I shrugged my shoulders. Isabella came over and sat next to me, on the windowsill. We enjoyed the play of silences and shadows over the rooftops of the old town. After a while, she grinned at me and said, ‘What if we were to light one of those cigars my father gives you and share it?’
‘Certainly not.’
Isabella sank back into silence, but every now and then she glanced at me and smiled. I watched her out of the corner of my eye and realised that just by looking at her it was easier to believe there might be something good and decent left in this lousy world and, with luck, in myself.
‘Are you staying?’ I asked.
‘Give me a good reason why I should. An honest reason. In other words, coming from you, a selfish one. And it had better not be a load of drivel or I’ll leave right away.’
She barricaded herself behind a defensive look, waiting for one of my usual flattering remarks, and for a moment she seemed to be the only person in the world to whom I couldn’t and didn’t wish to lie. I looked down and for once I spoke the truth, even if it was only to hear it myself.
‘Because you’re the only friend I have left.’
The hard expression in her eyes disappeared, and before I could discern any pity, I looked away.
‘What about Señor Sempere and that pedant, Barceló?’
‘You’re the only one who has dared tell me the truth.’
‘What about your friend, the boss, doesn’t he tell you the truth?’
‘The boss is not my friend. And I don’t think he’s ever told the truth in his entire life.’
Isabella looked at me closely.
‘You see? I knew you didn’t trust him. I noticed it in your face from the very first day.’
I tried to recover some of my dignity, but all I found was sarcasm.
‘Have you added face-reading to your list of talents?’
‘You don’t need any talent to read a face like yours,’ Isabella retorted. ‘It’s like reading Tom Thumb.’
‘And what else can you read in my face, dearest fortune-teller?’
‘That you’re scared.’
I tried to laugh without much enthusiasm.
‘Don’t be ashamed of being scared. To be afraid is a sign of common sense. Only complete idiots are not afraid of anything. I read that in a book.’
‘The coward’s handbook?’
‘You needn’t admit it if it’s going to undermine your sense of masculinity. I know you men believe that the size of your stubbornness should match the size of your privates.’
‘Did you also read that in your book?’
‘No, that wisdom’s homemade.’
I let my hands fall, surrendering in the face of the evidence.
‘All right. Yes, I admit that I do feel a vague sense of anxiety.’
‘You’re the one who’s being vague. You’re scared stiff. Admit it.’
‘Don’t get things out of proportion. Let’s say that I have some reservations concerning my publisher, which, given my experience, is understandable. As far as I know, Corelli is a perfect gentleman and our professional relationship will be fruitful and positive for both parties.’
‘That’s why your stomach rumbles every time his name crops up.’
I sighed. I had no arguments left.
‘What can I say, Isabella?’
‘That you’re not going to work for him any more.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘And why not? Can’t you just give him back his money and send him packing?’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Why not? Have you got yourself into trouble?’
‘I think so.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. In any case, I’m the only one to blame, so I must be the one to solve it. It’s nothing that should worry you.’
Isabella looked at me, resigned for the time being but not convinced.
‘You really are a hopeless person. Did you know that?’
‘I’m getting used to the idea.’
‘If you want me to stay, the rules here must change.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘No more enlightened despotism. From now on, this house is a democracy.’
‘Liberty, equality and fraternity.’
‘Watch it where fraternity is concerned. But no more ordering around, and no more little Mr Rochester numbers.’
‘Whatever you say, Miss Eyre.’
‘And don’t get your hopes up, because I’m not going to marry you even if you go blind.’
I put out my hand to seal our pact. She shook it with some hesitation and then gave me a hug. I let myself be wrapped in her arms and leaned my face on her hair. Her touch was full of peace and welcome, the life light of a seventeen-year-old girl, and I wanted to believe that it resembled the embrace my mother had never had time to give me.
‘Friends?’ I whispered.
‘Till death us do part.’
22
The new regulations of the Isabellian reign came into effect at nine o’clock the following morning, when my assistant turned up in the kitchen and informed me how things were going to be from then on.
‘I’ve been thinking that you need a routine in your life. Otherwise you get sidetracked and act in a dissolute manner.’
‘Where did you get that expression from?’
‘From one of your books. Dis-so-lute. It sounds good.’
‘And it’s great for rhymes.’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
During the day we would both work on our respective manuscripts. We would have dinner together and then she’d show me the pages she’d written that day and we’d discuss them. I swore I would be frank and give her appropriate suggestions, not just empty words to keep her happy. Sundays would be our day off and I’d take her to the pictures, to the theatre or out for a walk. She would help me find documents in libraries and archives and it would be her job to make sure the larder was always well stocked thanks to her connection with the family emporium. I would make breakfast and she’d make dinner. Lunch would be prepared by whoever was free at that moment. We divided up the chores and I promised to accept the irrefutable fact that the house needed to be cleaned regularly. I would not attempt to find her a boyfriend under any circumstances and she would refrain from questioning my motives for working for the boss or from expressing her opinion on the matter unless I asked for it. The rest we would make up as we went along.
I raised my cup of coffee and we toasted my unconditional surrender.
In just a couple of days I had given myself over to the peace and tranquillity of the vassal. Isabella awoke slowly, and by the time she emerged from her room, her eyes half-closed, wearing a pair of my slippers that were much too big for her, I had the breakfast ready, with coffee and the morning paper, a different one each day.
Routine is the housekeeper of inspiration. Only forty-eight hours after the establishment of the new regime, I discovered that I was beginning to recover the discipline of my most productive years. The hours of being locked up in the study crystallised into pages and more pages, in which, not without some anxiety, I began to see the work taking shape, reaching the point at which it stopped being an idea and became a reality.
The text flowed, brilliant, electric. It read like a legend, a mythological saga about miracles and hardships, peopled with characters and scenes that were knotted around a prophecy of hope for the race. The narrative prepared the way for the arrival of a warrior saviour who would liberate the nation of all pain and injustice in order to give it back the pride and glory that had been snatched away by its enemies – foes who had conspired since time immemorial against the people, whoever that people might be. The mechanics of the plot were impeccable and would work equally well for any creed, race or tribe. Flags, gods and proclamations were the jokers in a pack that always dealt the same cards. Given the nature of the work, I had chosen one of the most complex and difficult techniques to apply to any literary text: the apparent absence of technique. The language resounded plain and simple, the voice was honest and clean, a consciousness that did not narrate, but simply revealed. Sometimes I would stop to reread what I’d written and, overcome with blind vanity, I’d feel that the mechanism I was setting up worked with perfect precision. I realised that for the first time in a long while I had spent whole hours without thinking about Cristina or Pedro Vidal. Life, I told myself, was improving. Perhaps for that very reason, because it seemed that at last I was going to get out of the predicament into which I’d fallen, I did what I’ve always done when I’ve got myself back on the rails: I ruined it all.