‘You’re not bothering me. Would you like something to drink?’
The girl shook her head.
‘Señor Sempere tells me you’re talented.’
Isabella shrugged her shoulders and smiled at me sceptically.
‘Normally, the more talent one has, the more one doubts it,’ I said. ‘And vice versa.’
‘Then I must be quite something,’ Isabella replied.
‘Welcome to the club. Tell me, what can I do for you?’
Isabella took a deep breath.
‘Señor Sempere told me that perhaps you could read some of my work and give me your opinion and some advice.’
I fixed my eyes on hers for a few seconds before replying. She held my gaze without blinking.
‘Is that all?’
‘No.’
‘I could see it coming. What is chapter two?’
Isabella hesitated only for a split second.
‘If you like what you read and you think I have potential, I’d like you to allow me to become your assistant.’
‘What makes you think I need an assistant?’
‘I can tidy up your papers, type them, correct errors and mistakes…’
‘Errors and mistakes?’
‘I didn’t mean to imply that you make mistakes…’
‘Then what did you mean to imply?’
‘Nothing. But four eyes are always better than two. And besides, I can take care of your correspondence, run errands, help with research. What’s more, I know how to cook and I can-’
‘Are you asking for a post as assistant or cook?’
‘I’m asking you to give me a chance.’
Isabella looked down. I couldn’t help but smile. Despite myself, I really liked this curious creature.
‘This is what we’ll do. Bring me the best twenty pages you’ve written, the ones you think will show me what you are capable of. Don’t bring any more because I won’t read them. I’ll have a good look at them and then, depending on what I think, we’ll talk.’
Her face lit up and, for a moment, the veil of tension and toughness that governed her expression disappeared.
‘You won’t regret it,’ she said.
She stood up and looked at me nervously.
‘Is it all right if I bring the pages round to your house?’
‘Leave them in my letter box. Is that all?’
She nodded vigorously and backed away with those short, nervous steps. When she was about to turn and start running, I called her.
‘Isabella?’
She looked at me meekly, her eyes clouded with sudden anxiety.
‘Why me?’ I asked. ‘And don’t tell me it’s because I’m your favourite author or any of that sort of flattery with which Sempere has advised you to soft-soap me, because if you do, this will be the first and last conversation we ever have.’
Isabella hesitated for a moment. Then, looking at me candidly, she replied with disarming bluntness.
‘Because you’re the only writer I know.’
She gave me an embarrassed smile and went off with her notebook, her unsteady walk and her frankness. I watched her turn the corner of Calle Mirallers and vanish behind the cathedral.
5
When I returned home an hour later, I found her sitting on my doorstep, clutching what I imagined must be her story. As soon as she saw me she stood up and forced a smile.
‘I told you to leave it in my letter box,’ I said.
Isabella nodded and shrugged her shoulders.
‘As a token of my gratitude I’ve brought you some coffee from my parents’ shop. It’s Colombian and really good. The coffee didn’t fit through your letter box so I thought I’d better wait for you.’
Such an excuse could only have been invented by a budding novelist. I sighed and opened the door.
‘In.’
I went up the stairs, Isabella following like a lapdog a few steps behind.
‘Do you always take that long to have your breakfast? Not that it’s any of my business, of course, but I’ve been waiting here for three quarters of an hour, so I was beginning to worry. I said to myself, I hope he hasn’t choked on something. It would be just my luck. The one time I meet a writer in the flesh and then he goes and swallows an olive the wrong way and bang goes my literary career,’ she rattled on.
I stopped halfway up the flight of steps and looked at her with the most hostile expression I could muster.
‘Isabella, for things to work out between us we’re going to have to set down a few rules. The first is that I ask the questions and you just answer them. When there are no questions from me, you don’t give me answers or spontaneous speeches. The second rule is that I can take as long as I damn well please to have breakfast, an afternoon snack or to daydream, and that does not constitute a matter for debate.’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I understand that slow digestion of food is an aid to inspiration.’
‘The third rule is that sarcasm is not allowed before noon. Understood?’
‘Yes, Señor Martín.’
‘The fourth is that you must not call me Señor Martín, not even at my funeral. I might seem like a fossil to you, but I like to think that I’m still young. In fact, I am young, end of story.’
‘How should I call you?’
‘By my name: David.’
The girl nodded. I opened the door of the apartment and showed her in. Isabella hesitated for a moment, then slipped in giving a little jump.
‘I think you still look quite young for your age, David.’
I stared at her in astonishment.
‘How old do you think I am?’
Isabella looked me up and down, assessing.
‘About thirty? But a young-looking thirty?’
‘Just shut up and go and make some coffee with that concoction you’ve brought.’
‘Where is the kitchen?’
‘Look for it.’
We shared a delicious Colombian coffee sitting in the gallery. Isabella held her cup and watched me furtively as I read the twenty pages she had brought with her. Every time I turned a page and looked up I was confronted by her expectant gaze.
‘If you’re going to sit there looking at me like an owl, this will take a long time.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Didn’t you want to be my assistant? Then assist. Look for something that needs tidying and tidy it, for example.’
Isabella looked around.
‘Everything is untidy.’
‘This is your chance then.’
Isabella agreed and went off, with military determination, to confront the chaos that reigned in my home. I listened as her footsteps retreated down the corridor and then continued reading. The story she had brought me had almost no narrative thread. With a sharp sensitivity and an articulate turn of phrase, it described the feelings and longings that passed through the mind of a girl confined to a cold room in an attic of the Ribera quarter, from which she gazed at the city with its people coming and going along dark, narrow streets. The images and the sad music of her prose spoke of a loneliness that bordered on despair. The girl in the story spent hours trapped in her world; sometimes she would sit facing a mirror and slit her arms and thighs with a piece of broken glass, leaving scars like the ones just visible under Isabella’s sleeves. I had almost finished my reading when I noticed that she was looking at me from the gallery door.
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but what’s in the room at the end of the corridor?’
‘Nothing.’
‘It smells odd.’
‘Damp.’
‘I can clean it if you like…’
‘No. That room is never used. And besides, you’re not my maid. You don’t need to clean anything.’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘You can help by getting me another cup of coffee.’