“Manuel, you write very well. You’re a pro, but this isn’t . . . it isn’t sincere. It’s not of the same quality as The Man Who Refused.”
Manuel rose, turned his back to his husband, and walked to the center of the room. “I’ve told you a thousand times I can’t write another novel like The Man Who Refused.”
“You can’t—or you don’t want to?”
Manuel came back to the sofa and turned to face him. “I wrote The Man Who Refused because I had to. It was necessary, a price I had to pay. I had to drink the bitterness of that pain and those memories before I could tell the story: my childhood, how we were orphaned, living with that old aunt who detested us, and how we thought nothing bad could ever happen to us again because we’d already survived the worst. Until my sister died.”
“It’s your best novel, but you’ve refused to be interviewed about it.”
“I was reliving my life, álvaro, my own life. An incredible amount of grief went into writing about that. I don’t want to write about it. I don’t want to ever go through that again.” He rose and took a few steps away.
álvaro followed him. “It’s not a matter of living through it again, Manuel. You’re safe now. I’m with you, and you’re not six years old anymore. The Sun of Tebas is a good novel, and your readers will love it, but it’s insincere. If you don’t want to hear my opinion, you shouldn’t have asked for it.”
“Of course I want your opinion. I write for you. But I want you to understand me too. I believe in literature that reflects reality, but I refuse to make a spectacle of private pain.”
“And that’s your mistake. It’s not a matter of drawing attention to yourself. No one but you needs to understand your sources. But when you write from the heart, every reader perceives it. Even if subliminally. Why do you think The Man Who Refused is still considered your best novel?”
Manuel dropped onto the sofa and put his face in his hands. His fingers slipped up into his hair. “I don’t know,” he said at last.
álvaro settled close beside him. “Yes, you do know, Manuel. Sure, somewhere inside you there’s still a six-year-old who wakes up in tears. I know that child misses his parents and the sister who’s no longer there to console him. I know how reality pains you, and I know that’s probably what makes you a magnificent writer: your ability to shelter in that endless palace of your imagination and bring back one story after another. But there’s a man who confronted that pain, a man who consoled that boy, a magnificent, sincere man who buried his parents and his sister and did it with a novel. I fell in love with that man. You can’t tell me to stop admiring that strength. That would mean giving up the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Manuel looked at him, obstinately opposed. “Don’t you realize I’ve spent my whole life trying to flee from that life, trying to forget it all? I’m successful. I have thousands of readers, money, this home—enough for the rest of my life. And you admitted my fans will love The Sun of Tebas. It’s exactly what they want. Why must I suffer to write when I can choose to be happy instead?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
That was too much. Manuel got up again. “I’m not looking for truth, álvaro. I had more truth than I could stomach when I was a boy and all my life before I met you. I want what we have now.” He collected the bulky pile of typewritten pages and pressed them to his chest. “This is the truth I want. It’s all the truth I can bear.”
álvaro remained very quiet for several seconds, gazing at him. He closed his eyes and sighed. He got up and came to Manuel. “Forgive me. You’re right.” He took the manuscript from Manuel’s hands and embraced him.
“Forgive me, álvaro, but it’s just that you don’t know what it was like to endure a childhood like mine.”
“No,” his husband whispered. “No, I don’t know what that was like.”
THE NET
A couple of dozen locals crowded the inn’s lively bar. He made out the figure of Lieutenant Nogueira in the press of bodies. The man was chewing a piece of fried bacon held in several paper napkins that gleamed translucent with streaks of grease. He downed the last bite and helped it along with a swig of beer. He took two or three more napkins from the dispenser and meticulously wiped his lips and mustache.
“Best if we talk outside,” he said by way of greeting.
Manuel nodded. He saw Nogueira signal the waiter for drinks, indicating that they’d be on the patio.
The retired officer lit a cigarette as soon as they stepped outside. He drew in a deep drag with the satisfaction of a tobacco addict. He gestured toward a table in the dark corner farthest from the entrance.
“How did it go at As Grileiras?”
“Not very well. Gri?án warned the family of our visit the night before, so the mother was too infirm to receive visitors, and Santiago and Catarina were away on a trip. The only one of them I got to see was Elisa, Fran’s wife. Just for a moment, because she was running after the child. We said hello but that was about it.”
Nogueira clicked his tongue in annoyance. “That Gri?án! I took a dislike to him as soon I saw him at the hospital.”
“I don’t know. I think he’s just doing his job.” Manuel was defending the executor, even though to his mind the man had been entirely too quick to ingratiate himself with the new marquis.
Not that anyone could blame him. Manuel had to admit that the man’s obsequious attitude toward him as presumptive heir had changed entirely too quickly to seem sincere. Manuel was annoyed to find he’d been na?ve. His first impression of Gri?án had been positive. The man’s admiration and respect for álvaro had seemed genuine, and Manuel wasn’t yet ready to believe the man’s attitude was motivated solely by the desire to maintain a juicy account. But no way was he about to get into all that with Nogueira.
“He gave me a short tour of the estate. That garden is incredible.”
“Yes,” the officer agreed. “It’s really precious.”
Manuel was astonished. The expression really precious wasn’t one he’d expect to hear from Nogueira.
Nogueira’s face hardened when he became conscious of Manuel’s surprised look. He took his time finishing his cigarette. “But don’t confuse an escorted tour with real collaboration. First he warns the family; then he runs you around the garden to distract you.”
“Well, I did meet some of the people who work on the estate. The caretaker and the veterinarian; Catarina’s assistant at the greenhouse with the gardenias; Herminia, the watchdog who keeps an eye on everything in the house; and Sarita, who does the housework with her.”
“Were you able to talk with them?”
“With Herminia for a while, just a few minutes. She was very affectionate,” he commented, remembering that overenthusiastic embrace. “The rest of the time Gri?án was right on my heels,” Manuel admitted. “Despite all his efforts to keep me mostly out of sight, I believe the old dowager was quite sharp with him. She had him summoned to her ‘lodgings,’ and when he came back he was in a rush. He invented an obviously false pretext and insisted we leave. It was obvious even to Herminia.”
Nogueira shook his head.
“I went to the police headquarters,” Manuel went on. “I have a box in my car with his clothing and personal effects.”
“That’s good. I’ll take them to Ophelia.”
“The car’s still there. I’d have had to leave my own in order to drive it away. I’ll take a taxi there tomorrow.”