On the opposite page in some of those papers, covering a far more modest space of one or two columns, I also found a few reviews of a novel by someone called David Martín. The most favorable began like this: “A first novel written in a pedestrian style, The Steps of Heaven by David Martín shows the author’s lack of skill and talent from the very first page.” The last review I could bring myself to read, published in The Voice of Industry, opened succinctly with a short introduction in boldface that stated: “David Martín, a completely unknown author and writer of classified advertisements, surprises us with what is perhaps this year’s worst literary debut.”
I left the newspapers and the coffee I had ordered on the table and made my way down the Ramblas to the offices of Barrido & Escobillas. On the way I passed four or five bookshops, all of which were adorned with countless copies of Vidal’s novel. In none did I see a single copy of mine. My experience in the Catalonia bookshop was repeated in each place.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what can have happened. It was meant to arrive the day before yesterday, but the publisher says he’s run out of stock and doesn’t know when he’ll be reprinting. If you’d care to leave me your name and a telephone number, I can let you know if it arrives … Have you asked in Catalonia? Well, if they don’t have it …”
The two partners received me with grim, unfriendly expressions, Barrido, behind his desk, stroking a fountain pen and Escobillas, standing behind him, boring through me with his eyes. Lady Venom, who sat on a chair next to me, was licking her lips in anticipation.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, my dear Martín,” Barrido was explaining. “The problem is as follows. The booksellers place their orders based on the reviews that appear in the papers, don’t ask me why. If you go into the warehouse next door you’ll see that we have three thousand copies of your novel just lying there.”
“With all the expense and the loss which that entails,” Escobillas added in a clearly hostile tone.
“I stopped by the warehouse before coming here and I’ve seen for myself that there are three hundred copies. The manager told me that’s all they printed.”
“That’s a lie,” Escobillas proclaimed.
Barrido interrupted him in a conciliatory tone.
“Please excuse my partner, Martín. You must understand that we’re just as indignant as you, even more so, about the disgraceful treatment the press has given a book with which all of us at the firm were so in love. But I beg you to understand that, despite our faith in your talent, our hands are tied because of all the confusion created by the malicious press. Don’t be disheartened. Rome was not built in a day. We’re doing everything in our power to give your work the promotion its estimable literary merit deserves—”
“With a three-hundred-copy print run.”
Barrido sighed, hurt by my lack of trust.
“It’s a five-hundred-copy print run,” Escobillas specified. “The other two hundred were collected by Barceló and Sempere in person yesterday. The rest will go out with our next delivery; they couldn’t go out with this one because there were too many new titles. If you bothered to understand our problems and weren’t so selfish you would recognize this.”
I looked at the three of them in disbelief.
“Don’t tell me you’re not going to do anything.”
Barrido gave me a mournful look.
“And what would you have us do, my friend? We have bet everything on you. Try to help us a little.”
“If only you’d written a book like the one your friend Vidal has written,” said Escobillas.
“Now that was one hell of a novel,” Barrido asserted. “Even The Voice of Industry says so.”
“I knew this was going to happen,” Escobillas went on. “You’re so ungrateful.”
Lady Venom, sitting by my side, was looking at me sadly. I thought she was going to take my hand to comfort me so I quickly moved it away. Barrido gave me one of his unctuous smiles.
“Maybe it’s all for the best, Martín. Maybe it’s a sign from our Lord, who in his infinite wisdom wants to show you the way back to the work that has given so much happiness to the readers of City of the Damned.”
I burst out laughing. Barrido joined in and, at a signal from him, so did Escobillas and Lady Venom. I watched the choir of hyenas and told myself that, under other circumstances, this would have seemed a moment of delicious irony.
“That’s better. I like to see you handling this with a positive attitude,” Barrido said. “What do you say? When will we have the next installment by Ignatius B. Samson?”
The three of them looked at me expectantly. I cleared my throat so I could speak clearly and smiled at them.
“You can go screw yourselves.”
18
On leaving, I wandered aimlessly for hours round the streets of Barcelona. I was finding it difficult to breathe, as if something were pressing down on my chest. A cold sweat covered my forehead and hands. When evening fell, not knowing where else to hide, I started to make my way back home. As I passed Sempere & Sons, I saw the bookseller filling his shop window with copies of my novel. It was already late and the shop was closed, but the light was still on. I tried to rush past, but Sempere noticed me and smiled with a sadness that I had never seen on his face before. He went over to the door and opened it.
“Come in for a while, Martín.”
“Some other day, Señor Sempere.”