“Señorita Sagnier has come to collect some books Vidal ordered. As they are so heavy, perhaps you could help her take them to the car.”
“Please don’t worry—” protested Cristina.
“But of course,” I blurted out, ready to lift the pile of books that turned out to weigh as much as the luxury edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, appendices included.
I felt something go crunch in my back and Cristina gave me an embarrassed look.
“Are you all right?”
“Don’t worry, miss. My friend Martín here might be a man of letters, but he’s as strong as a bull,” said Sempere. “Isn’t that right, Martín?”
Cristina was looking at me unconvinced. I offered her my “strong man” smile.
“Pure muscle,” I said. “I’m just warming up.”
Sempere’s son was about to offer to carry half the books, but his father, in a display of great diplomacy, stopped him. Cristina held the door open for me and I set off to cover the fifteen or twenty meters that separated me from the Hispano-Suiza parked on the corner of Puerta del Ángel. I only just managed to get there, my arms almost on fire. Manuel, the chauffeur, helped me unload the books and greeted me warmly.
“What a coincidence, meeting you here, Señor Martín.”
“Small world.”
Cristina gave me a grateful smile and got into the car.
“I’m sorry about the books.”
“It was nothing. A bit of exercise lifts the spirit,” I volunteered, ignoring the tangle of knots I could feel in my back. “My regards to Don Pedro.”
I watched them drive off toward Plaza de Cataluña and when I turned I noticed Sempere at the door of the bookshop, looking at me with a catlike smile and gesturing to me to wipe the drool off my chin. I went over to him and couldn’t help laughing at myself.
“I know your secret now, Martín. I thought you had a steadier nerve in these matters.”
“Everything gets a bit rusty.”
“I should know! Can I keep the book for a few days?”
I nodded.
“Take good care of it.”
10
A few months later I saw her again, in the company of Pedro Vidal, at the table that was always reserved for him at La Maison Dorée. Vidal invited me to join them, but a quick look from her was enough to tell me that I should refuse the offer.
“How is the novel going, Don Pedro?”
“Swimmingly.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Bon appétit.”
My meetings with Cristina were always by chance. Sometimes I would bump into her in the Sempere & Sons bookshop, where she often went to collect books for Vidal. If the opportunity arose, Sempere would leave me alone with her, but soon Cristina grew wise to the trick and would send one of the young boys from Villa Helius to pick up the orders.
“I know it’s none of my business,” Sempere would say. “But perhaps you should stop thinking about her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Señor Sempere.”
“Come on, Martín, we’ve known each other for a long time …”
The months seemed to slip by in a blur. I lived at night, writing from evening to dawn and sleeping all day. Barrido and Escobillas couldn’t stop congratulating themselves on the success of City of the Damned and when they saw me on the verge of collapse they assured me that after a couple more novels they would grant me a sabbatical so that I could rest or devote my time to writing a personal work that they would publish with much fanfare and with my real name printed in large letters on the cover. It was always just a couple of novels away. The sharp pains, the headaches, and the dizzy spells became more frequent and intense, but I attributed them to exhaustion and treated them with more injections of caffeine, cigarettes, and some tablets tasting of gunpowder that contained codeine and God knows what else, supplied on the quiet by a chemist in Calle Argenteria. Don Basilio, with whom I had lunch on alternate Thursdays in an outdoor café in La Barceloneta, urged me to go to the doctor. I always said yes, I had an appointment that very week.