“Señor Sempere, do you remember many years ago when you said that if one day I needed to save a book, really save it, I should come to see you?”
Sempere glanced at the rejected book I had rescued from the bin, which I was still holding in my hands.
“Give me five minutes.”
It was beginning to get dark when we walked down the Ramblas among a crowd who had come out for a stroll on a hot, humid evening. There was only the hint of a breeze; balconies and windows were wide open, with people leaning out of them, watching the human parade under an amber-colored sky. Sempere walked quickly and didn’t slow down until we sighted an arcade of shadows at the entrance to Calle Arco del Teatro. Before crossing over he looked at me solemnly and said:
“Martín, you mustn’t tell anyone what you’re about to see. Not even Vidal. No one.”
I nodded, intrigued by the bookseller’s air of seriousness and secrecy. I followed him through the narrow street, barely a gap between bleak and dilapidated buildings that seemed to bend over like willows of stone, attempting to close the strip of sky between the rooftops. Soon we reached a large wooden door that looked as if it might be guarding the entrance to an old basilica that had spent a century at the bottom of a lake. Sempere went up the steps to the door and took hold of the brass knocker shaped like a smiling demon’s face. He knocked three times, then came down the steps again to wait by my side.
“You can’t tell anyone what you’re about to see.”
“No one. Not even Vidal. No one.”
Sempere nodded severely. We waited for about two minutes until we heard what sounded like a hundred bolts being unlocked simultaneously. With a deep groan, the large door opened halfway and a middle-aged man with thick gray hair, a face like a vulture, and penetrating eyes stuck his head round it.
“We were doing just fine and now here’s Sempere!” he snapped. “What are you bringing me today? Another aficionado who hasn’t got himself a girlfriend because he’d rather live with his mother?”
Sempere paid no attention to this sarcastic greeting.
“Martín, this is Isaac Monfort, the keeper of this place. His friendliness has no equal. Do everything he says. Isaac, this is David Martín, a good friend, a writer, and a trustworthy person.”
The man called Isaac looked me up and down without much enthusiasm and then exchanged a glance with Sempere.
“A writer is never trustworthy. Let’s see, has Sempere explained the rules to you?”
“Only that I can never tell anyone what I will see here.”
“That is the first and most important rule. If you don’t observe it, I personally will wring your neck. Do you get the idea?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Come on, then,” said Isaac, motioning me to come in.
“I’ll say good-bye now, Martín. You’ll find a safe place here.”
I realized that Sempere was referring to the book, not to me. He hugged me and disappeared into the night. I stepped inside and Isaac pulled a lever on the back of the door. A thousand mechanisms, knotted together in a web of rails and pulleys, sealed it up. Isaac took a lamp from the floor and raised it to my face.
“You don’t look well,” he pronounced
.
“Indigestion,” I replied.
“From what?”
“Reality.”
“Join the queue.”
We walked down a long corridor and on either side, through the shadows, I thought I could make out frescoes and marble staircases. We advanced farther into the palatial building and shortly there appeared in front of us what looked like the entrance to a large hall.
“What have you got there?” Isaac asked.
“The Steps of Heaven. A novel.”
“What a preposterous title. Don’t tell me you’re the author.”