The house was at the top of a steep slope, with steps leading up to the front door. The large windows exhaled golden haloes of light. As I climbed the stone steps I thought I noticed the outline of a figure leaning on one of the balustrades on the second floor, as still as a spider waiting in its web. I climbed the last step and stopped to recover my breath. The main door was ajar and a sheet of light stretched out towards my feet. I approached slowly and stopped on the threshold. A smell of dead flowers emanated from within. I knocked gently on the door and it opened slightly. Before me was an entrance hall and a long corridor leading into the house. I heard a dry, repetitive sound, like that of a shutter banging against a window in the wind; it came from somewhere inside the house and reminded me of a heart beating. Advancing a few steps into the hall I saw a staircase on my left that led to the upper floors. I thought I heard light footsteps, a child’s footsteps, climbing somewhere high above.
‘Good evening?’ I called out.
Before the echo of my voice had lost itself down the corridor, the percussive sound that was beating somewhere in the house stopped. Total silence now fell all around me and an icy draught kissed my cheek.
‘Señor Corelli? It’s Martín. David Martín.’
I got no reply, so I ventured forward. The walls were covered with framed photographs of different sizes. From the poses and the clothes worn by the subjects I assumed they were all at least twenty or thirty years old. At the bottom of each frame was a small silver plaque with the name of the person in the photograph and the year it was taken. I studied the faces that were observing me from another time. Children and old people, ladies and gentlemen. They all bore the same shadow of sadness in their eyes, the same silent cry. They stared at the camera with a longing that chilled my blood.
‘Does photography interest you, Martín, my friend?’ said a voice next to me.
Startled, I turned round. Andreas Corelli was gazing at the photographs next to me with a smile tinged with melancholy. I hadn’t seen or heard him approach, and when he smiled at me I felt a shiver down my spine.
‘I thought you wouldn’t come.’
‘So did I.’
‘Then let me offer you a glass of wine and we’ll drink a toast to our errors.’
I followed him to a large room with wide French windows overlooking the city. Corelli pointed to an armchair and then filled two glasses from a decanter on a table. He handed me a glass and sat on the armchair opposite mine.
I tasted the wine. It was excellent. I almost downed it in one and soon felt the warmth sliding down my throat, calming my nerves. Corelli sniffed at his and watched me with a friendly, relaxed smile.
‘You were right,’ I said.
‘I usually am,’ Corelli replied. ‘It’s a habit that rarely gives me any satisfaction. Sometimes I think that few things would give me more pleasure than being sure I had made a mistake.’
‘That’s easy to resolve. Ask me. I’m always wrong.’
‘No, you’re not wrong. I think you see things as clearly as I do and it doesn’t give you any satisfaction either.’
Listening to him it occurred to me that the only thing that could give me some satisfaction at that precise moment was to set fire to the whole world and burn along with it. As if he’d read my thoughts, Corelli smiled and nodded, baring his teeth.
‘I can help you, my friend.’
To my surprise, I found myself avoiding his eyes, concentrating instead on that small brooch with the silver angel on his lapel.
‘Pretty brooch,’ I said, pointing at it.
‘A family heirloom,’ Corelli replied.
I thought we’d exchanged enough pleasantries to last the whole evening.
‘Señor Corelli, what am I doing here?’
Corelli’s eyes shone the same colour as the wine he was gently swilling in his glass.
‘It’s very simple. You’re here because at last you’ve realised that this is the place you should be. You’re here because I made you an offer a year ago. An offer that at the time you were not ready to accept, but which you have not forgotten. And I’m here because I still think that you’re the person I’m looking for, and that is why I preferred to wait twelve months rather than let you go.’
‘An offer you never got round to explaining in detail.’
‘In fact, the only thing I gave you was the details.’
‘One hundred thousand francs in exchange for working for you for a whole year, writing a book.’
‘Exactly. Many people would think that was the essential information. But not you.’
‘You told me that when you described the sort of book you wanted me to write for you, I’d do it even if you didn’t pay me.’
Corelli nodded.
‘You have a good memory.’
‘I have an excellent memory, Señor Corelli, so much so that I don’t recall having seen, read or heard about any book you’ve published.’
‘Do you doubt my solvency?’
I shook my head, trying not to let him notice the longing and greed that gnawed at my insides. The less interest I showed, the more tempted I felt by the publisher’s promises.
‘I’m simply curious about your motives,’ I pointed out.
‘As you should be.’
‘Anyhow, may I remind you that I have an exclusive contract with Barrido & Escobillas for five more years. The other day I received a very revealing visit from them, and from a litigious-looking lawyer. Still, I suppose it doesn’t really matter, because five years is too long, and if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that I have very little time.’
‘Don’t worry about lawyers. Mine are infinitely more litigious-looking than the ones that couple of pustules use, and they’ve never lost a case. Leave all the legal details and litigation to me.’
From the way he smiled when he uttered those words I thought it best never to have a meeting with the legal advisers for Éditions de la Lumière.
‘I believe you. I suppose that leaves us with the question of what the other details of your offer are – the essential ones.’
‘There’s no simple way of saying this, so I’d better get straight to the point.’
‘Please do.’
Corelli leaned forward and locked his eyes on mine.
‘Martín, I want you to create a religion for me.’
At first I thought I hadn’t heard him properly.
‘What did you say?’
Corelli held his gaze on mine, his eyes unfathomable.
‘I said that I want you to create a religion for me.’
I stared at him for a long moment, thunderstruck.
‘You’re pulling my leg.’
Corelli shook his head, sipping his wine with relish.
‘I want you to bring together all your talent and devote yourself body and soul, for one year, to working on the greatest story you have ever created: a religion.’
I couldn’t help bursting out laughing.
‘You’re out of your mind. Is that your proposal? Is that the book you want me to write?’
Corelli nodded calmly.
‘You’ve got the wrong writer: I don’t know anything about religion.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I do. I’m not looking for a theologian. I’m looking for a narrator. Do you know what a religion is, Martín, my friend?’
‘I can barely remember the Lord’s Prayer.’
‘A beautiful and well-crafted prayer. Poetry aside, a religion is really a moral code that is expressed through legends, myths or any type of literary device in order to establish a system of beliefs, values and rules with which to regulate a culture or a society.’
‘Amen,’ I replied.
‘As in literature or in any other act of communication, what confers effectiveness on it is the form and not the content,’ Corelli continued.