‘In the theatre?’
Isabella nodded.
I was silent for a long while. Isabella watched me anxiously.
‘Now I’m not happy about leaving you here. I shouldn’t have told you.’
‘No, you did the right thing. I’m fine. Honestly.’
Isabella shook her head.
‘I’m staying with you tonight.’
‘What about your reputation?’
‘It’s your reputation that’s in danger. I’ll just go to my parents’ store to phone the bookshop and let him know.’
‘There’s no need, Isabella.’
‘There would be no need if you’d accepted that we live in the twentieth century and had installed a telephone in this mausoleum. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour. No arguments.’
During Isabella’s absence, the death of my old friend Sempere began to weigh on my conscience. I recalled how the old bookseller had always told me that books have a soul, the soul of the person who has written them and of those who have read them and dreamed about them. I realised that until the very last moment he had fought to protect me, giving his own life for a bundle of paper and ink on which, he felt, my soul had been inscribed. When Isabella returned, carrying a bag of delicacies from her parents’ shop, she only needed to take one look at me.
‘You know that woman,’ she said. ‘The woman who killed Sempere…’
‘I think so. Irene Sabino.’
‘Isn’t she the one in the old photographs we found? The actress?’
I nodded.
‘Why would she want your book?’
‘I don’t know.’
Later, after sampling one or two treats from Can Gispert, we sat together in the large armchair in front of the hearth. We were both able to fit in, and Isabella leaned her head on my shoulder while we stared at the flames.
‘The other night I dreamed that I had a son,’ she said. ‘I dreamed that he was calling to me but I couldn’t reach him because I was trapped in a place that was very cold and I couldn’t move. He kept calling me and I couldn’t go to him.’
‘It was only a dream.’
‘It seemed real.’
‘Maybe you should write it as a story,’ I suggested.
Isabella shook her head.
‘I’ve been thinking about that. And I’ve decided that I’d rather live my life than write about it. Please don’t take it badly.’
‘I think it’s a wise decision.’
‘What about you? Are you going to live your life?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve already lived quite a lot of it.’
‘What about that woman? Cristina?’
I took a deep breath.
‘Cristina has left. She’s gone back to her husband. Another wise decision.’
Isabella pulled away and frowned at me.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘I think you’re mistaken.’
‘What about?’
‘The other day Gustavo Barceló came by and we talked about you. He told me he’d seen Cristina’s husband, what’s his name…’
‘Pedro Vidal.’
‘That’s the one. And Señor Vidal had told him that Cristina had gone off with you, that he hadn’t seen her or heard from her in over a month. As a matter of fact, I was surprised not to find her here, but I didn’t dare ask…’
‘Are you sure that’s what Barceló said?’
Isabella nodded.
‘Now what have I said?’ she asked in alarm.
‘Nothing.’
‘There’s something you’re not telling me…’
‘Cristina isn’t here. I haven’t seen her since the day Señor Sempere died.’
‘Where is she then?’
‘I don’t know.’
Little by little we grew silent, curled up in the armchair by the fire, and in the small hours Isabella fell asleep. I put my arm round her and closed my eyes, thinking about all the things she had said and trying to find some meaning. When the light of dawn appeared through the windowpanes of the gallery, I opened my eyes and saw that Isabella was already awake.
‘Good morning,’ I said.
‘I’ve been meditating,’ she declared.
‘And?’
‘I’m thinking about accepting Sempere’s proposal.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No.’ She laughed.
‘What will your parents say?’
‘They’ll be upset, I suppose, but they’ll get over it. They would prefer me to marry a prosperous merchant who sold sausages rather than books, but they’ll just have to put up with it.’
‘It could be worse,’ I remarked
Isabella agreed.
‘Yes. I could end up with a writer.’
We looked at one another for a long time, until she extracted herself from the armchair. She collected her coat and buttoned it up, her back turned to me.
‘I must go,’ she said.
‘Thanks for the company,’ I replied.
‘Don’t let her escape,’ said Isabella. ‘Search for her, wherever she may be, and tell her you love her, even if it’s a lie. We girls like to hear that kind of thing.’
She turned round and leaned over to brush my lips with hers. Then she squeezed my hand and left without saying goodbye.
5
I spent the rest of that week scouring Barcelona for anyone who might remember having seen Cristina over the last month. I visited the places I’d shared with her and traced Vidal’s favourite route through cafés, restaurants and elegant shops, all in vain. I showed everyone I met a photograph from the album Cristina had left in my house and asked whether they had seen her recently. Somewhere, I forget where, I came across a person who recognised her and remembered having seen her with Vidal some time or other. Other people even remembered her name, but nobody had seen her in weeks. On the fourth day, I began to suspect that Cristina had left the tower house that morning after I went to buy the train tickets, and had evaporated off the face of the earth.
Then I remembered that Vidal’s family kept a room permanently reserved at the Hotel España, on Calle Sant Pau, behind the Liceo theatre. It was used whenever a member of the family visited the opera and didn’t feel like returning to Pedralbes in the early hours. I knew that Vidal and his father had also used it – at least in their golden years – to enjoy the company of young ladies whose presence in their official residences in Pedralbes would have led to undesirable rumours – due either to the low or the high birth of the lady in question. More than once Vidal had offered the room to me when I still lived in Doña Carmen’s pensión in case, as he put it, I felt like undressing a damsel somewhere that wasn’t quite so alarming. I didn’t think Cristina would have chosen the hotel room as a refuge – if she knew of its existence, that is – but it was the only place left on my list and nowhere else had occurred to me.
It was getting dark when I arrived at the Hotel España and asked to speak to the manager, presenting myself as Señor Vidal’s friend. When I showed him Cristina’s photograph, the manager, a gentleman who mistook frostiness for discretion, smiled politely and told me that ‘other’ members of Vidal’s staff had already been there a few weeks earlier, asking after that same person, and he had told them what he was telling me now: he had never seen that lady in the hotel. I thanked him for his icy kindness and walked away in defeat.
As I passed the glass doors that led into the dining room, I thought I registered a familiar profile. The boss was sitting at one of the tables, the only guest there, eating what looked like lumps of sugar. I was about to make a quick getaway when he turned and waved at me, smiling. I cursed my luck and waved back. He signalled for me to join him. I walked through the dining-room door, dragging my feet.
‘What a lovely surprise to see you here, dear friend. I was just thinking about you,’ said Corelli.