The Manual of Darkness Read Free Page A

hear, though they seem to come from another planet, the comments they make to one another. He’s the best, they say, the very best. He manages to smile, if his grimace could be called a smile, but he does not stop to speak to anyone. The inertia of the crowd has allowed him to reach the back of the room, where Mario and a number of volunteers are opening the first bottles and filling little plastic glasses. Víctor is next to the door. Before he leaves, he looks around the room one last time. Here, he believed he was reborn twenty-two years ago. Here he suffered, struggled, wept with rage at the impossible, wept with joy at the unexpected. His whole lifehas been here, a life which, barely half an hour ago, seemed so happy. Hiding under these seats, melting into the shadows, all the men he has ever been since he first walked through the green door are watching him.
    Before he realises it, he is two blocks away. He is walking quickly, fingering his house keys in his trouser pocket, clinging to the faint hope that he will be able to sleep and tomorrow will bring the miracle of recovery. He is still blinking, still jerking his head quickly as though there is a parasite in his eye, a bug attached to his cornea. It will be some time before his guests notice his absence and begin to ask who saw him last and where can he have got to. They will miss you, Víctor.

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    H e arrived a few minutes early and, although the front door was open, he buzzed the intercom. No one answered. Víctor took a piece of paper from his pocket, smoothed it out and checked the address: 1st Floor, 6, Carrer de l’Oli. He stepped into the tiny hallway, rubbed his hands together and pulled up the collar of his cloak. It was colder in here than it was outside. He reached out to touch the wall, searching for a light switch, then pulled his hand away, revolted by the feel of the dank, spongy plaster. He climbed the stairs to the green door on the first landing. He pressed the doorbell, but it did not even seem to ring. He rested his hand on the handle and pushed gently, expecting the hinges to screech dramatically, but the door opened in well-oiled silence as though on to nothingness. At the far end of the room, a small window let in just enough light to emphasise the accumulated grime on its glass.
    With one foot inside, but without crossing the threshold, Víctor called out:
    ‘Hello? Anyone there?’
    He would have sworn he saw his breath misting in the air. He stood completely still, listening for the slightest sound, an intake of breath, any clue that might reveal the presence of another being in the room. In spite of the silence, he had the sensation of eyes crawling over him, like a persistent insect. All he could offer in return was his gangling adolescent body, his clumsy, short-sighted tics, his hesitant stance. However, the eyes that did move slowly in the darkness quickly noticed the artless way that Víctor moved, the gracefulness of his gestures, the natural candour of his smile, the way he refused to lean against the wall or put his hands in his pockets; all of which could be summed up with the simple wordelegance. Let us give Galván his due, it took him only a moment to recognise in this seventeen-year-old both the frozen image of the lonely boy he had been and the charming, charismatic man that time would make of him. He must have seen all this at first glance, since otherwise Víctor would have left the room thinking there was no one there. Galván was not prepared to settle for yet another mediocre student. Nor even a good one.
    Víctor was about to leave when he heard the quick, rasping, instantly recognisable sound of a lighter being struck. He turned just in time to see the flame, a yellow quivering that disappeared immediately, leaving only a spark hovering in the air. Then, suddenly, a spotlight on the ceiling sliced through the darkness, a powerful beam, but one so narrow that, even when his eyes had adjusted to