‘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.
I shook hands with him reluctantly.
‘I thought you were out of town,’ I said.
‘I came back sooner than planned. Would you care for a drink?’
I declined. He asked me to sit down at his table and I obeyed. The boss wore his usual three-piece suit of black wool and a red silk tie. As always, he was impeccably attired, but something didn’t quite add up. It took me a few seconds to notice what it was – the angel brooch was not in his lapel. Corelli followed the direction of my gaze.
‘Alas, I’ve lost it, and I don’t know where,’ he explained.
‘I hope it wasn’t too valuable.’
‘Its value was purely sentimental. But let’s talk about more important matters. How are you, my dear friend? I’ve missed our conversations enormously, despite our occasional disagreements. It’s difficult to find a good conversationalist.’
‘You overrate me, Señor Corelli.’
‘On the contrary.’
A brief silence followed, those bottomless eyes drilling into mine. I told myself that I preferred him when he embarked on his usual banal conversations – when he stopped speaking his face seemed to change and the air thickened around him.
‘Are you staying here?’ I asked to break the silence.
‘No, I’m still in the house by Güell Park. I had arranged to meet a friend here this afternoon, but he seems to be late. The manners of some people are deplorable.’
‘There can’t be many people who dare to stand you up, Señor Corelli.’
The boss looked me straight in the eye.
‘Not many. In fact, the only person I can think of is you.’
The boss took a sugar lump and dropped it into his cup. A second lump followed, and then a third. He tasted the coffee and added four more lumps. Then he picked up yet another and popped it in his mouth.
‘I love sugar,’ he said.
‘So I see.’
‘You haven’t told me anything about our project, Martín, dear friend,’ he cut in. ‘Is there a problem?’
I winced.
‘It’s almost finished,’ I said.
The boss’s face lit up with a smile I tried to ignore.
‘That is wonderful news. When will I be able to see it?’
‘In a couple of weeks. I need to do some revisions. Pruning and finishing touches more than anything else.’
‘Can we set a date?’
‘If you like…’
‘How about Friday? That’s the twenty-third. Will you accept an invitation to dine and celebrate the success of our venture?’
Friday 23 January was exactly two weeks away.