Free The Angel's Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón Page B

“It’s the same book. How did you say you recovered it?”
    “I really couldn’t tell you, Señor Sempere. Do you know anything about a French publisher called Andreas Corelli?”
    “For a start he sounds more Italian than French, although the name Andreas could be Greek …”
    “The publishing house is in Paris. Éditions de la Lumière.”
    Sempere looked doubtful.
    “I’m afraid it doesn’t ring a bell. I’ll ask Barceló. He knows everything. Let’s see what he says.”
    Gustavo Barceló was one of the senior members of the secondhand booksellers’ guild in Barcelona and his vast expertise was as legendary as his somewhat abrasive and pedantic manner. There was a saying in the trade: when in doubt, ask Barceló. At that very moment Sempere’s sonput his head round the door and signaled to his father. Although he was two or three years older than me he was so shy that he could make himself invisible.
    “Father, someone’s come to collect an order that I think you took.”
    The bookseller nodded and handed me a thick, worn volume.
    “This is the latest catalog of European publishers. Why don’t you have a look at it and see if you can find anything while I attend to the customer?” he suggested.
    I was left alone in the back room, searching in vain for Éditions de la Lumière, while Sempere returned to the counter. As I leafed through the volume, I could hear him talking to a woman whose voice sounded familiar. I heard them mention Pedro Vidal. Intrigued, I peeked through the door to find out more.
    Cristina Sagnier, the chauffeur’s daughter and my mentor’s secretary, was going through a pile of books that Sempere was noting down in his ledger. When she saw me she smiled politely, but I was sure she did not recognize me. Sempere looked up and, noticing the silly expression on my face, took a quick X-ray of the situation.
    “You do know each other, don’t you?” he said.
    Cristina raised her eyebrows in surprise and looked at me again, unable to place me.
    “David Martín. A friend of Don Pedro’s,” I said.
    “Oh, of course,” she replied. “Good morning.”
    “How is your father?” I asked.
    “Fine, fine. He’s waiting for me on the corner with the car.”
    Sempere, who never missed a trick, quickly interjected.
    “Señorita Sagnier has come to collect some books Vidal ordered. As they are so heavy, perhaps you could help her take them to the car.”
    “Please don’t worry—” protested Cristina.
    “But of course,” I blurted out, ready to lift the pile of books that turned out to weigh as much as the luxury edition of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
, appendices included.
    I felt something go crunch in my back and Cristina gave me an embarrassed look.
    “Are you all right?”
    “Don’t worry, miss. My friend Martín here might be a man of letters, but he’s as strong as a bull,” said Sempere. “Isn’t that right, Martín?”
    Cristina was looking at me unconvinced. I offered her my “strong man” smile.
    “Pure muscle,” I said. “I’m just warming up.”
    Sempere’s son was about to offer to carry half the books, but his father, in a display of great diplomacy, stopped him. Cristina held the door open for me and I set off to cover the fifteen or twenty meters that separated me from the Hispano-Suiza parked on the corner of Puerta del Ángel. I only just managed to get there, my arms almost on fire. Manuel, the chauffeur, helped me unload the books and greeted me warmly.
    “What a coincidence, meeting you here, Señor Martín.”
    “Small world.”
    Cristina gave me a grateful smile and got into the car.
    “I’m sorry about the books.”
    “It was nothing. A bit of exercise lifts the spirit,” I volunteered, ignoring the tangle of knots I could feel in my back. “My regards to Don Pedro.”
    I watched them drive off toward Plaza de Cataluña and when I turned I noticed Sempere at the door of the bookshop, looking at me with a catlike smile and gesturing to me