‘You’re telling me that a doctrine amounts to a tale.’
‘Everything is a tale, Martín. What we believe, what we know, what we remember, even what we dream. Everything is a story, a narrative, a sequence of events with characters communicating an emotional content. We only accept as true what can be narrated. Don’t tell me you’re not tempted by the idea.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Are you not tempted to create a story for which men and women would live and die, for which they would be capable of killing and allowing themselves to be killed, of sacrificing and condemning themselves, of handing over their soul? What greater challenge for your career than to create a story so powerful that it transcends fiction and becomes a revealed truth?’
We stared at each other for a few seconds.
‘I think you know what my answer is,’ I said at last.
Corelli smiled.
‘I do. But I think you’re the one who doesn’t yet know it.’
‘Thank you for your company, Señor Corelli. And for the wine and the speeches. Very stimulating. Be careful who you throw them at. I hope you find your man, and that the pamphlet is a huge success.’
I stood up and turned to leave.
‘Are you expected somewhere, Martín?’
I didn’t reply, but I stopped.
‘Don’t you feel anger, knowing there could be so many things to live for, with good health and good fortune, and no ties?’ said Corelli behind my back. ‘Don’t you feel anger when these things are being snatched from your hands?’
I turned back slowly.
‘What is a year’s work compared to the possibility of having everything you desire come true? What is a year’s work compared to the promise of a long and fulfilling existence?’
Nothing, I said to myself, despite myself. Nothing.
‘Is that your promise?’
‘You name the price. Do you want to set fire to the whole world and burn with it? Let’s do it together. You fix the price. I’m prepared to give you what you most want.’
‘I don’t know what it is that I want most.’
‘I think you do know.’
The publisher smiled and winked at me. He stood up and went over to a chest of drawers that had a gas lamp resting on it. He opened the first drawer and pulled out a parchment envelope. He handed it to me but I didn’t take it, so he left it on the table that stood between us and sat down again, without saying a word. The envelope was open and inside I could just make out what looked like a few wads of one-hundred franc notes. A fortune.
‘You keep all this money in a drawer and leave the door open?’ I asked.
‘You can count it. If you think it’s not enough, name an amount. As I said, I’m not going to argue with you over money.’
I looked at the small fortune for a long moment, and in the end I shook my head. At least I’d seen it. It was real. The offer, and the vanity he had awoken in me in those moments of misery and despair, were real.
‘I cannot accept it,’ I said.
‘Do you think it’s dirty money?’
‘All money is dirty. If it were clean nobody would want it. But that’s not the problem.’
‘So?’
‘I cannot accept it because I cannot accept your proposal. I couldn’t even do so if I wanted to.’
Corelli considered my words carefully.
‘May I ask why?’
‘Because I’m dying, Señor Corelli. Because I only have a few weeks left to live, perhaps only days. Because I have nothing left to offer.’
Corelli looked down and fell into a deep silence. I heard the wind scratching at the windows and sliding over the house.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know,’ I added.
‘I sensed it.’
Corelli remained seated, not looking at me.
‘There are plenty of writers who can write this book for you, Señor Corelli. I am grateful for your offer. More than you can imagine. Goodnight.’
I began to walk away.
‘Let’s say I was able to help you get over your illness,’ he said.
I stopped halfway down the corridor and turned round. Corelli was barely a metre away, staring straight at me. I thought he was a bit taller than when I’d first seen him, there in the corridor, and that his eyes were larger and darker. I could see my reflection in his pupils getting smaller as they dilated.
‘Does my appearance worry you, Martín, my friend?’
I swallowed hard.
‘Yes,’ I confessed.
‘Please come back and sit down. Give me the opportunity to explain some more. What have you got to lose?’
‘Nothing, I suppose.’
He put his hand gently on my arm. His fingers were long and pale.
‘You have nothing to fear from me, Martín. I’m your friend.’
His touch was comforting. I allowed him to guide me back to the sitting room and sat down meekly, like a child waiting for an adult to speak. Corelli knelt down by my armchair and fixed his eyes on mine. He took my hand and pressed it tightly.
‘Do you want to live?’
I wanted to reply but couldn’t find the words. I realised that I had a lump in my throat and my eyes were filling with tears. Until then I had not understood how much I longed to keep on breathing, to keep on opening my eyes every morning and be able to go out into the street, to step on stones and look at the sky, and, above all, to keep on remembering.
I nodded.
‘I’m going to help you, Martín, my friend. All I ask of you is that you trust me. Accept my offer. Let me help you. Let me give you what you most desire. That is my promise.’
I nodded again.
‘I accept.’
Corelli smiled and bent over to kiss me on the cheek. His lips were icy cold.
‘You and I, my friend, are going to do great things together. You’ll see,’ he whispered.
He offered me a handkerchief to dry my tears. I did so without feeling the silent shame of weeping before a stranger, something I had not done since my father died.
‘You’re exhausted, Martín. Stay here for the night. There are plenty of bedrooms in this house. I can assure you that tomorrow you’ll feel better, and that you’ll see things more clearly.’
I shrugged my shoulders, though I realised that Corelli was right. I could barely stand up and all I wanted to do was sleep deeply. I couldn’t even bring myself to get up from the armchair, the most comfortable and most comforting in the universal history of all armchairs.
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay here.’
‘Of course. I’m going to let you rest. Very soon you’ll feel better. I give you my word.’
Corelli went over to the chest of drawers and turned off the gas lamp. The room was submerged in a bluish dusk. My eyelids were pressing down heavily and a sense of intoxication filled my head, but I managed to make out Corelli’s silhouette crossing the room and disappearing into the shadows. I closed my eyes and heard the murmur of the wind behind the windowpanes.
25
I dreamed that the house was slowly sinking. At first, little teardrops of dark water began to appear through the cracks in the tiles, in the walls, in the relief on the ceiling, through the holes of the door locks. It was a cold liquid that crept slowly and heavily, like mercury, and gradually formed a layer covering the floor and climbing up the walls. I felt the water going over my feet, rising fast. I stayed in the armchair, watching as the water level rose to my throat and then, in just a few seconds, reached the ceiling. I felt myself floating and could see pale lights rising and falling behind the windows. There were human figures also suspended in that watery darkness. Trapped in the current as they floated by, they stretched their hands out to me, but I could not help them and the water dragged them away inexorably. Corelli’s one hundred thousand francs flowed around me, undulating like paper fish. I crossed the room to a closed door at the other end. A thread of light shone through the lock. I opened the door and saw that it led to a staircase descending to the deepest part of the house. I went down.