Don Tomaso gave me a look that was bathed in sorrow. “People die, especially those who would do better to stay alive. Perhaps it’s because God needs to make room for the huge amount of jerks with which he enjoys peppering the world.”

“I need to believe that Carax is alive,” I said.

Tomaso Coliccio smiled. “Speak to Rosiers.”

Émile de Rosiers had been Julián Carax’s editor for many years. A poet and author in his free time, Rosiers had developed a long career as a successful editor in various Parisian publishing houses. Throughout his working life, he had also published, both in Spanish and French translations, the works of some Spanish authors either banned by the regime or living in exile, as well as books by prominent Latin American authors. Don Tomaso explained that not long ago, Rosiers had been named editor in chief of a small but prestigious firm, Éditions de la Lumière. Their office was close by, so I made my way there.

Émile de Rosiers did not have much free time, but he was kind enough to invite me to lunch in a café just around the corner from his office, on Rue du Dragon, and listen to me.

“I like the idea of your book,” he said, perhaps out of politeness, or because of genuine interest. “The Cemetery of Forgotten Books is a great title.”

“It’s all I have,” I admitted. “For the rest I need Monsieur Carax.”

“As far as I know, Julián has retired. A while ago he published a novel under a pseudonym, although not with me, and nothing after that. Utter silence.”

“Do you think he’s still in Paris?”

“It would surprise me. I would have heard something, or had news from him. Last month I saw his old Dutch publisher, my friend Nelleke, who told me that someone in Amsterdam had told her that Carax had sailed to the Americas two years ago and died halfway through the voyage. A few days later another person told her that Carax had actually reached dry land and now spent his time writing television serials under a pseudonym. Choose the version you like best.”

Rosiers must have read the despair on my face, after following so many false trails day after day. “Do you want a piece of advice?” he asked.

“Please.”

“It’s practical advice I give all budding authors when they ask me what they should do. If you want to be a writer, write. If you have a story to tell, tell it. Or try.”

“If to become a writer all one needed was a story to tell, everyone would be a novelist.”

“Imagine how awful, a world full of novelists,” joked Rosiers. “The end of all times.”

“Probably the last thing the world needs is one more.”

“Let the world decide that,” Rosiers advised once again. “And if it doesn’t work out, don’t worry. All the better for you, according to statistics. But if one day you manage to capture on paper with some skill something like the idea you have just described to me, come and see me. I might be interested.”