‘An intellectual is usually someone who isn’t exactly distinguished by his intellect,’ Corelli asserted. ‘He claims that label to compensate for his own inadequacies. It’s as old as that saying: tell me what you boast of and I’ll tell you what you lack. Our daily bread. The incompetent always present themselves as experts, the cruel as pious, sinners as excessively devout, usurers as benefactors, the small-minded as patriots, the arrogant as humble, the vulgar as elegant and the feeble-minded as intellectual. Once again, it’s all the work of nature. Far from being the sylph to whom poets sing, nature is a cruel, voracious mother who needs to feed on the creatures she gives birth to in order to stay alive.’
Corelli and his fierce biological poetics were beginning to make me feel queasy. I was uncomfortable at the barely contained vehemence of the publisher’s words, and I wondered whether there was anything in the universe that did not seem repugnant and despicable to him, including myself.
‘You should give inspirational talks in schools and churches on Palm Sunday. You’d be a tremendous success,’ I suggested.
Corelli laughed coldly.
‘Don’t change the subject. What I’m searching for is the opposite of an intellectual, in other words, someone intelligent. And I have found that person.’
‘You flatter me.’
‘Better still, I pay you. And I pay you very well, which is the only real form of flattery in this whorish world. Never accept medals unless they come printed on the back of a cheque. They only benefit those who give them. And since I’m paying you, I expect you to listen and follow my instructions. Believe me when I say that I have no interest at all in making you waste your time. While you’re in my pay, your time is also my time.’
His tone was friendly, but his eyes shone like steel and left no room for misunderstandings.
‘You don’t need to remind me every five minutes.’
‘Forgive my insistence, dear Martín. If I’m making your head spin with all these details it’s only because I’m trying to get them out of the way sooner rather than later. What I want from you is the form, not the content. The content is always the same and has been in place ever since human life began. It’s engraved on your heart with a serial number. What I want you to do is find an intelligent and seductive way of answering the questions we all ask ourselves and you should do so using your own reading of the human soul, putting into practice your art and your profession. I want you to bring me a narrative that awakens the soul.’
‘Nothing more…’
‘Nothing less.’
‘You’re talking about manipulating feelings and emotions. Would it not be easier to convince people with a rational, simple and straightforward account?’
‘No. It’s impossible to initiate a rational dialogue with someone about beliefs and concepts if he has not acquired them through reason. It doesn’t matter whether we’re looking at God, race, or national pride. That’s why I need something more powerful than a simple rhetorical exposition. I need the strength of art, of stagecraft. We think we understand a song’s lyrics, but what makes us believe in them, or not, is the music.’
I tried to take in all his gibberish without choking.
‘Don’t worry, there’ll be no more speeches for today,’ Corelli interjected. ‘Now let’s discuss practical matters: we’ll meet about once a fortnight. You will inform me of your progress and show me the work you’ve produced. If I have any changes or observations to make, I will point them out to you. The work will continue for twelve months, or whatever fraction of that time you need to complete the job. At the end of that period you will hand in all the work and the documents it generated, with no exceptions: they belong to the sole proprietor and guarantor of the rights, in other words, me. Your name will not appear as the author of the document and you will agree not to claim authorship after delivery, or to discuss the work you have written or the terms of this agreement, either in private or in public, with anybody. In exchange, you will receive the initial payment of one hundred thousand francs, which has already been paid to you, and, upon receipt of the work to my satisfaction, an additional bonus of fifty thousand francs.’
I gulped. One is never wholly conscious of the greed hidden in one’s heart until one hears the sweet sound of silver.
‘Don’t you want to formalise the contract in writing?’
‘Ours is a gentleman’s agreement, based on honour: yours and mine. It has already been sealed. A gentleman’s agreement cannot be broken because it breaks the person who has signed it,’ said Corelli in a tone that made me think it might have been better to sign a piece of paper, even if it had to be written in blood. ‘Any questions?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I don’t follow you, Martín.’
‘Why do you want all this material, or whatever you wish to call it? What do you plan to do with it?’
‘Problems of conscience, at this stage, Martín?’
‘Perhaps you think of me as someone with no principles, but if I’m going to take part in the project you’re proposing, I want to know what the objective is. I think I have a right to know.’
Corelli smiled and placed his hand on mine. I felt a shiver at the contact of his skin, which was icy cold and smooth as marble.
‘Because you want to live.’
‘That sounds vaguely threatening.’
‘A simple and friendly reminder of what you already know. You’ll help me because you want to live and because you don’t care about the price or the consequences. Because not that long ago you saw yourself at death’s door and now you have an eternity before you and the opportunity of a life. You will help me because you’re human. And because, although you don’t want to admit it, you have faith.’
I withdrew my hand from his reach and watched him get up from his chair and walk over to the end of the garden.
‘Don’t worry, Martín. Everything will turn out all right. Trust me,’ said Corelli in a sweet, almost paternal tone.
‘May I leave now?’
‘Of course. I don’t want to keep you any longer than is necessary. I’ve enjoyed our conversation. I’ll let you go now, so you can start mulling over all the things we’ve discussed. You’ll see that, once the indigestion has passed, the real answers will come to you. There is nothing in the path of life that we don’t already know before we started. Nothing important is learned, it is simply remembered.’
He signalled to the taciturn butler, who was waiting at the edge of the garden.
‘A car will pick you up and take you home. We’ll meet again in two weeks’ time.’
‘Here?’
‘It’s in the lap of the Gods,’ Corelli said, licking his lips as if he’d made a delicious joke.
The butler came over and motioned for me to follow him. Corelli nodded and sat down, his eyes lost once more on the city below.
9
The car – for want of a better word – was waiting by the door of the large, old house. It was not an ordinary automobile, but a collector’s item. It reminded me of an enchanted carriage, a cathedral on wheels, its chrome and curves engineered by science, its bonnet topped by a silver angel like a ship’s figurehead. In other words, a Rolls-Royce. The butler opened the door for me and took his leave with a bow. I stepped inside: it looked more like a hotel room than a motor car. The engine started up as soon as I settled in the seat, and we set off down the hill.
‘Do you know the address?’ I asked.
The chauffeur, a dark figure on the other side of a glass partition, nodded vaguely. We crossed Barcelona in the narcotic silence of that metal carriage, barely touching the ground, or so it seemed. Streets and buildings flew past the windows like underwater cliffs. It was after midnight when the black Rolls-Royce turned off Calle Comercio and entered Paseo del Borne. The car stopped on the corner of Calle Flassaders, which was too narrow for it to pass through. The chauffeur got out and opened my door with a bow. I stepped from the car and he closed the door and got in again without saying a word. I watched him leave, the dark silhouette blending into a veil of shadows. I asked myself what I had done, and, choosing not to seek an answer, I set off towards my house feeling as if the whole world was a prison from which there was no escape.