the undulating rooftop of polychrome tiles. There I found Vidal installed in his study with its view of the city and the sea in the distance. He turned off the radio, a contraption the size of a small meteorite that he’d bought a few months earlier when the first Radio Barcelona broadcast had been announced from the studios concealed under the dome of Hotel Colón.
“It cost me almost two hundred pesetas, and it broadcasts a load of rubbish.”
We sat facing each other, with all the windows wide open and a breeze that to me, an inhabitant of the dark old town, smelled of a different world. The silence was exquisite, like a miracle. You could hear insects fluttering in the garden and the leaves on the trees rustling in the wind.
“It feels like summer,” I ventured.
“Don’t pretend everything is OK by talking about the weather. I’ve already been told what happened,” Vidal said.
I shrugged my shoulders and glanced over at his writing desk. I was aware that my mentor had spent months, or even years, trying to write what he called a “serious” novel, entirely unlike his crime fiction, so that his name would be inscribed in the more distinguished sections of libraries. I didn’t see many sheets of paper.
“How’s the masterpiece going?”
Vidal threw his cigarette butt out the window and stared into the distance.
“I don’t have anything left to say, David.”
“Nonsense.”
“Everything in life is nonsense. It’s just a question of perspective.”
“You should put that in your book.
The Nihilist on the Hill.
Bound to be a success.”
“You’re the one who is going to need success. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ll soon be short of cash.”
“I could always accept your charity.”
“It might feel like the end of the world to you now, but—”
“I’ll soon realize that this is the best thing that could have happened to me,” I said, completing the sentence. “Don’t tell me Don Basilio is writing your speeches now. Or is it the other way round?”
Vidal laughed.
“What are you going to do?”
“Don’t you need a secretary?”
“I’ve already got the best secretary I could have. She’s more intelligent than me, infinitely more hardworking, and when she smiles I even feel that this lousy world still has some future.”
“And who is this marvel?”
“Manuel’s daughter.”
“Cristina.”
“At last I hear you utter her name.”
“You’ve chosen a bad week to make fun of me, Don Pedro.”
“Don’t look at me all doe-eyed. Did you think Pedro Vidal was going to allow that mediocre, constipated, envious bunch to sack you without doing anything about it?”
“A word from you to the editor could have changed things.”
“I know. That’s why I was the one who suggested he fire you,” said Vidal.
I felt as if he’d just slapped me in the face.
“Thanks for the push,” I improvised.
“I told him to fire you because I have something much better for you.”
“Begging?”
“Have you no faith? Only yesterday I was talking about you to a couple of partners who have just opened a publishing house and are looking for fresh blood to exploit. You can’t trust them, of course.”
“Sounds marvelous.”
“They know all about
The Mysteries of Barcelona
and are prepared to tender an offer that will make your name.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. They want you to write a series in installmentsin the most baroque, bloody, and delirious Grand Guignol tradition—a series that will tear
The Mysteries of Barcelona
to shreds. I think that this is the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. I told them you’d go talk to them and that you’d be able to start work immediately.” I heaved a deep sigh. Vidal winked and then embraced me.
7
T hat was how, only a few months after my twentieth birthday, I received and accepted an offer to write penny dreadfuls under the name of Ignatius B. Samson. My contract committed me to hand in two hundred
“It cost me almost two hundred pesetas, and it broadcasts a load of rubbish.”
We sat facing each other, with all the windows wide open and a breeze that to me, an inhabitant of the dark old town, smelled of a different world. The silence was exquisite, like a miracle. You could hear insects fluttering in the garden and the leaves on the trees rustling in the wind.
“It feels like summer,” I ventured.
“Don’t pretend everything is OK by talking about the weather. I’ve already been told what happened,” Vidal said.
I shrugged my shoulders and glanced over at his writing desk. I was aware that my mentor had spent months, or even years, trying to write what he called a “serious” novel, entirely unlike his crime fiction, so that his name would be inscribed in the more distinguished sections of libraries. I didn’t see many sheets of paper.
“How’s the masterpiece going?”
Vidal threw his cigarette butt out the window and stared into the distance.
“I don’t have anything left to say, David.”
“Nonsense.”
“Everything in life is nonsense. It’s just a question of perspective.”
“You should put that in your book.
The Nihilist on the Hill.
Bound to be a success.”
“You’re the one who is going to need success. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ll soon be short of cash.”
“I could always accept your charity.”
“It might feel like the end of the world to you now, but—”
“I’ll soon realize that this is the best thing that could have happened to me,” I said, completing the sentence. “Don’t tell me Don Basilio is writing your speeches now. Or is it the other way round?”
Vidal laughed.
“What are you going to do?”
“Don’t you need a secretary?”
“I’ve already got the best secretary I could have. She’s more intelligent than me, infinitely more hardworking, and when she smiles I even feel that this lousy world still has some future.”
“And who is this marvel?”
“Manuel’s daughter.”
“Cristina.”
“At last I hear you utter her name.”
“You’ve chosen a bad week to make fun of me, Don Pedro.”
“Don’t look at me all doe-eyed. Did you think Pedro Vidal was going to allow that mediocre, constipated, envious bunch to sack you without doing anything about it?”
“A word from you to the editor could have changed things.”
“I know. That’s why I was the one who suggested he fire you,” said Vidal.
I felt as if he’d just slapped me in the face.
“Thanks for the push,” I improvised.
“I told him to fire you because I have something much better for you.”
“Begging?”
“Have you no faith? Only yesterday I was talking about you to a couple of partners who have just opened a publishing house and are looking for fresh blood to exploit. You can’t trust them, of course.”
“Sounds marvelous.”
“They know all about
The Mysteries of Barcelona
and are prepared to tender an offer that will make your name.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. They want you to write a series in installmentsin the most baroque, bloody, and delirious Grand Guignol tradition—a series that will tear
The Mysteries of Barcelona
to shreds. I think that this is the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. I told them you’d go talk to them and that you’d be able to start work immediately.” I heaved a deep sigh. Vidal winked and then embraced me.
7
T hat was how, only a few months after my twentieth birthday, I received and accepted an offer to write penny dreadfuls under the name of Ignatius B. Samson. My contract committed me to hand in two hundred
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