me which treatment to follow.’
I saw his despairing look as he realised I had not wanted to understand what he was telling me. I nodded once more, fighting the tide of nausea that was beginning to rise up my throat. The doctor poured me a glass of water from a jug and handed it to me. I drank it in one gulp.
‘There is no treatment?’ I said.
‘There is. There are a lot of things we can do to relieve the pain and ensure maximum comfort and peace…’
‘But I’m going to die.’
‘Yes.’
‘Soon.’
‘Possibly.’
I smiled to myself. Even the worst news is a relief when all it does is confirm what you already knew without wanting to know.
‘I’m twenty-eight,’ I said, without quite knowing why.
‘I’m sorry, Señor Martín. I’d like to have given you better news.’