2
The meeting with Víctor Grandes and the couple of basilisks he used as escorts left a nasty taste in my mouth, but it had gone by the time I’d walked in the sun for a hundred metres or so, in a body I hardly recognised: strong, free of pain and nausea, with no ringing in my ears or agonising pinpricks in my skull, no weariness or cold sweats. No recollection of that certainty of death that had suffocated me only twenty-four hours ago. Something told me that the tragedy of the previous night, including the death of Barrido and the very likely demise of Escobillas, should have filled me with grief and anguish, but neither I nor my conscience was able to feel anything other than a pleasant indifference. That July morning, the Ramblas were in party mood and I was their prince.
I took a stroll as far as Calle Santa Ana, with the idea of paying a surprise visit to Se?or Sempere. When I walked into the bookshop, Sempere senior was behind the counter settling accounts; his son had climbed a ladder and was rearranging the bookshelves. The bookseller gave me a friendly smile and I realised that for a moment he hadn’t recognised me. A second later his smile disappeared, his mouth dropped and he came round the counter to embrace me.
‘Martín? Is it really you? Holy Mother of God . . . you look completely different! I was so worried. We went round to your house a few times, but you didn’t answer the door. I’ve even been to the hospitals and police stations.’
His son stared at me in disbelief from the top of the ladder. I had to remind myself that only a week before they had seen me looking like one of the inmates of the local morgue.
‘I’m sorry I gave you a fright. I was away for a few days on a work-related matter.’
‘But you did listen to me and go to the doctor, didn’t you?’
I nodded.
‘It turned out to be something very minor, to do with my blood pressure. I took a tonic for a few days and now I’m as good as new.’
‘Give me the name of the tonic - I might take a shower in it . . . What a joy it is, and a relief, to see you looking so well!’
These high spirits were soon punctured when he turned to the news of the day.
‘Did you hear about Barrido and Escobillas?’ he asked.
‘I’ve just come from there. It’s hard to believe.’
‘Who would have imagined it? It’s not as if they aroused any warm feelings in me, but this . . . And tell me, from a legal point of view, how does it all leave you? I don’t mean to sound crude.’
‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I think the two partners owned the company. There must be heirs, I suppose, but it’s conceivable that, if they both die, the company as such will cease to exist. And, with it, any agreement I had with them. Or at least that’s what I think.’
‘In other words, if Escobillas, may God forgive me, kicks the bucket too, then you’re a free man.’
I nodded.
‘What a dilemma . . .’ mumbled the bookseller.
‘What will be will be . . .’ I said.
Sempere nodded, but I noticed that something was bothering him and he wanted to change the subject.
‘Anyway. The thing is, it’s wonderful that you’ve dropped by because I wanted to ask you a favour.’
‘Say no more: it’s already done.’
‘I warn you, you’re not going to like it.’
‘If I liked it, it wouldn’t be a favour, it would be a pleasure. And if the favour is for you, it will be.’
‘It’s not really for me. I’ll explain and you decide. No obligation, all right?’
Sempere leaned on the counter and adopted his confidential manner, bringing back childhood memories of times I had spent in that shop.
‘There’s this young girl, Isabella. She must be seventeen. As bright as a button. She’s always coming round here and I lend her books. She tells me she wants to be a writer.’
‘Sounds familiar.’
‘The thing is, a week ago she left one of her stories with me - just twenty or thirty pages, that’s all - and asked for my opinion.’
‘And?’
Sempere lowered his tone, as if he were revealing a secret from an official inquiry.
‘Masterly. Better than 99 per cent of what I’ve seen published in the last twenty years.’
‘I hope you are including me in the remaining one per cent or I’ll consider my self-esteem well and truly trodden on.’
‘That’s just what I was coming to. Isabella adores you.’
‘She adores me?’
‘Yes, as if you were the Virgin of Montserrat and the Baby Jesus all in one. She’s read the whole City of the Damned series ten times over, and when I lent her The Steps of Heaven she told me that if she could write a book like that she’d die a peaceful death.’
‘You were right. I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘I knew you’d try to wriggle out of it.’
‘I’m not wriggling out. You haven’t told me what the favour is.’
‘You can imagine.’
I sighed. Sempere clicked his tongue.
‘I warned you.’
‘Ask me something else.’
‘All you have to do is talk to her. Give her some encouragement, some advice . . . Listen to her, read some of her stuff and give her a little guidance. The girl has a mind as quick as a bullet. You’re really going to like her. You’ll become friends. She could even work as your assistant.’
‘I don’t need an assistant. Still less someone I don’t know.’
‘Nonsense. Besides, you do know her. Or at least that’s what she says. She says she’s known you for years, but you probably don’t remember her. It seems that the couple of simple souls she has for parents are convinced that this literature business will consign her to eternal damnation, or at least to a secular spinsterhood. They’re wavering between locking her up in a convent or marrying her off to some jerk who will give her eight children and bury her forever among pots and pans. If you do nothing to save her, it’s tantamount to murder.’
‘Don’t pull a Jane Eyre on me, Se?or Sempere.’
‘Look. I wouldn’t ask you, because I know that you’re as much of a fan of this altruism stuff as you are of dancing sardanas, but every time I see her come in here and look at me with those little eyes that seem to be popping with intelligence and enthusiasm, I think of the future that awaits her and it breaks my heart. I’ve already taught her all I can. The girl learns fast, Martín. She reminds me of you when you were a young lad.’
I sighed.
‘Isabella what?’
‘Gispert. Isabella Gispert.’
‘I don’t know her. I’ve never heard that name in my life. Someone’s been telling you a tall story.’
The bookseller shook his head and mumbled under his breath. ‘That’s exactly what Isabella said you’d say.’
‘So, she’s talented and she’s psychic. What else did she say?’
‘She suspects you’re a much better writer than a person.’
‘What an angel, this Isabelita.’
‘Can I tell her to come and see you? No obligation?’
I gave in. Sempere smiled triumphantly and wanted to seal the pact with an embrace, but I escaped before the old bookseller was able to complete his mission of trying to make me feel like a good Samaritan.
‘You won’t be sorry, Martín,’ I heard him say as I walked out of the door.