Carlos Ruiz Zafon - The Angels Game

PRAISE FOR CARLOS RUIZ ZAFON

The Shadow of the Wind

'If you thought the true gothic novel died with the 19th century, this will change your mind...Be warned, you have to be a romantic at heart to appreciate this stuff, but if you are, this is one gorgeous read.'

Stephen King

'A bold novel of exquisite sensibility and literary allure.' Sydney Morning Herald

'An inspired homage to the book, a celebration of writing, an exhortation to read...more than a thrilling ride through old Barcelona. The book is embroidered with the magic of books, the alchemy between reader and writer, and a deep reverence for literary memory'

Weekend Australian

'Despite the twists and turns, there is a simplicity about this book that is missing in the sophisticated narratives of today... a big, thrilling romp through glorious Barcelona.'

Courier Mail

'Masterful, meticulous plotting...a love letter to literature, intended for readers as passionate about storytelling as its young hero.'

Wlio Weekly

'Intrigue, passion, humour and suspense.This entertaining novel by bestselling Spanish author Carlos Ruiz Zafon has it all.'

Herald Sun

'The language and mood remain intricate and beguiling... The language purrs along, while the plot twists and unravels with languid grace...atmospheric, beguiling and thoroughly readable.'

Observer

'Anyone who enjoys novels that are scary, erotic, touching, tragic and thrilling should rush right out to the nearest bookstore and pick up Tire Shadow of the Wind. Really, you should.'

Washington Post

'Good old-fashioned narrative is back in fashion...his tale [has] a dramatic tension that so many contemporary novels today seem to lack. This is highly sophisticated, fun reading that keeps you gripped and tests the brain cells all at the same time. What more could you ask for?'

Scotsman

'Gabriel Garcia Marquez meets Umberto Eco meets Jorge Luis Borges...Ruiz Zafon gives us a panoply of alluring and savage personages and stories. His novel eddies in currents of passion, revenge and mysteries whose layers peel away onion-like yet persist in growing back...We are taken on a wild ride that executes its hairpin bends with breathtaking lurches.'

New York Times

'This story is so expansive that to describe it as an epic doesn't quite do it justice.'

Adelaide Advertiser

'You'll read it and you'll want more.' Age

The ironic tone reminded me too much of Vidal.

'No,' I replied. 'This is the only one. But you wanted to talk to me about something and I'm distracting you with stories that probably don't interest you.'

I sounded more defensive that I would have wished. The same thing that had happened with the flowers was happening with my longing: once I held it in my hands, I didn't know where to put it.

'I wanted to talk to you about Pedro,' Cristina began.

'Ah.'

'You're his best friend. You know him. He talks about you as if you were his son. He loves you more than anyone. You know that.'

'Don Pedro has treated me like a father,' I said. 'If it hadn't been for him and for Seor Sempere, I don't know what would have become of me.'

'The reason I wanted to talk to you is that I'm very worried about him.'

'Why are you worried?'

'You know that some years ago I started work as his secretary. The truth is that Pedro is a very generous man and we've ended up being good friends. He has behaved very well towards my father, and towards me. That's why it hurts me to see him like this.' 'Like what?'

'It's that wretched book, the novel he wants to write.' 'He's been at it for years.'

'He's been destroying it for years. I correct and type out all his pages. Over the years I've been working as his secretary he's destroyed at least two thousand pages. He says he has no talent. He says he's a fraud. He's constantly at the bottle. Sometimes I find him upstairs in his study, drunk, crying like a child I swallowed hard.

'He says he envies you, he wants to be like you, he says people lie and praise him because they want something from him - money, help - but he knows that his book is worthless. He keeps up appearances with everyone else, his smart suits and all that, but I see him every day, and I know he's losing hope. Sometimes I'm afraid he'll do something stupid. It's been going on for some time now. I haven't said anything because I didn't know who to speak to. If he knew I'd come to see you he'd be furious. He always says: don't bother David with my worries. He's got his whole life ahead of him and I'm nothing now. He's always saying things like that. Forgive me for telling you all this, but I didn't know who to turn to ...'

We sank into a deep silence. I felt an intense cold invading me: the knowledge that while the man to whom I owed my life had plunged into despair, I had been locked in my own world and hadn't paused for one second to notice. 'Perhaps I shouldn't have come ...' 'No,' I said. 'You've done the right thing.'

Cristina looked at me with a hint of a smile and for the first time I felt that I was not a stranger to her. 'What can we do?' she asked. 'We're going to help him,' I said. 'What if he doesn't let us?' 'Then we'll do it without him noticing.'

'I think you know what my answer is,' I said at last.

Corelli smiled.

'I do. But I think you're the one who doesn't yet know it.'

'Thank you for your company, Seor Corelli. And for the wine and the speeches. Very stimulating. Be careful who you throw them at. I hope you find your man, and that the pamphlet is a huge success.'

I stood up and turned to leave.

'Are you expected somewhere, Martin?'

I didn't reply, but I stopped.

'Don't you feel anger, knowing there could be so many things to live for, with good health and good fortune, and no ties?' said Corelli behind my back. 'Don't you feel anger when these things are being snatched from your hands?'

I turned back slowly.

'What is a year's work compared to the possibility of having everything you desire come true? What is a year's work compared to the promise of a long and fulfilling existence?'

Nothing, I said to myself, despite myself. Nothing.

'Is that your promise?'

'You name the price. Do you want to set fire to the whole world and burn with it? Let's do it together. You fix the price. I'm prepared to give you what you most want.'

'I don't know what it is that I want most.'

'I think you do know.'

The publisher smiled and winked at me. He stood up and went over to a chest of drawers that had a gas lamp resting on it. He opened the first drawer and pulled out a parchment envelope. He handed it to me but I didn't take it, so he left it on the table that stood between us and sat down again, without saying a word. The envelope was open and inside I could just make out what looked like a few wads of one-hundred franc notes. A fortune.

'You keep all this money in a drawer and leave the door open?' I asked.

'You can count it. If you think it's not enough, name an amount. As I said, I'm not going to argue with you over money'

I looked at the small fortune for a long moment, and in the end I shook my head. At least I'd seen it. It was real. The offer, and the vanity he had awoken in me in those moments of misery and despair, were real.

'I cannot accept it,' I said.

'Do you think it's dirty money?'

'All money is dirty. If it were clean nobody would want it. But that's not the problem.'

'So?'

'I cannot accept it because I cannot accept your proposal. I couldn't even do so if I wanted to.'

Corelli considered my words carefully.

'May I ask why?'

'Because I'm dying, Seor Corelli. Because I only have a few weeks left to live, perhaps only days. Because I have nothing left to offer.'