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

took me to El Indio, a large store that sold fabrics on Calle del Carmen. We didn’t actually go in, but from the windows at the shop entrance my father pointed at a smiling young woman who was serving some customers, showing them expensive flannels and other textiles. “That’s your mother,” he said. “One of these days I’ll come back here and kill her.”
    “Don’t say that, Father.”
    He looked at me with reddened eyes, and I knew then that he still loved her and that I would never forgive her for it. I remember that I watched her secretly, without her knowing we were there, and that I recognized her only because of a photograph my father kept in a drawer, next to his army pistol. Every night, when he thought I was asleep, he would take it out and look at it as if it held all the answers, or at least enough of them.
    For years I would return to the doors of that store to spy on her. I never had the courage to go in or to approach her when I saw her comingout and walking away down the Ramblas, toward a life that I had imagined for her, with a family that made her happy and a son who deserved her affection and the touch of her skin more than I did. My father never knew that sometimes I would sneak round there to see her or that some days I even followed close behind, always ready to take her hand and walk by her side, always fleeing at the last moment. In my world, great expectations existed only in the pages of a book.
    …
    The good luck my father yearned for never arrived. The only courtesy life showed him was not to make him wait too long. One night when we reached the doors of the newspaper building to start the shift, three men came out of the shadows and gunned him down before my eyes. I remember the smell of sulfur and the halo of smoke that rose from the holes the bullets burned through his coat. One of the gunmen was about to finish him off with a shot to the head when I threw myself on top of my father and another of the murderers stopped him. I remember the eyes of the gunman fixing on mine as he debated whether to kill me too. Then, all of a sudden, the men hurried off and disappeared into the narrow streets between the factories of Pueblo Nuevo.
    That night my father’s murderers left him bleeding to death in my arms and me alone in the world. I spent almost two weeks sleeping in the workshops of the newspaper press, hidden among Linotype machines that looked like giant steel spiders, trying to silence the excruciating whistling sound that perforated my eardrums when night fell. When I was discovered, my hands and clothes were still stained with dry blood. At first nobody knew who I was, because I didn’t speak for about a week and when I did it was only to yell my father’s name until I was hoarse. When they asked me about my mother I told them she had died and I had nobody else in the world. My story reached the ears of Pedro Vidal, the star writer at the paper and a close friend of the editor, who, at his request, arranged for me to be given a runner’s job and to live in the caretaker’s modest rooms in the basement until further notice.
    Those were years in which bloodshed and violence were beginningto be everyday occurrences in Barcelona. Days of pamphlets and bombs that left strewn bodies shaking and smoking in the streets of the Raval quarter, of gangs of black figures who prowled about at night maiming and killing, of processions and parades of saints and generals who reeked of death and deceit, of inflammatory speeches in which everyone lied and everyone was right. The anger and hatred that years later would lead such people to murder one another in the name of grandiose slogans and colored rags could already be smelled in the poisoned air. The continual haze from the factories slithered over the city and masked its cobbled avenues, furrowed by trams and carriages. The night belonged to gaslight, to the shadows of narrow side streets shattered by the flash of gunshots and the blue trace