‘And don’t do any more cleaning.’

I got up and left her alone in the gallery. I hid in the study, up in the tower, and opened the windows. I could hear Isabella sobbing down in the gallery. I gazed at the city stretching out under the midday sun then turned my head to look in the other direction, where I thought I could almost see the shining tiles covering Villa Helius. I imagined Cristina, Señora de Vidal, standing by the windows of her tower, looking down at the Ribera quarter. Something dark and murky filled my heart. I forgot Isabella’s weeping and wished only for the moment when I would meet Corelli, so that we could discuss his accursed book.

I stayed in the study as the afternoon spread over the city like blood floating in water. It was hot, hotter than it had been all summer, and the rooftops of the Ribera quarter seemed to shimmer like a mirage. I went down to the lower floor and changed my clothes. The house was silent, and in the gallery the shutters were half-closed and the windows tinted with an amber light that spread down the corridor.

‘Isabella?’ I called.

There was no reply. I went over to the gallery and saw that the girl had left. Before doing so, however, she had cleaned and put in order a collection of the complete works of Ignatius B. Samson. For years they had collected dust and oblivion in a glass cabinet that now shone immaculately. She had taken one of the books and left it open on a lectern. I read a line at random and felt as if I were travelling back to a time when everything seemed simple and inevitable.

‘Poetry is written with tears, novels with blood, and history with invisible ink,’ said the cardinal, as he spread poison on the knife-edge by the light of a candelabra.

The studied naivety of those lines made me smile and brought back a suspicion that had never really left me: perhaps it would have been better for everyone, especially for me, if Ignatius B. Samson had never committed suicide and David Martín had never taken his place.

It was getting dark when I went out. The heat and the humidity had encouraged many of my neighbours to bring their chairs out into the street, hoping for a breeze that never came. I dodged the improvised rings of people sitting around front doors and on street corners, and made my way to the railway station, where there was always a queue of taxis waiting for customers. I got into the first cab in the rank. It took us about twenty minutes to cross the city and climb the hill on whose slopes lay Gaudí’s ghostly forest. The lights in Corelli’s house could be seen from afar.

‘I didn’t know anyone lived here,’ the driver remarked.

As soon as I’d paid for my ride, including a tip, he sped off, not wasting a second. I waited a few moments, savouring the strange silence that filled the place. Not a single leaf moved in the wood that covered the hill behind me. A starlit sky with wisps of cloud spread in every direction. I could hear the sound of my own breathing, of my clothes rustling as I walked, of my steps getting closer to the door. I rapped with the knocker, then waited.

The door opened a few moments later. A man with drooping eyes and drooping shoulders nodded when he saw me and beckoned me in. His outfit suggested that he was some sort of butler or servant. He made no sound at all. I followed him down the passageway with the portraits on either side, and when we came to the end, he showed me into the large sitting room with its view over the whole city in the distance. He bowed slightly and left me on my own, walking away as slowly as he had when he brought me in. I went over to the French windows and looked through the net curtains, killing time while I waited for Corelli. A couple of minutes had gone by before I noticed that someone was observing me from a corner of the room. He was sitting in an armchair, completely still, half in darkness, the light from an oil lamp revealing only his legs and his hands as they rested on the arms of the chair. I recognised him by the glow of his unblinking eyes and by the angel-shaped brooch he always wore on his lapel. As soon as I looked at him he stood up and came over to me with quick steps – too quick – and a wolfish smile that froze my blood.

‘Good evening, Martín.’

I nodded, trying to smile back.

‘I’ve startled you again,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. May I offer you something to drink, or shall we go straight to dinner?’

‘To tell you the truth, I’m not hungry.’

‘It’s the heat, I’m sure. If you like, we can go into the garden and talk there.’

The silent butler reappeared and proceeded to open the doors to the garden, where a path of candles placed on saucers led to a white metal table with two chairs facing each other. The flame from the candles burned bright and did not flicker. The moon cast a soft, bluish hue. I sat down, and Corelli followed suit, while the butler poured us two glasses from a decanter of what I thought must be wine or some sort of liqueur I had no intention of tasting. In the light of the waxing moon, Corelli seemed younger, his features sharper. He observed me with an intensity verging on greed.

‘Something is bothering you, Martín.’

‘I suppose you’ve heard about the fire.’

‘A terrible end, and yet there was poetic justice in it.’

‘You think it just that two men should die in such a way?’

‘Would a gentler way have seemed more acceptable? Justice is an affectation of perspective, not a universal value. I’m not going to pretend to feel dismayed when I don’t, and I don’t suppose you will either, however hard you try. But if you prefer, we can have a minute’s silence.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

‘Of course not. It’s only necessary when one has nothing valid to say. Silence makes even idiots seem wise for a minute. Anything else worrying you, Martín?’

‘The police seem to think I have something to do with what happened. They asked me about you.’

Corelli nodded, unconcerned.

‘The police must do their work and we must do ours. Shall we close this matter?’

I nodded. Corelli smiled.

‘A while ago, as I was waiting for you, I realised that you and I have a small rhetorical conversation pending. The sooner we get it out of the way, the sooner we can get started. I’d like to begin by asking what faith means to you.’

I pondered for a moment.

‘I’ve never been a religious person. Rather than believe or disbelieve, I doubt. Doubt is my faith.’

‘Very prudent and very bourgeois. But you don’t win a game by hitting the balls out of court. Why would you say that so many different beliefs have appeared and disappeared throughout history?’

‘I don’t know. Social, economic or political factors, I suppose. You’re talking to someone who left school at the age of ten. History has never been my strong point.’

‘History is biology’s dumping ground, Martín.’

‘I think I wasn’t at school the day that lesson was taught.’

‘This lesson is not taught in classrooms, Martín. It is taught through reason and the observation of reality. This lesson is the one nobody wants to learn and is therefore the one we must examine carefully in order to be able to do our work. All business opportunities stem from someone else’s inability to resolve a simple and inevitable problem.’

‘Are we talking about religion or economics?’

‘You choose the label.’

‘If I understand you correctly, you’re suggesting that faith, the act of believing in myths, ideologies or supernatural legends, is the consequence of biology.’

‘That’s exactly right.’

‘A rather cynical view, coming from a publisher of religious texts,’ I remarked.

‘A dispassionate and professional view,’ Corelli explained. ‘Human beings believe just as they breathe – in order to survive.’

‘Is that your theory?’