‘This is the place where I’ve found almost all the good things in my life,’ I said without thinking. ‘I don’t want to say goodbye.’
When we returned to the tower house it was already dark. As we walked in we were greeted by the warmth of the fire which I had left burning when we went out. Cristina went ahead down the corridor and, without saying a word, began to get undressed, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor. I found her lying on the bed, waiting. I lay down beside her and let her guide my hands. As I caressed her I could feel her muscles going tense. There was no tenderness in her eyes, just a longing for warmth, and an urgency. I abandoned myself to her body, charging at her with anger, feeling her nails dig into my skin. I heard her moan with pain and with life, as if she lacked air. At last we collapsed, exhausted and covered in sweat. Cristina leaned her head on my shoulder and looked into my eyes.
‘Your friend told me you’d got yourself into trouble.’
‘Isabella?’
‘She’s very worried about you.’
‘Isabella has a tendency to believe she’s my mother.’
‘I don’t think that’s what she was getting at.’
I avoided her eyes.
‘She told me you were working on a new book, commissioned by a foreign publisher. She calls him the boss. She says he’s paying you a fortune but you feel guilty for having accepted the money. She says you’re afraid of this man, the boss, and there’s something murky about the whole business.’
I sighed with annoyance.
‘Is there anything Isabella hasn’t told you?’
‘The rest is between us,’ she answered, winking at me. ‘Was she lying?’
‘She wasn’t lying, she was speculating.’
‘And what’s the book about?’
‘It’s a story for children.’
‘Isabella told me you’d say that.’
‘If Isabella has already given you all the answers, why are you questioning me?’
Cristina looked at me severely.
‘For your peace of mine, and Isabella’s, I’ve abandoned the book. C’est fini,’ I assured her.
Cristina frowned and looked dubious.
‘And this man, the boss, does he know?’
‘I haven’t spoken to him yet. But I suppose he has a good idea. And if he doesn’t, he soon will.’
‘So you’ll have to give him back the money?’
‘I don’t think he’s bothered about the money in the least.’
Cristina fell into a long silence.
‘May I read it?’ she asked at last.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a draft and it doesn’t make any sense yet. It’s a pile of ideas and notes, loose fragments. Nothing readable. It would bore you.’
‘I’d still like to read it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ve written it. Pedro always says that the only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him; the person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction.’
‘He must have read that on a postcard.’
‘In fact he took it from one of your books. I know because I’ve read it too.’
‘Plagiarism doesn’t prevent it being nonsense.’
‘I think it makes sense.’
‘Then it must be true.’
‘May I read it then?’
‘No.’
That evening, sitting opposite one another at the kitchen table, looking up occasionally, we ate the remains of the bread and cheese. Cristina had little appetite, and examined every morsel of bread in the light of the oil lamp before putting it in her mouth.
‘There’s a train leaving the Estación de Francia for Paris tomorrow at midday,’ she said. ‘Is that too soon?’
I couldn’t get the image of Andreas Corelli out of my mind: I imagined him coming up the stairs and calling at my door at any moment.
‘I suppose not,’ I agreed.
‘I know a little hotel opposite the Luxembourg Gardens where they rent out rooms by the month. It’s a bit expensive, but…’ she added.
I preferred not to ask her how she knew of the hotel.
‘The price doesn’t matter, but I don’t speak French.’
‘I do.’
I looked down.
‘Look at me, David.’
I raised my eyes reluctantly.
‘If you’d rather I left…’
I shook my head. She held my hand and brought it to her lips.
‘It’ll be fine. You’ll see,’ she said. ‘I know. It will be the first thing in my life that will work out all right.’
I looked at her, a broken woman with tears in her eyes, and didn’t wish for anything in the world other than the ability to give her back what she’d never had.
We lay down on the sofa in the gallery under a couple of blankets, staring at the embers in the fireplace. I fell asleep stroking Cristina’s hair, thinking it was the last night I would spend in that house, the prison in which I had buried my youth. I dreamed that I was running through the streets of a Barcelona strewn with clocks whose hands were turning backwards. Alleyways and avenues twisted as I ran, as if they had a will of their own, creating a living labyrinth that blocked me at every turn. Finally, under a midday sun that burned in the sky like a red-hot metal sphere, I managed to reach the Estación de Francia and was speeding towards the platform where the train was beginning to pull away. I ran after it but the train gathered speed and, despite all my efforts, all I managed to do was touch it with the tips of my fingers. I kept on running until I was out of breath, and when I reached the end of the platform fell into a void. When I glanced up it was too late. The train was disappearing into the distance, Cristina’s face staring back at me from the last window.
I opened my eyes and knew that Cristina was not there. The fire was reduced to a handful of ashes. I stood up and looked through the windows. Dawn was breaking. I pressed my face against the glass and noticed a flickering light shining from the windows of the study. I went to the spiral staircase that led up the tower. A copper-coloured glow spilled down over the steps. I climbed them slowly. When I reached the study I stopped in the doorway. Cristina was sitting on the floor with her back to me. The trunk by the wall was open. Cristina was holding the folder containing the boss’s manuscript and was untying the ribbon.
When she heard my footsteps she stopped.
‘What are you doing up here?’ I asked, trying to hide the note of alarm in my voice.
Cristina turned and smiled.
‘Nosing around.’
She followed the direction of my gaze to the folder in her hands and adopted a mischievous expression.
‘What’s in here?’
‘Nothing. Notes. Comments. Nothing of any interest…’
‘You liar. I bet this is the book you’ve been working on,’ she said.