Basilio smiled, slowly nodding.
“Martín,” he said at last. “I don’t know how to say this to you.”
“Say what to me?”
Don Basilio cleared his throat.
“I’m not going to be able to publish any more installments of
The Mysteries of Barcelona.”
I gave him a puzzled look. Don Basilio looked away.
“Would you like me to write something else? Something more like Galdós?”
“Martín, you know what people are like. There have been complaints. I’ve tried to put a stop to this, but the editor is a weak man and doesn’t like unnecessary conflicts.”
“I don’t understand, Don Basilio.”
“Martín, I’ve been asked to be the one to tell you.”
Finally, he shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m fired,” I mumbled.
Don Basilio nodded.
Despite myself, I felt my eyes filling with tears.
“It might feel like the end of the world to you now, but believe me when I say that it’s the best thing that could have happened to you. This place isn’t for you.”
“And what place is for me?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, Martín. Believe me, I’m very sorry.”
Don Basilio stood up and put a hand affectionately on my shoulder.
“Happy Christmas, Martín.”
…
That same evening I emptied my desk and left for good the place that had been my home, disappearing into the dark, lonely streets of the city. On my way to the pension I stopped by the Set Portes restaurant under the arches of Casa Xifré. I stayed outside watching my colleagues laughing and raising their glasses through the windowpane. I hoped myabsence made them happy or at least made them forget that they weren’t happy and never would be.
I spent the rest of that week pacing the streets, taking shelter every day in the Ateneo library and imagining that when I returned to the pension I would discover a note from the newspaper editor asking me to rejoin the team. Hiding in one of the reading rooms, I would pull out the business card I had found in my hand when I woke up in El Ensueño and start to compose a letter to my unknown benefactor, Andreas Corelli, but I always tore it up and tried rewriting it the following day. On the seventh day, tired of feeling sorry for myself, I decided to make the inevitable pilgrimage to my maker’s house.
I took the train to Sarriá in Calle Pelayo—in those days it still operated aboveground—and sat at the front of the carriage to gaze at the city and watch the streets become wider and grander the farther we drew away from the center. I got off at the Sarriá stop and from there took a tram that dropped me by the entrance to the monastery of Pedralbes. It was an unusually hot day for the time of year and I could smell the scent of the pines and broom that peppered the hillside. I set off up Avenida Pearson, which at that time was already being developed. Soon I glimpsed the unmistakable profile of Villa Helius. As I climbed the hill and got nearer, I could see Vidal sitting in the window of his tower in his shirtsleeves, enjoying a cigarette. Music floated on the air and I remembered that Vidal was one of the privileged few who owned a radio receiver. How good life must have looked from up there, and how insignificant I must have seemed.
I waved at him and he returned my greeting. When I reached the villa I met the driver, Manuel, who was on his way to the coach house carrying a handful of rags and a bucket of steaming hot water.
“Good to see you here, David,” he said. “How’s life? Keeping up the good work?”
“We do our best,” I replied.
“Don’t be modest. Even my daughter reads those adventures you publish in the newspaper.”
I was amazed that the chauffeur’s daughter not only knew of my existence but had even read some of the nonsense I wrote.
“Cristina?”
“I have no other,” replied Don Manuel. “Don Pedro is upstairs in his study, in case you want to go up.”
I nodded gratefully, slipped into the mansion, and went up to the third floor, where the tower rose above
“Martín,” he said at last. “I don’t know how to say this to you.”
“Say what to me?”
Don Basilio cleared his throat.
“I’m not going to be able to publish any more installments of
The Mysteries of Barcelona.”
I gave him a puzzled look. Don Basilio looked away.
“Would you like me to write something else? Something more like Galdós?”
“Martín, you know what people are like. There have been complaints. I’ve tried to put a stop to this, but the editor is a weak man and doesn’t like unnecessary conflicts.”
“I don’t understand, Don Basilio.”
“Martín, I’ve been asked to be the one to tell you.”
Finally, he shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m fired,” I mumbled.
Don Basilio nodded.
Despite myself, I felt my eyes filling with tears.
“It might feel like the end of the world to you now, but believe me when I say that it’s the best thing that could have happened to you. This place isn’t for you.”
“And what place is for me?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, Martín. Believe me, I’m very sorry.”
Don Basilio stood up and put a hand affectionately on my shoulder.
“Happy Christmas, Martín.”
…
That same evening I emptied my desk and left for good the place that had been my home, disappearing into the dark, lonely streets of the city. On my way to the pension I stopped by the Set Portes restaurant under the arches of Casa Xifré. I stayed outside watching my colleagues laughing and raising their glasses through the windowpane. I hoped myabsence made them happy or at least made them forget that they weren’t happy and never would be.
I spent the rest of that week pacing the streets, taking shelter every day in the Ateneo library and imagining that when I returned to the pension I would discover a note from the newspaper editor asking me to rejoin the team. Hiding in one of the reading rooms, I would pull out the business card I had found in my hand when I woke up in El Ensueño and start to compose a letter to my unknown benefactor, Andreas Corelli, but I always tore it up and tried rewriting it the following day. On the seventh day, tired of feeling sorry for myself, I decided to make the inevitable pilgrimage to my maker’s house.
I took the train to Sarriá in Calle Pelayo—in those days it still operated aboveground—and sat at the front of the carriage to gaze at the city and watch the streets become wider and grander the farther we drew away from the center. I got off at the Sarriá stop and from there took a tram that dropped me by the entrance to the monastery of Pedralbes. It was an unusually hot day for the time of year and I could smell the scent of the pines and broom that peppered the hillside. I set off up Avenida Pearson, which at that time was already being developed. Soon I glimpsed the unmistakable profile of Villa Helius. As I climbed the hill and got nearer, I could see Vidal sitting in the window of his tower in his shirtsleeves, enjoying a cigarette. Music floated on the air and I remembered that Vidal was one of the privileged few who owned a radio receiver. How good life must have looked from up there, and how insignificant I must have seemed.
I waved at him and he returned my greeting. When I reached the villa I met the driver, Manuel, who was on his way to the coach house carrying a handful of rags and a bucket of steaming hot water.
“Good to see you here, David,” he said. “How’s life? Keeping up the good work?”
“We do our best,” I replied.
“Don’t be modest. Even my daughter reads those adventures you publish in the newspaper.”
I was amazed that the chauffeur’s daughter not only knew of my existence but had even read some of the nonsense I wrote.
“Cristina?”
“I have no other,” replied Don Manuel. “Don Pedro is upstairs in his study, in case you want to go up.”
I nodded gratefully, slipped into the mansion, and went up to the third floor, where the tower rose above
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