I looked at him in astonishment.
“If that sum does not seem adequate I’m open to considering any other sum you might think more appropriate. I’ll be frank, Señor Martín, I’m not going to quarrel with you about money. And between you and me, I don’t think you’ll want to either, because I know that when I tell you the sort of book I want you to write for me, the price will be the least of it.”
I sighed, laughing quietly.
“I see you don’t believe me.”
“Señor Corelli, I’m an author of penny dreadfuls that don’t even bear my name. My publishers, whom you seem to know, are a couple of second-rate crooks who are not worth their weight in manure, and my readers don’t even know I exist. I’ve spent years earning my living in this trade and I have yet to write a single page that satisfies me. The woman I love thinks I’m wasting my life and she’s right. She also thinks I have no right to desire her because we’re a pair of insignificant souls whose only reason for existence is the debt of gratitude we owe to a man who pulled us both out of poverty, and perhaps she’s right about that too. It doesn’t matter. Before I know it, I’ll be thirty and I’ll realize that every day I look less like the person I wanted to be when I was fifteen. If I reach thirty, that is, because recently my health has been about as consistent as my work. Right now I’m satisfied if I manage one or two decent sentences in an hour. That’s the sort of author and the sort of man I am. Not the sort who receives visits from Parisian publishers with blank checks for writing a book that will change his life and make all his dreams come true.”
Corelli observed me with a serious expression, carefully weighing every word.
“I think you judge yourself too severely, a quality that always distinguishes people of true worth. Believe me when I say that throughout my professional life I’ve come across hundreds of characters for whom you wouldn’t have given a damn but who had an extremely high opinion of themselves. But I want you to know that, even if you don’t believe me, I know exactly what sort of author and what sort of man you are. I’ve been watching you for years, as you are well aware. I’ve read all your work, from the very first story you wrote for The Voice of Industry to The Mysteries of Barcelona, and now each of the installments of the Ignatius B. Samson series. I dare say I know you better than you know yourself. Which is why I’m sure that in the end you will accept my offer.”
“What else do you know?”
“I know we have something, or a great deal, in common. I know you lost your father, and so did I. I know what it is like to lose one’s father when you still need him. Yours was snatched from you in tragic circumstances. Mine, for reasons that are neither here nor there, rejected me and threw me out of his house—perhaps that was even more painful. I know that you feel lonely, and believe me when I tell you that this is a feeling I have also experienced. I know that in your heart you harbor great expectations, none of which have come true, and that, although you’re not aware of it, this is slowly killing you with every passing day.”
His words brought about a long silence.
“You know a lot of things, Señor Corelli.”
“Enough to think that I would like to be better acquainted with you and become your friend. I don’t suppose you have many friends. Neither do I. I don’t trust people who say they have a lot of friends. It’s a sure sign that they don’t really know anyone.”
“But you’re not looking for a friend. You’re looking for an employee.”
“I’m looking for a temporary partner. I’m looking for you.”
“You seem very sure of yourself.”
“It’s a fault I was born with,” Corelli replied, standing up. “Another is my gift for seeing into the future. That’s why I realize that perhaps it’s still too soon: hearing the truth from my lips is not enough for you yet. You need to see it with your own eyes. Feel it in your flesh. And believe me, you’ll feel it.”
He held out his hand and waited until I took it.
“Can I at least be reassured that you will think about what I’ve told you and that we’ll speak again?” he asked.
“I don’t know what to say, Señor Corelli.”
“Don’t say anything right now. I promise that next time we meet you’ll see things more clearly.”
With those words he gave me a friendly smile and walked off toward the stairs.
“Will there be a next time?” I asked.
Corelli stopped and turned.
“There always is.”
“Where?”
In the last rays of daylight falling on the city his eyes glowed like embers.
I saw him disappear through the door to the staircase. Only then did I realize that during the entire conversation I had not once seen him blink.
14
The doctor’s surgery was on a top floor with a view of the sea gleaming in the distance and the slope of Calle Muntaner dotted with trams that slid down to the Ensanche between grand houses and imposing edifices. The place smelled clean. The waiting rooms were tastefully decorated. The paintings were calming, with landscapes full of hope and peace. The shelves displayed books that exuded authority. Nurses moved about like ballet dancers and smiled as they went by. It was a purgatory for people with well-lined pockets.
“The doctor will see you now, Señor Martín.”