The Book of Murder - By Guillermo Martinez & Sonia Soto Page 0,30

I said. “I’ll call now. I’ll speak to him and we’ll sort this out.”

I hung up and sat staring with annoyance at the phone number I’d just jotted down, as if it were a note left by a stranger that was now throbbing and ticking insistently. I hadn’t had any scrap paper to hand, so I’d written it down on the lined pad where I made notes for my novels, beneath a list of provisional titles. I suddenly knew what I had to do, and it seemed so obvious it almost made me smile. Of course. Of course. What could be more natural? It was the only thing that Kloster would believe: I’d tell him I was about to start a novel.

Five

Kloster?”

“Yes?”

The voice was deep, rough, a little impatient, as if I was interrupting him in the middle of something.

“Campari gave me your number,” I said, prepared to lie as many times as necessary. I said my name and held my breath. It felt risky, but he gave no sign of recognition. “My first two novels were published by him,” I added, not sure if this would help.

“Ah yes, of course: the author of Deception.”

“Desertion,” I corrected him, deflated, and added defensively: “That was my first novel.”

“Desertion, of course, now I remember. Strange title, rather extreme for a first novel. I remember wondering what you’d call your second—With my Tail Between my Legs perhaps? At the time you seemed only to have read Lyotard: you wanted to give up before you’d started. Although there was also something towards the end of Lost Illusions, wasn’t there? I’m glad you went on to write a second. That’s the paradox for champions of renunciation, of limits, ends: they then want to write another novel. I’d have put money on your becoming a critic. I think I saw your name on a review at one stage. A review full of the usual jargon. And I thought I was right.”

So had he read my article about his novels? I couldn’t tell for sure from his tone but at least he hadn’t hung up.

“I did write reviews for a couple of years,” I said. “But I never stopped writing novels. My second, The Random Men, came out the same year as your Day of the Dead, though it didn’t do as well. And I’ve written another two since then,” I said, offended despite myself that he knew so little about my work.

“I didn’t know. I suppose I should do more to keep up. Anyway, I’m pleased for you: the prophet of abandonment has become a prolific author. But I’m sure you didn’t call to talk about your books, or mine.”

“Actually, I did,” I said. “I’m calling because I’m about to begin writing a novel based on a true story.”

“A true story?” he said mockingly. “It really is all change. I thought you despised realism and were only interested in who knows what daring stylistic experiments.”

“You’re right,” I said, prepared to take the blows. “This is quite unlike anything I’ve ever written. It’s a story I’ve been told and I want to set it down exactly, almost like a history, or a report. Anyway, it sounds so unlikely that no one would believe it was true. Except, maybe, the people involved. That’s why I’m calling,” I said, and waited for his reaction.

“I’m one of the people involved?” He sounded amused and still a little incredulous.

“I’d say you’re the central character.”

There was silence at the other end, as if Kloster now knew what was coming and was preparing to play a different game.

“I see,” he said. “And what is this story you’ve been told?”

“It’s about a series of unexplained deaths, surrounding a single person.”

“A crime story? So you’re moving into my field now? What I don’t understand,” he said after a moment, “is how I can be the central character. Unless I’m the next victim?” he asked in mock alarm. “I know some writers of your generation would like to see me dead, but I’ve always assumed it was metaphorical. I hope they’re not prepared to take action.”

“No, you’re not the victim. You’re the one behind the deaths. At least, that’s what the person who told me about it believes.” And I said Luciana’s full name. Kloster gave a brief, unpleasant laugh.

“I was wondering how long you’d take to get round to her. So the Lady of Shalott is back on the attack. I suppose I should be grateful: last time, she sent a policeman so she’s getting

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