‘How do I know? I think so, although not as much as he thinks he loves me.’
‘Sometimes, in difficult circumstances, one can confuse compassion with love,’ I said.
‘Don’t you worry about me.’
‘All I ask is that you give yourself some time.’
We looked at each other, bound by an infinite complicity that needed no words, and I hugged her.
‘Friends?’
‘Till death us do part.’
4
On our way home we stopped at a grocer’s in Calle Comercio to buy some milk and bread. Isabella told me she was going to ask her father to deliver an order of fine foods and I’d better eat everything up.
‘How are things in the bookshop?’ I asked.
‘The sales have gone right down. I think people feel sad about coming to the shop, because they remember poor Señor Sempere. As things stand, it’s not looking good.’
‘How are the accounts?’
‘Below the waterline. In the weeks I’ve been working there I’ve gone through the ledgers and realised that Señor Sempere, God rest his soul, was a disaster. He’d simply give books to people who couldn’t afford them. Or he’d lend them out and never get them back. He’d buy collections he knew he wouldn’t be able to sell just because the owners had threatened to burn them or throw them away. He supported a whole host of second-rate bards who didn’t have a penny to their name by giving them small sums of money. You can imagine the rest.’
‘Any creditors in sight?’
‘Two a day, not counting letters and final demands from the bank. The good news is that we’re not short of offers.’
‘To buy the place?’
‘A couple of sausage merchants from Vic are very interested in the premises.’
‘And what does Sempere’s son say?’
‘He just says that pork can be mightier than the sword. Realism isn’t his strong point. He says we’ll stay afloat and I should have faith.’
‘And do you?’
‘I have faith in arithmetic, and when I do the sums they tell me that in two months’ time the bookshop window will be full of chorizo and slabs of bacon.’
‘We’ll find a solution.’
Isabella smiled.
‘I was hoping you’d say that. And speaking of unfinished business, please tell me you’re no longer working for the boss.’
I showed her my hands were clean.
‘I’m a free agent once more.’
She accompanied me up the stairs and was about to say goodbye when she appeared to hesitate.
‘What?’ I asked her.
‘I’d decided not to tell you, but… I’d rather you heard it from me than from someone else. It’s about Señor Sempere.’
We went into the house and sat down in the gallery by the open fire, which Isabella revived by throwing on a couple of logs. The ashes of Marlasca’s Lux Aeterna were still visible and my former assistant threw me a glance I could have framed.
‘What were you going to tell me about Sempere?’
‘It’s something I heard from Don Anacleto, one of the neighbours in the building. He told me that on the afternoon Señor Sempere died he saw him arguing with someone in the shop. Don Anacleto was on his way back home and he said that their voices could be heard from the street.’
‘Who was he arguing with?’
‘It was a woman. Quite old. Don Anacleto didn’t think he’d ever seen her around there, though he did say she looked vaguely familiar – but you never know with Don Anacleto, he likes to chatter on more than he likes sugared almonds.’
‘Did he hear what they were arguing about?’
‘He thought they were talking about you.’
‘About me?’
Isabella nodded.
‘Sempere’s son had gone out for a moment to deliver an order in Calle Canuda. He wasn’t away for more than ten or fifteen minutes. When he got back he found his father lying on the floor, behind the counter. Señor Sempere was still breathing but he was cold. By the time the doctor arrived, it was too late…’
I felt the whole world collapsing on top of me.
‘I shouldn’t have told you…’ whispered Isabella.
‘No. You did the right thing. Did Don Anacleto say anything else about the woman?’
‘Only that he heard them arguing. He thought it was about a book. Something she wanted to buy and Señor Sempere didn’t want to sell to her.’
‘And why did he mention me? I don’t understand.’
‘Because it was your book. The Steps of Heaven. It was Señor Sempere’s only copy, in his personal collection, and was not for sale…’
I was filled with a dark certainty.
‘And the book…? ’ I began.
‘It’s no longer there. It disappeared,’ Isabella explained. ‘I checked the sales ledger, because Señor Sempere always made a note of every book he sold, with the date and the price, and this one wasn’t there.’
‘Does his son know?’
‘No. I haven’t told anybody except you. I’m still trying to understand what happened that afternoon in the bookshop. And why. I thought perhaps you might know…’
‘I suspect the woman tried to take the book by force, and in the quarrel Señor Sempere suffered a heart attack. That’s what happened,’ I said. ‘And all over a damned book of mine.’
I could feel my stomach churning.
‘There’s something else,’ said Isabella.
‘What?’
‘A few days later I bumped into Don Anacleto on the stairs and he told me he’d remembered how he knew that woman. He said that at first he couldn’t put his finger on it, but now he was sure he’d seen her, many years ago, in the theatre.’
‘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.’