'One day, perhaps. But not today.' I took it from her and put it back in
its hiding place. 'I'll come back without you and I'll take it away without you
knowing,' she said mockingly. 'You wouldn't find it in a thousand years.'
'That's what you think. I've seen your notches, and I, too, know the story of
the Minotaur.' 'Isaac wouldn't let you in.' 'You're wrong. He prefers me to
you.' 'And how do you know?' 'I can read people's eyes.' Despite myself, I
believed her and turned mine away. 'Choose any other one. Here, this one looks
promising. The Castilian Hog, That Unknown Beast: In Search of the Roots of
Iberian Pork, by Anselmo Torquemada. I'm sure it sold more copies than any book
by Julian Carax. Every part of the pig can be put to good use.' 'I'm more attracted
to this other one.' 'Tess of the d'Urbervilles. It's the original. You're bold
enough to read Hardy in English?' She gave me a sidelong glance. 'All yours,
then!' 'Don't you see? It feels as if it's been waiting for me. As if it has
been hiding here for me from before I was born.' I looked at her in
astonishment. Bea's lips crinkled into a smile. 'What have I said?' Then,
without thinking, barely brushing her lips, I kissed her. It was almost
midnight when we reached the front door of Bea's house. We had walked most of
the way without speaking, not daring to turn our thoughts into words. We walked
apart, hiding from one another. Bea walked upright with her Tess under her arm,
and I followed a step behind, still tasting her lips. The way Isaac had glanced
at me when we left the Cemetery of Forgotten Books was still on my mind. It was
a look I knew well and had seen a thousand times from my father, a look that
asked me whether I had the slightest idea what I was doing. The last hours I'd
been lost in another world, a universe of touches and looks I did not
understand and that blotted out both reason and shame. Now, back in the reality
that always lies in wait among the shadows of the Ensanche quarter, the
enchantment was lifting, and all I had left was painful desire and an
indescribable restlessness. And yet just looking at Bea was enough for me to
realize that my doubts were a breeze compared to the storm that was raging
inside her. We stopped by her door and looked at one another without attempting
to pretend. A mellifluous night watchman was walking up to us unhurriedly,
humming boleros to the rhythmic jingle of his bunches of keys. 'Perhaps you'd
rather we didn't see each other again,' I suggested without much conviction. 'I
don't know, Daniel. I don't know anything. Is that what you want?' 'No. Of
course not. And you?' She shrugged her shoulders, and smiled faintly. 'What do
you think?' she asked. 'I lied to you earlier, you know. In the cloister.'
'What about?' 'About not wanting to see you today.' The night porter hung
about, smirking at us, obviously indifferent to my first whispered exchange at
a front door. To him, experienced in such matters, it must have seemed a string
of cliches and banalities. 'Don't worry about me, there's no hurry,' he said.
'I'll have a smoke on the corner, and you just let me know.' I waited for the
watchman to walk away. 'When will I see you again?' 'I don't know, Daniel'
'Tomorrow?' 'Please, Daniel. I don't know.' I nodded. She stroked my face.
'You'd better leave now.' 'You know where to find me, at least?' She nodded.
'I'll be waiting.' 'Me, too.' As I moved away, I couldn't take my eyes off her.
The night watchman, an expert in these situations, was already walking up to
open the door for her. 'You rascal,' he whispered as he went by, not without
admiration. 'What a looker.' I waited until Bea had gone into the building and
then set off briskly, turning to glance back at every step. Slowly I became
possessed by the absurd conviction that anything was possible, and it seemed to
me that even those deserted streets and that hostile wind smelled of hope. When
I reached Plaza de Cataluna, I noticed that a flock of pigeons had congregated
in the centre of the square, covering it with a blanket of white feathers that
swayed silently. I thought of going round them, but at that moment I noticed
that the pigeons were parting to let me pass, instead of flying off. I felt my
way forward, as the pigeons broke ranks in front of me and re-formed behind me.
When I got to the middle of the square, I heard the peal of the cathedral bells
ringing out midnight. I paused for a moment, stranded in an ocean of silvery
birds, and thought how this had been the strangest and most marvellous day of
my life. 22 The light was still on in the bookshop when I crossed the street
towards the shop window. I thought that perhaps my father had stayed on until
late, getting up to date with his correspondence or finding some other excuse
to wait up for me and pump me for information about my meeting with Bea. I could
see a silhouette making a pile of books and recognized the gaunt, nervous
profile of Fermin, lost in concentration. I rapped on the pane with my
knuckles. Fermin looked out, pleasantly surprised, and signalled to me to pop
in through the backroom door. 'Still working, Fermin? It's terribly late.' 'I'm
really just killing time until I go over to poor Don Federico's to watch over
him. I'm taking turns with Eloy from the optician's. I don't sleep much anyhow.
Two or three hours at the most. Mind you, you can't talk either, Daniel. It's
past midnight, from which I infer that your meeting with the young lady was a
roaring success.' I shrugged my shoulders. 'The truth is I don't know,' I
admitted. 'Did she let you feel her up?' 'No.' 'A good sign. Never trust girls
who let themselves be touched right away. But even less those who need a priest
for approval. Good sirloin steak - if you'll excuse the comparison - needs to
be cooked until it's medium rare. Of course, if the opportunity arises, don't
be prudish, and go for the kill. But if what you're looking for is something
serious, like this thing with me and Bernarda, remember the golden rule.' 'Is
your thing serious?' 'More than serious. Spiritual. And what about you and this
pumpkin, Beatriz? You can see a mile off that she's worth a million, but the
crux of the matter is this: is she the sort who makes you fall in love or the
sort who merely stirs your nether regions?' 'I haven't the slightest idea,' I
pointed out. 'Both things, I'd say.' 'Look, Daniel, this is like indigestion.
Do you notice something here, in the mouth of the stomach - as if you'd
swallowed a brick? Or do you just feel a general feverishness?' 'The brick
things sounds more like it,' I said, although I didn't altogether discard the
fever. 'That means it's a serious matter. God help us! Come on, sit down and
I'll make you a lime-blossom tea.' We settled down round the table in the back
room, surrounded by books. The city was asleep, and the bookshop felt like a
boat adrift in a sea of silence and shadows. Fermin handed me a steaming hot
cup and smiled at me a little awkwardly. Something was bothering him. 'May I
ask you a personal question, Daniel?' 'Of course.' 'I beg you to answer in all
frankness,' he said, and he cleared his throat. 'Do you think I could ever be a
father?' He must have seen my puzzled expression, and he quickly added, 'I
don't mean biologically - I may look a bit rickety, but by good luck Providence
has endowed me with the potency and the fury of a fighting bull. I'm referring
to the other sort of father. A good father, if you see what I mean.' 'A good
father?' 'Yes. Like yours. A man with a head, a heart, and a soul. A man
capable of listening, of leading and respecting a child, and not of drowning
his own defects in him. Someone whom a child will not only love because he's
his father but will also admire for the person he is. Someone he would want to
grow up to resemble.' 'Why are you asking me this, Fermin? I thought you didn't
believe in marriage and families. The yoke and all that, remember?' Fermin
nodded. 'Look, all that's for amateurs. Marriage and family are only what we
make of them. Without that they're just a nest of hypocrisy. Garbage and empty
words. But if there is real love, the sort you don't go around telling everyone
about, the sort that is felt and lived...' 'You're a changed man, Fermin.' 'I
am. Bernarda has made me want to be a better man.' 'How's that?' 'So that I can
deserve her. You cannot understand such things right now, because you're young.
But in good time you'll see that sometimes what matters isn't what one gives
but what one gives up. Bernarda and I have been talking. She's quite a mother
hen, as you know. She doesn't say so, but I think the one thing in life that
would make her truly happy is to become a mother. And that woman is sweeter
than peaches in syrup to me. Suffice it to say that, for her, I'm prepared to
enter a church after thirty-two years of clerical abstinence and recite the
psalms of St Seraph or whatever needs to be done.' 'Aren't you getting a bit
ahead of yourself, Fermin? You've only just met her. . . .' 'Look, Daniel, at
my age either you begin to see things for what they are or you're pretty much
done for. Only three or four things are worth living for; the rest is shit.
I've already fooled around a lot, and now I know that the only thing I really
want is to make Bernarda happy and die one day in her arms. I want to be a
respectable man again, see? Not for my sake - as far as I'm concerned, I
couldn't give a fly's fart for the respect of this chorus of simians we call
humanity - but for hers. Because Bernarda believes in such things - in radio
soaps, in priests, in respectability and in Our Lady of Lourdes. That's the way
she is, and I want her exactly like that. I even like those hairs that grow on
her chin. And that's why I want to be someone she can be proud of. I want her
to think, My Fermin is one hell of a man, like Cary Grant, Hemingway, or
Manolete.' I crossed my arms, weighing up the situation. 'Have you spoken about
all this with her? About having a child together?' 'Goodness no. What do you
take me for? Do you think I go around telling women I want to get them knocked
up? And it's not that I don't feel like it. Take that silly Merceditas: I'd put
some triplets in her right now and feel on top of the world, but—' 'Have you
told Bernarda you'd like to have a family?' 'These things don't need to be
said, Daniel. They show on your face.' I nodded. 'Well, then, for what my
opinion is worth, I'm sure you'll be an excellent father and husband. And since
you don't believe in those things, you'll never take them for granted.' His
face melted into happiness. 'Do you mean it?' 'Of course.' 'You've taken a huge
weight off my mind. Because just remembering my own father and thinking that I
might end up being like him makes me want to get sterilized.' 'Don't worry,
Fermin. Besides, there's probably no treatment capable of crushing your
procreative powers.' 'Good point,' he reflected. 'Go on, go and get some sleep.
I mustn't keep you any longer.' 'You're not keeping me, Fermin. I have a
feeling I'm not going to sleep a wink.' 'Take a pain for a pleasure. ... By the
way, remember you mentioned that PO box?' 'Have you discovered anything?' ‘I
told you to leave it to me. This lunchtime I went up to the post office and had
a word with an old acquaintance of mine who works there. PO Box 2321 is
registered under the name of one Jose Maria Requejo, a lawyer with offices on
Calle Leon XIII. I took the liberty of checking out the address and wasn't surprised
to discover that it doesn't exist, although I imagine you already know that.
Someone has been collecting the letters addressed to that box for years. I know
because some of the mail received from a property business comes as registered
post and requires a signature on a small receipt and proof of identification.'
'Who is it? One of Requejo's employees?' I asked. ‘I couldn't get that far, but
I doubt it. Either I'm very mistaken or this Requejo guy exists on the same
plane as Our Lady of Fatima. All I can tell you is the name of the person who
collects the mail: Nuria Monfort.' I felt the blood draining from me. 'Nuria
Monfort? Are you sure, Fermin?' 'I saw some of those receipts myself. That name
and the number of her identity card were on all of them. I deduce, from that
sick look on your face, that this revelation surprises you.' 'Quite a lot.'
'May I ask who this Nuria Monfort is? The clerk I spoke to told me he
remembered her clearly because she went there two weeks ago to collect the mail
and, in his impartial opinion, she looked hotter than the Venus de Milo - and
with a firmer bust. I trust his assessment, because before the war he was a
professor of aesthetics - but he was also a distant cousin of Socialist leader
Largo Caballero, so naturally he now licks one-peseta stamps.' 'I was with that
woman today, in her home,' I murmured. Fermin looked at me in amazement. 'With
Nuria Monfort? I'm beginning to think I was wrong about you, Daniel. You've
become quite a rake.' 'It's not what you think, Fermin.' 'That's your loss,
then. At your age I was like El Molino music hall -shows morning, afternoon,
and night.' I gazed at that small, gaunt, and bony man, with his large nose and
his yellow skin, and I realized he was becoming my best friend. 'May I tell you
something, Fermin? Something that's been on my mind for some time?' 'But of
course. Anything. Especially if it's shocking and concerns this yummy maiden.'
For the second time that night I began to tell the story of Julian Carax and
the enigma of his death. Fermin listened very attentively, writing things down
in a notebook and interrupting me every now and then to ask me some detail
whose relevance escaped me. Listening to myself, it became increasingly clear
to me that there were many lacunae in that story. More than once my mind went
blank and my thoughts became lost as I tried to work out why Nuria Monfort
would have lied to me. What was the significance of all this? Why had she, for
years, been collecting the mail directed to a nonexistent lawyers' office that
was supposedly in charge of the Fortuny-Carax apartment in Ronda de San
Antonio? I didn't realize I was voicing my doubts out loud. 'We can't yet know
why that woman was lying to you,' said Fermin. 'But we can speculate that if
she did so in this respect, she may have done so, and probably did, in many
others.' I sighed, completely lost. What do you suggest, Fermin?' Fermin Romero
de Torres sighed and put on his most Socratic expression. 'I'll tell you what
we can do. This coming Sunday, if you agree, we'll drop by San Gabriel's school
quite casually, and we'll make some inquiries concerning the origins of the
friendship between this Carax fellow and the other lad, the rich boy...'
'Aldaya.' 'I have a way with priests, you'll see, even if it's just because I
look like a roguish monk. I butter them up a little, and I get them eating out
of my hand.' 'Are you sure?' 'Positive. I guarantee this lot is going to sing
like the Montserrat Boys' Choir.' 23 I spent the Saturday in a trance, anchored
behind the bookshop counter in the hope of seeing Bea come through the door as
if by magic. Every time the telephone rang, I rushed to answer it, grabbing the
receiver from my father or Fermin. Halfway through the afternoon, after about
twenty calls from clients and no news from Bea, I began to accept that the
world and my miserable existence were coming to an end. My father had gone out
to price a collection in San Gervasio, and Fermin took advantage of the
situation to deliver another of his magisterial lectures on the many mysteries
of romance. 'Calm down or you'll grow a stone in your liver,' Fermin advised
me. 'This business of courtship is like a tango: absurd and pure embellishment.
But you're the man, and you must take the lead.' It was all beginning to look
pretty grim. 'The lead? Me?' 'What do you expect? One has to pay some price for
being able to piss standing up.' 'But Bea implied that she would get back to
me.' 'You really don't understand women, Daniel. I bet you my Christmas bonus
that the little chick is in her house right now, looking languidly out of the
window like the Lady of the Camellias, waiting for you to come and rescue her
from that idiot father of hers and drag her into an unstoppable spiral of lust
and sin.' 'Are you sure?' 'It's a mathematical certainty.' 'What if she's
decided she doesn't want to see me again?' 'Look, Daniel. Women - with
remarkable exceptions like your neighbour Merceditas - are more intelligent
than we are, or at least more honest with themselves about what they do or
don't want. Another question is whether they tell you or the world. You're
facing the enigma of nature, Daniel. Womankind is an indecipherable maze. If
you give her time to think, you're lost. Remember: warm heart, cold mind. The
seducer's code.' . Fermin was about to detail the particulars and techniques of
the art of seduction when the doorbell tinkled and in walked my friend Tomas
Aguilar. My heart missed a beat. Providence was denying me Bea but sending me
her brother. A fateful herald, I thought. Tomas had a sombre expression and a
certain despondent air. 'What a funereal appearance, Don Tomas,' Fermin
remarked. 'You'll accept a small coffee at least, I hope?' 'I wouldn't say no,'
said Tomas, with his usual reserve. Fermin served him a cup of the concoction
he kept in a Thermos. It gave out an odour suspiciously like sherry. 'Is there
a problem?' I asked. Tomas shrugged. 'Nothing new. My father is having one of
his days, and I thought it best to get out and breathe some fresh air for a
while.' I gulped. 'Why's that?' 'Goodness knows. Last night my sister, Bea,
arrived home very late. My father was waiting up for her, a bit worked up as
usual. She refused to say where she'd been or who she'd been with, and my
father flew into a rage. He was screaming and yelling until four o'clock in the
morning, calling her all sorts of names, a tart being the least of them. He
swore he was going to send her to a nunnery and said that if she ever came back
pregnant, he was going to kick her out into the goddamn street.' Fermin threw
me a look of alarm. Cold beads of sweat were running down my back. 'This
morning,' Tomas continued, 'Bea locked herself up in her room, and she hasn't
come out all day. My father has plonked himself in the dining room to read his
newspaper and listen to operettas on the radio, full blast. During the interval
of Luisa Fernanda, I had to go out because I was going crazy.' 'Well, your
sister was probably out with her fiance, don't you think?' Fermin needled. 'It
would be perfectly natural' I gave Fermin a kick under the counter, which he
avoided with feline dexterity. 'Her fiance is doing his military service,'
Tomas said. 'He doesn't come back on leave for another two weeks. Besides, when
she goes out with him, she's home by eight at the latest.' 'And you have no
idea where she was or who she was with?' 'He's already told you he doesn't,
Fermin,' I intervened, anxious to change the subject. 'Nor your father?'
insisted Fermin who was thoroughly enjoying himself. 'No. But he's sworn he'll
find out, and break the guy's legs and his face as soon as he knows who it is.'
I felt myself going deathly pale. Fermin offered me a cup of his concoction
without asking. I drank it down in one gulp. It tasted like tepid diesel fuel.
Tomas watched me but said nothing - a dark, impenetrable look. 'Did you hear
that?' Fermin suddenly said. 'Sounded like a drum roll for a somersault.' 'No.'
'Yours truly's rumblings. Look, I'm suddenly terribly hungry. ... Do you mind
if I leave you two alone and run up to the baker's to grab myself a bun? Not to
mention the new shop assistant who's just arrived from Reus: she looks so tasty
you could eat her. She's called Maria Virtudes, but despite her name the girl
is pure vice. . . . That way I'll leave you two to talk in peace, eh?' In ten
seconds Fermin had done a disappearing act, off for his snack and his meeting
with the young woman. Tomas and I were left alone, enveloped in a silence as
weighty as the Swiss franc. After several minutes I could bear it no longer.
'Tomas,' I began, my mouth dry. 'Last night your sister was with me.' He stared
at me without even blinking. I swallowed hard. 'Say something,' I said. 'You're
not right in the head.' A minute went by, muffled sounds coming in from the
street. Tomas held his coffee, which he had not touched. 'Are you serious?' he
asked. 'I've only seen her once.' 'That's not an answer.' 'Do you mind?' He
shrugged his shoulders. 'You'd better be sure you know what you're doing. Would
you stop seeing her just because I asked you to?' 'Yes,' I lied. 'But don't ask
me to.' Tomas looked down. 'You don't know Bea,' he murmured. I didn't reply.
We let another few minutes go by without saying a word, looking at the grey
figures who were scanning the shop window, praying that one of them would decide
to come in and rescue us from that poisonous silence. After a while Tomas
abandoned his cup on the counter and made his way to the door. 'You're leaving
already?' He nodded. 'Shall we meet up tomorrow for a while?' I said. 'We could
go to the cinema, with Fermin, like before.' He stopped by the door. 'I'll only
tell you once, Daniel. Don't hurt my sister.' On his way out, he passed Fermin,
who was returning laden with a bag full of steaming-hot buns. Fermin saw him go
off into the dusk, shaking his head. He left the buns on the counter and
offered me an ensaimada just out of the oven. I declined. I wouldn't even have
been able to swallow an aspirin. 'He'll get over it, Daniel. You'll see. These
things are common between friends.' 'I don't know,' I mumbled. 24 Fermin and I
met on Sunday at seven-thirty in the morning at the Canaletas Cafe. Fermin
treated me to a coffee and brioches whose texture, even with butter spread on
them, bore a resemblance to pumice stone. We were served by a waiter who
sported a fascist badge on his lapel and a pencil moustache. He didn't stop
humming to himself, and when we asked him the reason for his excellent mood, he
explained that he'd become a father the day before. We congratulated him, and
he insisted on giving us each a cigar to smoke during the day, in honour of his
firstborn. We said we would. Fermin kept looking at him out of the corner of
his eye, frowning, and I suspected he was plotting something. Over breakfast
Fermin kicked off the day's investigations with a general outline of the
mystery. 'It all begins with the sincere friendship between two boys, Julian
Carax and Jorge Aldaya, classmates since early childhood, like Don Tomas and
yourself. For years all is well. Inseparable friends with a whole life before
them, the works. And yet at some point a conflict arises that ruins this
friendship. To paraphrase the drawing-room dramatists, the conflict bears a
woman's name: Penelope. Very Homeric. Do you follow me?' The only thing that
came to my mind was the last sentence spoken by Tomas the previous evening in
the bookshop: 'Don't hurt my sister.' I felt nauseous. 'In 1919, Julian Carax
sets off for Paris, Odysseus-fashion,' Fermin continued. 'The letter, signed by
Penelope, which he never receives, establishes that by then the young woman has
been incarcerated in her own house, a prisoner of her family for reasons that
are unclear, and that the friendship between Aldaya and Carax has ended.
Moreover, according to Penelope, her brother, Jorge, has sworn that if he ever
sees his old friend Julian again, he'll kill him. Grim words indeed. One
doesn't have to be Pasteur to deduce that this conflict is a direct consequence
of the relationship between Penelope and Carax.' A cold sweat covered my
forehead. I could feel the coffee and the few mouthfuls of brioche I'd
swallowed rising up my throat. 'All the same, we must assume that Carax never
gets to know what happened to Penelope, because the letter doesn't reach him.
He vanishes from sight into the mists of Paris, where he will lead a ghostly
existence between his job as a pianist in a variety club and his disastrous
career as a remarkably unsuccessful novelist. These years in Paris are a
puzzle. All that remains of them today is a forgotten literary work that has
virtually disappeared. We know that at some point he decides to marry a
mysterious rich lady who is twice his age. The nature of such a marriage, if we
are to go by what the witnesses say, seems more an act of charity or friendship
on behalf of an ailing lady than a love match. Whichever way you look at it,
this patron of the arts, fearing for the financial future of her protege,
decides to leave him her fortune and bid farewell to this world with a roll in
the hay to further her noble cause. Parisians are like that.' 'Perhaps it was a
genuine love,' I suggested, in a tiny voice. 'Hey, Daniel, are you all right?
You're looking very pale, and you're perspiring terribly.' 'I'm fine,' I lied.
'As I was saying. Love is a lot like pork: there's loin steak and there's
bologna. Each has its own place and function. Carax had declared that he didn't
feel worthy of any love, and indeed, as far as we know, no romances were
recorded during his years in Paris. Of course, working in a brothel, perhaps
his basic urges were satisfied by fraternizing with the employees, as if it
were a perk of the job, so to speak. But this is pure speculation. Let us
return to the moment when the marriage between Carax and his protectress is
announced. That is when Jorge Aldaya reappears on the map of this murky
business. We know he makes contact with Carax's publisher in Barcelona to find
out the whereabouts of the novelist. Shortly afterwards, on the morning of his
wedding day, Julian Carax fights a duel with an unknown person in Pere Lachaise
cemetery, and disappears. The wedding never takes place. From then on,
everything becomes confused.' Fermin allowed for a dramatic pause, giving me
his conspiratorial look. 'Supposedly Carax crosses the border and, with yet
another show of his proverbial sense of timing, returns to Barcelona in 1936 at
the very outbreak of the Civil War. His activities and whereabouts in Barcelona
during these weeks are hazy. We suppose he stays in the city for about a month
and that during this time he doesn't contact any of his acquaintances. Neither
his father nor his friend Nuria Monfort. Then he is found dead in the street,
struck down by a bullet. It is not long before a sinister character makes his
appearance on the scene. He calls himself Lain Coubert - a name he borrows from
the last novel by Julian Carax and who, to cap it all, is none other than the
Prince of Darkness. The supposed Lucifer states that he is prepared to
obliterate what little is left of Carax and destroy his books forever. To round
off the melodrama, he appears as a faceless man, disfigured by fire. A rogue
from a Gothic operetta in whom, just to confuse matters more, Nuria Monfort
believes she recognizes the voice of Jorge Aldaya.' 'Let me remind you that
Nuria Monfort lied to me,' I said. 'True. But even if Nuria Monfort lied to
you, she might have done it more by omission and perhaps to disassociate
herself from the facts. There are few reasons for telling the truth, but for
lying the number is infinite. Listen, are you sure you're all right? Your face
is the colour of goat's cheese.' I shook my head and dashed to the toilet. I
threw up my breakfast, my dinner, and a good amount of the anger I was carrying
with me. I washed my face with freezing water from the sink and looked at my
reflection in the blurry mirror on which someone had scrawled shithead fascists
with a wax crayon. When I got back to the table, I realized that Fermin was at
the bar, paying the bill and discussing football with the waiter who had served
us. 'Better?' he asked. I nodded. 'That was a drop in your blood pressure,'
said Fermin. 'Here. Have a Sugus sweet, they cure everything.' On the way out
of the cafe, Fermin insisted that we should take a taxi as far as San Gabriel's
school and leave the subway for another day, arguing that the morning was as
bright as a political mural and that tunnels were for rats. 'A taxi up to
Sarria will cost a fortune,' I protested. 'The ride's on the Cretins' Savings
Bank,' Fermin put in quickly. 'The proud patriot back there gave me the wrong
change, and we're in business. And you're not up to travelling underground.'
Equipped with our ill-gotten funds, we positioned ourselves on a corner at the
foot of Rambla de Cataluna and waited for a cab. We had to let a few go by,
because Fermin stated that, since he so rarely travelled by car, he wanted to
get into a Studebaker at the very least. It took us a quarter of an hour to
find a vehicle to his liking, which Fermin hailed by waving his arms about like
a windmill. Fermin insisted on travelling in the front seat, and this gave him
the chance to get involved in a discussion with the driver about Joseph Stalin,
who was the driver's idol and spiritual guide. 'There have been three great
figures this century: La Pasionaria; bullfighter extraordinaire Monolete; and
Joseph Stalin,' the taxi driver proclaimed, getting ready to unload upon us a
life of the saintly comrade. I was riding comfortably in the back seat, paying
little attention to the tedious speech, with the window open and enjoying the
fresh air. Delighted to be driving around in a Studebaker, Fermin encouraged
the cabdriver's chatter, occasionally punctuating his emotive biography of the
Soviet leader with matters of doubtful historic interest. 'I've heard he's been
suffering badly from prostate trouble ever since he swallowed the pip of a
loquat, and now he can only pee if someone hums "The Internationale"
for him,' he put in. 'Fascist propaganda,' the taxi driver explained, more
devout than ever. 'The comrade pisses like a bull. The Volga might envy such a
flow.' This high-level political debate accompanied us as we made our way along
Via Augusta towards the hills. Day was breaking, with a fresh breeze, and the
sky was an intense blue. When we reached Calle Ganduxer, the driver turned
right, and we began the slow ascent toward Paseo de la Bonanova. San Gabriel's
school, its redbrick facade dotted with dagger-shaped windows, stood in the
middle of a grove, at the top of a narrow, winding street that led up from the
boulevard. The whole structure, crowned by arches and towers, peered over a
group of plane trees like some Gothic cathedral. We got out of the taxi and
entered a leafy garden strewn with fountains that were adorned with
mould-covered angels. Here and there cobbled paths meandered between the trees.
On our way to the main door, Fermin gave me the background on the institution.
'Even though it may look like Rasputin's mausoleum to you, San Gabriel's school
was, in its day, one of the most prestigious and exclusive institutions in
Barcelona. During the Republic it went downhill because the nouveaux riches of
the time, the new industrialists and bankers to whose children it had for years
refused access because their surnames smelled too new, decided to create their
own schools, where they would be treated with due reverence and where they, in
turn, could refuse access to the sons of others. Money is like any other virus:
once it has rotted the soul of the person who houses it, it sets off in search
of new blood. In this world a surname is less durable than a sugared almond. In
its heyday - say, between 1880 and 1930, more or less - San Gabriel's school
took in the flower of old, established families with bulging wallets. The
Aldayas and company came to this sinister establishment as boarders, to
fraternize with their equals, go to mass, and learn their history in order to
be able to repeat it ad nauseam.' 'But Julian Carax wasn't really one of them,'
I observed. 'Sometimes these illustrious institutions offer a scholarship or
two for the sons of the gardener or the shoeshine man, just to show their
magnanimity and Christian charity,' Fermin proffered. 'The most efficient way
of rendering the poor harmless is to teach them to want to imitate the rich.
That is the poison with which capitalism blinds the—' 'Please don't get carried
away with social doctrine, Fermin. If one of these priests hears you, they'll
kick us out of here.' I realized that a couple of padres were watching us with
a mixture of curiosity and concern from the top of the steps that led up to the
front door of the school. I wondered whether they'd heard any of our
conversation. One of them moved forward with a courteous smile, his hands
crossed over his chest like a bishop. He must have been in his early fifties,
and his lean build and sparse hair lent him the air of a bird of prey. He had a
penetrating gaze and gave off an aroma of fresh eau de cologne and mothballs.
'Good morning. I'm Father Fernando Ramos,' he announced. 'How can I help you?'
Fermin held out his hand. The priest examined it briefly before shaking it,
giving us an icy smile. 'Fermin Romero de Torres, bibliographic adviser to
Sempere and Son. It is an enormous pleasure to greet Your Most Devout
Excellency. Here, at my side, my collaborator and friend, Daniel, a young man
of promise and much-recognized Christian qualities.' Father Fernando observed
us without blinking. I wanted the earth to swallow me. 'The pleasure is all
mine, Senor Romero de Torres,' he replied amicably. 'May I ask what brings such
a formidable duo to our humble institution?5 I decided to intervene before
Fermin made some other outrageous comment and we had to make a quick exit.
'Father Fernando, we're trying to locate two former alumni of San Gabriel's:
Jorge Aldaya and Julian Carax.' Father Fernando pursed his lips and raised an
eyebrow. 'Julian died over fifteen years ago, and Aldaya went off to
Argentina,' he said dryly. 'Did you know them?' asked Fermin. The priest's
sharp gaze rested on each of us before he answered. 'We were classmates. May I
ask what your interest is in this matter?' I was wondering how to answer the
question, but Fermin beat me to it. 'You see, it so happens that we have in our
possession a number of articles that belong or belonged - for on this
particular the legal interpretation leads to confusion - to the two persons in
question.' 'And what is the nature of these articles, if you don't mind my
asking?' 'I beg Your Grace to accept our silence, for God knows there are
abundant reasons for conscience and secrecy that have nothing to do with the unquestioning
faith Your Excellency merits, as does the order which you represent with such
measure of gallantry and piety,' Fermin spewed out at great speed. Father
Fernando appeared to be almost in shock. I decided to take up the conversation
again before Fermin had time to get his breath back. 'The articles Senor Romero
de Torres is referring to are of a personal nature, mementos and objects of
purely sentimental value. What we would like to ask you, Father, if this isn't
too much trouble, is to tell us what you remember about Julian and Aldaya from
your days as schoolboys.' Father Fernando was still looking at us suspiciously.
It became obvious to me that the explanations we'd given him were not enough to
justify our interest and earn us his collaboration. I threw a look of
desperation at Fermin, begging him to find some cunning argument with which to
win over the priest. 'Do you know that you look a bit like Julian when he was
young?' asked Father Fernando suddenly. Fermin's eyes lit up. Here he goes, I thought.
All our luck rests on this card. 'Very shrewd of you, Your Reverence,'
proclaimed Fermin, feigning surprise. 'Your uncanny insight has unmasked us.
You'll end up as a cardinal at least, or even a pope.' 'What are you talking
about?' 'Isn't it obvious and patent, Your Lordship?' 'Quite frankly, no.' 'Can
we count on the secrecy of the confessional?' 'This is a garden, not a
confessional.' 'It will be enough if you grant us your ecclesiastic
discretion.' 'You have it.' Fermin heaved a deep sigh and looked at me with a
melancholy expression. 'Daniel, we can't go on lying to this saintly soldier of
Christ.' 'Of course not. . .' I corroborated, completely lost. Fermin went up
to the priest and murmured in a confidential tone, 'Father, we have most solid
grounds to suspect that our friend Daniel here is none other than the secret
son of the deceased Julian Carax. Hence our interest in reconstructing the past
and recovering the memory of an illustrious person, whom the Fates tore away
from the side of a poor child.' Father Fernando fixed his astounded eyes on me.
'Is this true?' I nodded. Fermin patted my back, his face full of sorrow. 'Look
at him, poor lad, searching for a father lost in the mist of memory. What could
be sadder than this? Tell me, Your Most Saintly Grace.' 'Have you any proof to
support your assertions?' Fermin grabbed my chin and offered up my face as
payment. 'What further proof would the clergyman require than this little face,
silent, irrefutable witness of the paternal fact in question?' The priest
seemed to hesitate. 'Will you help me, Father?' I implored cunningly. 'Please .
. .' Father Fernando sighed uncomfortably. 'I don't suppose there's any harm in
it,' he said at last. 'What do you want to know?' 'Everything,' said Fermin. 25
We went into Father Fernando's office, where he summoned up his memories,
adopting the tone of a sermon. He sculpted his sentences neatly, measuring them
out with a cadence that seemed to promise an ultimate moral that never came.
Years of teaching had left him with that firm and didactic tone of someone used
to being heard, but not certain of being listened to. 'If I remember correctly,
Julian Carax started at San Gabriel's in 1914. I got along with him right away,
because we both belonged to the small group of pupils who did not come from
wealthy families. They called us 'The Starving Gang', and each one of us had
his own special story. I'd managed to get a scholarship thanks to my father,
who worked in the kitchens of this school for twenty-five years. Julian had
been accepted thanks to the intercession of Senor Aldaya, who was a customer of
the Fortuny hat shop, owned by Julian's father. Those were different times, of
course, and during those days power was still concentrated within families and
dynasties. That world has vanished - the last few remains were swept away with
the fall of the Republic, for the better, I suppose. All that is left are the
names on the letterheads of companies, banks, and faceless consortiums. Like
all old cities, Barcelona is a sum of its ruins. The great glories so many
people are proud of - palaces, factories, and monuments, the emblems with which
we identify - are nothing more than relics of an extinguished civilization.'
Having reached this point, Father Fernando allowed for a solemn pause in which
he seemed to be waiting for the congregation to answer with some empty Latin
phrase or a response from the missal. 'Amen, Reverend Father. What great truth
lies in those wise words,' offered Fermin to fill the awkward silence. 'You were
telling us about my father's first year at the school,' I put in gently. Father
Fernando nodded. 'In those days he already called himself Carax, although his
paternal surname was Fortuny. At first some of the boys teased him for that,
and for being one of The Starving Gang, of course. They also laughed at me
because I was the cook's son. You know what kids are like. Deep down, God has
filled them with goodness, but they repeat what they hear at home.' 'Little
angels,' punctuated Fermin. 'What do you remember about my father?' 'Well, it's
such a long time ago. . . . Your father's best friend at that time was not
Jorge Aldaya but a boy called Miquel Moliner. Miquel's family was almost as
wealthy as the Aldayas, and I daresay he was the most extravagant pupil this
school has ever seen. The headmaster thought he was possessed by the devil
because he recited Marx in German during mass.' 'A clear sign of possession,'
Fermin agreed. 'Miquel and Julian got on extremely well. Sometimes we three
would get together during the lunch break and Julian would tell us stories.
Other times he would tell us about his family and the Aldayas. The priest
seemed to hesitate. 'Even after leaving school, Miquel and I stayed in touch
for a time. Julian had already gone to Paris by then. I know that Miquel missed
him. He often spoke about him, remembering secrets Julian had once confided in
him. Later, when I entered the seminary, Miquel told me I'd gone over to the
enemy. It was meant as a joke, but the fact is that we drifted apart.' 'Do you
remember hearing that Miquel married someone called Nuria Monfort?' 'Miquel,
married?' 'Do you find that odd?' 'I suppose I shouldn't, but ... I don't know.
The truth is that I haven't heard from Miquel for years. Since before the war.'
'Did he ever mention the name of Nuria Monfort?' 'No, never. And he didn't say
he was thinking of getting married or that he had a fiancee. . . . Listen, I'm
not at all sure that I should be talking to you about this. These are personal
things Julian and Miquel told me, with the understanding that they would remain
between us.' 'And are you going to refuse a son his only chance of discovering
his father's past?' asked Fermin. Father Fernando was torn between doubt and,
it seemed to me, the wish to remember, to recover those lost days. 'I suppose
so many years have gone by that it doesn't matter anymore. I can still remember
the day when Julian told us how he'd met the Aldayas and how, without realizing
it, his life was changed forever.. . .' . .. In October 1914 an artifact that
many took to be a pantheon on wheels stopped one afternoon in front of the
Fortuny hat shop on Ronda de San Antonio. From it emerged the proud, majestic,
and arrogant figure of Don Ricardo Aldaya, by then already one of the richest
men not only in Barcelona but also in the whole of Spain. His textile empire
took in citadels of industry and colonies of commerce along all the rivers of
Catalonia. His right hand held the reins of the banks and landed estates of
half the province. His left hand, ever active, pulled at the strings of the
provincial council, the city hall, various ministries, the bishopric, and the
customs service at the port. That afternoon the man with exuberant moustache
and kingly sideburns, whom everybody feared, needed a hat. He entered the shop
of Don Antoni Fortuny, and, after a quick glance at the premises, he looked at
the hatter and his assistant, the young Julian, and said as follows: 'I've been
told that, despite appearances, the best hats in Barcelona come out of this shop.
Autumn is looking decidedly grim, and I'm going to need six top hats, a dozen
bowler hats, hunting caps, and something to wear for the Cortes in Madrid. Are
you making a note of this, or do you expect me to repeat it all?' That was the
beginning of a laborious and lucrative process during which father and son
combined their efforts to get the order completed for Don Ricardo Aldaya.
Julian, who read the papers, was well aware of Aldaya's position and told
himself he could not fail his father now, at the most crucial and decisive
moment of his business career. From the moment the magnate had set foot in his
shop, the hatter almost levitated with joy. Aldaya had promised him that if he
was satisfied, he would recommend his establishment to all his friends. That
meant that the Fortuny hat shop, from being a dignified but modest enterprise,
would attain the highest spheres, covering the heads both large and small of
parliamentary members, mayors, cardinals and ministers. That week seemed to fly
by like an enchanted dream. Julian skipped school and spent up to eighteen or
twenty hours a day working in the backroom workshop. His father, exhausted by
his own enthusiasm, hugged him every now and then and even kissed him without
thinking. He even went so far as to give his wife, Sophie, a dress and a pair
of new shoes for the first time in fourteen years. The hatter was
unrecognizable. One Sunday he forgot to go to church, and that same afternoon,
brimming with pride, he put his arms around Julian and said, with tears in his
eyes, 'Grandfather would have been proud of us.' One of the most complex
processes of the now disappeared science of hat making, both technically and
politically, was that of taking measurements. Don Ricardo Aldaya had a cranium
that, according to Julian, bordered on the melon-shaped and was quite rugged.
The hatter was aware of the difficulties as soon as he saw the great man's
head, and that same evening, when Julian said it reminded him of certain peaks
in the mountains of Montserrat, Fortuny couldn't help agreeing with him.
'Father, with all due respect, you know that when it comes to taking
measurements, I'm better at it than you, because you get nervous. Let me do it'
The hatter readily agreed, and the following day, when Aldaya arrived in his Mercedes-Benz,
Julian welcomed him and took him to the workshop. When Aldaya realized that he
was going to be measured by a boy of fourteen, he was furious. 'But what is
this? A child? Are you pulling my leg?' Julian, who was aware of his client's
social position but who wasn't in the least bit intimidated by him, answered,
'Sir, I don't know about your leg, but there's not much to pull up here. This
crown looks like a bullring, and if we don't hurry up and make you a set of
hats, your head will be mistaken for a Barcelona street plan.' When he heard
those words, Fortuny wanted the ground to swallow him up. Aldaya, undaunted,
fixed his gaze on Julian. Then, to everyone's surprise, he burst out laughing
as he hadn't done in years. 'This child of yours will go far, Fortunato,'
declared Aldaya, who had not quite learned the hatter's surname. That is how
they discovered that Don Ricardo Aldaya was fed up to his very back teeth with
being feared and flattered by everyone; with having people throw themselves on
the ground like a doormat as he went by. He despised sycophants, cowards, and
anyone who showed any sort of weakness, be it physical, mental, or moral. When
he came across a humble boy, barely an apprentice, who had the cheek and the
spirit to laugh at him, Aldaya decided he'd hit on the ideal hat shop and
immediately doubled his order. That week he gladly turned up every day for his
appointment, so that Julian could take measurements and try different models on
him. Antoni Fortuny was amazed to see how the champion of Catalan society would
fall about laughing at the jokes and stories told by the son who was still a
stranger to him, that boy he never spoke to and who, for years, had shown no
sign of having any sense of humour. At the end of the week, Aldaya took the
hatter aside, to a corner of the shop, and spoke to him in confidence. 'Let's
see, Fortunato, this son of yours has great talent, and you've got him stuck
here, bored out of his mind, dusting the cobwebs in a two-bit shop.' 'This is a
good business, Don Ricardo, and the boy shows a certain flair, even though he
lacks backbone.' 'Nonsense. What school does he attend?' 'Well, he goes to the
local school. 'Nothing but a production line for workers. When one is young,
talent -genius, if you like — must be cultivated, or it becomes twisted and
consumes the person who possesses it. It needs direction. Support. Do you
understand me, Fortunato?' 'You're mistaken about my son. He's nowhere near a
genius. He can barely pass his geography. His teachers tell me he's a
scatterbrain and has a very bad attitude, just like his mother. But at least
here he'll always have an honest job and—' 'Fortunato, you bore me. Today,
without fail, I'll go to San Gabriel's school to see the admissions board, and
I'll let them know that they are to accept your son into the same class as my
eldest child, Jorge. Anything less would be miserly of me.' The hatter's eyes
were as big as saucers. San Gabriel's was the nursery for the cream of high
society. 'But, Don Ricardo, I would be unable to finance—- 'No one is asking
you to pay anything. I'll take charge of the boy's education. You, as his
father, only have to agree.' 'But of course, certainly, but—' 'That's decided,
then. So long as Julian accepts, of course.' 'He'll do what he's told, naturally.'
At this point in the conversation, Julian stuck his head round the door of the
back room with a hat mould in his hands. 'Don Ricardo, whenever you're ready. .
.' 'Tell me, Julian, what are you doing this afternoon?' Aldaya asked. Julian
looked alternately at his father and the tycoon. 'Well, helping my father here,
in the shop.' 'Apart from that.' 'I was thinking of going to the library. 'You
like books, eh?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Have you read Conrad? Heart of Darkness?' 'Three
times.' The hatter frowned, utterly lost. And who is this Conrad, if you don't
mind my asking?' Aldaya silenced him with a gesture that seemed like something
from a shareholders' meeting. 'In my house I have a library with fourteen
thousand books, Julian. When I was young, I read a lot, but now I no longer
have the time. Come to think of it, I have three copies signed by Conrad
himself. My son Jorge can't even be dragged into the library. The only person
who thinks and reads in the house is my daughter Penelope, so all those books are
being wasted. Would you like to see them?' Julian nodded, speechless. The
hatter observed the scene with a sense of unease he couldn't quite define. All
those names were unknown to him. Novels, as everyone knew, were for women and
for people who had nothing better to do. The Heart of Darkness sounded like a
mortal sin at the very least. 'Fortunato, your son is coming with me. I want to
introduce him to my son Jorge. Don't worry, we'll bring him back to you later.
Tell me, young man, have you ever been in a Mercedes-Benz?' Julian presumed
that that was the name of the cumbersome, imperial-looking machine the
industrialist used for getting around. He shook his head. 'Well, then, it's
about time. It's like going to heaven, but without dying.' Antoni Fortuny
watched them leave in that exceedingly luxurious carriage, and when he searched
his heart, all he found was sadness. That night, while he had dinner with
Sophie (who was wearing her new dress and shoes and had almost no bruises or
scars), he asked himself where he had gone wrong this time. Just when God was
returning a son to him, Aldaya was taking him away. 'Take off that dress,
woman, you look like a whore. And don't let me see this wine on the table
again. The watered-down sort is quite good enough for us. Greed will corrupt us
all in the end.' Julian had never crossed over to the other side of Avenida
Diagonal. That line of groves, empty plots of land, and palaces awaiting the
expansion of the city was a forbidden frontier. Hamlets, hills, and mysterious
places rumoured to contain unimaginable wealth extended beyond it. As they
passed through, Aldaya talked to Julian about San Gabriel's, about new friends
Julian had never set eyes on, about a future he had not thought possible. 'What
do you aspire to, Julian? In life, I mean.' 'I don't know. Sometimes I think
I'd like to be a writer. A novelist.' 'Like Conrad, eh? You're very young, of
course. And tell me, doesn't banking tempt you?' 'I don't know, sir. The truth
is that it hadn't even entered my head. I've never seen more than three pesetas
together. High finance is a mystery to me.' Aldaya laughed. 'There's no
mystery, Julian. The trick is not to put pesetas together in threes, but in
three million. That way there's no enigma, I can assure you. No Holy Trinity.'
That afternoon, as he drove up Avenida del Tibidabo, Julian thought he was
entering the doors of paradise. Mansions that seemed like cathedrals flanked
the way. Halfway along the avenue, the driver turned, and they went through the
gates of one of them. Instantly an army of servants set about receiving the
master. All Julian could see was a large, majestic house with three floors. It
had never occurred to him that real people could live in places like this. He
let himself be taken through the lobby, then he crossed a vaulted hall from
where a marble staircase rose, framed by velvet curtains, and finally entered a
large room whose walls were a tapestry of books, from floor to ceiling. 'What
do you think?' asked Aldaya. Julian was barely listening. 'Damian, tell Jorge
to come down to the library immediately.' The faceless and silent servants
glided away at the slightest order from the master with the efficiency and
submissiveness of a body of well-trained insects. 'You're going to need a new
wardrobe, Julian. There are a lot of morons out there who only go by
appearances. . . . I'll tell Jacinta to take care of that; you don't have to
worry about it. And it's probably best if you don't mention it to your father,
in case it annoys him. Look, here comes Jorge. Jorge, I want you to meet a
wonderful young man who is going to be your new classmate. Julian Fortu—'
'Julian Carax,' he corrected. 'Julian Carax,' repeated a satisfied Aldaya. 'I
like the sound of it. This is my son Jorge.' Julian held out his hand, and
Jorge Aldaya shook it. His touch was lukewarm, unenthusiastic, and his face had
a pale, chiselled look that came from having grown up in that doll-like world.
To Julian, his clothes and shoes seemed like something out of a novel. His eyes
gave off an air of bravado and arrogance, of disdain and sugary politeness.
Julian smiled at him openly, reading insecurity, fear, and emptiness under that
shell of vanity. 'Is it true you haven't read any of these books?' 'Books are
boring.' 'Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside
you,' answered Julian. Don Ricardo Aldaya laughed again. 'Well, I'll leave you
two alone so you can get to know each other. Julian, you'll see that although
he seems spoiled and conceited, underneath that mask Jorge isn't as stupid as
he looks. He has something of his father in him.' Aldaya's words seemed to fall
like knives on the boy, though he didn't let his smile fade at all. Julian
regretted his answer and felt sorry for him. 'You must be the hatter's son,' said
Jorge, without malice. 'My father talks about you a lot these days.' 'It's the
novelty. I hope you don't hold that against me. Under this mask of a
know-it-all meddler, I'm not such an idiot as I seem.' Jorge smiled at him,
Julian thought he smiled the way people smile who have no friends - with
gratitude. 'Come, I'll show you the rest of the house.' They left the library
behind them and went off towards the main door and the gardens. When they
crossed the hall with the staircase, Julian looked up and glimpsed a figure
ascending the stairs with one hand on the banister. He felt as if he were
caught up in a vision. The girl must have been about twelve or thirteen and was
escorted by a mature woman, small and rosy-cheeked, who looked like a
governess. The girl wore a blue satin dress. Her hair was the colour of
almonds, and the skin on her shoulders and slim neck seemed translucent. She
stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around briefly. For a second their
eyes met, and she offered him the ghost of a smile. Then the governess put her
arms round the girl's shoulders and led her to the entrance of a corridor into
which they both disappeared. Julian looked down and he fixed his eyes on
Jorge's again. 'That's Penelope, my sister. You'll meet her later. She's a bit
nutty. She spends all day reading. Come on, I want to show you the chapel in
the basement. The cooks say it's haunted.' Julian followed the boy meekly, but
he cared little about anything else. Now he understood. He had dreamed about
her countless times, on that same staircase, with that same blue dress and that
same movement of her ash-grey eyes, without knowing who she was or why she
smiled at him. When he went out into the garden, he let himself be led by Jorge
as far as the coach houses and the tennis courts that stretched out beyond.
Only then did he turn around to look back and saw her in her window on the
second floor. He could barely make out her shape, but he knew she was smiling
at him and that somehow she, too, had recognized him. That fleeting glimpse of
Penelope Aldaya at the top of the staircase remained with him during his first
weeks at San Gabriel's. His new world was not all to his liking: the pupils at
San Gabriel's behaved like haughty, arrogant princes, while their teachers were
like docile servants. The first friend Julian made there, apart from Jorge
Aldaya, was a boy called Fernando Ramos, the son of one of the cooks at the
school, who would never have imagined he would end up wearing a cassock and
teaching in the same classrooms in which he himself had grown up. Fernando,
whom the rest nicknamed the 'Kitchen Sweep', and whom they treated like a
servant, was alert and intelligent but had hardly any friends among the
schoolboys. His only companion was an eccentric boy called Miquel Moliner, who
in time would become the best friend Julian ever made at the school. Miquel
Moliner, who had too much brain and too little patience, enjoyed teasing his
teachers by questioning all their statements, using clever arguments in which
he displayed both ingenuity and a poisonous sting. The rest feared his sharp
tongue and considered him a member of some other species. In a way this was not
entirely mistaken, for despite his bohemian traits and the unaristocratic tone
he affected, Miquel was the son of a businessman who had become obscenely rich
through the manufacture of arms. 'Carax, isn't it? I'm told your father makes
hats,' he said when Fernando Ramos introduced them. 'Julian to my friends. I'm
told yours makes cannons.' 'He just sells them, actually. The only thing he
knows how to make is money. My friends, among whom I only count Nietzsche and
Fernando here, call me Miquel.' Miquel Moliner was a sad boy. He suffered from
an unhealthy obsession with death and all matters funereal, a field to the
consideration of which he dedicated much of his time and talent. His mother had
died three years earlier as a result of a strange domestic accident, which some
foolish doctor had dared describe as suicide. It was Miquel who had discovered
the body shining under the waters of the well, in the summer mansion the family
owned in Argentona. When they pulled her out with ropes, they found that the
pockets of the dead woman's coat were filled with stones. There was also a
letter written in German, the mother's native tongue, but Senor Moliner, who
had never bothered to learn the language, burned it that very afternoon without
allowing anyone to read it. Miquel Moliner saw death everywhere - in fallen
leaves, in birds that had dropped out of their nests, in old people, and in the
rain, which swept everything away. He was exceptionally talented at drawing and
would often become distracted for hours, creating charcoal sketches in which a
lady, whom Julian took to be his mother, always appeared against a background
of mist and deserted beaches. 'What do you want to be when you grow up,
Miquel?' 'I'll never grow up,' he would answer enigmatically. His main
interest, apart from sketching and contradicting every living soul, was the
work of a mysterious Austrian doctor who, in years to come, would become
famous: Sigmund Freud. Thanks to his deceased mother, Miquel Moliner read and
wrote perfect German, and he owned a number of books by the Viennese doctor.
His favourite field was the interpretation of dreams. He used to ask people
what they had dreamed, and would then make a diagnosis. He always said he was
going to die young and that he didn't mind. Julian believed that, by thinking
so much about death, he had ended up finding more sense in it than in life.
'The day I die, all that was once mine will be yours, Julian,' he would say.
'Except my dreams.' Besides Fernando Ramos, Moliner, and Jorge Aldaya, Julian
also befriended a shy and rather unsociable boy called Javier, the only son of
the caretakers of San Gabriel's, who lived in a modest house stationed at the
entrance to the school gardens. Javier, who, like Fernando, was considered by
the rest of the boys to be no more than an irritating lackey, prowled about
alone in the gardens and courtyards of the compound. From so much wandering
around the school, he ended up knowing every nook and cranny of the building,
from the tunnels in the basements to the passages up to the towers, and all
kinds of hiding places that nobody remembered anymore. They were his secret
world and his refuge. He always carried with him a penknife he had removed from
one of his father's drawers, and he liked to carve wooden figures with it,
keeping them in the school dovecote. His father, Ramon, the caretaker, was a
veteran of the Cuban War, where he had lost a hand and (it was maliciously
rumoured) his right testicle, as a result of a pellet shot from Theodore
Roosevelt himself during the raid of the Bay of Cochinos. Convinced that
idleness was the mother of all evil, 'Ramon Oneball' (as the schoolboys
nicknamed him) set his son the task of gathering up all the fallen leaves from
the pine grove and the courtyard around the fountains in a sack. Ramon was a
good man, rather coarse and fatally given to choosing bad company, most notably
his wife. He had married a strapping, dim-witted woman with delusions of
grandeur and the looks of a scullion, who was wont to dress skimpily in front
of her son and the other boys, a habit that gave rise to no end of mirth and
ridicule. Her Christian name was Maria Craponcia, but she called herself
Yvonne, because she thought it more elegant. Yvonne used to question her son
about the possibilities for social advancement that his friends presented, for
she believed that he was making connections with the elite of Barcelona
society. She would ask him about the fortune of this or that one, imagining
herself dressed in the best silks and being received for tea in the great
salons of good society. Javier tried to spend as little time as possible in the
house and was grateful for the jobs his father gave him, however hard they
might be. Any excuse was good in order to be alone, to escape into his secret
world and carve his wooden figures. When the schoolboys saw him from afar, some
would laugh or throw stones at him. One day Julian felt so sorry for him when
he saw how a stone had gashed the boy's forehead and knocked him onto a pile of
rubble, that he decided to go to his aid and offer him his friendship. At first
Javier thought that Julian was coming to finish him off while the others fell
about laughing. 'My name is Julian,' he said, stretching out his hand. 'My
friends and I were about to go and play chess in the pine grove, and I wondered
whether you'd like to join us.' 'I don't know how to play chess.' 'Nor did I,
until two weeks ago. But Miquel is a good teacher. The boy looked at him
suspiciously, expecting the prank, the hidden attack, at any moment. 'I don't
know whether your friends will want me there.' 'It was their idea. What do you
say?' From that day on, Javier would sometimes join them after finishing the
jobs he had been assigned. He didn't usually say anything but would listen and
watch the others. Aldaya was slightly fearful of him. Fernando, who had himself
experienced the rejection of others because of his humble origins, would go out
of his way to be kind to the strange boy. Miquel Moliner, who taught him the
rudiments of chess and watched him with a careful eye, was the most sceptical
of all. 'That boy is a nutter. He catches cats and pigeons and tortures them
for hours with his knife. Then he buries them in the pine grove. Delightful.'
'Who says so?' 'He told me so himself the other day, while I was explaining the
knight's moves to him. He also told me that sometimes his mother gets into his
bed at night and fondles him.' 'He must have been pulling your leg.' 'I doubt
it. That kid isn't right in the head, Julian, and it's probably not his fault.'
Julian struggled to ignore Miquel's warnings and predictions, but the fact was
that he was finding it difficult to establish a friendship with the son of the
caretaker. Yvonne in particular did not approve of Julian or of Fernando Ramos.
Of all the young men, they were the only ones who didn't have a single peseta.
Rumour had it that Julian s father was a simple shopkeeper and that his mother
had only got as far as being a music teacher. 'Those people have no money,
class, or elegance, my love,' his mother would lecture him. 'The one you should
befriend is Aldaya. He comes from a very good family.' 'Yes. Mother,' the boy
would answer. 'Whatever you say.' As time went by, Javier seemed to start
trusting his new friends. Occasionally he said a few words, and he was carving
a set of chess pieces for Miquel Moliner, in appreciation for his lessons. One
day, when nobody expected it or thought it possible, they discovered that
Javier knew how to smile and that he had the innocent laugh of a child. 'You
see? He's just a normal boy,' Julian argued. Miquel Moliner remained
unconvinced, and he observed the strange lad with a rigorous scrutiny that was
almost scientific. 'Javier is obsessed with you, Julian,' he told him one day.
'Everything he does is only to earn your approval.' 'What nonsense! He has a
mother and a father for that; I'm only a friend.' 'Irresponsible, that's what you
are. His father is a poor wretch who has trouble finding his own bum, and Dona
Yvonne is a harpy with the brain of a flea who spends her time pretending to
meet people by chance in her underwear, convinced that she is Venus incarnate
or something far worse I'd rather not mention. The boy, quite naturally, is
looking for a substitute, and you, the saviour, fall from heaven and give him
your hand. St Julian of the Fountain, patron saint of the dispossessed.' 'This
Dr Freud is rotting your brains, Miquel. We all need friends. Even you.' 'That
kid doesn't have friends and never will. He has the heart of a spider. And if
you don't believe me, time will tell. I wonder what he dreams about. . . ?'
Miquel Moliner could not know that Francisco Javier's dreams were more like his
friend Julian's than he would ever have thought possible. Once, some months
before Julian had started at the school, the caretaker's son was gathering dead
leaves from the fountain courtyard when Don Ricardo Aldaya's luxurious
automobile arrived. That afternoon the tycoon had company. He was escorted by
an apparition, an angel of light dressed in silk who seemed to hover above the
ground. The angel, who was none other than Aldaya's daughter Penelope, stepped
out of the Mercedes and walked over to one of the fountains, waving her parasol
and stopping to splash the water of the pond with her hands. As usual, her
governess, Jacinta, followed her dutifully, observant of the slightest gesture
from the girl. It wouldn't have mattered if an army of servants had guarded
her: Javier only had eyes for the girl. He was afraid that if he blinked, the
vision would vanish. He remained there, paralysed, breathlessly spying on the
mirage. Soon after, as if the girl had sensed his presence and his furtive gaze,
Penelope raised her eyes and looked in his direction. The beauty of that face
seemed painful, unsustainable. He thought he saw the hint of a smile on her
lips. Terrified, Javier ran off to hide at the top of the water tower, next to
the dovecote in the attic of the school building, his favourite hiding place.
His hands were still shaking when he gathered his carving utensils and began to
work on a new piece in the form of the face he had just sighted. When he
returned to the caretaker's home that night, hours later than usual, his mother
was waiting for him, half naked and furious. The boy looked down, fearing that
if his mother read his eyes, she would see in them the girl from the pond and
know what he had been thinking about. 'And where've you been, you little shit?'
'I'm sorry, Mother. I got lost.' 'You've been lost since the day you were
born.' Years later, every time he stuck his revolver into the mouth of a
prisoner and pulled the trigger, Chief Inspector Francisco Javier Fumero would
remember the day he saw his mother's head burst open like a ripe watermelon
near an outdoor bar in Las Fionas and didn't feel anything, just the tedium of
dead things. The Civil Guard, alerted by the manager of the bar, who had heard
the shot, found the boy sitting on a rock holding a smoking shotgun on his lap.
He was staring impassively at the decapitated body of Maria Craponcia, alias
Yvonne, covered in insects. When he saw the guards coming over to him, he just
shrugged his shoulders, his face splattered with blood, as if he were being
ravaged by smallpox. Following the sobs, the civil guards found Ramon Oneball
squatting by a tree some thirty yards away, in the undergrowth. He was shaking
like a child and was unable to make himself understood. The lieutenant of the
Civil Guard, after much deliberation, reported that the event had been a tragic
accident, and so he recorded it in his statement, though not on his conscience.
When they asked the boy if there was anything they could do for him, Francisco
Javier asked whether he could keep that old gun, because when he grew up, he
wanted to be a soldier. . . . 'Are you feeling all right, Senor Romero de
Torres?' The sudden appearance of Fumero in Father Fernando Ramos's narrative
had stunned me, but the effect on Fermin was devastating. He looked white as a
sheet and his hands shook. 'A sudden drop in my blood pressure,' Fermin
improvised in a tiny voice. 'This Catalan climate can be hell for us
southerners.' 'May I offer you a glass of water?' asked the priest in a worried
tone. 'If Your Grace wouldn't mind. And perhaps a chocolate, for the glucose,
you know . . .' The priest poured him a glass of water, which Fermin drank
greedily. 'All I have are some eucalyptus sweets. Would they be of any help?'
'God bless you.' Fermin swallowed a fistful of sweets and after a while seemed
to recover his natural pallor. 'This boy, the son of the caretaker who
heroically lost his scrotum defending the colonies, are you sure his name was
Fumero, Francisco Javier Fumero?' 'Yes. Quite sure. Do you know him?' 'No,' we
intoned in unison. Father Fernando frowned. 'It wouldn't have surprised me.
Regrettably, Francisco Javier has ended up being a notorious character.' 'We're
not sure we understand you. 'You understand me perfectly. Francisco Javier Fumero
is chief inspector of the Barcelona Crime Squad and is widely known. His
reputation has even reached those of us who never leave this establishment, and
I'd say that when you heard his name, you shrank a couple of inches.' 'Now that
you mention it, Your Excellency, the name does ring a bell.. . .' Father
Fernando looked sidelong at us. 'This young man isn't the son of Julian Carax.
Am I right?' 'Spiritual son, Your Eminency. Morally, that has more weight.'
'What kind of mess are you two in? Who has sent you?' At that point I was
certain we were about to be kicked out of the priest's office, and I decided to
silence Fermin and, for once, play the honesty card. 'You're right, Father.
Julian Carax isn't my father. But nobody has sent us. Years ago I happened to
come across a book by Carax, a book that was thought to have disappeared, and
from that time on, I have tried to discover more about him and clarify the
circumstances of his death. Senor Romero de Torres has helped me—' 'What book?'
'The Shadow of the Wind. Have you read it?' 'I've read all of Julian's novels.'
'Have you kept them?' The priest shook his head. 'May I ask what you did with
them?' 'Years ago someone came into my room and set fire to them.' 'Do you
suspect anyone?' 'Of course. I suspect Fumero. Isn't that why you're here?'
Fermin and I exchanged puzzled looks. 'Inspector Fumero? Why would he want to
burn the books?' 'Who else would? During the last year we spent together at
school, Francisco Javier tried to kill Julian with his father's shotgun. If
Miquel hadn't stopped him . . .' 'Why did he try to kill him? Julian had been
his only friend.' 'Francisco Javier was obsessed with Penelope Aldaya. Nobody
knew this. I don't think Penelope had even noticed the boy's existence. He kept
the secret for years. Apparently he used to follow Julian. I think one day he
saw him kiss her. I don't know. What I do know is that he tried to kill him in
broad daylight. Miquel Moliner, who had never trusted Fumero, threw himself on
him and stopped him at the last moment. The hole made by the bullet is still
visible by the entrance. Every time I go past it, I remember that day.' 'What
happened to Fumero?' 'He and his family were thrown out of the place. I think
Francisco Javier was sent to a boarding school for a while. We heard no more
about him until a couple of years later, when his mother died in a hunting
accident. There was no such accident. Francisco Javier Fumero is a murderer.'
'If I were to tell you . . .' mumbled Fermin. 'It wouldn't be a bad thing if one
of you did tell me something, but something true for a change.' 'We can tell
you that Fumero was not the person who burned your books.' 'Who was it, then?'
'In all likelihood it was a man whose face is disfigured by burns; a man who
calls himself Lain Coubert.' 'Isn't that the one. . . ?' I nodded. 'The name of
one of Carax's characters. The devil.' Father Fernando leaned back in his
armchair, almost as confused as we were. 'What does seem increasingly clear is
that Penelope Aldaya is at the centre of all this business, and she's the
person we know least about,' Fermin remarked. 'I don't think I can help you
there. I hardly ever saw her, and then only from a distance, two or three
times. What I know about her is what Julian told me, which wasn't much. The only
other person who I heard mention Penelope's name a few times was Jacinta
Coronado.' 'Jacinta Coronado?' 'Penelope's governess. She raised Jorge and
Penelope. She loved them madly, especially Penelope. Sometimes she would come
to the school to collect Jorge, because Don Ricardo Aldaya wanted his children
to be watched over at all times by some member of his household. Jacinta was an
angel. She had heard that both Julian and I came from modest families, so she
would always bring us afternoon snacks because she thought we went hungry. I
would tell her that my father was the cook and not to worry, for I was never
without something to eat. But she insisted. Sometimes I'd wait and talk to her.
She was the kindest person I've ever met. She had no children, or any boyfriend
that I knew of. She was alone in the world and had devoted her life to the
Aldaya children. She simply adored Penelope. She still talks about her....'
'Are you still in touch with Jacinta?' 'I sometimes visit her in the Santa
Lucia hospice. She doesn't have anyone. For reasons we cannot comprehend, the
Good Lord doesn't always reward us during our lifetime. Jacinta is now a very
old woman and is as alone as she has always been.' Fermin and I exchanged
looks. 'What about Penelope? Hasn't she ever visited her?' Father Fernando's
eyes grew dark and impenetrable. 'Nobody knows what happened to Penelope. That
girl was Jacinta's life. When the Aldayas left for America and she lost her,
she lost everything.' 'Why didn't they take her with them? Did Penelope go to
Argentina with the rest of the Aldayas?' I asked. The priest shrugged his
shoulders. 'I don't know. Nobody ever saw Penelope again or heard anything
about her after 1919.' 'The year Carax left for Paris,' Fermin observed. 'You
must promise me that you're not going to bother this poor old lady and stir up
painful memories for her.' 'Who do you take us for, Father?' asked Fermin,
annoyed. Suspecting that he would get no more from us, Father Fernando made us
swear to him that we would keep him informed about any new discoveries we made.
To reassure him, Fermin insisted on swearing on a New Testament that lay on the
priest's desk. 'Leave the Gospels alone. Your word is enough for me.' 'You
don't let anything pass you, do you, Father? You're sharp as a nail.' 'Come,
let me accompany you to the door.' He led us through the garden until we
reached the spiked gate and then stopped at a reasonable distance from the
exit, gazing at the street that wound its way down towards the real world, as
if he were afraid he might evaporate if he ventured out a few steps further. I
wondered when Father Fernando had last left the school grounds. 'I was very sad
when I heard that Julian had died,' he said softly. 'Despite everything that
happened afterwards and the fact that we grew apart as time went by, we were
good friends: Miquel, Aldaya, Julian, and myself. Even Fumero. I always thought
we were going to be inseparable, but life must know things that we don't know.
I've never had friends like those again, and I don't imagine I ever will. I
hope you find what you're looking for, Daniel.' 26 It was almost midmorning
when we reached Paseo de la Bonanova, wrapped in our own thoughts. I had little
doubt that Fermin's were largely devoted to the sinister appearance of Inspector
Fumero in the story. I glanced over at him and noticed that he seemed consumed
by anxiety. A veil of dark red clouds bled across the sky, punctured by
splinters of light the colour of fallen leaves. 'If we don't hurry, we're going
to get caught in a downpour,' I said. 'Not yet. Those clouds look like night
time, like a bruise. They're the sort that wait.' 'Don't tell me you're also an
expert on clouds, Fermin.' 'Living on the streets has unexpected educational
side effects. Listen, just thinking about this Fumero business has stirred my
juices. Would you object to a stop at the bar in Plaza de Sarria to polish off
two well-endowed omelette sandwiches, plus trimmings?' We set off towards the
square, where a knot of old folks hovered around the local pigeon community,
their lives reduced to a ritual of spreading crumbs and waiting. We found
ourselves a table near the entrance, and Fermin proceeded to wolf down the two
sandwiches, his and mine, a pint of beer, two chocolate bars, and a triple
coffee heavily laced with rum and sugar. For dessert he had a Sugus sweet. A
man sitting at the next table glanced at Fermin over his newspaper, probably
thinking the same thing I was. 'I don't see how you fit it all in, Fermin.' 'In
my family we've always had a speedy metabolism. My sister Jesusa, God rest her
soul, was capable of eating a six-egg omelette with blood sausage in the middle
of the afternoon and then tucking in like a Cossack at night. Poor thing. She
was just like me, you know? Same face and same classic figure; rather on the
lean side. A doctor from Caceres once told my mother that the Romero de Torres
family was the missing link between man and the hammerhead, for ninety per cent
of our organism is cartilage, mainly concentrated in the nose and the outer ear.
Jesusa was often mistaken for me in the village, because she never grew breasts
and began to shave before I did. She died of consumption when she was
twenty-two, a virgin to the end and secretly in love with a sanctimonious
priest who, when he met her in the street, always said, "Hello, Fermin,
you're becoming quite a dashing young man." Life's ironies.' 'Do you miss
them?' 'The family?' Fermin shrugged his shoulders, caught in a nostalgic
smile. 'What do I know? Few things are more deceptive than memories. Look at
the priest. . . . And you? Do you miss your mother?' I looked down. 'A lot.'
'Do you know what I remember most about mine?' Fermin asked. 'Her smell. She
always smelled clean, like a loaf of sweet bread. It didn't matter if she'd
spent the day working in the fields or was wearing the same old rags she'd worn
all week. She always smelled of the best things in this world. Mind you, she
was pretty uncouth. She could swear like a trooper, but she smelled like a
fairy tale princess. Or at least that's what I thought. What about you? What is
it you remember most about your mother, Daniel?' I hesitated for a moment,
clawing at words my lips couldn't shape. 'Nothing. For years now I haven't been
able to remember my mother. I can't remember what her face was like, or her
voice or her smell. I lost them all the day I discovered Julian Carax, and they
haven't come back.' Fermin watched me cautiously, considering his reply. 'Don't
you have a photograph of her?' 'I've never wanted to look for them,' I said. 'Why
not?' I'd never told anyone this, not even my father or Tomas. 'Because I'm
afraid. I'm afraid of looking at a photograph of my mother and discovering that
she's a stranger. You probably think that's nonsense.' Fermin shook his head.
'And is that why you believe that if you manage to unravel the mystery of
Julian Carax and rescue him from oblivion, the face of your mother will come
back to you?' I looked at him. There was no irony or judgment in his
expression. For a moment Fermin Romero de Torres seemed to me the wisest and
most lucid man in the universe. 'Perhaps,' I said without thinking. At noon on
the dot, we got on a bus that would take us back downtown. We sat at the front,
just behind the driver; a circumstance Fermin used as an excuse to hold a discussion
with the man about the many advances, both technical and cosmetic, that he had
noticed in public transportation since the last time he'd used it, circa 1940
-especially with regard to signs, as was borne out by the notice that read
SPITTING AND FOUL LANGUAGE ARE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. Fermin looked briefly at the
sign and decided to acknowledge it by energetically clearing his throat of
phlegm. This granted us a sharp look of disapproval from a trio of saintly
ladies who travelled like a commando unit at the back of the bus, each one
armed with a missal. 'You savage!' murmured the bigot on the eastern flank, who
bore a remarkable likeness to the official portrait of Il Duce, but with curls.
'There they go,' said Fermin. 'Three saints has my Spain. St Holier-than-thou,
St Holyshit and St Holycow. Between us all, we've turned this country into a
joke.' 'You can say that again,' agreed the driver. 'We were better off with
the Republic. To say nothing of the traffic. It stinks.' A man sitting at the
back of the bus laughed, enjoying the exchange of views. I recognized him as
the same fellow who had sat next to us in the bar. His expression seemed to
suggest that he was on Fermin's side and that he wanted to see him get
merciless with the diehards. We exchanged a quick glance. He gave me a friendly
smile and returned to his newspaper. When we got to Calle Ganduxer, I noticed
that Fermin had curled up in a ball under his raincoat and was having a nap
with his mouth wide open, an expression of bliss and innocence on his face. The
bus was gliding through the wealthy domains of Paseo de San Gervasio when
Fermin suddenly woke up. 'I've been dreaming about Father Fernando,' he told
me. 'Except that in my dream he was dressed as the centre forward for Real
Madrid and he had the league cup next to him, shining like the Holy Grail.' 'I
wonder why?' I asked. 'If Freud is right, this probably means that the priest
has sneaked in a goal for us.' 'He struck me as an honest man.' 'Fair enough.
Perhaps too honest for his own good. All priests with the makings of a saint
end up being sent off to the missions, to see whether the mosquitoes or the
piranhas will finish them off.' 'Don't exaggerate.' "What blessed
innocence, Daniel. You'd even believe in the tooth fairy. All right, just to
give you an example: the tall tale about Miquel Moliner that Nuria Monfort
landed on you. I think the wench told you more whoppers than the editorial page
of L'Osservatore Romano. Now it turns out that she's married to a childhood
friend of Aldaya and Carax - isn't that a coincidence? And on top of that, we
have the story of Jacinta, the good nurse, which might be true but sounds too
much like the last act in a play by Alexandre Dumas the younger. Not to mention
the star appearance of Fumero.' 'Then do you think Father Fernando lied to us?'
'No. I agree with you that he seems honest, but the uniform carries a lot of
weight, and he may well have kept an ova pro nobis or two up his sleeve, if you
get my drift. I think that if he lied, it was by way of holding back or
decorum, not out of spite or malice. Besides, I don't imagine him capable of
inventing such a story. If he could lie better, he wouldn't be teaching algebra
and Latin; he'd be in the bishopric by now, growing fat in an office like a cardinal's
and plunging soft sponge cakes in his coffee.' 'What do you suggest we do,
then?' 'Sooner or later we're going to have to dig up the mummified corpse of
the angelic granny and shake it from the ankles to see what falls out. For the
time being, I'm going to pull a few strings and see what I can find out about
this Miquel Moliner. And it wouldn't be a bad idea to keep an eye on that Nuria
Monfort. I think she's turning out to be what my deceased mother would have
called a sly old fox.' 'You're mistaken about her,' I claimed. 'You're shown a
pair of nice breasts and you think you've seen St Teresa - which at your age
can be excused but not cured. Just leave her to me, Daniel. The fragrance of
the eternal female no longer overpowers me the way it mesmerizes you. At my age
the flow of blood to the brain takes precedence over that which flows to the
loins.' 'Look who's talking.' Fermin pulled out his wallet and started to count
his money. 'You have a fortune there,' I said. 'Is it all change from this
morning?' 'Partly. The rest is legitimate. I'm taking my Bernarda out today,
and I can't refuse that woman anything. If necessary, I would rob the Central
Bank of Spain to indulge her every whim. What about you? What are your plans
for the rest of the day?' 'Nothing special.' 'And what about the girl?' 'What
girl?' 'Little Bo Peep. Who do you think? Aguilar's sister.' 'I don't know. I
don't have any plans.' 'What you don't have, to put it bluntly, is enough balls
to take the bull by the horns.' At that the conductor made his way up to us
with a tired expression, his mouth juggling a toothpick, which he twisted and
turned through his teeth with circus like dexterity. 'Excuse me, but the ladies
over there want to know if you could use more respectable language.' 'They can
mind their own bloody business,' answered Fermin in a loud voice. The conductor
turned towards the three ladies and shrugged, indicating that he had done what
he could and was not inclined to get involved in a scuffle over a matter of
semantic modesty. 'People who have no life always have to stick their nose into
the life of others,' said Fermin. 'What were we talking about?' 'About my lack
of guts.' 'Right. A textbook case. Trust you me, young man. Go after your girl.
Life flies by, especially the bit that's worth living. You heard what the
priest said. Like a flash.' 'She's not my girl.' 'Well, then, make her yours
before someone else takes her, especially the little tin soldier.' 'You talk as
if Bea were a trophy.' 'No, as if she were a blessing,' Fermin corrected.
'Look, Daniel. Destiny is usually just around the corner. Like a thief, a
hooker, or a lottery vendor: its three most common personifications. But what
destiny does not do is home visits. You have to go for it yourself.' I spent
the rest of the journey considering this pearl of wisdom while Fermin had
another snooze, an occupation for which he had a Napoleonic talent. We got off
the bus on the corner of Gran Via and Paseo de Gracia under a leaden sky that
stole the light of day. Buttoning his raincoat up to his neck, Fermin announced
that he was departing in a hurry towards his pension, to smarten up for his
meeting with Bernarda. 'You must understand that with rather modest looks such
as mine, basic beautification requires at least ninety minutes. You don't get
far without some looks; that's the sad truth about these dishonest times.
Vanitas peccata mundi.' I saw him walk away down Gran Via, barely a sketch of a
little man sheltering himself in a drab raincoat that flapped in the wind like
a ragged flag. I started off for home, where I planned to recruit a good book
and hide away from the world. When I turned the corner of Puerta del Angel and
Calle Santa Ana, my heart missed a beat. As usual, Fermin had been right.
Destiny was waiting for me in front of the bookshop, clad in a tight grey wool
suit, new shoes, and silk stockings, studying her reflection in the shop
window. 'My father thinks I've gone to twelve o'clock mass,' said Bea without
looking up from her own image. 'You could easily be there. There's been a
continuous performance since nine o'clock this morning less than twenty yards
from here, in the Church of Santa Ana.' We spoke like two strangers who have
casually stopped by a shop window, looking for each other's eyes in the pane. 'Let's
not make a joke of it. I've had to pick up a church leaflet to see what the
sermon was about. He's going to ask me for a detailed synopsis.' 'Your father
thinks of everything.' 'He's sworn he'll break your legs.' 'Before that he'll
have to find out who I am. And while my legs are still in one piece, I can run
faster than him.' Bea was looking at me tensely, glancing over her shoulder at
the people who drifted by behind us in puffs of grey and wind. 'I don't know
what you're laughing about,' she said. 'He means it.' 'I'm not laughing. I'm
scared shitless. It's just that I'm so happy to see you.' A suggestion of a
smile, nervous, fleeting. 'Me, too,' Bea admitted. 'You say it as if it were an
illness.' 'It's worse than that. I thought that if I saw you again in daylight,
I might come to my senses.' I wondered whether that was a compliment or a
condemnation. 'We can't be seen together, Daniel. Not like this, in full view
of everyone.' 'If you like, we can go into the bookshop. There's a coffeepot in
the back room and—' 'No. I don't want anyone to see me go into or come out of
this place. If anyone sees me talking to you now, I can always say I happened
to bump into my brother's best friend. If we are seen together more than once,
we'll arouse suspicion.' I sighed. 'And who's going to see us? Who cares what
we do?' 'People always have eyes for what is none of their business, and my
father knows half of Barcelona.' 'So why have you come here to wait for me?' 'I
haven't come to wait for you. I've come to church, remember? You said so
yourself. Twenty yards from here .. .' 'You scare me, Bea. You lie even better
than I do.' 'You don't know me, Daniel.' 'So your brother tells me.' Our eyes
met in the reflection. 'The other night you showed me something I'd never seen
before,' murmured Bea. 'Now it's my turn.' I frowned, intrigued. Bea opened her
bag, pulled out a folded card, and handed it to me. 'You're not the only person
in Barcelona who knows secrets, Daniel. I have a surprise for you. I'll wait
for you at this address today at four. Nobody must know that we have arranged
to meet there.' 'How will I know that I've found the right place?' 'You'll
know.' I looked at her briefly, praying that she wasn't just making fun of me.
'If you don't come, I'll understand,' Bea said. 'I'll understand that you don't
want to see me anymore.' Without giving me a second to answer, she turned
around and walked hurriedly off towards the Ramblas. I was left holding the
card, my words still hanging on my lips, my eyes following her until her
silhouette melted into the shadows that preceded the storm. I opened the card.
Inside, in blue handwriting, was an address I knew well. Avenida del Tibidabo,
32 27 The storm didn't wait until nightfall to show its teeth. The first
flashes of lightning caught me by surprise shortly after taking a bus on Line
22. As we went round Plaza Molina and started up Calle Balmes, the city was
already beginning to fade behind a curtain of liquid velvet, reminding me that
I hadn't even thought of taking an umbrella with me. 'Now that's what I call
courage,' said the conductor when I asked for the stop. It was already ten past
four when the bus left me in the middle of nowhere - somewhere at the end of
Calle Balmes - at the mercy of the storm. Opposite, Avenida del Tibidabo
disappeared in a watery mirage. I counted up to three and started to run.
Minutes later, soaked to the bone and shivering, I stopped under a doorway to
get my breath back. I scrutinized the rest of the route. The storm's icy blast
blurred the ghostly outline of mansions and large, rambling houses veiled in
the mist. Among them rose the dark and solitary tower of the Aldaya mansion,
anchored among the swaying trees. I pushed my soaking hair away from my eyes
and began to run toward it, crossing the deserted avenue. The small door
encased within the gates swung in the wind. Beyond it, a path wound its way up
to the house. I slipped in through the door and made my way across the
property. Through the undergrowth I could make out the pedestals of statues
that had been knocked down. As I neared the mansion, I noticed that one of the
statues, the figure of an avenging angel, had been dumped into the fountain
that was the centrepiece of the garden. Its blackened marble shone, ghostlike,
beneath the sheet of water that flowed over the edge of the bowl. The hand of
the fiery angel emerged from the water; an accusing finger, as sharp as a
bayonet, pointing towards the front door of the house. The carved oak door
seemed to be ajar. I pushed it and ventured a few steps into a cavernous
entrance hall, its walls flickering with the gentle light of a candle. 'I
thought you weren't coming,' said Bea. The corridor was entombed in shadows,
and Bea's silhouette stood out against the pallid light of a gallery that opened
up beyond. She was sitting on a chair against the wall, a candle at her feet.
'Close the door,' she told me without getting up. 'The key is in the lock.' I
obeyed. The lock creaked with a deathly echo. I heard Bea's footsteps
approaching me from behind and felt her touch on my soaking clothes. 'You're
trembling. Is it fear or cold?' 'I haven't decided yet. Why are we here?' She
smiled in the dark and took my hand. 'Don't you know? I thought you would have
guessed. . . .' 'This was the Aldayas' house, that's all I know. How did you
manage to get in, and how did you know. . . ?' 'Come on, we'll light a fire to
warm you up.' She led me through the corridor to the gallery, which presided
over the inner courtyard of the house. The marble columns and naked walls of
the sitting room crept up to the coffered ceiling, which was falling to pieces.
You could make out the spaces where paintings and mirrors had once covered the
walls, and there were marks on the marble floor where furniture had stood. At
one end of the room was a fireplace laid with a few logs. A pile of old
newspaper stood by the poker. The air from the fireplace smelled of recent
flames and charcoal. Bea knelt down by the hearth and started to place a few
sheets of newspaper among the logs. She pulled out a match and lit them,
quickly conjuring up a crown of flames. I imagined she was thinking that I must
be dying of curiosity and impatience, so I decided to adopt a nonchalant air,
making it very clear that if she wanted to play games with me, she had every
chance of losing. But she wore a triumphant smile. Perhaps my trembling hands
did not help my acting. 'Do you often come here?' I asked. 'This is the first
time. Intrigued?' 'Vaguely.' She spread out a clean blanket that she took out
of a canvas bag. It smelled of lavender. 'Come on, sit here, by the fire. You
might catch pneumonia, and it would be my fault.' The heat from the blaze
revived me. Bea gazed silently at the flames, bewitched. 'Are you going to tell
me the secret?' I finally asked. Bea sighed and moved to one of the chairs. I
remained glued to the fire, watching the steam rise from my clothes like a
fleeing soul. 'What you call the Aldaya mansion has, in fact, got its own name.
The house is called "The Angel of Mist", but hardly anyone knows
this. My father's firm has been trying to sell the property for fifteen years,
but without any luck. The other day, while you were telling me the story of
Julian Carax and Penelope Aldaya, I didn't think of it. Later that night, at
home, I put two and two together and remembered I'd occasionally heard my
father talk about the Aldaya family, and about this house in particular.
Yesterday I went over to my father's office, and his secretary, Casasus, told
me the story of the house. Did you know that this wasn't their official
residence but one of their summer houses?' I shook my head. 'The Aldayas' main
house was a mansion that was knocked down in 1925 to erect a block of
apartments, on the site where Calle Bruch and Calle Mallorca cross today. The
building had been designed by Puig i Cadafalch and commissioned by Penelope and
Jorge's grandfather, Simon Aldaya, in 1896, when that area was nothing more
than fields and irrigation channels. The eldest son of the patriarch Simon, Don
Ricardo Aldaya, bought this summer residence at the turn of the century from a
rather bizarre character - at a ridiculous price, because the house had a bad
reputation. Casasus told me it was cursed and that even the vendors didn't dare
show people around and would dodge the issue with any old pretext. . . .' 28
That afternoon, as I warmed myself by the fire, Bea told me the story of how
The Angel of Mist had come into the possession of the Aldaya family. It had all
the makings of a lurid melodrama; something that could well have come from the
pen of Julian Carax. The house was built in 1899 by the architectural
partnership of Nauli, Martorell i Bergada, for a prosperous and extravagant
Catalan financier called Salvador Jausa, who was to live in it for only a year.
The tycoon, an orphan since the age of six and of humble origins, had amassed
most of his fortune in Cuba and Puerto Rico. People said that he was one of the
many shady figures behind the plot that led to the fall of Cuba and the war
with the United States, in which the last of the colonies were lost. He brought
back rather more than a fortune from the New World: with him were an American
wife - a fragile damsel from Philadelphia's high society who didn't speak a
word of Spanish - and a mulatto maid who had been in his service since his
first years in Cuba and who travelled with a caged macaque in harlequin dress,
and seven trunks of luggage. At first they moved into a few rooms in the Hotel
Colon, while they waited to acquire a residence that would suit the tastes and
desires of Jausa. Nobody doubted for a moment that the maid - an ebony beauty
endowed with eyes and a figure that, according to the society pages, could make
heart rates soar - was in fact his lover, his guide to innumerable illicit
pleasures. It was assumed, moreover, that she was a witch and a sorceress. Her
name was Marisela, or that's what Jausa called her. Her presence and her
mysterious air soon became the favourite talking point at the social gatherings
that wellborn ladies held to sample sponge fingers, and kill time and the
autumn blues. Unconfirmed rumours circulated at these tea parties that the
woman fornicated on top of the male, that is to say, rode him like a dog on
heat, which violated at least five of six recognized mortal sins. In
consequence, more than one person wrote to the bishopric asking for a special
blessing and protection for the untainted, immaculate souls of all respectable
families in Barcelona. And to crown it all, Jausa had the audacity to go out
for a ride in his carriage on Sundays, in the middle of the morning, with his
wife and Marisela, parading this Babylonian spectacle of depravity in front of
the eyes of any virtuous young man who might happen to be strolling along Paseo
de Gracia on his way to the eleven o'clock mass. Even the newspapers noted the
haughty look of the strapping woman, who gazed at the Barcelona public 'as a
queen of the jungle might gaze at a collection of pygmies'. Around that time
Catalan modernism was all the rage in Barcelona, but Jausa made it quite clear
to the architects he had engaged to build his new home that he wanted something
different. In his book 'different' was the highest praise. Jausa had spent
years strolling past the row of neo-Gothic extravagances that the great tycoons
of the American industrial age had erected on Fifth Avenue's Mansion Row in New
York City. Nostalgic for his American days of glory, the financier refused to
listen to any argument in favour of building in accordance with the fashion of
the moment, just as he had refused to buy a box in the Liceo, which was de
rigueur, labelling the opera house a Babel for the deaf, a beehive of
undesirables. He wanted his home to be far from the city, in the still
relatively isolated area of Avenida del Tibidabo. He wanted to gaze at
Barcelona from a distance, he said. The only company he sought was a garden
filled with statues of angels, which, according to his instructions (conveyed
by Marisela), must be placed on each of the points of a six-point star - no
more, no less. Resolved to carry out his plans, and with his coffers bursting
with money with which to satisfy his every whim, Salvador Jausa sent his
architects to New York for three months to study the exhilarating structures
built to house Commodor Vanderbilt, the Astors, Andrew Carnegie, and the rest
of the fifty golden families. He instructed them to assimilate the style and
techniques of the Stanford, White & McKim firms, and warned them not to
bother knocking on his door with a project that would please what he called
'pork butchers and button manufacturers'. A year later the three architects
turned up at his sumptuous rooms at the Hotel Colon to submit their proposal.
Jausa, in the company of the Cuban Marisela, listened to them • in silence and, at
the end of the presentation, asked them what it would cost to complete the work
in six months. Frederic Martorell, the leading member of the architectural
partnership, cleared his throat and, out of decorum, wrote down a figure on a
piece of paper and handed it to the tycoon. The latter, without even blinking,
wrote out a cheque for the total amount and dismissed the delegation with a
vague gesture. Seven months later, in July 1900, Jausa, his wife, and the maid
Marisela moved into the house. By August the two women would be dead and the
police would find a dazed Salvador Jausa naked and handcuffed to the armchair
in his study. The report made by the sergeant in charge of the case remarked
that all the walls in the house were bloodstained, that the statues of the
angels surrounding the garden had been mutilated - their faces painted like
tribal masks - and that traces of black candles had been found on the
pedestals. The inquiry lasted eight months. By then Jausa had fallen silent.
The police investigations concluded that by all indications, Jausa and his wife
had been poisoned by some herbal extract that had been administered to them by
Marisela, in whose rooms various bottles of the lethal substance had been
found. For some reason Jausa had survived the poison, although the aftermath
had been terrible, for he gradually lost his power of speech and his hearing,
part of his body was paralysed, and he suffered pains so horrendous they
condemned him to live the rest of his days in constant agony. Senora Jausa had
been discovered in her bedroom, lying on her bed with nothing on but her
jewels, one of which was a diamond bracelet. The police believed that once
Marisela had committed the crime, she had slashed her own wrists with a knife
and had wandered about the house spreading her blood on the walls of the
corridors and rooms until she collapsed in her attic room. The motive,
according to the police, had been jealousy. It seems that the tycoon's wife was
pregnant at the time of her death. Marisela, it was said, had sketched a
skeleton on the woman's naked belly with hot red wax. The case, like Salvador
Jausa's lips, was sealed forever a few months later. Barcelona's high society
observed that nothing like this had ever happened in the history of the city,
and that the likes of rich colonials and other rabble arriving from across the
pond was ruining the moral fibre of the country. Behind closed doors many were
delighted that the eccentricities of Salvador Jausa had come to an end. As
usual, they were mistaken: they had only just begun. The police and Jausa's
lawyers were responsible for closing the file on the case, but the nabob Jausa
wanted to continue. It was at this point that he met Don Ricardo Aldaya - by
then a rich industrialist with a colourful reputation for his womanizing and
his leonine temper - who offered to buy the property off him with the intention
of knocking it down and reselling it at a healthy profit: the value of land in
that area was soaring. Jausa did not agree to sell, but he invited Ricardo
Aldaya to visit the house and observe what he called a scientific and spiritual
experiment. No one had entered the property since the investigation had ended.
What Aldaya witnessed in there left him speechless. Jausa had completely lost
his mind. The dark shadow of Marisela's blood still covered the walls. Jausa
had summoned an inventor, a pioneer in the technological novelty of the moment,
the cinematograph. His name was Fructuos Gelabert, and he'd agreed to Jausa's
demands in exchange for funds with which to build a film studio in the Valles
region, for he felt sure that, during the twentieth century, moving pictures
would supplant organized religion. Apparently Jausa was convinced that the
spirit of Marisela had remained in the house. He asserted that he could feel
her presence, her voice, her smell, and even her touch in the dark. When they
heard these stories, Jausa's servants had immediately fled in search of less
stressful employment in the neighbouring Sarria district, where there were
plenty more mansions and families incapable of filling up a bucket of water or
darning their own socks. Jausa, left on his own, sank further into his
obsession with his invisible spectres. He decided that the answer to his woes
lay in making the invisible visible. He had already had a chance to see some of
the results of the invention of cinematography in New York, and he shared the
opinion of the deceased Marisela that the camera swallowed up souls. Following
this line of reasoning, he commissioned Fructuos Gelabert to shoot yards and
yards of film in the corridors of The Angel of Mist, in search of signs and
visions from the other world. Despite the cinematographer's noble efforts, the
scientific pursuit of Jausa's phantoms proved futile. Everything changed when
Gelabert announced that he'd received a new type of sensitive film straight
from the Thomas Edison factory in Menlo Park, New Jersey. The new stock made it
possible to shoot in extremely low light conditions - below candlelight -
something unheard of at the time. Then, in circumstances that were never made
clear, one of the assistants in Gelabert's laboratory accidentally poured some
sparkling Xarelo wine from the Penedes region into the developing tray. As a
result of the chemical reaction, strange shapes began to appear on the exposed
film. This was the film Jausa wanted to show Don Ricardo Aldaya the night he
invited him to his ghostly abode at number 32, Avenida del Tibidabo. When
Aldaya heard this, he supposed that Gelabert was afraid of losing Jausa's
funding and had resorted to such an elaborate ruse to keep his patron's
interest alive. Whatever the truth, Jausa had no doubt about the reliability of
the results. Moreover, where others saw only shapes and shadows, he saw
revenants. He swore he could see the silhouette of Marisela materializing under
a shroud, a shadow that then mutated into a wolf and walked upright. Alas, all
Ricardo Aldaya could see during the screening was large stains. He also
maintained that both the film itself and the technician who operated the
projector stank of wine and other entirely earthly spirits. Nonetheless, being
a sharp businessman, the industrialist sensed that he could turn the situation
to his advantage. A mad millionaire who was alone and obsessed with capturing
ectoplasm on film constituted the ideal victim. So Aldaya agreed with him and
encouraged him to continue with his enterprise. For weeks Gelabert and his men
shot miles of film that was then developed in different tanks using chemical
solutions diluted with exotic liqueurs, red wine blessed in the Ninot parish
church, and all kinds of cava from the Tarragona vineyards. Between screenings,
Jausa transferred powers, signed authorizations, and conferred the control of
his financial reserves to Ricardo Aldaya. Jausa vanished one November night of
that year during a storm. Nobody knew what had become of him. Apparently he was
developing one of Gelabert's special rolls of film himself when he met with an
accident. Don Ricardo Aldaya asked Gelabert to recover the roll. After viewing
it in private, Aldaya personally opted to set fire to it. Then, with the aid of
a very generous cheque, he suggested to the technician that he forget all about
the incident. By then Aldaya was already the owner of most of the properties
belonging to the vanished Jausa. There were those who said that the deceased
Marisela had returned to take Jausa with her to hell. Others pointed out that a
beggar, who greatly resembled the deceased millionaire, was seen for a few
months afterwards in the grounds of Ciudadela Park, until a black carriage with
drawn curtains ran over him in the middle of the day, without bothering to
stop. The stories spread: the dark legend of the rambling mansion, like the
invasion of Cuban music in the city's dance halls, could not be contained. A
few months later, Don Ricardo Aldaya moved his family into the house in Avenida
del Tibidabo, where, two weeks after their arrival, the couple's youngest
child, Penelope, was born. To celebrate the occasion, Aldaya renamed the house
'Villa Penelope'. The new name, however, never stuck. The house had its own
character and proved immune to the influence of its new owners. The recent
arrivals complained about noises and banging on the walls at night, sudden
putrid smells and freezing draughts that seemed to roam through the house like
wandering sentinels. The mansion was a compendium of mysteries. It had a double
basement, with a sort of crypt, as yet unused, on the lower level. On the
higher floor, a chapel was dominated by a large polychrome figure of the
crucified Christ, which the servants thought looked disturbingly like Rasputin
- a very popular character in the press of the time. The books in the library
were constantly being mysteriously rearranged, or turned back to front. There
was a room on the third floor, a bedroom that was never used because of the
unaccountable damp stains that showed up on the walls and seemed to form blurry
faces, where fresh flowers would wilt in just a few minutes and where you could
always hear the drone of flies, although it was impossible to see them. The
cooks swore that certain items, such as sugar, disappeared from the larder as
if by magic and that the milk took on a red hue at every new moon. Occasionally
they found dead birds at the doors of some of the rooms, or small rodents.
Other times things went missing, especially jewels and buttons from clothes
kept in cupboards and drawers. Sometimes the missing objects would mysteriously
reappear, months later, in remote corners of the house or buried in the garden.
But usually they were never found again. Don Ricardo was of the opinion that
these incidents were nothing but pranks and nonsense. In his view a week's
fasting would have curbed his family's fears. What he didn't regard so
philosophically were the thefts of his dear wife's jewellery. More than five
maids were sacked when different items from the lady's jewellery box
disappeared, though they all cried their hearts out, swearing they were
innocent. Those in the know tended to think there was no mystery involved: the
explanation lay in Don Ricardo's regrettable habit of slipping into the
bedrooms of the younger maids at midnight for some extramarital fun and games.
His reputation in. this field was almost as notorious as his fortune, and there
were those who said that at the rate his exploits were taking place, the
illegitimate children he left behind would be able to organize their own union.
The fact was that not only jewels disappeared. In time the family lost its joie
de vivre entirely. The Aldaya family was never happy in the house that had been
acquired through Don Ricardo's dark arts of negotiation. Senora Aldaya pleaded
constantly with her husband to sell the property and move them to a home in the
town, or even return to the residence that Puig i Cadafalch had built for
grandfather Simon, the patriarch of the clan. Ricardo Aldaya flatly refused.
Since he spent most of his time travelling or in the family's factories, he saw
no problem with the house. On one occasion little Jorge disappeared for eight
hours inside the mansion. His mother and the servants looked for him
desperately, but without success. When he reappeared, pale and dazed, he said
he'd been in the library the whole time, in the company of a mysterious black
woman who had been showing him old photographs and had told him that all the
women in the family would die in that house to atone for the sins of the men.
The mysterious woman even revealed to little Jorge the date on which his mother
would die: 12 April 1921. Needless to say, the so-called black lady was never
found, but years later, on 12 April 1921, at first light, Senora Aldaya would
be discovered lifeless on her bed. All her jewels had disappeared. When the
pond in the courtyard was drained, one of the servant boys found them in the
mud at the bottom, next to a doll that had belonged to her daughter, Penelope.
A week later Don Ricardo Aldaya decided to get rid of the house. By then his
financial empire was already in its death throes, and there were those who
insinuated that it was all due to that accursed house, which brought misfortune
to whoever occupied it. Others, the more cautious ones, simply asserted that
Aldaya had never understood the changing trends of the market and that all he
had accomplished during his lifetime was to ruin the robust business created by
the patriarch Simon. Ricardo Aldaya announced that he was leaving Barcelona and
moving with his family to Argentina, where his textile industries were
allegedly doing splendidly. Many believed he was fleeing from failure and
shame. In 1922 The Angel of Mist was put up for sale at a ridiculously low
price. At first there was strong interest in buying it, as much for its
notoriety as for the growing prestige of the neighbourhood, but none of the
potential buyers made an offer after visiting the house. In 1923 the mansion
was closed. The deed was transferred to a real-estate company high up on the
long list of Aldaya's creditors, so that it could arrange for its sale or
demolition. The house was on the market for years, but the firm was unable to
find a buyer. The said company, Botell i Llofre S.L., went bankrupt in 1939
when its two partners were sent to prison on unknown charges. After the
unexplained fatal accident that befell both men in the San Vicens jail in 1940,
it was taken over by a financial group, among whose shareholders were three
fascist generals and a Swiss banker. This company's executive director turned
out to be a certain Senor Aguilar, father of Tomas and Bea. Despite all their
efforts, none of Senor Aguilar's salesmen were able to place the house, not
even by offering it far beneath its already low asking price. Nobody had been
back to the property for over ten years. 'Until today,' said Bea quietly,
withdrawing into herself for a moment. ‘I wanted to show you this place, you
see? I wanted to give you a surprise. I told myself I had to bring you here,
because this was part of your story, the story of Carax and Penelope. I
borrowed the key from my father's office. Nobody knows we're here. It's our
secret. I wanted to share it with you. And I was asking myself whether you'd
come.' 'You knew I would.' She smiled as she nodded. 'I believe that nothing
happens by chance. Deep down, things have their own secret plan, even though we
don't understand it. Like you finding that novel by Julian Carax in the Cemetery
of Forgotten Books, or the fact that you and I are here now, in this house that
belonged to the Aldayas. It's all part of something we cannot comprehend,
something that owns us.' While she spoke, my hand had slipped awkwardly down to
Bea's ankle and was sliding towards her knee. She watched it as if she were
watching an insect climbing up her leg. I asked myself what Fermin would have
done at that moment. Where was his wisdom when I needed it most? 'Tomas says
you've never had a girlfriend,' said Bea, as if that explained me. I removed my
hand and looked down, defeated. I thought Bea was smiling, but I preferred not
to check. 'Considering he's so quiet, your brother is turning out to be quite a
bigmouth. What else does the newsreel say about me?' 'He says that for years
you were in love with an older woman and that the experience left you
broken-hearted.' 'All I had broken was a lip and my pride.' 'Tomas says you
haven't been out with any other girl since then because you compare them all
with that woman.' Good old Tomas and his hidden blows. 'Her name is Clara,' I
proffered. 'I know. Clara Barcelo.' 'Do you know her?' 'Everyone knows someone
like Clara Barcelo. The name is the least of it.' We fell silent for a while,.
watching the fire crackle. 'After I left you, I wrote a letter to Pablo,' said
Bea. I swallowed hard. 'To your lieutenant boyfriend? What for?' Bea took an
envelope out of her blouse and showed it to me. It was closed and sealed. 'In
the letter I told him I wanted us to get married very soon, in a month's time,
if possible, and that I want to leave Barcelona forever.' Almost trembling, I
faced her impenetrable eyes. 'Why are you telling me this?' 'Because I want you
to tell me whether I should send it or not. That's why I've asked you to come
here today, Daniel.' I examined the envelope that she twirled in her hand like
a playing card. 'Look at me,' she said. I raised my eyes and met her gaze. I
didn't know what to answer. Bea lowered her eyes and walked away towards the
end of the gallery. A door led to the marble balustrade that opened onto the
inner courtyard of the house. I watched her silhouette fade into the rain. I
went after her and stopped her, snatching the envelope from her hands. The rain
beat down on her face, sweeping away the tears and the anger. I led her back
into the mansion to the heat of the blaze. She avoided my eyes. I took the
envelope and threw it into the flames. We watched the letter breaking up among
the hot coals and the pages evaporating in spirals of smoke, one by one. Bea
knelt down next to me, with tears in her eyes. I embraced her and felt her
breath on my throat. 'Don't let me fall, Daniel,' she murmured. The wisest man
I ever knew, Fermin Romero de Torres, once told me that there was no experience
in life comparable to the first time you undress a woman. For all this wisdom,
though he had not lied to me, he hadn't told me the complete truth either. He
hadn't told me anything about that strange trembling of the hands that turned
every button, every zip, into a superhuman challenge. Nor had he told me about
that bewitchment of pale, tremulous skin, that first brush of the lips, or
about the mirage that seemed to shimmer from every pore of the skin. He didn't
tell me any of that because he knew that the miracle happened only once, and
when it did, it spoke in a language of secrets that, were they disclosed, would
vanish again forever. A thousand times I've wanted to recover that first
afternoon with Bea in the rambling house on Avenida del Tibidabo, when the
sound of the rain washed the whole world away with it. A thousand times I've
wished to return and lose myself in a memory from which I can rescue only one
image stolen from the heat of the flames: Bea, naked and glistening with rain,
lying by the fire, with open eyes that have followed me since that day. I
leaned over her and passed the tips of my fingers over her belly. Bea lowered
her eyelids and smiled, confident and strong. 'Do what you like to me,' she
whispered. She was seventeen, her entire life shining before her. 29 Darkness
enveloped us in shadow as we left the mansion. The storm was receding, now
barely an echo of cold rain. I wanted to return the key to Bea, but her eyes
told me she wanted me to be the one to keep it. We strolled down towards Paseo
de San Gervasio hoping to find a taxi or a bus. We walked in silence, holding
hands and hardly looking at one another. 'I won't be able to see you again
until Tuesday,' said Bea in a tremulous voice, as if she suddenly doubted my
desire to see her again. 'I'll be waiting for you here,' I said. I took for
granted that all my meetings with Bea would take place between the walls of
that rambling old house, that the rest of the city did not belong to us. It
even seemed to me that the firmness of her touch decreased as we moved away,
that her strength and warmth diminished with every step we took. When we
reached the avenue, we realized that the streets were almost deserted. 'We
won't find anything here,' said Bea. 'We'd better go down along Balmes.' We
started off briskly down Calle Balmes, walking under the trees to shelter from
the drizzle. It seemed to me that Bea was quickening her pace at every step,
almost dragging me along. For a moment I thought that if I let go of her hand,
Bea would start to run. My imagination, still intoxicated by her touch and her
taste, burned with a desire to corner her on a bench, to seek her lips and
recite a predictable string of nonsense that would have made anyone within
hearing burst out laughing, anyone but me. But Bea was withdrawing into herself
again, fading a world away from me. 'What's the matter?' I murmured. She gave
me a broken smile, full of fear and loneliness. I then saw myself through her
eyes: just an innocent boy who thought he had conquered the world in an hour
but didn't realize he could lose it again in an instant. I kept on walking,
without expecting an answer. Waking up at last. Soon we heard the rumble of
traffic, and the air seemed to ignite with the heat from the streetlamps and
traffic lights. They made me think of invisible walls. 'We'd better separate
here,' said Bea, letting go of my hand. The lights from a taxi rank could be
seen on the corner, a procession of glow-worms. 'As you wish.' Bea leaned over
and brushed my cheek with her lips. Her hair still smelled of candle wax.
'Bea,' I began, almost inaudibly. 'I love you. . . .' She shook her head but
said nothing, sealing my lips with her hand as if my words were wounding her.
'Tuesday at six, all right?' she asked. I nodded again. I saw her leave and
disappear into a taxi, almost a stranger. One of the drivers, who had followed
the exchange as if he were an umpire, observed me with curiosity. 'What do you
say? Shall we head for home, chief?' I got into the taxi without thinking. The
taxi driver's eyes examined me through the mirror. I lost sight of the car that
was taking Bea away, two dots of light sinking into a well of darkness. I
didn't manage to get to sleep until dawn cast a hundred tones of dismal grey on
my bedroom window. Fermin woke me up, throwing tiny pebbles at my window from
the church square. I put on the first thing I could find and ran down to open
the door for him. Fermin was full of the insufferable enthusiasm of the early
bird. We pushed up the shop grilles and hung up the open sign. 'Look at those
rings under your eyes, Daniel. They're as big as a building site. May we assume
the owl got the pussycat to go out to sea with him?' I went to the back room,
put on my blue apron and handed Fermin his, or rather threw it at him angrily.
Fermin caught it in mid-flight, with a sly smile. 'The owl drowned, period.
Happy?' I snapped. 'Intriguing metaphor. Have you been dusting off your
Verlaine, young man?' ‘I stick to prose on Monday mornings. What do you want me
to tell you?' 'I'll leave that up to you. The number of estocadas or the laps
of honour.' 'I'm not in the mood, Fermin.' 'O youth, flower of fools! Well,
don't get irritated with me. I have fresh news concerning our investigation on
your friend Julian Carax.' 'I'm all ears.' He gave me one of his
cloak-and-dagger looks, one eyebrow raised. 'Well, it turns out that yesterday,
after leaving Bernarda back home with her virtue intact but a nice couple of
well-placed bruises on her backside, I was assailed by a fit of insomnia - due
to the evening's erotic arousals - which gave me the pretext to walk down to
one of the information centres of Barcelona's underworld, i.e., the tavern of
Eliodoro Salfuman, aka "Coldprick", situated in a seedy but rather
colourful establishment in Calle Sant Jeroni, pride of the Raval quarter.' 'The
abridged version, Fermin, for goodness' sake.' 'Coming. The fact is that once I
was there, ingratiating myself with some of the usual crowd, old chums from
troubled times of yore, I began to make inquiries about this Miquel Moliner,
the husband of your Mata Hari Nuria Monfort, and a supposed inmate at the local
penitential.' 'Supposed?' 'With a capital S. There are no slips at all 'twixt
cup and lip in this case, if you see what I mean. I know from experience that
when it comes to the census of the prison population, my informants in
Coldprick's tabernacle are much more accurate than the pencil pushers in the
law courts. I can guarantee, Daniel, my friend, that nobody has heard mention
of the name Miquel Moliner as an inmate, visitor, or any other living soul in
the prisons of Barcelona for at least ten years.' 'Perhaps he's serving in some
other prison.' 'Yes. Alcatraz, Sing Sing, or the Bastille. Daniel, that woman
lied to you.' 'I suppose she did.' 'Don't suppose; accept it.' 'So what now?
Miquel Moliner is a dead end.' 'Or this Nuria is very crafty.' 'What are you
suggesting?' 'At the moment we must explore other avenues. It wouldn't be a bad
idea to call on the good nanny in the story the priest foisted on us yesterday
morning.' 'Don't tell me you think that the governess has vanished too.' 'No,
but I do think it's time we stopped fussing about and knocking on doors as if
we were begging for alms. In this line of business, you have to go in through
the back door. Are you with me?' 'You know that I worship the ground you walk
on.' 'Well, then, start dusting your altar-boy costume. This afternoon, as soon
as we've closed the shop, we're going to make a charitable visit to the old
lady in the Hospice of Santa Lucia. And now tell me, how did it go yesterday
with the young filly? Don't be secretive. If you hold back, may you sprout
virulent pimples.' I sighed in defeat and made my confession, down to the last
detail. At the end of my narrative, after listing what I was sure were just the
existential anxieties of a moronic schoolboy, Fermin surprised me with sudden
heartfelt hug. 'You're in love,' he mumbled, full of emotion, patting me on the
back. 'Poor kid.' That afternoon we left the bookshop precisely at closing
time, a move that earned us a steely look from my father, who was beginning to
suspect that we were involved in some shady business, with all this coming and
going. Fermin mumbled something incoherent about a few errands that needed
doing, and we quickly disappeared. I told myself that sooner or later I'd have
to reveal at least part of all this mess to my father; which part, exactly, was
a different question. On our way, with his usual flair for tales, Fermin
briefed me on where we were heading. The Santa Lucia hospice was an institution
of dubious reputation housed within the ruins of an ancient palace on Calle
Moncada. The legend surrounding the place made it sound like a cross between
purgatory and a morgue, with sanitary conditions worse than either. The story
was, to say the very least, peculiar. Since the eleventh century, the palace
had been home to, among other things, various well-to-do families, a prison, a
salon for courtesans, a library of forbidden manuscripts, a barracks, a
sculptor's workshop, a sanatorium for plague sufferers, and a convent. In the
middle of the nineteenth century, when it was practically crumbling to bits,
the palace had been turned into a museum exhibiting circus freaks and other
atrocities by a bombastic impresario who called himself Laszlo de Vicherny,
Duke of Parma and private alchemist to the House of Bourbon. His real name
turned out to be Baltasar Deulofeu i Carallot, the bastard son of a salted-pork
entrepreneur and a fallen debutante, who was mostly known for his escapades as
a professional gigolo and con artist. The man took pride in owning Spain's
largest collection of human foetuses in different stages of deformity,
preserved in jars of embalming fluid, and somewhat less pride in his even
larger collection of warrants issued by some of Europe's and America's finest
law-enforcement agencies. Among other attractions, 'The Tenebrarium' (as
Deulofeu had renamed the palace), offered seances, necromancy, fights (with
cocks, rats, dogs, big strapping women, imbeciles, or some combination of the
above), as well as betting, a brothel that specialized in cripples and freaks,
a casino, a legal and financial consultancy, a workshop for love potions,
regional folklore and puppet shows, and parades of exotic dancers. At Christmas
a Nativity play was staged, sparing no expense, and featuring the troupe from
the museum and the entire collection of prostitutes. Its fame reached the far
ends of the province. The Tenebrarium was a roaring success for fifteen years,
until it was discovered that Deulofeu had seduced the wife, the daughter, and
the mother-in-law of the military governor of the province within a single
week. The blackest infamy descended on the place and its owner. Before Deulofeu
was able to flee the city and don another of his multiple identities, a band of
masked thugs seized him in the backstreets of the Santa Maria quarter and
proceeded to hang him and set fire to him in the Ciudadela Park, leaving his
body to be devoured by the wild dogs that roamed the area. After two decades of
neglect, during which time nobody bothered to remove the collection of horrors
belonging to the ill-fated Laszlo, The Tenebrarium was transformed into a
charitable institution under the care of an order of nuns. 'The Ladies of the
Final Ordeal, or something equally morbid,' said Fermin. 'The trouble is,
they're very obsessive about the secrecy of the place (bad conscience, I'd
say), which means we'll have to think of some ruse for getting in.' In more
recent times, the occupants of the Hospice of Santa Lucia were being recruited
from the ranks of dying, abandoned, demented, destitute old people who made up
the crowded underworld of Barcelona. Luckily for them, they mostly lasted only
a short time after they had been taken in; neither the conditions of the
establishment nor the company encouraged longevity. According to Fermin, the
deceased were removed shortly before dawn and made their last journey to the
communal grave in a covered wagon donated by a firm in Hospitalet that
specialized in meat packing and rather dubious delicatessen products - a firm
that occasionally would be involved in grim scandals. 'You're making all of
this up,' I protested, overwhelmed by the horrific details of Fermin's story.
'My inventiveness does not go that far, Daniel. Wait and see. I visited the
building on one unfortunate occasion about ten years ago, and I can tell you
that it looked as. if they'd hired your friend Julian Carax as an interior
decorator. A shame we didn't bring some laurel leaves to stifle the aromas. But
we'll have enough trouble as it is just being allowed in.' With my expectations
thus shaped, we turned into Calle Moncada, by that time of day already
transformed into a dark passage flanked by old mansions that had been turned
into storehouses and workshops. The litany of bells coming from the basilica of
Santa Maria del Mar mingled with the echo of our footsteps. Soon a penetrating,
bitter odour permeated the cold winter breeze. 'What's that smell?' 'We've
arrived,' announced Fermin. 30 A front door of rotted wood let us into a
courtyard guarded by gas lamps that flickered above gargoyles and angels, their
features disintegrating on the old stone. A staircase led to the first floor,
where a rectangle of light marked the main entrance to the hospice. The
gaslight radiating from this opening gave an ochre tone to the miasma that
emanated from within. An angular, predatory figure observed us coolly from the
shadows of the door, her eyes the same colour as her habit. She held a steaming
wooden bucket that gave off an indescribable stench.
'Hail-Mary-Full-Of-Grace-Conceived-Without-Sin!' Fermin called out
enthusiastically. 'Where's the coffin?' answered the voice from up high,
serious and taciturn. 'Coffin?' Fermin and I replied in unison. 'Aren't you
from the undertaker's?' asked the nun in a weary voice. I wondered whether that
was a comment on our appearance or a genuine question. Fermin's face lit up at
such a providential opportunity. 'The coffin is in the van. First we'd like to
examine the customer. A pure technicality.' I felt overpowered by nausea. 'I
thought Senor Collbato was going to come in person,' said the nun. 'Senor
Collbato begs to be excused, but a rather complicated embalming has cropped up
at the last moment. A circus strongman.' 'Do you work with Senor Collbato in
the funeral parlour?' 'We're his right and left hands, respectively. Wilfred
the Hairy at your service, and here, at my side, my apprentice and student,
Sanson Carrasco.' 'Pleased to meet you,' I rounded off. The nun gave us a brief
looking-over and nodded, indifferent to the pair of scarecrows reflected in her
eyes. 'Welcome to Santa Lucia. I'm Sister Hortensia, the one who called you.
Follow me. We followed Sister Hortensia without a word through a cavernous
corridor whose smell reminded me of the subway tunnels. It was flanked by door
less frames through which you could make out candlelit halls filled with rows
of beds, piled up against the wall and covered with mosquito nets that moved in
the air like shrouds. I could hear groans and see glimpses of human shapes
through the netting. 'This way,' Sistern Hortensia beckoned, a few yards ahead
of us. We entered a wide vault which I had no difficulty in imagining as the
stage for The Tenebrarium described by Fermin. The darkness obscured what at
first seemed like a collection of wax figures, sitting or abandoned in corners,
with dead, glassy eyes that shone like tin coins in the candlelight. I thought
that perhaps they were dolls or remains of the old museum. Then I realized that
they were moving, though very slowly, even stealthily. It was impossible to
tell their age or gender. The rags covering them were the colour of ash. 'Senor
Collbato said not to touch or clean anything,' said Sister Hortensia, looking
slightly apologetic. 'We just placed the poor thing in one of the boxes that
was lying around here, because he was beginning to drip.' 'You did the right
thing. You can't be too careful,' agreed Fermin. I threw him a despairing look.
He shook his head calmly, indicating that I should leave him in charge of the
situation. Sister Hortensia led us to what appeared to be a cell with no
ventilation or light, at the end of a narrow passage. She took one of the gas
lamps that hung from the wall and handed it to us. 'Will you be long? I'm
rather busy.' 'Don't worry about us. You get on with your things, and we'll
take him away.' 'All right. If you need anything I'll be down in the basement,
in the ward for the bedridden. If it's not too much bother, take him out
through the back door. Don't let the others see him. It's bad for the patients'
morale.' 'We quite understand,' I said in a faltering voice. Sister Hortensia
gazed at me for a moment with vague curiosity. When I saw her more closely, I
noticed that she was quite an age herself, almost an elderly woman. Few years
separated her from the rest of the hospice's guests. 'Listen, isn't the
apprentice a bit young for this sort of work?' she asked. 'The truths of life
know no age, Sister,' remarked Fermin. The nun nodded and smiled at me sweetly.
There was no suspicion in that look, only sadness. 'Even so,' she murmured. She
wandered off into the shadows, carrying her bucket and dragging her shadow like
a bridal veil. Fermin pushed me into the cell. It was a dismal, claustrophobic
room built into the walls of a cave that sweated with damp. Chains ending in
hooks hung from the ceiling, and the cracked floor was broken up by a sewage
grating. In the centre of the room, on a greyish marble table, was a wooden
crate for industrial packaging. Fermin raised the lamp, and we caught a glimpse
of the deceased nestling between the straw padding. Parchment features,
incomprehensible, jagged and frozen. The swollen skin was purple. The eyes were
open: white, like broken eggshells. The sight made my stomach turn, and I
looked away. 'Come on, let's get down to work,' ordered Fermin. 'Are you mad?'
'I mean we have to find this Jacinta woman before we're found out.' 'How?' 'How
do you think? By asking.' We peered into the corridor to make sure Sister
Hortensia had vanished. Then we scurried back to the hall we had previously
crossed. The wretched figures were still observing us, with looks that ranged
from curiosity to fear and, in some cases, to greed. 'Watch it, some of these
would suck your blood if they thought it would make them any younger,' said
Fermin. 'Age makes them all look as meek as lambs, but there are as many sons
of bitches in here as out there, or more. Because these are the ones who have
lasted and buried the rest. Don't feel sorry for them. Go on, begin with those
ones in the corner - they look harmless enough.' If those words were meant to
give me courage for the mission, they failed miserably. I looked at the group
of human remains that languished in the corner and smiled at them. It occurred
to me that their very presence was testimony to the moral emptiness of the
universe and the mechanical brutality with which it destroys the parts it no
longer needs. Fermin seemed able to read these profound thoughts and nodded
gravely. 'Mother Nature is the meanest of bitches, that's the sad truth,' he
said. 'Go on, be brave.' My first round of inquiries as to the whereabouts of
Jacinta Coronado produced only empty looks, groans, burps, and ravings. Fifteen
minutes later I called it a day and joined Fermin to see whether he'd had
better luck. His disappointment was all too obvious. 'How are we going to find
Jacinta Coronado in his shithole?' 'I don't know. It's a cauldron of idiots.
I've tried the Sugus sweet trick, but they seem to think they're
suppositories.' 'What if we ask Sister Hortensia? We tell her the truth, and
have done with it.' 'Telling the truth should be our last resort, Daniel, even
more so when you're dealing with a nun. Let's use up all our powder first. Look
at that little group over there. They seem quite jolly. I'm sure they're very
articulate. Go and question them.' 'And what are you planning to do?' 'I'll
keep watch, in case the penguin returns. You get on with your business.' With
little or no hope of success, I went up to the group of patients occupying another
corner of the room. 'Good evening,' I said, realizing instantly how absurd my
greeting was, because in there, it was always night time. 'I'm looking for
Senora Jacinta Coronado. Co-ro-na-do. Do any of you know her, or could you tell
me where to find her?' I was confronted by four faces corrupted by greed.
There's something here, I thought. Maybe all's not lost. 'Jacinta Coronado?' I
insisted. The four patients exchanged looks and nodded to each other. One of
them, a potbellied man without a single hair on his body, seemed to be their
leader. His appearance and manner made me think of a happy Nero, plucking his
harp while Rome rotted at his feet. With a majestic gesture, the Nero figure
smiled at me playfully. I returned the smile, hopefully. The man gestured at me
to come closer, as if he wanted to whisper something in my ear. I hesitated,
then leaned forward. I lent my ear to the patient's lips - so close that I
could feel his fetid, warm breath on my skin. 'Can you tell me where I can find
Senora Jacinta Coronado?' I asked for the last time. I was afraid he'd bite me.
Instead he emitted a violently loud fart. His companions burst out laughing and
clapped with joy. I took a few steps back, but it was too late: the flatulent
vapours had already hit me. It was then that I noticed, close to me, an old
man, all hunched up, with a prophet's beard, thin hair, and fiery eyes, who was
leaning on a walking stick and gazing at the others with disdain. 'You're
wasting your time, young man. Juanito only knows how to let off farts, and the
others can only laugh and smell them. As you see, the social structure here
isn't very different from that of the outside world.' The ancient philosopher
spoke in a solemn voice and with perfect diction. He looked me up and down, taking
the measure of me. 'You're looking for Jacinta?' I nodded, astounded by the
appearance of intelligent life in that den of horrors. 'And what for?' 'I'm her
grandson.' 'And I'm the Marquis of Cremebrulee. You're a terrible liar, that's
what you are. Tell me why you want to see her or I'll play the madman. It's
easy here. And if you intend to ask these poor wretches one by one, you'll soon
see what I mean.' Juanito and his gang of inhalers were still howling with
laughter. The soloist then gave off an encore, more muted and prolonged than
the previous one. It sounded like a hiss, like a punctured tyre, and proved
Juanito's virtuoso control over his sphincter. I yielded to the facts. 'You're
right. I'm not a relative of Senora Coronado, but I need to speak to her. It's
a matter of the utmost importance.' The old man came up to me. He had a wicked,
catlike smile the smile of a mischievous child, and his eyes were full of
cunning. 'Can you help me?' I begged. 'That depends on how much you can help
me.' 'If it's in my power, I'd be delighted to help you. Would you like me to
deliver a message to your family?' The old man laughed bitterly. 'My family
were the ones who stuck me in this hole. They're a load of leeches; they'd
steal my underpants while they're still warm. To hell with them. I've kept them
and put up with them for long enough. What I want is a woman.' 'Excuse me?' The
old man looked at me impatiently. 'Being young is no excuse for slow wit,
child. I'm telling you I want a woman. A female, a maid, or a well-bred young
filly. Young - under fifty-five, that is - and healthy, with no sores or
fractures.' 'I'm not sure if I understand. 'You understand me perfectly. I want
to have it off with a woman who has teeth and won't pee on me, before I depart
for the other world. I don't mind whether she's good-looking or not; I'm half
blind, and at my age any girl who has anything to hold onto is a Venus. Am I
making myself clear?' 'Crystal. But I don't see how I'm going to find a woman
for you. . . .' 'When I was your age, there was something in the service sector
called "ladies of easy virtue". I know the world changes, but never
in essence. Find one for me, plump and fun-loving, and we'll do business. And
if you're asking yourself about my ability to enjoy a woman, I want you to know
I'm quite content to pinch her backside and feel up her bumpers. That's the
advantage of experience.' 'Technicalities are your affair, sir, but I can't
bring a woman to you here right now.' 'I might be a dirty old man, but I'm not
stupid. I know that. Your promise is good enough for me.' 'And how do you know
I won't say yes just to get you to tell me where Jacinta Coronado is?' The old
man gave me a sly smile. 'You give me your word, and leave any problems of
conscience to me.' I looked around me. Juanito was starting on the second half
of his recital. Hope was ebbing away. Fulfilling this horny granddad's request
seemed to be the only thing that made any sense in that purgatory. 'I give you
my word. I'll do what I can.' The old man smiled from ear to ear. I counted
three teeth. 'Blonde, even if it's peroxide. Pneumatically endowed and good at
talking dirty, if possible. Of all the senses, the one that still works the
best is my hearing.' 'I'll see what I can do. Now, tell me where I can find
Jacinta Coronado.' 31 'You've promised what to that old Methuselah?' 'You
heard.' 'You were joking, I hope.' 'I can't lie to an old man who is at death's
door, no matter how fresh he turns out to be.' 'And that does you credit,
Daniel, but how do you think you're going to slip a whore into this holy
house?' 'By paying her three times as much, I suppose. I leave all the
specifics to you.' Fermin shrugged resignedly. 'Oh, well, a deal's a deal.
We'll think of something. But remember, next time a negotiation of this nature
turns up, let me do the talking.' 'Agreed.' Just as the crafty old devil had
instructed, we found Jacinta Coronado in a loft that could only be reached by a
staircase on the third floor. According to the old man, the attic was the refuge
for the few patients whom fate had not yet had the decency to deprive of
understanding. Apparently this hidden wing had, in its day, housed the rooms of
Baltasar Deulofeu, aka Laszlo de Vicherny, from which he governed The
Tenebrarium's activities and cultivated the loving arts newly arrived from the
East, amid clouds of perfume and scented oils. And there was no lack of scent
now, though of a very different nature. A woman who could only be Jacinta
Coronado sagged in a wicker chair, wrapped in a blanket. 'Senora Coronado? I
asked, raising my voice, in case the poor thing was deaf, half-witted, or both.
The elderly woman examined us carefully, with some reserve. Her eyes looked
bleary, and only a few wisps of whitish hair covered her head. I noticed that she
gave me a puzzled look, as if she'd seen me before but couldn't remember where.
I was afraid Fermin was going to rush into introducing me as the son of Carax
or some similar lie, but all he did was kneel down next to the old lady and
take her trembling, wrinkled hand. 'Jacinta, I'm Fermin, and this handsome
young lad is my friend Daniel. Father Fernando Ramos sent us. He wasn't able to
come today because he had twelve masses to say - you know what the calendar of
saints' days is like — but he sends you his best regards. How are you feeling?'
The old woman smiled sweetly at Fermin. My friend stroked her face and her
forehead. She appreciated the touch of another skin like a purring cat. I felt
a lump in my throat. 'A stupid question, wasn't it?' Fermin went on. 'What
you'd like is to be out there, dancing a foxtrot. You look like a dancer;
everyone must tell you that.' I had never seen him treat anyone with such
delicacy, not even Bernarda. His words were pure flattery, but the tone and
expression on his face were sincere. 'What pretty things you say,' she murmured
in a voice that was broken from not having had anyone to speak to or anything
to say. 'Not half as pretty as you, Jacinta. Do you think we could ask you some
questions? Like on a radio contest, you know?' The old woman just blinked in
response. 'I'd say that's a yes. Do you remember Penelope, Jacinta? Penelope
Aldaya? It's her we'd like to ask you about.' Jacinta's eyes suddenly lit up
and she nodded. 'My girl,' she murmured, and it looked like she was going to
burst into tears. 'The very one. You do remember, don't you? We're friends of
Julian. Julian Carax, the one who told scary stories. You remember that, too,
don't you?' The old woman's eyes shone, as if those words and the touch on her
skin were bringing her back to life by the minute. 'Father Fernando, from San
Gabriel's, told us you adored Penelope. He loves you very much, too, and thinks
of you every day, you know. If he doesn't come more often, it's just because
the new bishop, a social climber, loads him with such a quota of masses that
his voice gives out.' 'Are you sure you eat enough?' the old lady suddenly
asked, with a worried expression. 'I eat like a horse, Jacinta. The trouble is,
I have a very manly metabolism and I burn it all up. But believe me, under
these clothes it's all pure muscle. Feel, feel. Like Charles Atlas, only
hairier.' Jacinta nodded and looked reassured. She couldn't take her eyes off
Fermin. She had forgotten about me completely. 'What can you tell us about
Penelope and Julian?' 'Between them all, they took her from me,' she said. 'My
girl' I took a step forward and was about to say something, but Fermin threw me
a look that told me to remain silent. 'Who took Penelope from you, Jacinta? Do
you remember?' 'The master,' she said, raising her eyes fearfully, as if she
thought someone might hear us. Fermin seemed to be gauging the emphasis of the
old woman's gesture and followed her eyes to the ceiling, weighing up the
possibilities. 'Are you referring to God Almighty, emperor of the heavens, or
did you mean the master, Miss Penelope's father, Don Ricardo?' 'How's
Fernando?' asked the old woman. 'The priest? Splendid. One day, he'll be made
pope and will set you up in the Sistine Chapel. He sends you all the best.' 'He's
the only one who comes to see me, you know. He comes because he knows I don't
have anyone else.' Fermin gave me a sideways look, as if he were thinking what
I was thinking. Jacinta Coronado was much saner than her appearance suggested.
Her body was fading away, but her mind and her soul were still blazing with
anguish in that wretched place. I wondered how many more people like her, or
like the lusty little old man who had shown us how to find her, were trapped in
there. 'He comes because he's very fond of you, Jacinta. Because he remembers
how well you looked after him and how you fed him when he was a child. He's
told us all about that. Do you remember, Jacinta? Do you remember those days,
when you went to collect Jorge from school, do you remember Fernando and
Julian?' 'Julian She whispered the name slowly, but her smile betrayed her. 'Do
you remember Julian Carax, Jacinta?' 'I remember the day Penelope told me she
was going to marry him. ..' Fermin and I looked at one another in astonishment.
'Marry? When was that, Jacinta?' 'The first day she saw him. She was thirteen
and didn't know who he was or what he was called.' 'Then how did she know she
was going to marry him?' 'Because she'd seen him. In her dreams.' As a child,
Maria Jacinta Coronado was convinced that the world ended on the outskirts of
Toledo and that beyond the town limits there was nothing but darkness and
oceans of fire. Jacinta had got that idea from a dream she had during a fever
that had almost killed her when she was four years old. This dream was the
first of many and they began with that mysterious fever, which some blamed on
the sting of a huge red scorpion that appeared in the house one day and was
never seen again, and others on the evil designs of a mad nun who crept into
houses at night to poison children and who, years later, was to be garroted
reciting the Lord's Prayer backwards with her eyes popping out of their
sockets, while a red cloud spread over the town, discharging a storm of dead
cockroaches. In her dreams Jacinta perceived the past and the future and, at
times, saw revealed to her the secrets and mysteries of the old streets of
Toledo. One of the characters she would see repeatedly in her dreams was
someone called Zacarias, an angel who was always dressed in black and who was
accompanied by a dark cat with yellow eyes whose breath smelled of sulphur.
Zacarias knew everything: he had predicted the day and the hour of her uncle
Benancio's death - a hawker of ointments and holy water. He had revealed the
place where her mother, a sanctimonious churchgoer, hid a bundle of letters
from an ardent medical student with few financial resources but a solid
knowledge of anatomy, and in whose bedroom in the alleyway of Santa Maria she
had discovered the doors of paradise at an early age. Zacarias had announced to
Jacinta that there was something evil fixed in her stomach, a dead spirit that
wished her ill, and that she would know the love of only one man: an empty,
selfish love that would break her soul in two. He had augured that in her
lifetime she would behold the death of everything she loved, and that before
she reached heaven, she would visit hell. On the day of her first period,
Zacarias and his sulphuric cat disappeared from her dreams, but years later
Jacinta would remember the visits of the black angel with tears in her eyes,
because all his prophecies had come true. So when the doctors diagnosed that
she would never be able to have children, Jacinta wasn't surprised. Nor was she
surprised, although she almost died of grief, when her husband of three years
announced that he was going to leave her because she was like a wasteland that
produced no fruit, because she wasn't a woman. In the absence of Zacarias (whom
she took to be an emissary of heaven, for, whether or not he was dressed in
black, he was still a radiant angel and the best-looking man she had ever
seen), Jacinta spoke to God on her own, hiding in corners, without seeing him
or expecting him to bother with a reply, because there was a lot of pain in the
world and her troubles were, in the end, only small matters. All her monologues
with God dealt with the same theme: she wanted only one thing in life, to be a
mother, to be woman. One day, while she was praying in the cathedral, a man,
whom she recognized as Zacarias, came up to her. He dressed as he always did
and held his malicious cat on his lap. He did not look a single day older and
still sported magnificent nails, like the nails of a duchess, long and pointed.
The angel admitted that he was there because God didn't plan to answer her
prayers. But he told her not to worry because, one way or another, he would
send her a child. He leaned over her, murmured the word 'Tibidabo', and kissed
her very tenderly on the lips. At the touch of those fine, honeyed lips, Jacinta
had a vision: she would have a daughter without further knowledge of man
(which, judging from the three years in the bedroom with her husband, who
insisted on doing his thing while covering her head with a pillow and mumbling
'Don't look, you slut,' was a relief). This girl would come to her in a very
faraway city, trapped between a crescent of mountains and a sea of light, a
city filled with buildings that could exist only in dreams. Later Jacinta was
unable to tell whether Zacarias's visit had been another of her dreams or
whether the angel really had come to her in Toledo Cathedral, with his cat and
his scarlet-manicured nails. What she didn't doubt for a moment was the truth
of those predictions. That very afternoon she consulted the parish deacon, who
was a well-read man and had seen the world (it was said that he had gone as far
as Andorra and that he spoke a little Basque). The deacon claimed he did not
know of an angel Zacarias among the winged legions of the heavens, but listened
attentively to Jacinta's vision. After much consideration, and going by the
description of some sort of cathedral that, in the words of the clairvoyant,
sounded like a large hair comb made of melting chocolate, the wise man said,
'Jacinta, what you've seen is Barcelona, the great enchantress, and the
Expiatory Temple of the Sagrada Familia.' Two weeks later, armed with a bundle
of clothes, a missal, and her first smile in five years, Jacinta was on her way
to Barcelona, convinced that everything the angel had described to her would
come true. Months of great hardship were to pass before Jacinta would find a
permanent job in one of the stores of Aldaya and Sons, near the pavilions of
the old 1888 Universal Exhibition in Ciudadela Park. The Barcelona of her
dreams had changed into a sinister, hostile city, full of closed mansions, full
of factories that poured forth their foggy breath, poisoning the air with coal
and sulphur. Jacinta knew from the start that this city was a woman, cruel and
vain; she learned to fear her and never look her in the eye. She lived alone in
a pension in the Ribera quarter, where her pay barely afforded her a miserable
room with no windows, whose only source of light came from the candles she
stole from the cathedral. She kept these alight all night to scare away the
rats that had already gnawed at the ears and fingers of a six-month-old baby,
the child of Ramoneta - a prostitute who rented the room next door and the only
friend Jacinta had managed to make in Barcelona in eleven months. That winter
it rained almost every day, and the rain was blackened by soot. Soon Jacinta
began to fear that Zacarias had deceived her, that she had come to that
terrible city to die of cold, misery and oblivion. But Jacinta was prepared to
survive. She went to the store every day before dawn and did not come out again
until well after nightfall. There Don Ricardo Aldaya happened to notice her
looking after the daughter of one of the foremen, who had fallen ill with
consumption. When he saw the dedication and the tenderness that the young girl
exuded, he decided to take her home with him to look after his wife, who was
pregnant with what would be his firstborn. Jacinta's prayers had been answered.
That night Jacinta saw Zacarias again in her dreams. The angel was no longer dressed
in black. He was naked, and his skin was covered in scales. He didn't have his
cat with him anymore, but a white snake coiled round his torso. His hair had
grown down to his waist, and his smile, the honeyed smile she had kissed in
Toledo Cathedral, was now lined with triangular, serrated teeth, like those
she'd seen in some of the deep-sea fish that thrashed their tails in the fish
market. Years later the young woman would reveal this vision to an
eighteen-year-old Julian Carax, recalling how the day she left the pension in
the Ribera quarter and moved to the Aldaya mansion, she was told that her
friend Ramoneta had been stabbed to death in the doorway the night before and
that Ramoneta's baby had died of cold in her arms. When they heard the news, the
guests at the pension came to blows, shouting and scratching over the meagre
belongings of the dead woman. The only thing they left was what had been
Ramoneta's greatest treasure: a book. Jacinta recognized it, because often, at
night, Ramoneta had asked her to read her one or two pages, for Ramoneta had
never learned to read. Four months later Jorge Aldaya was born, and although
Jacinta was to offer him all the affection that his mother never knew how to
give him, or never wished to - for she was an ethereal lady, Jacinta thought,
who always seemed trapped in her own reflection - the governess realized that
this was not the child Zacarias had promised her. During those years Jacinta
gave up her youth and became a different woman. The other Jacinta had been left
behind in the pension in the Ribera quarter, as dead as Ramoneta. Now she lived
in the shadow of the Aldayas' luxuries, far from that dark city that she had
come to hate so much and into which she did not venture, not even on her
monthly day off. She learned to live through others, through a family that sat
on top of a fortune the size of which she could scarcely conceive. She lived in
the expectation of that child, who would be a female, like the city, and to
whom she would give all the love with which God had poisoned her soul.
Sometimes Jacinta asked herself whether that dreamy peace that filled her days,
that absence of consciousness, was what some people called happiness, and she
wanted to believe that God, in His infinite silence, had, in His way, answered
her prayers. Penelope Aldaya was born in the spring of 1902. By then Don
Ricardo Aldaya had already bought the house on Avenida del Tibidabo, that
rambling mansion that Jacinta's fellow servants were convinced lay under the
influence of some powerful spell, but which Jacinta did not fear, because she
knew that what others took to be magic was nothing more than a presence that
only she could capture in dreams: the shadow of Zacarias, who hardly resembled
the man she remembered and who now only manifested himself as a wolf walking on
his two hind legs. Penelope was a fragile child, pale and slender. Jacinta saw
her grow like a flower in winter. For years she watched over her every night,
personally prepared every one of her meals, sewed her clothes, was by her side
when she went through her many illnesses, when she said her first words, when
she became a woman. Senora Aldaya was one more figure in the scenery, a prop
that came on- and offstage according to the dictates of decorum. Before going
to bed, she would come and say goodnight to her daughter and tell her she loved
her more than anything in the world, that she was the most important thing in
the universe to her. Jacinta never told Penelope that she loved her. The nurse
knew that those who really love, love in silence, with deeds and not with
words. Secretly Jacinta despised Senora Aldaya, that vain, empty creature who
slowly grew old in the corridors of the mansion, weighed down by the jewels
with which her husband - who for years had set anchor in foreign ports - kept
her quiet. She hated her because, of all women, God had chosen her to give
birth to Penelope while her own womb, the womb of the true mother, remained
barren. In time, as if the words of her husband had been prophetic, Jacinta even
lost her womanly shape. She grew thin and austere in appearance, and wore the
look of tired skin and tired bone. Her breasts withered until they were but
scraps of skin, her hips were like those of a boy, and her flesh, hard and
angular, didn't even catch the eye of Don Ricardo Aldaya, who only needed to
sense a hint of vitality to send him off in a frenzy - as all the maids in the
house, and in the houses of his close friends, knew only too well. Better this
way, thought Jacinta. She had no time for nonsense. All her time was devoted to
Penelope. She read to her, she accompanied her everywhere, she bathed her,
dressed her, undressed her, combed her hair, took her out for walks, put her to
bed and woke her up. But above all she spoke to her. Everyone took Jacinta for
a batty nurse, a spinster with nothing in her life other than her job in the
house, but nobody knew the truth: Jacinta was not only Penelope's mother, she
was her best friend. From the moment the girl began to speak and articulate her
thoughts, which was much sooner than Jacinta remembered in any other child,
they both shared their secrets and their lives. The passing of time only
strengthened this union. When Penelope reached adolescence, they were already
inseparable. Jacinta saw Penelope blossom into a woman whose beauty and
radiance were evident to more eyes than just her own. When that mysterious boy
called Julian came to the house, Jacinta noticed that, from the very first
moment, a current flowed between him and Penelope. They were joined by a bond,
similar to the one that joined her to Penelope, but also different. More
intense. Dangerous. At first she thought she would come to hate the boy, but
soon she realized that she did not hate Julian Carax and would never be able
to. As Penelope fell under Julian's spell, she, too, allowed herself to be
dragged into it and in time desired only what Penelope desired. Nobody had
noticed, nobody had paid attention, but, as usual, the essential issue had been
settled before the story had even begun, and by then it was too late. Many
months of wistful looks and longings would pass before Julian Carax and
Penelope could be alone together. Their lives were ruled by chance. They met in
corridors, they looked at one another from opposite ends of the table, they
brushed silently against each other, they felt each other's absence. They
exchanged their first words in the library of the house on Avenida del Tibidabo
one stormy afternoon when 'Villa Penelope' was filled with the dim light of
candles - only a few seconds stolen from the darkness in which Julian thought
he saw in the girl's eyes the certainty that they both felt the same, that the
same secret was devouring them. Nobody seemed to notice. Nobody but Jacinta,
who watched with growing anxiety the game of furtive glances that Penelope and
Julian were playing under the very nose of the Aldayas. She feared for them. By
then Julian had begun to have sleepless nights, writing stories for Penelope
from midnight to dawn. He would find any old excuse to go up to the house on
Avenida del Tibidabo, then look for the moment when he could slip into
Jacinta's room and give his pages to her so that she, in turn, could give them
to the girl. Sometimes Jacinta would hand him a note that Penelope had written,
and he would spend days rereading it. That game went on for months. While time
brought them no good fortune, Julian did whatever was necessary to be close to
Penelope. Jacinta helped him, for she wanted to see Penelope happy, to keep
that light glowing. Julian, for his part, felt that the casual innocence of the
beginning was now fading and it was time to start making some sacrifices. That
was why he began to lie to Don Ricardo about his plans for the future, to fake
an enthusiasm for a career in banking and finance, to feign an affection and an
attachment for Jorge Aldaya that he did not feel, in order to justify his
almost constant presence in the house on Avenida del Tibidabo; to say only what
he knew others wanted to hear him say, to read their looks and their hopes, to
put aside honesty and sincerity, and to feel that he was selling his very soul.
He began to fear that if he ever did come to deserve Penelope, there would be
nothing left of the Julian who saw her the first time. Sometimes Julian would
wake up at dawn, burning with anger, longing to tell the world his real
feelings, to face Don Ricardo Aldaya and tell him he had no interest whatsoever
in his fortune, his opportunities for the future, or his company; that all he
wanted was his daughter, Penelope, and was thinking of taking her as far away
as possible from that empty, shrouded world in which her father had imprisoned
her. The light of day dispelled his courage. There were times when Julian
opened his heart to Jacinta, who was beginning to love the boy more than she
might have wished. She would often leave Penelope for a moment and, under the
pretext of going to collect Jorge from school, would see Julian and deliver
Penelope's messages to him. That was how she met Fernando, who, many years
later, would be her only remaining friend while she awaited death in the hell
of Santa Lucia -the hell that had been prophesied by the angel Zacarias.
Sometimes the nurse would mischievously take Penelope with her to the school
and facilitate a brief encounter between the two youngsters, watching a love
grow between them such as she had never known, which had always been denied
her. It was also around this time that Jacinta noticed the sombre and
disturbing presence of that quiet boy whom everyone called Francisco Javier, the
son of the school's caretaker. She would catch him spying on them, reading
their gestures from afar and devouring Penelope with his eyes. Jacinta kept a
photograph of Julian and Penelope taken by Recassens, the Aldayas' official
portrait photographer, by the door of the hat shop in Ronda de San Antonio. It
was an innocent image, taken at midday in the presence of Don Ricardo and of
Sophie Carax. Jacinta always carried it with her. One day, while she was
waiting for Jorge outside San Gabriel's, the governess absentmindedly left her
bag by one of the fountains and, when she went back for it, found young Fumero
prowling around the area, looking at her nervously. That night she looked for
the photograph but couldn't find it and was certain that the boy had stolen it.
On another occasion, a few weeks later, Francisco Javier Fumero went up to
Jacinta and asked her whether she could give Penelope something from him. When
Jacinta asked what this thing was, the boy pulled out a piece of cloth in which
he had wrapped what looked like a figure carved in pinewood. Jacinta recognized
it was a carving of Penelope, and felt a shiver. Before she was able to say
anything, the boy left. On her way back to the house on Avenida del Tibidabo,
Jacinta threw the figure out of the car window, as if it were a piece of
stinking carrion. More than once Jacinta was to wake up at dawn, covered in
sweat, plagued by nightmares in which that troubled-looking boy threw himself
on Penelope with the cold and indifferent brutality of some strange insect.
Some afternoons, when Jacinta went to fetch Jorge and he was late, the
governess would talk to Julian. He, too, was beginning to love that
severe-looking woman. Whenever a problem cast a shadow over his life, she and
Miquel Moliner were soon the first to know. Once Julian told Jacinta he had
seen his mother and Don Ricardo Aldaya talking in the fountain courtyard while
they waited for the pupils to come out. Don Ricardo seemed to be enjoying
Sophie's company, and Julian felt a little uneasy, because he was aware of the
magnate's reputation as a Don Juan and of his voracious appetite for the
delights of the female sex. 'I was telling your mother how much you like your
new school,' Don Ricardo told him. When he said goodbye to them, Don Ricardo
gave them a wink and walked off laughing boisterously. His mother was quiet
during the journey home, clearly offended by the comments Don Ricardo Aldaya
had made to her. Sophie was suspicious of Julian's growing bond with the
Aldayas and the way he had abandoned his old neighbourhood friends and his
family. She was not alone. But whereas his mother showed her displeasure in
sadness and silence, the hatter displayed only bitterness and spite. His
initial enthusiasm about the widening of his clientele to include the flower of
Barcelona society had evaporated. He hardly ever saw his son now and soon had
to employ Quimet, a local boy and one of Julian's former friends, as a helper
and apprentice in the shop. Antoni Fortuny was a man who felt he could only
talk openly about hats. He locked his deeper feelings in the prison of his
heart for months on end, until they became hopelessly embittered. Every day, he
grew more bad tempered and irritable. He found fault with everything - from the
efforts of poor Quintet to learn the trade to Sophie's attempts to make light
of Julian s seeming abandonment of them. 'Your son thinks he's someone just
because those rich folk treat him like a performing monkey,' he'd say in a
depressed tone, full of resentment. One day, almost three years to the day
since Don Ricardo Aldaya's first visit to the Fortuny and Sons hat shop, the
hatter left Quimet in charge of the shop and told him he'd be back at noon. He
boldly presented himself at the offices of Aldaya's consortium on Paseo de
Gracia and asked to see Don Ricardo. 'And whom do I have the honour of
announcing?' asked a clerk in a haughty manner. 'His personal hatter.' Don
Ricardo received him, somewhat surprised but well disposed, imagining that
perhaps Fortuny was bringing him a bill. Small shopkeepers never quite
understood the protocol when it came to money. 'So tell me, what can I do for
you Fortunato, old fellow?' Without further delay, Antoni Fortuny proceeded to
explain to Don Ricardo that he was very much mistaken about his son Julian. 'My
son, Don Ricardo, is not the person you think he is. Quite the contrary; he is
an ignorant, lazy boy, with no more talent than the pretentious ideas his
mother has put into his head. He'll never get anywhere, believe me. He lacks
ambition and character. You don't know him. He can be very clever at
sweet-talking strangers, making them believe he knows a lot about everything,
when in fact he knows nothing about anything. He's a mediocre person. I know
him better than anyone, and I thought I should warn you.' Don Ricardo Aldaya
listened to the speech in silence, without blinking. 'Is that all, Fortunato?'
Seeing that it was, the industrialist pressed a button on his desk. A few
moments later, the secretary who had received Fortuny on arrival appeared at
the office door. 'Our friend Fortunato is leaving, Balcells,' Don Ricardo
announced. 'Please accompany him to the door.' The icy tone of the
industrialist did not please the hatter. 'If you don't mind, Don Ricardo: it's
Fortuny, not Fortunato.' 'Whatever. You're a very sad man, Fortuny. I'd
appreciate it if you didn't come here again.' When Fortuny found himself back
on the street, he felt more alone than ever, more convinced that everyone was
against him. Only a few days later, the smart clients brought in by his
relationship with Aldaya began to send messages cancelling their orders and
settling their bills. In just a few weeks, he had to dismiss Quimet, because
there wasn't enough work for both of them. The boy wasn't much use anyhow, he
told himself. He was mediocre and lazy, like all of them. It was around this
time that people in the neighbourhood began to comment that Senor Fortuny was
looking much older, lonelier, more bitter. He barely spoke to anyone anymore
and spent hours on end shut up in the shop, with nothing to do, watching people
go by from behind his counter, feelings of disdain mingling with hope. Later
people said that fashions changed, that young people no longer wore hats, and
that those who did would rather go to other shops where hats were sold ready
made in different sizes, with more modern designs, and at a cheaper price. The
Fortuny and Sons hat shop slowly sank into a sad, silent slumber. You're all
waiting for me to die, Fortuny said to himself. Well, I might just give you
that pleasure. In fact, he had started to die a long time ago. Julian threw
himself even more into the world of the Aldayas, into the only future he could
conceive of, a future with Penelope. Almost two years went by, in which the two
of them walked on a tightrope of secrecy together. In his own way, Zacarias had
given a warning long ago. Shadows spread around Julian, and soon they would
close in on him. The first sign came one day in April 1918. Jorge Aldaya was
going to be eighteen, and Don Ricardo, playing the role of great patriarch, had
decided to organize (or, rather, to give orders for someone to organize) a
monumental birthday party that his son did not want and from which he, Don
Ricardo, would be absent: under the guise of important business commitments, he
would be meeting a delicious lady, newly arrived from St Petersburg, in the
blue suite of the Hotel Colon. The house on Avenida del Tibidabo was turned
into a circus for the occasion: hundreds of lanterns, pennants, and stalls were
set up in the gardens to delight the guests. Almost all of Jorge Aldaya's
school companions from San Gabriel's had been invited. At Julian s suggestion,
Jorge had included Francisco Javier Fumero. Miquel Moliner warned them that the
son of the school caretaker would feel out of place in such pompous
surroundings. Francisco Javier received his invitation but, anticipating
exactly the same thing, decided to turn it down. When Dona Yvonne, his mother,
learned that her son was going to decline an invitation to the Aldayas' luxurious
mansion, she was on the point of skinning him alive. What could that invitation
be but a sign that she herself would soon be accepted into high society? The
next step could only be an invitation to afternoon tea with Senora Aldaya and
other ladies of unquestionable distinction. Dona Yvonne took the savings she
had been scraping together out of her husband's pay and went out to buy a
pretty sailor suit for her son. Francisco Javier was already seventeen at the
time, and that blue suit with short trousers, tailored to appeal to the
none-too-refined sensibility of Dona Yvonne, looked grotesque and humiliating
on the boy. Pressed by his mother, Francisco Javier accepted the invitation and
spent a week carving a letter opener, which he intended to give Jorge as a
present. On the day of the party, Dona Yvonne insisted on accompanying her son
to the door of the Aldayas' house. She wanted to scent royalty and bask in the
glory of seeing her son enter the doors that would soon open for her. When the
moment came to put on his awful sailor suit, Francisco Javier discovered it was
too small for him. Yvonne decided to adjust it somehow. They arrived late. In
the meantime, taking advantage of the hubbub and of Don Ricardo's absence - who
no doubt was at that very moment celebrating in his own way - Julian had
slipped away from the party. He and Penelope had arranged to meet in the
library, where they didn't risk running into any of the other partygoers. They
were too busy devouring each other's lips to notice the couple approaching the
front door of the house. Francisco Javier, dressed in his first-communion
sailor suit and purple with shame, was almost being dragged by Dona Yvonne, who
for the occasion had decided to resurrect a broad-brimmed hat and a matching
dress adorned with flourishes and bows; they made her look like a sweet stall
or, in the words of Miquel Moliner, who sighted her from afar, a bison dressed
up as Madame Recamier. The two servants guarding the door didn't seem very
impressed by the visitors. Dona Yvonne announced that her son, Don Francisco
Javier Fumero de Sotoceballos, was making his entrance. The two servants
answered, in a sarcastic tone, that the name did not ring a bell. Irritated,
but keeping the composure of a woman of substance, Yvonne told her son to show
them the invitation. Unfortunately, when the suit was being fixed, the card had
been left on Dona Yvonne's sewing table. Francisco Javier tried to explain the
circumstances, but he stammered, and the laughter of the two servants did not
help clear up the misunderstanding. Mother and son were invited to get the hell
out of there. Dona Yvonne was inflamed with anger and announced that the
servants didn't know who they were dealing with. The servants replied that the
floor Cleaner's position was already taken. From her bedroom window, Jacinta
watched Francisco Javier turn to leave, then suddenly stop. Beyond the scene
his mother was creating, shouting herself hoarse at the arrogant servants, the
boy saw them: Julian kissing Penelope by the large window of the library. They
were kissing with the intensity of those who belong to one another, unaware of
the world around them. The following day, during the midday break, Francisco
Javier appeared unexpectedly. News of the previous day's scene had already
spread among the pupils: he was met with laughter and questioned about what
he'd done with his little sailor suit. The laughter ended abruptly when the
boys noticed he was carrying his father's gun. There was complete silence, and
many of them moved away. Only the circle formed by Aldaya, Moliner, Fernando,
and Julian turned around and stared at the boy, without understanding.
Francisco Javier gave no warning: he raised his rifle and aimed. Later,
witnesses said there was no irritation or anger in his expression. Francisco
Javier displayed the same automatic coolness with which he performed his
cleaning jobs in the garden. The first bullet scraped past Julian's head. The
second would have gone through his throat had Miquel Moliner not thrown himself
on the caretaker's son, punched him, and wrenched the gun from him. Julian
Carax watched the scene in astonishment, paralysed. Everyone thought the shots
were aimed at Jorge Aldaya in revenge for the humiliation Javier had suffered
the day before. Only later, when the Civil Guards were taking the boy away and
the caretakers were being almost literally kicked out of their home, did Miquel
Moliner go up to Julian and tell him, without any pride, that he had saved his
life. It was the last year for Julian and his companions at San Gabriel's
school. Most of them were already talking about their plans, or about the plans
their respective families had set up for them for the following year. Jorge
Aldaya already knew that his father was sending him to study in England, and
Miquel Moliner took it for granted that he would go to Barcelona University.
Fernando Ramos had mentioned more than once that perhaps he would enter the
seminary of the Society of Jesus, a prospect his teachers considered the wisest
in his particular situation. As for Francisco Javier Fumero, all anyone knew
about the boy was that, thanks to Don Ricardo Aldaya, who interceded on his
behalf, he had been taken to a reformatory school high in a remote valley of
the Pyrenees, where a long winter awaited him. Seeing that all his friends had
found some direction in life, Julian wondered what would become of himself. His
literary dreams and ambitions seemed further away and more unfeasible than
ever. All he longed for was to be near Penelope. While he pondered his future,
others were planning it for him. Don Ricardo Aldaya was already preparing a
post for him in his firm, to initiate him into the business. The hatter, for
his part, had decided that if his son did not want to continue in the family
business, he could forget about sponging off him. He had secretly set in motion
his plan to send Julian to the army, where a few years of military life would
cure him of his delusions of grandeur. Julian was unaware of such plans, and by
the time he found out what others had arranged for him, it would be too late.
Only Penelope occupied his thoughts, and now the feigned distance and the
clandestine meetings no longer satisfied him. He insisted on seeing her more
often, increasing the risk of discovery. Jacinta did what she could to cover
for them: she lied repeatedly and concocted a thousand and one ruses to give
them a few moments on their own. She understood that this was not enough for
Penelope and Julian. The governess had for some time now recognized in their
looks the defiance and arrogance of desire: a blind desire to be discovered, a
hope that their secret would become an open scandal so that they would no
longer have to hide in corners and attics, to love one another in the dark.
Sometimes, when Jacinta tucked Penelope up at night, the girl would burst into
floods of tears and confess how she longed to flee with Julian, to catch the
first train and escape to a place where nobody would know them. Jacinta, who
remembered the sort of world that existed beyond the iron gates of the Aldaya
mansion, shuddered and tried to dissuade her. Penelope was docile by nature,
and the fear she saw in Jacinta's face was enough to soothe her. Julian was
another matter. During that last spring at San Gabriel's, Julian was unnerved
to discover that Don Ricardo Aldaya and his mother sometimes met secretly. At
first he feared that the industrialist might have decided to add the conquest
of Sophie to his collection, but soon he realized that the meetings, which
always took place in cafes in the centre of town and were carried out with the
utmost propriety, were limited to conversation. Sophie kept silent about these
meetings. When at last Julian decided to ask Don Ricardo what was going on
between him and his mother, the magnate laughed. 'Nothing gets by you, does it,
Julian? The fact is, I was going to talk to you about this matter. Your mother
and I are discussing your future. She came to see me a few weeks ago. She was
worried because your father wants to send you away to the army next year. Your
mother, quite naturally, wants the best for you, and she came to me to see
whether, between the two of us, we could do anything. Don't worry; you have Don
Ricardo Aldaya's word that you won't become cannon fodder. Your mother and I
have great plans for you. Trust us.' Julian wanted to trust him, yet Don
Ricardo inspired anything but trust. When he consulted Miquel Moliner, the boy
agreed with Julian. 'If what you want to do is elope with Penelope, and may God
help you, what you need is money.' Money was exactly what Julian didn't have.
'That can be arranged,' Miquel told him. 'That's what rich friends are for.'
That is how Miquel and Julian began to plan the lovers' escape. The
destination, at Miquel's suggestion, would be Paris. Moliner was of the opinion
that, if Julian was set on being a starving bohemian artist, at least a
Parisian setting couldn't be improved upon. Penelope spoke a little French, and
for Julian, who had learned it from his mother, it was his second language.
'Besides, Paris is large enough to get lost in but small enough to offer
opportunities,' Miquel reasoned. Miquel managed to put together a small
fortune, joining his savings from many years to what he was able to extort from
his father, using the most outlandish excuses. Only he knew where the money was
really going. 'And I plan to go dumb the minute you two board that train.' That
same afternoon, after finalizing details with Moliner, Julian went to the house
on Avenida del Tibidabo to tell Penelope about the plan. 'You mustn't tell
anyone what I'm about to tell you. No one. Not even Jacinta,' Julian began. The
girl listened to him in astonishment, enthralled. Moliner's plan was
impeccable. Miquel would buy the tickets under a false name and hire a third
party to collect them at the ticket office in the station. If by any chance the
police discovered him, all he'd be able to give them would be the description
of someone who did not look like Julian. Julian and Penelope would meet on the
train. There would be no waiting on the platform, where they might be seen. The
escape would take place on a Sunday, at midday. Julian would make his own way
to the Estacion de Francia. Miquel would be there waiting for him, with the
tickets and the money. The most delicate part of the plan concerned Penelope.
She had to deceive Jacinta and ask her to invent an excuse for taking her out
of the eleven o'clock mass and returning home. On the way Penelope would ask
Jacinta to let her go and meet Julian, promising to be back before the family
had returned to the mansion. This would be Penelope's opportunity to get to the
station. They both knew that if they told her the truth, Jacinta would not
allow them to leave. She loved them too much. 'It's the perfect plan, Miquel,'
Julian said. Miquel nodded sadly. 'Except for one detail: the pain you are
going to cause a lot of people by going away forever.' Julian nodded, thinking
of his mother and Jacinta. It did not occur to him that Miquel Moliner was
talking about himself. The most difficult thing was convincing Penelope of the
need to keep Jacinta in the dark. Only Miquel would know the truth. The train
left at one in the afternoon. By the time Penelope's absence was noticed, the
couple would have crossed the border. Once in Paris, they would settle in a hostel
as man and wife, using a false name. They would then send Miquel Moliner a
letter addressed to their families, confessing their love, telling them they
were well, that they loved them, announcing their church wedding, and asking
for forgiveness and understanding. Miquel Moliner would put the letter in a
second envelope to do away with the Paris postmark and would see to it that it
was posted from some nearby town. 'When?' asked Penelope. 'In six days' time,'
said Julian. 'This coming Sunday.' Miquel reckoned it would be best if Julian
didn't see Penelope during the days left prior to the elopement, so as not to
arouse suspicion. They should both agree not to see each other again until they
met on the train on their way to Paris. Six days without seeing her, without
touching her, seemed interminable to Julian. They sealed the pact, the secret
marriage, with a kiss. It was then that Julian took Penelope to Jacinta's
bedroom on the third floor of the house. Only the servants' quarters were on
that floor, and Julian was sure nobody would discover them. They undressed
feverishly, with an angry passion and desire, scratching each other's skin and
melting into silence. They learned each other's bodies by heart and buried all
thoughts of those six days of separation. Julian penetrated Penelope with fury,
pressing her against the floorboards. She received him with open eyes, her legs
hugging his torso, her lips half open with yearning. There was not a glimmer of
fragility or childishness in her eyes or in her warm body. Later, with his face
still resting on her stomach and his hands on her white, tremulous breasts,
Julian knew he had to say goodbye. He had barely had time to sit up when the
door of the room slowly opened and a woman's shape appeared at the doorway. For
a second, Julian thought it was Jacinta, but he soon realized it was Senora
Aldaya. She was watching them, spellbound, with a mixture of fascination and
disgust. All she managed to mumble was, 'Where's Jacinta?' Then she just turned
and walked away without saying a word, while Penelope crouched on the floor in
mute agony and Julian felt the world collapsing around him. 'Go now, Julian. Go
before my father comes.' 'But...' 'Go.' Julian nodded. 'Whatever happens, I'll
wait for you on Sunday on that train.' Penelope managed a faint smile. 'I'll be
there. Now go. Please. . .' She was still naked when he left her and slid down
the servants' staircase towards the coach houses and out into the coldest night
he could remember. The days that followed were agony. Julian had spent all
night awake, expecting that Don Ricardo's hired assassins would come for him at
any moment. The following day, in school, he didn't notice any change of
attitude in Jorge Aldaya. Devoured by anguish, Julian told Miquel Moliner what
had happened. Miquel shook his head. 'You're crazy, Julian, but that's nothing
new. What's strange is that there hasn't been an upheaval in the Aldayas'
house. Which, come to think of it, isn't so surprising. If, as you say, it was
Senora Aldaya who discovered you, it might be that she still doesn't know what
to do. I've had three conversations with her in my life and came to two
conclusions: one, Senora Aldaya has the mental age of a twelve-year-old; two,
she suffers from a chronic narcissism that makes it impossible for her to see
or understand anything that is not what she wants to see or believe, especially
if it concerns herself.' 'Spare me the diagnosis, Miquel.' 'What I mean is that
she's probably still wondering what to say, how to say it, when, and to whom.
First she must think of the consequences for herself the potential scandal, her
husband's fury . . . The rest, I daresay, she couldn't care less about.' 'So
you think she won't say anything?' 'She might take a day or two. But I don't
think she's capable of keeping such a secret from her husband. What about the
escape plan? Is it still on?' 'More than ever.' 'I'm glad to hear that. Because
I really believe that now there's no turning back.' The week stretched out
interminably. Julian went to school every day with uncertainty hard on his
heels. He passed the time merely pretending to be there, barely able to
exchange glances with Miquel Moliner, who was beginning to be just as worried
as him, or more so. Jorge Aldaya said nothing. He was as polite as ever.
Jacinta had not turned up again to collect Jorge from school. Don Ricardo's
chauffeur came every afternoon. Julian felt like dying, wishing that whatever
was going to happen would happen, so that the waiting would come to an end. On
Thursday afternoon, after class, Julian began to think that luck was on his
side. Senora Aldaya had not said anything, perhaps out of shame, stupidity, or
for any of the reasons Miquel had suggested. It mattered little. All that
mattered was that she kept the secret until Sunday. That night, for the first
time in a number of days, Julian was able to sleep. On Friday morning, when he
went to class, Father Romanones was waiting for him by the gate. Julian, I have
to speak to you.' 'What is it, Father?' 'I always knew this day would come, and
I must confess I'm happy to be the one who will break the news to you.' 'What
news, Father?' Julian Carax was no longer a pupil at San Gabriel's school. His
presence in the compound, the classrooms, and even the gardens was strictly
forbidden. His school items, textbooks, and all other belongings were now
school property. The technical term is "immediate and total
expulsion",' Father Romanones summed up. 'May I ask the reason?' 'I can
think of a dozen, but I'm sure you'll know how to choose the most appropriate
one. Good day, Carex. And good luck in your life. You're going to need it.'
Some thirty yards away, in the fountains courtyard, a group of pupils was
watching him. Some were laughing, waving goodbye. Others looked at him with
pity and bewilderment. Only one smiled sadly: his friend Miquel Moliner, who
simply nodded and silently mouthed some words that Julian thought he could read
in the air: 'See you on Sunday.' When he got back to the apartment in Ronda de
San Antonio, Julian noticed Don Ricardo's Mercedes-Benz parked outside the hat
shop. He stopped on the corner and waited. After a while Don Ricardo came out
of his father's shop and got into the car. Julian hid in a doorway until the
car set off towards Plaza Universidad. Only then did he rush up the stairs to
his home. His mother, Sophie, was waiting there, in floods of tears. 'What have
you done, Julian?' she murmured without anger. 'Forgive me, Mother Sophie held
her son close. She had lost weight and had aged, as if between them all they
had stolen her life and her youth. I more so than anyone, thought Julian.
'Listen to me carefully, Julian. Your father and Don Ricardo Aldaya have got
everything set up to send you to the army in a few days' time. Aldaya has a
great deal of influence . . . You have to go, Julian. You have to go where
neither of them can find you Julian thought he saw a shadow in his mother's
eyes that seemed to take hold of her. 'Is there anything else, Mother?
Something you haven't told me?' Sophie gazed at him with trembling lips. 'You
must go. We must both go away from here forever.' Julian held her tight and
whispered in her ear, 'Don't worry about me, Mother. Don't you worry.' Julian
spent the Saturday shut up in his room, among his books and his drawing pads.
The hatter had gone down to the shop just after dawn and didn't return until
the early hours. He doesn't have the courage to tell me to my face, thought
Julian. That night, his eyes blurred with tears, Julian said farewell to the
years he had spent in that dark, cold room, lost amid dreams that he now knew
would never come true. Sunday, at daybreak, armed with only a bag containing a
few clothes and books, he kissed Sophie's forehead, as she lay curled under
blankets in the dining room, and left. The streets seemed enveloped in a blue
haze. Flashes of copper sparkled on the flat roofs of the old town. He walked
slowly, saying goodbye to every door, to every street corner, wondering whether
the illusions of time would turn out to be true and that in days to come he
would be able to remember only the good things, and forget the solitude that
had so often hounded him in those streets. The Estacion de Francia was
deserted; the platforms, reflecting the burning light of dawn, curved off into
the mist like glistening sabres. Julian sat on a bench under the vaulted
ceiling and took out his book. He let the hours go by lost in the magic of
words, shedding his skin and his name, feeling like another person. He allowed
himself to be carried away by the dreams of shadowy characters, the only refuge
left for him. By then he knew that Penelope wouldn't come. He knew he would
board that train with no other company than his memories. When, just before
noon, Miquel Moliner arrived in the station and gave him the tickets and all the
money he had been able to gather, the two friends embraced without a word.
Julian had never seen Miquel Moliner cry. Clocks were everywhere, counting the
minutes as they flew by. 'There's still time,' Miquel murmured, his eyes fixed
on the station entrance. At five past one, the stationmaster gave the last call
for passengers travelling to Paris. The train had already started to slide
along the platform when Julian turned round to say goodbye to his friend.
Miquel Moliner stood there watching him, his hands buried in his pockets.
'Write,' he said. 'I'll write to you as soon as I get there,' answered Julian.
'No. Not to me. Write books. Not letters. Write them for me, for Penelope.'
Julian nodded, realizing only then how much he was going to miss his friend. 'And
keep your dreams,' said Miquel. 'You never know when you might need them.'
'Always,' murmured Julian, but the roar of the train had already stolen his
words. 'The night her mother caught them in my bedroom, Penelope told me what
had happened. The following day Senora Aldaya called for me and asked me what I
knew about Julian. I said I didn't know anything, except that he was a nice
boy, a friend of Jorge's. She ordered me to keep Penelope locked in her room
until she was given permission to come out. Don Ricardo was away in Madrid and
didn't come back until early on Friday. As soon as he arrived, Senora Aldaya
told him what she'd witnessed. I was there. Don Ricardo jumped up from his
armchair and slapped his wife so hard she fell on the floor. Then, shouting
like a madman, he told her to repeat what she had just said. Senora Aldaya was
terrified. We had never seen her husband like that. Never. He looked as if he
were possessed by all the devils in hell. Seething with anger, he went up to
Penelope's bedroom and pulled her out of her bed, dragging her by the hair. I
tried to stop him, but he kicked me aside. That same evening he called the
family doctor and had him examine Penelope. When the doctor had finished, he
spoke to Senor Aldaya. They locked Penelope up in her room, and Senora Aldaya
told me to collect my things. 'They didn't let me see Penelope. I never said
goodbye to her. Don Ricardo threatened to report me to the police if I told
anyone what had happened. That very night they threw me out, with nowhere to
go, after eighteen years of uninterrupted service in the house. Two days later,
in a pension in Calle Muntaner, I had a visit from Miquel Moliner, who told me
that Julian had gone to Paris. He wanted me to tell him why Penelope hadn't
come to the station as arranged. For weeks I returned to the house, begging for
a chance to see her, but I wasn't even allowed to cross the gates. I would
position myself on the opposite corner every day, for days on end, hoping to
see them come out. I never saw her. She didn't come out of the house. Later on,
Senor Aldaya called the police and, with the help of his high-powered friends,
managed to get me committed to the lunatic asylum in Horta, claiming that
nobody knew me, that I was some demented woman who harassed his family and
children. I spent two years there, locked up like an animal. The first thing I
did when I got out was go to the house on Avenida del Tibidabo to see
Penelope.' 'Did you manage to see her?' Fermin asked. 'The house was locked and
up for sale. Nobody lived there. I was told that the Aldayas had gone to
Argentina. I wrote to the address I was given. The letters were returned to me
unopened. . . .' 'What happened to Penelope? Do you know?' Jacinta shook her
head, in a state of near collapse. 'I never saw her again.' The old woman
moaned and began to weep uncontrollably. Fermin held her in his arms and rocked
her. Jacinta Coronado had shrunk to the size of a little girl, and next to her
Fermin looked like a giant. I had questions burning in my head, but my friend
signalled to me that the interview was over. I saw him gazing about him at that
dirty, cold hovel where Jacinta Coronado was spending her last days. 'Come on,
Daniel. We're leaving. You go first.' I did what I was told. As I walked away, I
turned for a moment and saw Fermin kneel down by the old lady and kiss her on
the forehead. She gave him a toothless smile. 'Tell me, Jacinta,' I heard
Fermin saying. 'You like Sugus sweets, don't you?' On our circuitous path back
to the exit, we passed the real undertaker and his two cadaverous assistants
carrying a cheap pine coffin, rope, and what looked suspiciously like a
recycled shroud. The committee gave off a sinister smell of formaldehyde and
cheap eau de cologne. The men's bloodless skin framed gaunt, canine smiles.
Fermin pointed to the cell where the body of the deceased awaited and proceeded
to bless the trio, who nodded respectfully and made the sign of the cross. 'Go
in peace,' mumbled Fermin, dragging me towards the exit, where a nun holding an
oil lamp saw us off with a harsh, condemnatory look. Once we were out of the
building, the grim canyon of stone and shadow that was Calle Moncada seemed
more like an inviting valley of hope. Fermin breathed deeply, with relief, and
I knew I wasn't the only one to be rejoicing at having left that place behind.
Jacinta's story weighed on our consciences more than we would have wished to
admit. 'Listen, Daniel. What would you say to some ham croquettes and a couple
of glasses of sparkling wine here in the Xampanet, just to take away the bad
taste in our mouths?' 'I wouldn't say no, quite frankly.' 'Didn't you arrange
to meet up with the girl today?' 'Tomorrow.' 'Ah, you devil . . . you're
playing hard to get, eh? You're learning fast. . .' We hadn't taken ten steps
towards the noisy tavern, just a few doors down the street, when three
silhouettes materialized out of the shadows and intercepted us. Two positioned
themselves behind us, so close I could feel their breath on the nape of my
neck. The third, smaller but much more menacing, blocked our way. It was him.
He wore the usual raincoat, and his oily smile oozed irrepressible glee. 'Why,
who have we here? If it's not my old friend, the man of the thousand faces!'
cried Inspector Fumero. It seemed to me I could hear all of Fermin's bones
shudder with terror at the apparition. My loquacious friend could manage only a
stifled groan. The two thugs, who I guessed were two agents from the Crime
Squad, grabbed us by the scruffs of our necks and held our right wrists, ready
to twist our arms at the slightest hint of movement. 'I see from your look of
surprise that you thought I'd lost track of you long ago. Surely you didn't
think a piece of shit like you was going to be able to crawl out of the gutter
and pass himself off as a decent citizen. You might be stupid, but not that
stupid. Besides, I'm told you're poking your nose - and it's quite a nose - in
a whole pile of things that are none of your business. That's a bad sign . ..
What is it with you and those little nuns? Are you having it off with one of
them? How much do they charge these days?' 'I respect other people's arses,
Inspector, especially if they are cloistered. Perhaps if you were inclined to
do the same, you would save yourself a hefty bill in penicillin and improve the
number and ease of your bowel movements.' Fumero let out a little laugh
streaked with anger. 'That's right. Balls of steel. If all crooks were like
you, my work would be a party. Tell me, what are you calling yourself these
days, you son of a bitch? Gary Cooper? Come on, tell me what you're up to,
sticking that big nose of yours in the Hospice of Santa Lucia, and I might let
you go with just a warning. Come on, spell it out. What brings you two here?'
'A private matter. We came to visit a relative.' 'Sure, your fucking mother.
Look here, you happen to have caught me on a good day, otherwise I'd be taking
you to headquarters and giving you another session with the welding torch. Come
on, be a good boy and tell your old friend Inspector Fumero the truth about
what the fuck you and your friend are doing here. Damn it, just cooperate a
bit, and you'll save me beating up this smart little kid you've chosen as a
sponsor.' 'You touch a single hair of his and I swear I'll—' 'You scare me to
bits, really. I just shat my pants.' Fermin swallowed, as if to hold in all the
courage that was seeping out of him. 'Those wouldn't be the same sailor-boy
pants that your esteemed mother, the Illustrious Kitchen Maid, made you wear?
That would be a shame; I'm told the outfit really suited you.' Inspector
Fumero's face paled, and all expression left his eyes. 'What did you say,
motherfucker?' 'I was saying it looks like you've inherited all the taste and
charm of Dona Yvonne Sotoceballos, a high-society lady. . .' Fermin was not a
heavy man, and the first punch was enough to knock him off his feet and into a
puddle of water. He lay curled up in a ball as Fumero meted out a flurry of
kicks to his stomach, kidneys, and face. I lost count after the fifth. Fermin
lost his breath and then, a moment later, the ability to protect himself from
the blows. The two policemen who were holding me down with iron hands were
laughing dutifully. 'Don't get involved,' one of them whispered to me. 'I don't
feel like breaking your arm.' I tried in vain to wriggle out of his grip, and,
as I struggled, I caught a glimpse of him. I recognized his face immediately.
He was the man in the raincoat with the newspaper who was in the bar at Plaza
de Sarria a few days earlier, the same man who had followed us in the bus and
laughed at Fermin's jokes. 'Look, the one thing that really pisses me off is
people who stir up shit from the past!' Fumero cried out. 'The past must be
left alone, do you understand? And that goes for you and your dumb friend. Look
and learn, kid. You're next.' The whole time I watched Inspector Fumero destroy
Fermin with his kicks, I was unable to utter a word. I remember the dull,
terrible impact of the blows raining down mercilessly on my friend. They hurt
me still. All I did was take refuge in the policemen's convenient grasp,
trembling and shedding silent cowardly tears. When Fumero tired of striking a
dead weight, he opened up his raincoat, unzipped his fly, and began to urinate
on Fermin. My friend didn't move; he looked like a bundle of old clothes in a
puddle. While Fumero discharged his generous, steamy cascade over Fermin, I
still couldn't speak. When he'd finished, the inspector zipped up his trousers
and came over to me, sweaty-faced and panting. One of the police officers
handed him a handkerchief, and he mopped his face and neck. He came closer,
until his face was only a couple of inches from mine, and he fixed me with his
stare. 'You weren't worth that beating, kid. That's the problem with your
friend: he always backs the wrong side. Next time I'm going to fuck him up like
I've never done before, and I'm sure it's going to be your fault.' I thought he
was going to hit me then, that my turn had come. For some reason I was glad. I
wanted to believe that his blows would cure me of the shame I felt for not
having raised a finger to help Fermin, when the only thing he'd been trying to
do, as usual, was protect me. But no blow came. All Fumero did was pat me on
the cheek. 'It's okay, boy. I don't dirty my hands with cowards.' The two
policemen chuckled, more relaxed now that they knew the show was over. Their
desire to leave the scene was obvious. They went off laughing in the dark. By
the time I went to his aid, Fermin was trying in vain to get up and find the
teeth he'd lost in the dirty water of the puddle. His mouth, nose, ears, and
eyelids were all bleeding. When he saw that I was unharmed, he attempted to
smile and I thought he was going to die on the spot. I knelt beside him and
held him in my arms. The first thought that crossed my mind was that he weighed
less than Bea. 'Fermin, for God's sake, we must get you to a hospital right
away.' He shook his head energetically. 'Take me to her.' 'To who, Fermin?' 'To
Bernarda. If I'm going to die, I'd rather it was in her arms.' 32 That night I
returned to Plaza Real, to the apartment I'd sworn I would never set foot in
again. A couple of regulars who had witnessed the beating from the door of the
Xampanet Tavern offered to help me take Fermin to a taxi rank in Calle Princesa
while a waiter called the number I had given him, to warn of our arrival. The
taxi ride seemed endless. Fermin had lost consciousness before we set off. I
held him in my arms, clutching him against my chest and trying to warm him up.
I could feel his tepid blood soaking my clothes. I whispered in his ear that we
were nearly there, that he was going to be all right. My voice trembled. The
driver shot me furtive looks through the mirror. 'Listen, I don't want any
trouble, do you hear? If he dies, you'll have to get out.' 'Just shut up and
floor it.' By the time we reached Calle Fernando, Gustavo Barcelo and Bernarda
were waiting by the main door of the building, along with Dr Soldevila. When
she saw us covered in blood and dirt, Bernarda started to scream in panic. The
doctor quickly took Fermin's pulse and assured us that the patient was still
alive. Between the four of us, we managed to carry Fermin up the stairs and
into Bernarda's room, where a nurse, who had come along with the doctor, was
getting everything ready. Once the patient was laid on the bed, the nurse began
to undress him. Dr Soldevila insisted that we all leave the room and let him
get on with his work. He closed the door on us with a brief, 'He'll live.' In
the corridor Bernarda sobbed inconsolably. She moaned that now that she'd found
a good man, for the first time in her life, God had come along and mercilessly
wrenched him away from her. Don Gustavo Barcelo took her in his arms and led
her to the kitchen, where he proceeded to ply her with brandy until the poor
thing could hardly stand up. Once the maid's words were unintelligible, the
bookseller poured himself a glass and downed it in one gulp. 'I'm sorry. I
didn't know where to go . . .' I began. 'That's all right. You've done the
right thing. Soldevila is the best orthopaedic surgeon in Barcelona.' He spoke
without addressing anyone in particular. 'Thank you,' I murmured. Barcelo
sighed and poured me a good shot of brandy in a tumbler. I declined his offer,
and it was passed on to Bernarda, who quickly made it disappear. 'Will you
please go and have a shower and put on some clean clothes,' Barcelo said. 'If
you go back home looking like that, your father will die of a heart attack.'
'It's all right… I'm okay,' I said. 'In that case stop trembling. Go on, you
can use my bathroom, it has a water heater. You know the way. In the meantime,
I'm going to call your father and tell him . . . well, I don't know what I'll
tell him. I'll think of something.' I nodded. 'This is still your home, Daniel,'
said Barcelo as I wandered off down the corridors. 'We've missed you.' I found
Gustavo Barcelo's bathroom, but not the light switch. I took off my filthy,
bloodstained clothes and hauled myself into the imperial bathtub. A pearly mist
filtered in through the window that looked out onto the inner courtyard of the
building, and there was enough light for me to be able to make out the outline
of the room and the pattern of the enamelled tiles on the floor and walls. The
water came out boiling hot and with much greater pressure than our modest
bathroom on Calle Santa Ana could offer; it felt like being in a luxury hotel,
not that I'd ever set foot in one. I stood under the shower's steamy rays for a
few minutes without moving. The echo of the blows raining down on Fermin still
hammered in my ears. I couldn't get Fumero's words out of my mind, or the face
of the policeman who had held me down. After a while I noticed that the water
was beginning to get cold, and I assumed the reserve in my host's boiler was
coming to an end. When I had finished the last drop of lukewarm water, I turned
off the tap. The steam rose up my body like silken threads. Through the shower
curtains, I noticed a figure standing by the door, her marble gaze shining like
the eyes of a cat. 'You can come out. There's nothing to worry about, Daniel.
Despite all my evil doings, I still can't see you.' 'Hello, Clara.' She held
out a clean towel towards me. I stretched out my hand and took it, wrapping
myself in it with the modesty of a schoolgirl. Even in the steamy darkness, I
could see that Clara was smiling, guessing at my movements. 'I didn't hear you
come in.' 'I didn't call out. Why are you taking a shower in the dark?' 'How do
you know the light isn't on?' 'The buzzing of the bulb,' she said. 'You never
came back to say goodbye.' Yes, I did come back, I thought, but you were busy.
The words died on my lips; their animosity seemed distant, ridiculous. 'I know.
I'm sorry.' I got out of the shower and stood on the mat. The steamy air glowed
with specks of silver, and the pale light from the window cast a white veil
over Clara's face. She hadn't changed a bit. Four years of absence had not
helped me. 'Your voice has changed,' she said. 'Have you changed, too, Daniel?'
'I'm just as stupid as before, if that's what you're wondering.' And more of a
coward, I thought. She still had that same broken smile that hurt, even in the
dark. She stretched out her hand, and, just as on that afternoon in the Ateneo
library some eight years before, I understood immediately. I guided her hand to
my damp face and felt her fingers rediscovering me, her lips shaping words in
silence. 'I never wanted to hurt you, Daniel. Forgive me.' I took her hand and
kissed it in the dark. 'No: you must forgive me.' Any possibility of a
melodrama was shattered when Bernarda stuck her head round the door. Despite
being quite drunk, she realized that I was naked, dripping, and holding Clara's
hand against my lips with the light out. 'For the love of Christ, Master
Daniel, have you no shame? Jesus. Mary, and Joseph. Some people never learn . .
.' In her embarrassment Bernarda beat a hasty retreat, and I hoped that once
the effects of the brandy wore off, the memory of what she had seen would also
fade from her mind, like the traces of a dream. Clara moved away a few steps
and handed me the clothes she held under her left arm. 'My uncle gave me this
suit for you to put on. It's from his younger days. He says you've grown a lot
and it will fit you. I'll leave you, so you can get dressed. I shouldn't have
come in without knocking.' I took the change of clothes she was offering me and
started to put on the underwear, which was clean-smelling and warm, then the
pale pink cotton shirt, the socks, the waistcoat, the trousers, and jacket. The
mirror showed me a door-to-door salesman whose smile had abandoned him. When I
returned to the kitchen, Dr Soldevila had come out of the bedroom to give us
all a bulletin on Fermin's condition. 'For the moment the worst is over,' he
announced. 'There's no need to worry. These things always look more serious
than they are. Your friend has a broken left arm and two broken ribs, he's lost
three teeth, and has a large number of bruises, cuts, and contusions. But
luckily there's no internal bleeding and no symptoms of any brain damage. The
folded newspapers the patient wore under his clothes to keep him warm and
accentuate his figure, as he puts it, served as armour and cushioned the blows.
A few moments ago, when he recovered consciousness, the patient asked me to tell
you that he's feeling like a twenty-year-old, that he wants blood sausage
sandwiches with fresh garlic, a chocolate bar, and some lemon Sugus sweets. I
see no problem with that, though I think it would be better to start off with
fruit juice, yoghurt, and perhaps a bit of boiled rice. Moreover, as proof of
his vigour and presence of mind, he has asked me to transmit to you the fact
that, when Nurse Amparito was putting a few stitches in his leg, he had an
iceberg of an erection.' 'It's just that he's all man,' Bernarda murmured
apologetically. 'When will we be able to see him?' I asked. 'Not just yet.
Perhaps by daybreak. It will do him good to rest a bit. Tomorrow, at the
latest, I'd like him to be taken to the Hospital del Mar so that he can have a
brain scan, just for peace of mind. But I think we can rest assured that Senor
Romero de Torres will be as good as new within a few days. Judging from the
marks and scars on his body, this man has got out of tighter spots. He's a true
survivor. If you need a copy of the report to take along to the police—' 'It
won't be necessary,' I interrupted. 'Young man, let me warn you that this could
have been very serious. You must report it to the police immediately.' Barcelo
was watching me attentively. I looked back at him, and he nodded. 'There'll be
plenty of time for that, Doctor, don't worry,' said Barcelo. 'What's important
now is to make sure the patient is well. I will report this incident myself,
tomorrow morning, first thing. Even the authorities have a right to a little
peace and quiet at night.' It was obvious that the doctor took a dim view of my
suggestion to keep the incident from the police, but when he realized that
Barcelo was taking responsibility for the matter, he shrugged his shoulders and
returned to the bedroom to continue with his treatment. As soon as the doctor
had disappeared, Barcelo told me to follow him to his study. Bernarda sighed on
her stool, numb with shock and brandy. 'Bernarda, keep yourself busy. Make some
coffee. Nice and strong.' 'Yes, sir. Right away.' I followed Barcelo to his
study, a cave blanketed in clouds of tobacco smoke that curled around columns
of books and papers. The discordant echoes of Clara's piano-playing reached us
in fits and starts. It was obvious that Maestro Neri's lessons hadn't done much
good, at least not in the field of music. The bookseller pointed me to a chair
and proceeded to fill his pipe. 'I've phoned your father and told him that
Fermin had a minor accident and that you'd brought him here.' 'Did he believe
you?' 'I don't think so.' 'Right.' The bookseller lit his pipe and sat back in
the armchair behind his desk. At the other end of the apartment, Clara was
tormenting Debussy. Barcelo rolled his eyes. 'What happened to the music
teacher?' I asked. 'He was fired. Seems like there were not enough keys on the
piano to keep his fingers busy.' 'Right.' 'Are you sure you haven't had a
beating, too? You're talking in monosyllables. When you were a young boy, you
were much more talkative.' The study door opened, and Bernarda came in carrying
a tray with two steaming cups of coffee and a sugar bowl. She was swaying from
side to side as she walked, and I was afraid I might be caught under a shower
of boiling-hot coffee. 'May I come in? Will you take yours with a dash of
brandy, sir?' 'I think the bottle of Lepanto has earned itself a break for
tonight, Bernarda. And you, too. Come on, off you go to sleep. Daniel and I
will stay up in case anything is needed. Since Fermin is in your bedroom, you
can use mine.' 'Oh, no, sir, I wouldn't hear of it.' 'It's an order. And no
arguing. I want you to be asleep in the next five minutes.' 'But, sir . . .'
'Bernarda, you're risking your Christmas bonus.' 'Whatever you say, Senor
Barcelo. But I'll sleep on top of the cover. That goes without saying.' Barcelo
waited ceremoniously for Bernarda to retire. He helped himself to seven lumps
of sugar and began to stir the coffee with the spoon, his catlike smile
discernible behind dark clouds of Dutch tobacco. 'As you see, I run my house with
a firm hand.' 'Yes, you're certainly a tough one, Don Gustavo.' 'And you're a
smooth talker. Tell me, Daniel, now that nobody can hear us. Why isn't it a
good idea to report what has happened to the police?' 'Because they already
know.' 'You mean ...?’ I nodded. 'What kind of trouble are you two in, if you
don't mind my asking?' I sighed. 'Anything I can help with?' I looked up.
Barcelo smiled at me without malice, for once putting his irony aside. 'Does
this, by any chance, have anything to do with that book by Carax you didn't
want to sell me when you should have?' The question caught me totally by
surprise. 'I could help you,' he offered. 'I have a surplus of what you both
lack: money and common sense.' 'Believe me, Don Gustavo, I've already got too many
people involved in this business.' 'One more won't make much difference, then.
Come on, confide in me. Imagine that I'm your confessor.' 'I haven't been to
confession for years.' 'It shows on your face.' 33 Gustavo Barcelo had a way of
listening that seemed both contemplative and Solomonic, like a doctor or a
pope. He observed me with his hands joined under his chin and his elbows on his
desk, as if in prayer. His eyes were wide open, and he nodded here and there,
as if he could detect symptoms in the flow of my narrative and was composing
his own diagnosis. Every time I paused, the bookseller raised his eyebrows
inquisitively and beckoned with his right hand for me to continue unravelling
my jumbled story, which seemed to amuse him enormously. Every now and then, he
would raise a hand and take notes, or would stare into space as if he wanted to
consider the implications of what I was telling him. More often than not, he
would lick his lips and smile ironically, a gesture I attributed either to my
ingenuity or to the foolishness of my conjectures. 'Listen, if you think this
is nonsense, I'll shut up.' 'On the contrary. Fools talk, cowards are silent,
wise men listen.' 'Who said that? Seneca?' 'No. Braulio Recolons - he runs a
pork butcher's on Calle Avignon and has a great talent for both making sausages
and composing witty aphorisms. Please continue. You were telling me about this
lively girl. . .' 'Bea. And that is my business and has nothing to do with
anything else.' Barcelo tried to keep his laughter to himself. I was about to
continue the story of my adventures when Dr Soldevila poked his head round the
door of the study, looking tired and out of breath. 'Please excuse me. I'm
leaving now. The patient is well, and, for lack of a better expression, he's
full of beans. That gentleman will outlive us all. He's even saying that the
sedatives have gone to his head and given him a high. He refuses to rest and
insists that he must have a word with Daniel about matters he did not wish to
explain to me, claiming that he doesn't believe in the Hippocratic, or
hypocritical, oath as he calls it.' 'We'll go and see him right away. And
please forgive poor Fermin. He's obviously still in shock.' 'Perhaps, but I
wouldn't rule out shamelessness. He keeps pinching the nurse's bottom and
reciting rhyming couplets in praise of her firm and shapely thighs.' We
escorted the doctor and his nurse to the door and thanked them effusively for
their good offices. When we went into the bedroom, we discovered that Bernarda
had challenged Barcelo's orders after all, and was lying on the bed next to
Fermin. The fright, the brandy, and the exhaustion had finally sent her to
sleep. Covered in bandages, dressings, and slings, Fermin held her tenderly,
stroking her hair. His face carried a bruise that it hurt to look at, and from
it emerged his large, unharmed nose, two ears like sails, and the eyes of a
dispirited mouse. His toothless smile, through lips covered in cuts, was
triumphant, and he greeted us with his right hand raised in the sign of
victory. 'How are you feeling, Fermin?' I asked. 'Twenty years younger,' he
said in a low voice, so as not to wake Bernarda. 'Stop pretending, damn it. You
look like shit, Fermin. You scared me to death. Are you sure you're all right?
Isn't your head spinning? Aren't you hearing voices?' 'Now you mention it,
sometimes I thought I could hear a discordant and arrhythmic murmur, as if a
macaque was trying to play the piano.' Barcelo frowned. Clara went on tinkling
on the piano in the distance. 'Don't worry, Daniel. I've survived worse sticks
and stones. That Fumero can't even kick a bad habit.' 'So the person who
sculpted you a new face is none other than Inspector Fumero,' said Barcelo. 'I
see you two move in the highest circles.' 'I hadn't got to that part of the
story,' I said. Fermin looked at me in alarm. 'It's all right, Fermin. Daniel
is filling me in about this little play that you two are taking part in. I must
admit, it's all very interesting. What about you, Fermin, how are you on
confessions? I warn you, I spent two years in a seminary.' 'I would have said
at least three, Don Gustavo.' 'Some things get lost along the way. Shame, for a
start. This is the first time you've visited my house, and already you end up
in bed with the maid.' 'Look at her, poor little thing, my angel. You must
understand that my intentions are honest, Don Gustavo.' 'Your intentions are
your own business, and Barnarda's. She's quite old enough. Now, let's be frank.
What kind of charade are you two involved in?' 'What have you told him,
Daniel?' 'We got to act two: enter the femme fatale,' Barcelo explained. 'Nuria
Monfort?' Fermin .asked. Barcelo smacked his lips with delight. 'But is there
more than one? This sounds like The Abduction from the Seraglio.' 'Please lower
your voice. My fiancee is present.' 'Don't worry, your fiancee has half a
bottle of brandy in her veins. The trumpets of doom wouldn't wake her. Go on,
ask Daniel to tell me the rest. Three heads are better than two, especially if
the third one is mine.' Fermin attempted to shrug his shoulders under dressings
and slings. 'I'm not against it, Daniel. It's your call.' Having resigned
myself to taking Don Gustavo on board, I continued with my narrative until I
reached the point when Fumero and his men came upon us on Calle Moncada a few
hours earlier. When the story reached an end, Barcelo got up and began pacing
up and down the room. Fermin and I observed him cautiously while Bernarda
snored like a baby calf. 'Little angel,' whispered Fermin, entranced. 'A few things
have caught my attention,' the bookseller said at last. 'Evidently Inspector
Fumero is in this up to his neck, although how and why is something that
escapes me. On the one hand, there's this woman—' 'Nuria Monfort.' 'Then
there's the business of Julian Carax's return to Barcelona and his murder in
the streets of the city - after a month in which nobody knows anything about
him. It's obvious that the woman is lying through her teeth.' 'That's what I've
been saying from the start,' said Fermin, casting a glance at me. 'Trouble is,
some of us suffer from an excess of juvenile ardour and a poor grasp of the
situation.' 'Look who's talking: St John of the Cross.' 'That's enough. Let's
calm down and stick to the facts. There's one thing in Daniel's narrative that
seemed very strange to me, even stranger than the rest of it. It has nothing to
do with the gothic spin of this whole saga, but with an essential and
apparently banal detail,' Barcelo said. 'Dazzle us, Don Gustavo.' 'Well, here
it is: this business about Carax's father refusing to identify Carax's body,
claiming that he didn't have a son. That seems very odd to me. Almost
unnatural. No father in the world would do that. Never mind the bad blood there
might have been between them. Death does that: it makes everyone feel
sentimental. When we stand in front of a coffin, we see only what is. good, or
what we want to see.' 'What a great quote, Don Gustavo,' Fermin said. 'Do you
mind if I add it to my repertoire?' 'But there are always exceptions,' I
objected. 'From what we know, Senor Fortuny was rather peculiar.' 'Everything
we know about him is third hand gossip,' said Barcelo. 'When everyone is
determined to present someone as a monster, there are two possibilities: either
he's a saint or they're not telling the whole story.' 'The trouble is, you've
taken a shining to the hatter just because he's a dimwit,' said Fermin. 'With
all due respect to the profession, when the description of a rogue is based
solely on the caretaker's statement, my first instinct is not to trust it.'
'But that means we can't be sure of anything. Everything we know is, as you
say, third-, or even fourth-hand. Caretakers or otherwise.' 'Never trust he who
trusts everyone,' Barcelo added. 'What an evening you're having, Don Gustavo,'
Fermin applauded. 'Pearls of wisdom offered in abundance. Would that I had your
crystalline insight—' 'The only crystalline thing in all this is that you need
my help -logistical and probably monetary as well - if you're hoping to bring
this pantomime to a conclusion before Inspector Fumero reserves a suite for you
in San Sebas Prison. Fermin, I assume you're with me?' 'I'll follow Daniel's
orders.' 'Daniel, what do you say?' 'You two are doing all the talking. What do
you propose, Don Gustavo?' 'This is my plan: as soon as Fermin has recovered,
you, Daniel, pay a casual visit to Nuria Monfort and put your cards on the
table. You let her see that you know she's lied to you and that she's hiding
something, a lot or a little - that remains to be seen.' 'What for?' 'To see
how she reacts. She won't say anything to you, of course. Or she'll lie to you
again. The important thing is to thrust the banderilla into her - forgive the
bullfighting image - to see where the bull will lead us or, should I say, the
young heifer. And that's where you come in, Fermin. While Daniel is in action,
you position yourself discreetly where you can keep watch on the suspect and
wait for her to take the bait. Once she's done that, you follow her.' 'You're
assuming she'll go somewhere,' I protested. 'O ye of little faith! She will.
Sooner or later. And something tells me that in this case it will be sooner
rather than later. It's the basis of female psychology.' 'And in the meantime,
what are you planning to do, Dr Freud?' I asked. 'That's my business. You'll
know in good time. And you'll thank me for it.' I looked for reassurance in
Fermin's eyes, but the poor man had slowly been falling asleep, hugging
Bernarda, while Barcelo was drawing up his triumphant plan. Fermin's head was
tilted to one side, and dribble was leaking onto his chest from the edge of a
beatific smile. Bernarda was snoring loudly. ‘I do hope this one proves good,'
Barcelo murmured. 'Fermin is a great person,' I said. 'He must be, because I
don't think he can have won her over with his looks. Come on, let's go.' We
turned out the light and left the room quietly, closing the door and leaving
the two lovers in the hands of sleep. I thought I could see the first glimmer
of daybreak through the gallery windows at the end of the corridor. 'Suppose I
say no,' I said in a low voice. 'Suppose I tell you to forget this.' Barcelo
smiled. 'Too late, Daniel. You should have sold me that book years ago, when
you had the chance.' Day was dawning when I reached home, dragging myself in that
absurd loaned suit through damp streets that shone with a scarlet hue. I found
my father asleep in his dining-room armchair, with a blanket over his legs and
his favourite book open in his lap - a copy of Voltaire's Candide, which he
reread a couple of times a year, the only times I heard him laugh heartily. I
observed him: his hair was grey, thinning, and the skin on his face had begun
to sag around his cheekbones. I looked at that man whom I had once imagined
almost invincible; he now seemed fragile, defeated without knowing it. Perhaps
we were both defeated. I leaned over to cover him with the blanket he had been
promising to give away to charity for years, and I kissed his forehead, as if
by doing so I could protect him from the invisible threads that kept him away
from me, from that tiny apartment, and from my memories. As if I believed that
with that kiss I could deceive time and convince it to pass us by, to return
some other day, some other life. 34 I spent nearly all morning daydreaming in
the back room, conjuring up images of Bea. I visualized her naked skin under my
hands, and it seemed to me that I could almost taste her sweet breath. I caught
myself remembering with maplike precision every contour of her body, the
glistening of my saliva on her lips and on that line of fair hair, so fair it
was almost transparent, that ran down her belly and that my friend Fermin, in
his improvised lectures on carnal logistics, liked to call 'the little road to
Jerez'. I looked at my watch for the umpteenth time and realized to my horror
that there were still a few hours to go before I could see, and touch, Bea. I
tried to sort out the month's invoices, but the rustle of the sheets of paper
reminded me of the sound of underwear slipping down the pale hips and thighs of
Dona Beatriz Aguilar, sister of my childhood friend. 'Daniel, you've got your
head in the clouds. Is anything worrying you? Is it Fermin?' my father asked. I
nodded, ashamed of myself. My best friend had lost a few ribs to save my skin a
few hours earlier, and all I could think of was the fastening of a bra. 'Speak
of the devil. . .' I raised my eyes, and there he was. Fermin Romero de Torres,
the one and only, wearing his best suit, and with that ragged posture like a
cheap cigar. He came in through the shop door with a victorious smile and a
fresh carnation in his lapel. 'But what are you doing here? Weren't you
supposed to be resting?' 'Rest takes care of itself. I'm a man of action. And
if I'm not here, you two won't even sell a catechism.' Ignoring the doctor's
advice, Fermin had come along, determined to take up his post again. His face
was yellow and covered in bruises; he limped badly and moved like a broken
puppet. 'You're going straight to bed, Fermin, for God's sake,' said my father,
horrified. 'Wouldn't hear of it. Statistics prove that more people die in bed
than in the trenches.' All our protests went unheeded. After a while my father
gave in, because something in poor Fermin's eyes suggested that even though his
bones hurt him terribly, the prospect of being alone in his pension room was
even more painful. 'All right, but if I see you lifting anything besides a
pencil, I'll give you an earful.' 'Yes, sir! You have my word of honour that I
won't even lift a finger.' Fermin proceeded to put on his blue overalls and arm
himself with a rag and a bottle of alcohol. He set himself up behind the
counter, planning to clean the covers and spines of the fifteen secondhand
books that had arrived that morning. They were all copies of a much-sought-after
title, The Three-Cornered Hat: A History of the Civil Guard in Alexandrine
Verse, by the exceedingly young graduate Fulgencio Capon, acclaimed as a
prodigy by critics all over the country. While he devoted himself to his task,
Fermin kept throwing me surreptitious looks, winking like a scheming devil.
'Your ears are as red as peppers, Daniel.' 'It must be from hearing you talk so
much nonsense.' 'Or from the fever that's gripped you. When are you seeing the
young maid?' 'None of your business.' 'You look really bad. Are you avoiding
spicy food? Hot spices are fatal; they dilate your blood vessels.' 'Piss off.'
It was going to be a long, miserable day. The afternoon was closing in when the
subway train left me at the foot of Avenida del Tibidabo. I could distinguish
the shape of the blue tram, moving away through folds of violet mist. I decided
not to wait for its return but to make my way on foot. Soon I discerned the
outline of The Angel of Mist. I pulled out the key Bea had given me and opened
the small door within the gate. I stepped into the properly, leaving the door
almost closed, so that it looked shut but could be opened by Bea. I had
deliberately arrived early. I knew that Bea would take at least half an hour or
forty-five minutes more. I wanted to feel the presence of the house on my own
and explore it before Bea arrived and made it hers. I stopped for a moment to
look at the fountain and the hand of the angel rising from the waters that were
tinted scarlet. The accusing index finger seemed sharp as a dagger. I went up
to the edge of the bowl. The sculpted face, with no eyes and no soul, quivered
beneath the water. I walked up the wide staircase that led to the entrance. The
main door was slightly ajar. I felt a pang of anxiety, because I thought I'd closed
it when I left the place the other night. I examined the lock, which didn't
seem to have been tampered with, and came to the conclusion that I must have
forgotten to close it. I pushed it gently inwards, and I felt the breath from
inside the house brushing my face, a scent of burned wood, damp, and dead
flowers. I pulled out a box of matches I'd picked up before leaving the
bookshop and knelt down to light the first of the candles Bea had left behind.
A copper-coloured bubble lit up in my hands and revealed the dancing shapes of
the walls that wept tears of dampness, the fallen ceilings and dilapidated
doors. I proceeded to the second candle and lit it. Slowly, almost
ritualistically, I followed the trail of the candles and lit them one by one,
conjuring up a halo of amber light that seemed to float in the air like a
cobweb trapped in the midst of darkness. My journey ended by the sitting-room
fireplace, by the blankets that were still lying on the floor, stained with
ash. I sat there, facing the rest of the room. I had expected silence, but the
house exhaled a thousand sounds. The creaking of wood, the brush of the wind
over the roof tiles, a thousand and one tapping sounds inside the walls, under
the floor, moving from place to place. After about thirty minutes, I noticed
that the cold and the dark were beginning to make me feel drowsy. I stood up
and began to walk up and down the room to warm up. There was only the charred
husk of a log in the hearth. By the time Bea arrived, the temperature inside the
old mansion would have vanquished the feverish ideas that had been plaguing me
for days and filled me with nothing but pure and chaste thoughts. Having found
an aim more practical than the contemplation of the ruins of time, I picked up
one of the candles and set off to explore the house in search of something to
burn. My notions of Victorian literature suggested that the most logical place
to begin searching was the cellar, which must have once housed the ovens and a
great coal bunker. With this idea in mind, I spent almost five minutes trying
to find a door or staircase leading to the lower floor. I chose a large door
made of carved wood at the end of a passage. It looked like a piece of
exquisite cabinet making, with reliefs in the shape of angels and a large cross
in the centre. The handle was in the middle of the door, under the cross. I
tried unsuccessfully to turn it. The mechanism was probably jammed or simply
ruined by rust. The only way that door would yield would be by forcing it open
with a crowbar or knocking it down with an axe, alternatives I quickly ruled
out. I studied the large piece of wood by candlelight and thought that somehow
it looked more like a sarcophagus than a door. I wondered what was hidden
behind it. . A closer examination of the carved angels discouraged me from
looking any further, and I left the place. I was about to give up my search for
a way down to the cellar when, by chance, I came across a tiny door at the
other end of the passage, which at first I took to be the door of a broom
cupboard. I tested the doorknob, and it gave way instantly. On the other side,
a steep staircase plunged into a pool of blackness. A powerful smell of damp
earth hit me. It seemed a strangely familiar smell, and as I stood there with
my eyes on the black well in front of me, I was seized by a memory from my
childhood, buried beneath years of fear. A rainy afternoon on the eastern slope
of Montjuic, looking at the sea through a forest of incomprehensible
mausoleums, a forest of crosses and gravestones carved with skulls and faces of
children with no lips or eyes, a place that stank of death; and the silhouettes
of about twenty adults that I could only remember as black suits dripping with
rain, and my father's hand holding mine too tightly, as if by doing so he could
stop his weeping, while a priest's empty words fell into that marble tomb into
which three faceless gravediggers pushed a grey coffin. The downpour slithered
like melted wax over the coffin, and I thought I heard my mother's voice calling
me from within, begging me to free her from that prison of stone and darkness,
but all I could do was tremble and ask my father in a voiceless whisper not to
hold my hand so tight, tell him he was hurting me, and that smell of fresh
earth, earth and ash and rain, was devouring everything, a smell of emptiness
and death. I opened my eyes and went down the steps almost blindly, because the
light from the candle dispelled only an inch or two of darkness. When I reached
the bottom, I held the candle up high and looked about me. I found no kitchen,
no cupboard full of dry wood. A narrow passage extended before me, ending in a
semicircular chamber. In the chamber stood a figure, its face lined with tears
of blood from two hollow eyes, its arms unfolded like wings and a serpent of
thorns sprouting from its temples. I felt an icy cold stabbing me in the nape
of the neck. At some point I regained my composure and realized I was staring
at an effigy of Christ carved in wood on the wall of a chapel. I stepped forward
a few yards and beheld a ghostly sight. A dozen naked female torsos were piled
up in one corner of the old chapel. Their heads and arms were missing, and they
were supported by a tripod. Each one was shaped differently, replicating the
figures of women of varying ages and constitutions. On their bellies were words
written in charcoal: 'Isabel, Eugenia, Penelope.' For once, my Victorian
reading came to the rescue, and I realized that what I was beholding was none
other than the remains of an old custom no longer in use, the echo of an era
when the homes of the wealthy had mannequins made to measure for different
members of the family, used for tailoring their dresses and trousseaux. Despite
Christ's threatening, grim look, I could not resist the temptation of
stretching out my hand and touching the torso with Penelope Aldaya's name
written on it. At that moment I thought I heard footsteps on the floor above. I
imagined that Bea had arrived and was wandering through the old mansion,
looking for me. Relieved, I left the chapel and made my way back to the
staircase. I was about to go up when I noticed that at the other end of the
corridor there was a boiler and a central heating system that seemed to be in
good order. It seemed incongruent with the rest of the cellar. I remembered Bea
mentioning that the estate agency, which for years had tried to sell the Aldaya
mansion, had carried out some renovation work, hoping to attract potential
buyers. I went up to examine the contraption more closely and saw that it consisted
of a radiator system fed by a small boiler. At my feet I found a few pails full
of charcoal, bits of plywood, and a few tins that I presumed must contain
kerosene. I opened the boiler latch and had a look inside. Everything seemed to
be in order. The idea of being able to get that old machine to work after so
many years struck me as a bit far-fetched, but that didn't stop me filling the
boiler with bits of charcoal and wood and spraying them with a good shower of
kerosene. While I was doing this, I thought I heard the creaking of old wood,
and for a moment I turned my head to look behind me. Suddenly I had a vision of
bloodstained thorns being pulled out of the wood, and as I faced the darkness,
I was afraid of seeing the figure of Christ emerge only a few steps away,
coming towards me with a wolfish smile. When I put the candle to it, the boiler
lit up with a sudden blaze that provoked a metallic roar. I closed the latch
and moved back a few steps, increasingly unsure about the soundness of my plan.
The boiler appeared to be drawing with some difficulty, so I decided to return
to the ground floor and check whether my efforts were yielding any practical
results. I went up the stairs and returned to the large room, hoping to find
Bea there, but there was no trace of her. I calculated that an hour must have
passed since my arrival, and my fear that the object of my desire might never
turn up grew more acute. To kill that anxiety, I decided to continue with my
plumbing exploits and set off in search of radiators which might confirm
whether the resurrection of the boiler had been a success. All the ones I found
proved resistant to my hopes; they were icy cold. But then, in a small room of
no more than four or five square yards, a bathroom that I supposed must be
situated immediately above the boiler, I could feel a little warmth. I knelt
down and realized joyfully that the floor tiles were lukewarm. That is how Bea
found me, crouching on the floor, feeling the tiles of the bathroom like an
idiot, an asinine smile plastered on my face. When I look back and try to
reconstruct the events of that night in the Aldaya mansion, the only excuse
that occurs to me that might justify my behaviour is to say that when you're
eighteen, in the absence of subtlety and greater experience, an old bathroom
can seem like paradise. It only took me a couple of minutes to persuade Bea
that we should take the blankets from the sitting room and lock ourselves in
that minute bathroom, with only two candles and some bathroom fittings that looked
like museum pieces. My main argument -climatological - soon convinced Bea. The
warmth that emanated from those floor tiles made her put aside her initial fear
that my crazy invention might burn the house down. Later, in the reddish
half-light of the candles, as I undressed her with trembling fingers, she
smiled, her eyes searching mine. I remember her sitting with her back against
the closed door of that room, her arms hanging down by her sides, the palms of
her hands opened towards me. I remember how she held her face up, defiant,
while I stroked her throat with the tips of my fingers. I remember how she took
my hands and placed them on her breasts, and how her eyes and lips quivered
when, enraptured, I took her nipples between my fingers and squeezed them, how
she slid down to the floor while I searched out her belly with my lips and how
her white thighs received me. 'Had you ever done this before, Daniel?' 'In
dreams.' 'Seriously.' 'No. Had you?' 'No. Not even with Clara Barcelo?' I
laughed. Probably at myself. 'What do you know about Clara Barcelo?' 'Nothing.'
'I know less than nothing,' I said. 'I don't believe you.' . I leaned over her
and looked into her eyes. 'I have never done this before with anybody.' Bea
smiled. My hand found its way between her thighs, and I threw myself on her,
searching her lips, convinced by now that cannibalism was the supreme
incarnation of wisdom. 'Daniel?' said Bea in a tiny voice. 'What?' I asked. The
answer never came to her lips. Suddenly a shaft of cold air whistled under the
door, and in that endless moment before the wind blew out all the candles, our
eyes met and we felt that the passion of that moment had been shattered. An
instant was enough for us to know that there was somebody on the other side of
the door. I saw fear sketched on Bea's face, and a second later we were covered
in darkness. The bang on the door came later. Brutal, like a steel fist
hammering on the wood, almost pulling it off its hinges. I felt Bea's body jump
in the dark, and I put my arms around her. We moved to the other end of the
room just before the second blow hit the door, throwing it with tremendous
force against the wall. Bea screamed and shrank back against me. For a moment
all I could see was the blue mist that crept up from the corridor and the
snakes of smoke from the candles as they were blown out, rising in a spiral.
The doorframe cast fanglike shadows, and I thought I saw an angular figure on
the threshold of the darkness. I peered into the corridor, fearing, or perhaps
hoping, that I would find only a stranger, a tramp who had ventured into the
ruined mansion looking for shelter on an unpleasant night. But there was no one
there, only ribbons of blue air that seemed to blow in through the windows.
Huddled in a corner of the room, trembling, Bea whispered my name. 'There's
nobody there,' I said. 'Perhaps it was a gust of wind.' 'The wind doesn't beat
on doors, Daniel. Let's go.' I went back to the room and gathered up our
clothes. 'Here, get dressed. We'll go and have a look.' 'We'd better leave.'
'Yes, right away. I just want to check one thing.' We dressed hurriedly in the
dark, our breath forming clouds in the air. I picked up one of the candles from
the floor and lit it again. A draught of cold air glided through the house, as if
someone had opened doors and windows. 'You see? It's the wind.' Bea shook her
head but kept silent. We made our way back towards the sitting room, shielding
the flame with our hands. Bea followed close behind me, holding her breath.
'What are we looking for, Daniel?' 'It'll only take a minute.' 'No, let's leave
right away.' 'All right.' We turned to walk towards the exit, and it was then
that I noticed. The large sculpted door at the end of the corridor, which I had
tried unsuccessfully to open, was ajar. 'What's the matter?' asked Bea. 'Wait
for me here.' 'Daniel, please I walked down the corridor, holding the candle
that flickered in gusts of cold air. Bea sighed and followed me reluctantly. I
stopped in front of the door. Marble steps were just visible descending into
the darkness. I started to go down them. Petrified, Bea stood at the entrance
holding the candle. 'Please, Daniel, let's go now. I descended, step by step,
to the bottom of the staircase. The ghostly aura from the candle that was
raised behind me seemed to scratch at the shape of a rectangular room, made of
bare stone walls covered in crucifixes. The icy cold in that chamber took my
breath away. Before me stood a marble slab, and on top of it I saw what looked
like two similar white objects of different sizes, lined up one next to the
other. They reflected the tremor of the candle with more intensity than the
rest of the room, and I guessed they were made of lacquered wood. I took one
more step forward, and only then did I understand. The two objects were white
coffins. One of them was scarcely two feet long. I felt a shiver down the back
of my neck. It was a child's sarcophagus. I was in a crypt. Without realizing
what I was doing, I came closer to the marble stone until I was near enough to
stretch out my hand and touch it. I then noticed that on each coffin a cross
and a name had been carved, but a blanket of dust obscured them. I put my hand
on one of the coffins, the larger one. Slowly, almost in a trance, without
stopping to think what I was doing, I brushed off the dust that covered the
lid. I could barely read the words in the dim red candlelight. PENELOPE ALDAYA
1902-1919 I froze. Something or somebody was moving about in the dark. I could
feel the cold air sliding down my skin, and only then did I retreat a few
steps. 'Get out of here,' murmured a voice in the shadows. I recognized him
immediately. Lain Coubert. The voice of the devil. I charged up the stairs, and
as soon as I reached the ground floor, I grabbed Bea by the arm and dragged her
as fast as I could towards the exit. We had lost the candle and were running
blindly. Bea was frightened, and unable to comprehend my sudden alarm. She
hadn't seen anything. She hadn't heard anything. I didn't pause to give her an
explanation. I expected that at any moment something would jump out from the
shadows and block our way, but the main door was waiting for us at the end of
the corridor, a rectangle of light shining through the cracks in the doorframe.
'It's locked,' Bea whispered. I felt my pockets for the key. I turned my head
for a fraction of a second and was sure that two shining points were slowly
advancing towards us from the other end of the passageway. Eyes. My fingers
found the key. I inserted it desperately into the lock, opened the door, and
pushed Bea out roughly. Bea must have sensed the fear in me, because she rushed
towards the gate and didn't stop until we were both on the pavement of Avenida
del Tibidabo, breathless and covered in cold sweat. 'What happened down there,
Daniel? Was there someone there?' 'No.' 'You look pale.' 'I've always been
pale. Come on. Let's go.' 'What about the key?' I had left it inside, stuck in
the lock. I felt no desire to go back and look for it. 'I think I dropped it on
the way out. We'll look for it some other day.' We walked briskly away down the
avenue, crossed over to the other side, and did not slow down until we were a
good hundred yards from the mansion. It was then I noticed that my hand was
still stained with ashes. I was thankful for the mantle of the night, for it
concealed the tears of terror running down my cheeks. We descended Calle Balmes
to Plaza Nunez de Arce, where we found a solitary taxi. As we drove down Balmes
to Consejo de Ciento, we hardly spoke a word. Bea held my hand, and a couple of
times I caught her gazing at me with glassy, impenetrable eyes. I leaned over
to kiss her, but she didn't open her lips. 'When will I see you again?' 'I'll
call you tomorrow, or the next day,' she said. 'Do you promise?' She nodded.
'You can call me at home or at the bookshop. It's the same number. You have it,
don't you?' She nodded again. I asked the driver to stop for a moment on the
corner of Muntaner and Diputacion. I offered to see Bea to her front door, but
she refused and walked away without letting me kiss her again, or even brush
her hand. She started to run as I looked on from the taxi. The lights were on
in the Aguilars' apartment, and I could clearly see my friend Tomas watching me
from his bedroom window, where we had spent so many afternoons together
chatting or playing chess. I waved at him, forcing a smile that he probably
could not see. He didn't return the greeting. He remained static, glued to the
windowpane, gazing at me coldly. A few seconds later, he moved away and the window
went dark. He was waiting for us, I thought. 35 When I got home, I found the
remains of a dinner for two on the table. My father had already gone to bed,
and I wondered whether, by chance, he had plucked up the courage to invite
Merceditas around for dinner. I tiptoed off towards my room and went in without
turning on the light. The moment I sat on the edge of the mattress, I realized
there was someone else in the room, lying on the bed in the dark like a dead
body with his hands crossed over his chest. I felt an icy spasm in my stomach,
but soon I recognized the snoring, and the profile of that incomparable nose. I
turned on the light on the bedside table and found Fermin Romero de Torres
lying on the bedspread, lost in a blissful dream and moaning gently with
pleasure. I sighed, and the sleeper opened his eyes. When he saw me, he looked
surprised. He was obviously expecting some other company. He rubbed his eyes
and looked about him, taking in his surroundings more closely. 'I hope I didn't
scare you. Bernarda says that when I'm asleep, I look like a Spanish Boris
Karloff.' 'What are you doing on my bed, Fermin?' He half closed his eyes with
longing. 'Dreaming of Carole Lombard. We were in Tangiers, in some Turkish
baths, and I was covering her in oil, the sort they sell for babies' bottoms.
Have you ever covered a woman with oil, from head to toe?' 'Fermin, it's half
past midnight, and I'm dead on my feet.' 'Please forgive me, Daniel. It's just
that your father insisted I come up and have dinner with him, and afterwards I
felt terribly drowsy. Beef has a narcotic effect on me, you see. Your father
suggested that I lie down here for a while. He said that you wouldn't mind.
...' 'And I don't mind, Fermin. It's just that you've caught me by surprise.
Keep the bed and go back to Carole Lombard; she must be waiting for you. And
get under the sheets. It's a foul night, and if you stay on top you'll catch
something. I'll go to the dining room.' Fermin nodded meekly. The bruises on
his face were beginning to swell up, and his head, covered with two days of
stubble and that sparse hair, looked like some ripe fruit fallen from a tree. I
took a blanket from the chest of drawers and handed another one to Fermin. Then
I turned off the light and went back to the dining room, where my father's
favourite armchair awaited me. I wrapped myself in the blanket and curled up,
as best I could, convinced that I wouldn't sleep a wink. The image of the two
white coffins was branded on my mind. I closed my eyes and did my best to delete
the sight. In its place I conjured up the image of Bea in the candlelit
bathroom, lying naked on the blankets. Abandoning myself to these thoughts, it
seemed to me that I could hear the distant murmur of the sea, and I wondered
whether, without my knowing it, I had already succumbed to sleep. Perhaps I was
sailing towards Tangiers. But soon I realized that the sound was only Fermin's
snoring. A moment later the world was turned off. In all my life, I've never
slept so well or so deeply as I did that night. Morning came, and it was
pouring. Streets were flooded, and the rain beat angrily against the windows.
The telephone rang at seven-thirty. I jumped out of the armchair to answer, my
heart in my mouth. Fermin, in a bathrobe and slippers, and my father, holding
the coffeepot, exchanged that look I was already growing used to. 'Bea?' I
whispered into the receiver, with my back to them. I thought I heard a sigh on
the line. 'Bea, is that you?' There was no answer, and a few seconds later the
line went dead. I stayed there for a minute, staring at the telephone, hoping
it would ring again. 'They'll call back, Daniel. Come and have some breakfast
now,' said my father. She'll call again later, I told myself. Someone must have
caught her phoning. It couldn't be easy to break Senor Aguilar's curfew. There
was no reason to be alarmed. With this and other excuses, I dragged myself to
the table to have breakfast with Fermin and my father. It might have been the
rain, but the food had lost all its flavour. It rained all morning. Shortly
after we opened the bookshop, there was a general power cut in the whole
neighbourhood that lasted until noon. 'That's all we needed,' sighed my father.
At three the first leaks began to appear. Fermin offered to go up to
Merceditas's apartment to borrow some buckets, dishes, or any other hollow
receptacle. My father strictly forbade him to go. The deluge persisted. To
alleviate my nerves, I told Fermin what had happened the day before, though I
kept to myself what I'd seen in the crypt. Fermin listened with fascination,
but despite his insistence, I refused to describe to him the consistency,
texture, and shape of Bea's breasts. The day wore slowly on. After dinner, on
the pretext of going out to stretch my legs, I left my father reading and
walked up to Bea's house. When I got there, I stopped on the corner to look up
at the large windows of the apartment. I asked myself what I was doing. Spying,
meddling, or making a fool of myself were some of the answers that went through
my mind. Even so, as lacking in dignity as I was in appropriate clothes for
such icy weather, I took shelter from the wind in a doorway on the other side
of the street for about half an hour, watching the windows and seeing the
silhouettes of Senor Aguilar and his wife as they passed by. But not a trace of
Bea. It was almost midnight when I got back home, shivering with cold and
carrying the world on my shoulders. She'll call tomorrow, I told myself a
thousand times while I tried to fall asleep. Bea didn't call the next day. Or
the next. She didn't call that whole week, the longest and the last of my life.
In seven days' time, I would be dead. 36 Only someone who has barely a week
left to live could waste his time the way I wasted mine during those days. All
I did was watch over the telephone and gnaw at my soul, so much a prisoner of
my own blindness that I wasn't even capable of guessing what destiny had in
store for me. On Monday at noon, I went over to the literature department in
Plaza Universidad, hoping to see Bea. I knew she wouldn't be amused if I turned
up there and we were seen together, but facing her anger was preferable to
continuing with that uncertainty. I asked in the office for Professor
Velazquez's lecture room and decided to wait for the students to come out. I
waited for about twenty minutes, until the doors were opened and I saw the
arrogant, well-groomed countenance of Professor Velazquez, as usual surrounded
by his small group of female admirers. Five minutes later there was still no
sign of Bea. I decided to walk up to the door of the lecture room and take a
look. A trio of girls were huddled together like a Sunday-school group,
chatting and exchanging either lecture notes or secrets. The one who seemed to
be the leader of the congregation noticed my presence and interrupted her
monologue to fire me an inquisitive look. ‘I’m sorry. I'm looking for Beatriz
Aguilar. Do you know whether she comes to this class?' The girls traded
venomous glances. 'Are you her fiance?' one of them asked. 'The officer?' I smiled
blankly, and they took this to mean yes. Only the third girl smiled back at me,
shyly, averting her eyes. The other two were more forward, almost defiant. 'I
imagined you different,' said the one who seemed to be the head commando.
'Where's the uniform?' asked the second in command, observing me with
suspicion. 'I'm on leave. Do you know whether she's already left?' 'Beatriz
didn't come to class today,' the chief informed me. 'Oh, didn't she?' 'No,'
confirmed the suspicious lieutenant. 'If you're her fiance, you should know
that.' 'I'm her fiance, not a Civil Guard.' 'Come on, let's go, the boy's an
idiot,' the chief said. They both walked past me, eyeing me sideways with
disdain. The third one lagged behind. She stopped for a moment before leaving and,
making quite sure the others didn't see her, whispered in my ear, 'Beatriz
didn't come on Friday either.' 'Do you know why?' 'You're not her fiance, are
you?' 'No. Only a friend.' 'I think she's ill.' 'Ill?' 'That's what one of the
girls who phoned her said. I must go.' Before I was able to thank her for her
help, the girl went off to join the other two, who were waiting for her with
withering looks at the far end of the cloister. 'Daniel, something must have
happened. A great-aunt has died, or a parrot has got the mumps or she's caught
a cold from so much going around without enough clothes to cover her backside -
goodness knows what. Contrary to what you believe, the earth does not revolve
around the desires of your crotch.' 'You think I'm not aware of that? You don't
seem to know me, Fermin.' 'My dear, if God had wished to give me wider hips, I
might even have given birth to you: that's how well I know you. Pay attention
to me. Throw off these morbid thoughts and get some fresh air. Waiting is the
rust of the soul.' 'So I seem absurd to you.' 'No. You seem fretful. I know
that at your age these things look like the end of the world, but everything
has a limit. Tonight you and I are going on a binge to a club on Calle Plateria
- apparently it's all the rage. I hear there are some new Scandinavian girls
straight from Ciudad Real who are real knockouts. It's on me.' 'And what will
Bernarda say?' 'The girls are for you. I'll be waiting in the hall, reading a
magazine and looking at the nice merchandise from afar, because I'm a convert
to monogamy, if not in mentis, at least de facto.' 'I'm very grateful, Fermin,
but—' 'A young boy of eighteen who refuses such an offer is not in his right
mind. Something must be done immediately. Here.' He searched in his pockets and
handed me some coins. I wondered whether these were the doubloons with which he
was going to finance the visit to the sumptuous seraglio of Iberian nymphs. 'We
won't get far with this, Fermin.' 'You're one of those people who fall off a
tree and never quite reach the ground. Do you really think that I'm going to
take you to a whorehouse and bring you back, covered with gonorrhoea, to your
dear father, who is the saintliest man I have ever met? I told you about the
girls to see whether you'd react, appealing to the only part of your person
that seems to be in working order. The coins are for you to go to the telephone
on the corner and call your beloved with a bit of privacy.' 'Bea told me quite
clearly not to phone her.' 'She also told you she'd call you on Friday. It's
already Monday. It's up to you. It is one thing to believe in women, and
another to believe what they say.' Convinced by his arguments, I slipped out of
the bookshop, walked over to the public telephone on the street corner, and
dialled the Aguilars' number. At the fifth ring, someone lifted the telephone
on the other end and listened in silence, without answering. Five eternal
seconds went by. 'Bea?' I murmured. 'Is that you?' The voice that answered
struck my stomach like a hammer. 'You son of a bitch, I swear I'm going to beat
your brains out.' It was the steely tone of pure, contained anger. Icy and
serene. That is what scared me most. I could picture Senor Aguilar holding the
telephone in the entrance hall of his apartment, the same one I had often used
to call my father and tell him I would be late because I'd spent the afternoon
with Tomas. I stayed where I was, listening to Bea's father breathing, dumb,
wondering whether he'd recognized my voice. 'I see you don't even have the balls
to talk, you bastard. Any little shit is capable of doing what you've done, but
at least a man would have the guts to show his face. I would die of shame if I
thought that a seventeen-year-old girl had more balls than me - because she
hasn't told me your name and she's not going to. I know her. And since you
don't have the courage to show your face for Beatriz's sake, she's going to
have to pay for what you've done.' When I hung up, my hands were shaking. I
wasn't conscious of what I'd done until I left the telephone box and dragged
myself back to the bookshop. I hadn't stopped to consider that my call would
only make things worse for Bea. My only concern had been to remain anonymous
and hide my face, disowning the person I professed to love and whom I had only
used. I had done this before when Inspector Fumero had beaten up Fermin. I had
done it again when I'd abandoned Bea to her fate. I would do it again as soon
as circumstances provided me with another opportunity. I stayed out in the
street for ten minutes, trying to calm down before returning to the bookshop.
Perhaps I should call again and tell Senor Aguilar that yes, it was me. That I
was crazy about his daughter, end of story. If he then felt like coming by in
his general's uniform and beating me up, he had every right to do so. I was on
my way back when I noticed that somebody was watching me from a doorway on the
other side of the street. At first I thought it was Don Federico, the
watchmaker, but a quick glance was enough to make me realize this was a taller,
more solid-looking individual. I stopped to return his gaze, and, to my
surprise, he nodded, as if he wished to greet me and prove that he didn't mind
at all that I'd noticed his presence. The light from one of the streetlamps
fell on his face. His features seemed familiar. He took a step forward,
buttoning his raincoat to his neck, then smiled at me and walked away towards
the Ramblas, mingling with other passers-by. It was only then I recognized him:
the police officer who had held me down while Inspector Fumero attacked Fermin.
When I entered the bookshop, Fermin looked at me inquisitively. 'What's that
face for?' 'Fermin, I think we have a problem.' That same evening we put into
action the plan we had conceived with Don Gustavo Barcelo. 'The first thing is
to make sure that you are right about us being under police surveillance. We'll
walk over to Els Quatre Gats, casually, to see whether that man is still out
there, lying in wait. But not a word of this to your father, or he'll end up
with a kidney stone.' 'And what do I tell him? He's suspicious enough as it
is.' 'Tell him you're going out to buy sunflower seeds or something.' 'And why
do we need to go to Els Quatre Gats, precisely?' 'Because they serve the best
ham sandwiches in a three-mile radius, and we have to talk somewhere. Don't be
a wet blanket - do as I say, Daniel.' Welcoming any activity that would
distract me from my thoughts, I obeyed meekly, and a couple of minutes later
was on my way out into the street, having assured my father that I'd be back in
time for dinner. Fermin was waiting for me on the corner. As soon as I joined
him, he raised his eyebrows to indicate that I should start walking. 'We've got
the rattlesnake about twenty yards behind us. Don't turn your head.' 'Is it the
same one?' 'I don't think so, unless he's shrunk with all this wet weather.
This one looks like a novice. He's carrying a sports page that's six days old.
Fumero must be recruiting apprentices from the charity hospice.' When we got to
Els Quatre Gats, our plainclothes policeman sat at a table a few yards from
ours and pretended to reread last week's football-league report. Every twenty
seconds he would throw us a furtive glance. 'Poor thing, look how he's
sweating,' said Fermin, shaking his head. 'You seem rather distant, Daniel. Did
you speak to the girl or didn't you?' 'Her father answered the phone.' 'And you
had a friendly and civil conversation?' 'It was more of a monologue.' 'I see.
Must I therefore infer that you can't address him as papa yet?' 'He told me,
verbatim, that he was going to beat my brains out.' 'Surely that was a
rhetorical flourish.' At that moment the waiter's frame hovered over us. Fermin
asked for enough food to feed a regiment, rubbing his hands with anticipation.
'And you don't want anything. Daniel?' I shook my head. When the waiter
returned with two trays full of tapas, sandwiches, and various glasses of beer,
Fermin handed him a handsome sum and told him to keep the change. 'Listen,
boss,' he added. 'Do you see that man sitting at the table by the window - the
one dressed like Jimmy Cricket with his head buried in his newspaper, as if it
were a cone?' The waiter nodded with an air of complicity. 'Could you please go
and tell him that there's an urgent message from Inspector Fumero? He must go
immediately to the Boqueria market to buy twenty duros' worth of boiled
chickpeas and take them without delay to Police Headquarters (in a taxi if
necessary) - or he must prepare to present his balls to him on a plate. Would
you like me to repeat it?' 'That won't be necessary, sir. Twenty duros' worth
of chickpeas or his balls on a plate.' Fermin handed him another coin. 'God
bless you.' The waiter nodded respectfully and set off towards our pursuer's
table to deliver the message. When he heard the instructions, the watchman's
face dropped. He remained at the table for another fifteen seconds, torn, and
then galloped off into the street. Fermin didn't bat an eyelid. In other
circumstances I would have enjoyed the episode, but that night I was unable to
get Bea out of my mind. 'Daniel, come down from the clouds, we have work to
discuss. Tomorrow, without delay, you must go and visit Nuria Monfort, as we
planned.' 'And when I'm there, what do I say to her?' 'You'll think of
something. The plan is to follow Senor Barcelo's very sensible suggestion. Make
her aware that you know that she lied to you about Carax, that her so-called
husband Miquel Moliner is not in prison as she pretends, that you've discovered
that she is the evil hand responsible for collecting the mail from the old
Fortuny-Carax family apartment, using a PO box in the name of a nonexistent
solicitor's firm . . . You tell her whatever is necessary to light a fire under
her feet. Then, just for effect, you leave her to stew for a while in her own
juices.' 'And in the meantime . . .' 'In the meantime, I'll be waiting to
follow her, an objective I plan to put into practice using the latest
techniques in camouflage.' 'It's not going to work, Fermin.' 'O ye of little
faith! Come on, what did this girl's father say to get you into this frame of
mind? Is it the threat you're worried about? Don't pay any attention to him.
Let's see, what did the lunatic say?' I answered without thinking. 'The truth.'
'The truth according to St Daniel the Martyr?' 'You can laugh as much as you
like. It serves me right.' 'I'm not laughing, Daniel. It's just that I feel bad
seeing you punish yourself. Anyone would think you're about to put on a hair
shirt. You haven't done anything wrong. Life has enough torturers as it is,
without you going around moonlighting as a Grand Inquisitor against yourself.'
'Do you speak from experience?' Fermin shrugged. 'You've never told me how you
came across Fumero,' I said. 'Would you like to hear a story with a moral?'
'Only if you want to tell it.' Fermin poured himself a glass of beer and
swigged it down in one gulp. 'Amen,' he said to himself. 'What I can tell you
about Fumero is common knowledge. The first time I heard him mentioned, the
future inspector was a gunman working for the anarchist syndicate, the FAI. He
had earned himself quite a reputation, because he had no fear and no scruples.
All he needed was someone's name, and he'd finish him off in the street with a
shot to the face, in broad daylight. Such talents are greatly valued in times
of unrest. The things he didn't have were loyalty or beliefs. He didn't give a
damn what cause he was serving, as long as the cause would help him climb the
ladder. There are plenty of scum like him in the world, but few of them have Fumero's
talent. From the anarchists he went on to serve the communists, and from there
to the fascists was only a step. He spied and sold information from one faction
to another, and he took money from all of them. I'd had my eye on him for a
long time. I was working for the government of the Generalitat at the time.
Sometimes I was mistaken for the ugly brother of President Companys, which
would fill me with pride.' 'What did you do?' 'A bit of everything. In today's
radio soaps, it would be called espionage, but in wartime everyone is a spy.
Part of my job was to keep an eye on types like Fumero, as they're the most
dangerous. They're like vipers, with no creed and no conscience. In a war they
appear everywhere. In times of peace, they put on their masks. But they're
still there. Thousands of them. The fact is that sooner or later I discovered
what his game was. Rather later than sooner, I'd say. Barcelona fell in a
matter of days, and now the boot was on the other foot. I became a persecuted
criminal, and my superiors were forced to hide like rats. Naturally, Fumero was
already in charge of the "cleanup" operation. The purge was carried
out openly, with shootings in the streets, or in Montjuic Castle. I was
arrested in the port while attempting to obtain passage to France on a Greek
cargo ship for some of my superiors. I was taken to Montjuic and held for two
days in a pitch-dark cell, with no water or ventilation. The next light I saw
was the flame of a welding torch. Fumero and a man who only spoke German had me
hung upside down by my feet. The German first got rid of my clothes by burning
them with the torch. It seemed to me that he was well practised. When I was
left stark naked with all the hairs on my body singed, Fumero told me that if I
didn't tell him where my superiors were hiding, the fun would begin in earnest.
I'm not a brave man, Daniel. I never have been, but what little courage I
possessed I used to tell him to go screw himself. At a sign from Fumero, the
German injected something into my thigh and waited a few minutes. Then, while
Fumero smoked and watched me, smiling, he began to roast me thoroughly with the
welding torch. You've seen the marks. . . .' I nodded. Fermin spoke in a calm
tone, with no emotion. 'These marks are the least important. The worst scars
remain inside. I withstood the torch for an hour, or perhaps it was just one
minute. I don't know. But I ended up giving them the first names, surnames, and
even the shirt sizes of all my superiors and even of those who were not. They
abandoned me in an alleyway in Pueblo Seco, naked and with my skin burned. A
good woman took me into her home and looked after me for two months. The
communists had shot her husband and her two sons dead on her doorstep. She
didn't know why. When I was able to get up and go out to the street, I learned
that all my superiors had been arrested and executed just hours after I had
informed on them.' 'Fermin, if you don't want to tell me all this . . .' 'No,
no. I'd rather you heard it and knew who you're dealing with. When I returned
to my home, I was told it had been expropriated by the government, with all my
possessions. Without knowing it, I had become a beggar. I tried to get work. I
was rejected. The only thing I could get was a bottle of cheap wine for a few centimos.
It's a slow poison that burns your guts like acid, but I hoped that sooner or
later it would work. I told myself I would return to Cuba one day, to my
mulatto girl. I was arrested when I tried to board a freighter going to Havana.
I've forgotten how long I spent in prison. After the first year, you begin to
lose everything, even your mind. When I came out, I began to live on the
streets, where you found me an eternity later. There were many others like me,
colleagues from prison or parole. The lucky ones had somebody they could count
on outside, somebody or something they could go back to. The rest of us joined
the army of the dispossessed. Once you're given a card for that club, you never
stop being a member. Most of us only came out at night, when the world wasn't
looking. I met many others like me. Rarely did I see them again. Life in the
streets is short. People look at you in disgust, even the ones who give you
alms, but that is nothing compared to the revulsion you feel for yourself. It's
like being trapped in a walking corpse, a corpse that's hungry, stinks, and
refuses to die. Every now and then, Fumero and his men would arrest me and
accuse me of some absurd theft, or of pestering girls on their way out of a
convent school. Another month in La Modelo prison, more beatings, and out onto
the streets again. I never understood the point of those farces. Apparently the
police thought it convenient to have a census of suspects at their disposal,
which they could resort to whenever necessary. In one of my meetings with
Fumero, who by now was quite the respectable figure, I asked him why he hadn't
killed me, as he'd killed the others. He laughed and told me there were worse
things than death. He never killed an informer, he said. He let him rot alive.'
'Fermin, you're not an informer. Anyone in your place would have done the same.
You're my best friend.' 'I don't deserve your friendship, Daniel. You and your
father saved my life, and my life belongs to you both. Whatever I can do for
you, I will. The day you got me off the streets, Fermin Romero de Torres was
born again.' 'That's not your real name, is it?' Fermin shook his head. 'I saw
that one on a poster at the Arenas bullring. The other is buried. The man who
used to live within these bones died, Daniel. Sometimes he comes back, in
nightmares. But you've shown me how to be another man, and you've given me a
reason for living once more: my Bernarda.' 'Fermin . . .' 'Don't say anything,
Daniel. Just forgive me, if you can.' I embraced him without a word and let him
cry. People were giving us strange looks, and I returned their looks with
venom. After a while they decided to ignore us. Later, while I walked with
Fermin to his pension, my friend recovered his voice. 'What I've told you today
... I beg you not to tell Bernarda.. .' 'I won't tell Bernarda, or anyone else.
Not one word, Fermin.' We said farewell with a handshake. 37 I couldn't sleep
at all that night. I lay on my bed with the light on, staring at my smart
Montblanc pen, which hadn't written anything for years - it was fast becoming
the best pair of gloves ever given to someone with no hands. More than once I
felt tempted to go over to the Aguilars' apartment and, for want of a better
outcome, give myself up. But after much meditation, I decided that bursting
into Bea's home in the early hours of the morning was not going to improve
matters. By daybreak, exhausted and confused, I had concluded that the best
thing to do was let the water flow; in time the river would carry the bad blood
away. The morning inched by with little activity in the bookshop, and I took
advantage of the circumstance to doze, standing up, with what my father
described as the grace and balance of a flamingo. At lunchtime, as arranged
with Fermin the night before, I pretended I was going out for a walk, while
Fermin claimed he had an appointment at the outpatients' department to have a
few stitches removed. As far as I could tell, my father swallowed both lies
whole. The idea of systematically lying to my father was beginning to unnerve
me, and I said as much to Fermin halfway through the morning, while my father
was out on an errand. 'Daniel, the father-son relationship is based on
thousands of little white lies. Presents from the Three Kings, the tooth fairy,
meritocracy, and many others. This is just one more. Don't feel guilty.' When
the time came, I lied again and made my way to the home of Nuria Monfort, whose
touch and smell remained indelible in my memory. The cobblestones of Plaza de
San Felipe Neri had been taken over by a flock of pigeons, but otherwise the
square was deserted. I crossed the paving under the watchful eye of dozens of
pigeons and looked around in vain for Fermin, disguised as heaven knows what -
he had refused to reveal his plan. I went into the building and saw that the
name of Miquel Moliner was still on the letterbox; I wondered whether that
would be the first flaw I was going to point out in Nuria Monfort's story. As I
went up the stairs in the dark, I almost hoped she wouldn't be at home. Nobody
can feel more compassion for a fibber than another one. When I reached the
fourth-floor landing, I stopped to gather my courage and devise some excuse
with which to justify my visit. The neighbour's radio was still thundering at
the other end of the landing, this time broadcasting a game show on which
contestants tested their knowledge of religious lore. It went by the name With
a Little Help from the Lord, and reputedly held the whole of Spain spellbound
every Tuesday at noon. And now, for five points, and with a little help from
the Lord, can you tell us, Bartolome, how does the Evil One disguise his
appearance in front of the wise men of the Tabernacle, in the parable of the
archangel and the gourd, in the Book of Joshua? a) as a young goat, b) as a jug
vendor, or c) as an acrobat with a monkey? Riding on the wave of applause from
the audience in the studios of Radio Nacional, I planted myself in front of
Nuria Monfort's door and pressed the bell for a few seconds. I listened to the
echo spread through the apartment and heaved a sigh of relief. I was about to
leave when I heard footsteps coming to the door. The peephole lit up like a
tear of light. I smiled. As the key turned in the lock, I breathed deeply. 38
'Daniel' The blue smoke of her cigarette coiled around her face. Her lips shone
with dark lipstick; they were moist and left marks like bloodstains on the
filter she held between her index and ring fingers. There are people you
remember and people you dream of. For me, Nuria Montfort was like a mirage: you
don't question its veracity, you simply follow it until it vanishes or until it
destroys you. I followed her through to the narrow, shadowy room that contained
her desk, her books, and that collection of lined-up pencils, like an accident
of symmetry. 'I thought I wouldn't see you again.' 'I'm sorry to disappoint
you.' She sat on the chair by her desk, crossing her legs and leaning
backwards. I tore my eyes away from her throat and concentrated on a damp spot
on the wall. I went up to the window and had a quick glance around the square.
No sign of Fermin. I could hear Nuria Monfort breathing behind my back, could
feel her eyes brushing my neck. I spoke without taking my eyes off the window.
'A few days ago, a good friend of mine discovered that the property manager
responsible for the old Fortuny-Carax apartment had been sending his
correspondence to a PO box in the name of a firm of solicitors which,
apparently, doesn't exist. This same friend discovered that the person who for
years has been collecting the mail to this PO box has been using your name,
Senora Monfort—' 'Shut up.' I turned around and saw her retreating into the
shadows. 'You judge me without knowing me,' she said. 'Then help me to get to
know you.' 'Have you told anyone about this? Who else knows what you've just
said to me?' 'More people than you'd think. The police have been following me
for a long time.' 'Fumero?' I nodded. It seemed to me that her hands were
trembling. 'You don't know what you've done, Daniel' 'Then tell me,' I answered
with a harshness I didn't feel. 'You think that because you chance upon a book
you have a right to enter the lives of people you don't know and meddle in
things you cannot understand and that don't belong to you.' 'They belong to me
now, whether I like it or not.' 'You don't know what you're saying.' 'I was in
the Aldayas' house. I know that Jorge Aldaya is hiding there. I know he was the
person who murdered Carax.' I didn't know that I believed these words until I
heard myself saying them. She looked at me for a long time, choosing her words
carefully. 'Does Fumero know this?' 'I don't know.' 'You'd better know. Did
Fumero follow you to that house?' The anger in her eyes burned me. I had made
my entrance playing the role of accuser and judge, but with every minute that
passed, I felt more like the culprit. 'I don't think so. Did you know? Did you
know that it was Aldaya who killed Julian and that he's hiding in that house?
Why didn't you tell me?' She smiled bitterly. 'You don't understand anything,
do you?' 'I understand that you lied in order to defend the man who murdered
the person you call your friend, that you've been covering up his crime for
years, protecting a man whose only aim is to erase any trace of the existence
of Julian Carax, who burns his books. I also understand that you lied to me
about your husband, that he's not in prison and clearly isn't here either.
That's what I understand.' Nuria Monfort shook her head slowly. 'Go away,
Daniel. Leave this house now and don't return. You've done enough.' I walked
away towards the door, leaving her in the dining room. I stopped halfway and
looked back. Nuria Monfort was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall,
all concern for appearances gone. I crossed the square with downcast eyes. I
carried with me the pain I had received from the lips of that woman, a pain I
now felt I deserved, though I didn't understand why. 'You don't know what
you've done, Daniel.' All I wanted was to get away from that place. As I walked
past the church, I didn't at first notice the presence of a gaunt, large-nosed
priest standing at the entrance holding a missal and a rosary. He blessed me
unhurriedly as I passed by. 39 I walked into the bookshop almost forty-five
minutes late. When my father saw me, he frowned disapprovingly and looked at
the clock. 'What time do you call this? You know I have to go out to visit a
client in San Cugat and yet you left me here alone.' 'What about Fermin? Isn't
he back yet?' My father shook his head with that haste that seemed to take over
when he was in a bad mood. 'By the way, there's a letter for you. I've left it
next to the till.' 'Dad, I'm sorry but—' He waved my excuses aside, threw on a
raincoat and hat, and went out of the door without saying goodbye. Knowing him,
I guessed his anger would evaporate before he reached the train station. What I
found odd was Fermin's absence. Since I'd seen him dressed up as a vaudeville
priest in Plaza de San Felipe Neri, waiting for Nuria Monfort to come rushing
out and lead him to the heart of the mystery, my faith in our strategy had
crumbled away. I imagined that if Nuria Monfort did go out, Fermin probably
ended up following her to the chemist's or the baker's. What a great plan! I
went over to the till to have a look at the letter my father had mentioned. The
envelope was white and rectangular, like a tombstone, and in the place of a
crucifix it bore a return address that managed to crush what little spirit I
had left in me that day. MILITARY GOVERNMENT OF BARCELONA RECRUITMENT OFFICE
'Hallelujah,' I mumbled. I knew the contents of the letter without having to
open it, but even so I did, just to wallow in my misery. The letter was
concise: two paragraphs of that prose, poised somewhere between strident
proclamation and the aria from an operetta, that characterizes all military
correspondence. It was announced to me that in two months' time I, Daniel
Sempere, would have the honour and pride of fulfilling the most sacred and
edifying duty that could befall an Iberian male: to serve the Motherland and wear
the uniform of the national crusade for the defence of the spiritual bulwark of
the West. I hoped that at least Fermin would be able to see the funny side of
it and make us laugh a bit with his rhyming version of The Fall of the
Judeo-Masonic Conspiracy. Two months. Eight weeks. Sixty days. I could always
divide up the time into seconds and get a number a mile long. I had 5,184,000
seconds left of freedom. Perhaps Don Federico, who according to my father could
even build a Volkswagen, could make me a clock with brakes. Perhaps someone
could explain to me how I was going to manage not to lose Bea forever. When I
heard the tinkle of the doorbell, I thought it would be Fermin, returning after
having finally persuaded himself that our efforts as detectives were nothing
more than a bad joke. 'Well, if it's not the crown prince himself watching over
his castle -and so he should be, even if his face is as long as a cat's tail.
Cheer up, Little Boy Blue,' said Gustavo Barcelo. He sported a camel-hair coat
and his customary ivory walking stick, which he didn't need and which he
brandished like a cardinal's mitre. 'Isn't your father in, Daniel?' 'I'm sorry,
Don Gustavo. He went out to visit a customer, and I don't suppose he'll be back
until—' 'Perfect. Because it's not your father I've come to see, and it's
better if he doesn't hear what I have to tell you.' He winked at me, pulling
off his gloves and looking around the shop. 'Where's our colleague Fermin? Is
he around?' 'Missing in action.' 'Applying his talents to the Carax case, I
imagine?' 'Body and soul. The last time I saw him, he was wearing a cassock and
was offering the benediction urbi et orbi' 'I see. . . . It's my fault for
egging you on. I wish I hadn't opened my mouth.' 'You seem rather worried. Has
anything happened?' 'Not exactly. Or yes, in a way.' 'What did you want to tell
me, Don Gustavo?' The bookseller smiled at me meekly. His usual haughty
expression was nowhere to be seen. Instead he looked serious and concerned.
'This morning I met Don Manuel Gutierrez Fonseca. He's fifty-nine, a bachelor,
and has been a city employee at the Barcelona municipal morgue since 1924.
Thirty years' service on the threshold of darkness. His words, not mine. Don
Manuel is a gentleman of the old school -courteous, pleasant, and obliging. For
the last fifteen years, he's been living in Calle Ceniza, in a rented room that
he shares with a dozen parakeets that have learned how to hum the funeral
march. He has a season ticket at the Liceo. He likes Verdi and Donizetti. He told
me that in his job the important thing is to follow the rules. The rules make
provisions for everything, especially for occasions when one doesn't know what
to do. Fifteen years ago Don Manuel opened a canvas bag brought in by the
police, and in it he found his childhood best friend. The rest of the body came
in a separate bag. Don Manuel, holding back his feelings, followed the rules.'
'Would you like a coffee, Don Gustavo? You're looking a bit pale.' 'Please.' I
went in search of the Thermos flask and poured him a cup with eight lumps of
sugar. He gulped it down. 'Better?' 'Getting there. As I was saying, the fact
is that Don Manuel was on duty the day they brought the body of Julian Carax to
the autopsy department, in September 1936. Of course, Don Manuel couldn't
remember the name, but a look through the archives and a hundred-peseta
donation towards his retirement fund refreshed his memory remarkably. Do you
follow me?' I nodded, almost in a trance. 'Don Manuel remembers all the details
of that day because, as he told me, it was one of the few times when he bent
the rules. The police claimed that the body had been found in an alleyway of
the Raval quarter, shortly before dawn. The body reached the morgue by
midmorning. The only items on it were a book and a passport, which identified
the man as Julian Fortuny Carax, born in Barcelona in 1900. The passport had
been stamped at the border post of La Junquera, showing that Carax had come
into the country a month earlier. The cause of death was, apparently, a bullet
wound. Don Manuel isn't a doctor, but over the years he has learned what to
look for. In his opinion the gunshot, just above the heart, had been delivered
at point-blank range. Thanks to the passport, they were able to locate Senor
Fortuny, Carax's father, who came to the morgue that very evening to identify
the body.' 'Up to here it all tallies with what Nuria Monfort said.' Barcelo
nodded. 'That's right. What Nuria Monfort didn't tell you is that he - my
friend Don Manuel - sensing that the police did not seem very interested in the
case, and having realized that the book found in the pocket of the corpse bore
the name of the deceased, decided to act on his own initiative and called the
publishing house that very afternoon, while they awaited the arrival of
Fortuny.' 'Nuria Monfort told me that the employee at the morgue phoned the
publishers three days later, when the body had already been buried in a common
grave.' 'According to Don Manuel, he called the same day as the body was
delivered to the morgue. He tells me he spoke to a young woman, who said she
was grateful to him for having called. Don Manuel remembers that he was
slightly shocked by the attitude of the young lady. In his own words: "It
sounded as if she already knew.'" 'What about Senor Fortuny? Is it true
that he refused to identify his son?' 'That's what intrigued me most of all.
Don Manuel tells me that at the end of the afternoon, a little man arrived,
trembling, escorted by two policemen. It was Senor Fortuny. According to Don Manuel,
that is the one thing you never get used to, the moment when those closest to
the loved one come to identify the body. He says it's a situation he wouldn't
wish on anyone. Worst of all, he says, is when the deceased is a young person
and it's the parents, or a young spouse, who have to identify the body. Don
Manuel remembers Senor Fortuny well. He says that when he arrived at the
morgue, he could scarcely stand, that he cried like a child, and that the two
policemen had to hold him up by his arms. He kept moaning: "What have they
done to my son? What have they done to my son?"' 'Did he get to see the
body?' 'Don Manuel told me that he was on the point of asking the police
officers whether they might skip the normal procedure. It's the only time it
occurred to him to question the rules. The corpse was in a bad state. It had
probably been dead for over twenty-four hours when it reached the morgue, and
not since dawn that day, as the police claimed. Manuel was afraid that when
that little old man saw it, he would break down. Senor Fortuny kept on
repeating that it couldn't be, that his Julian couldn't be dead. . . . Then Don
Manuel removed the shroud that covered the body, and the two policemen asked
Fortuny formally whether this was his son, Julian.' 'And?' 'Senor Fortuny was
dumbfounded. He stared at the body for almost a minute. Then he turned on his
heels and left.' 'He left?' 'In a hurry.' 'What about the police? Didn't they
stop him? Wasn't he supposed to be there to identify the body?' Barcelo smiled
roguishly. 'In theory. But Don Manuel remembers there was someone else in the
room, a third policeman who had come in quietly while the other two were
preparing Senor Fortuny. He was watching the scene without saying a word,
leaning against the wall, with a cigarette in his mouth. Don Manuel remembers
him because when he told him that the regulations strictly forbade smoking in
the morgue, one of the officers signalled to him to be quiet. According to Don
Manuel, as soon as Senor Fortuny had left, the third policeman went up to the
body, glanced at it, and spat on its face. Then he kept the passport and gave
orders for the body to be sent to Montjuic, to be buried in a common grave at
daybreak.' 'It doesn't make sense.' 'That's what Don Manuel thought. Especially
as none of it tallied with the rules. "But we don't know who this man
is," he said. The two other policemen didn't reply. Don Manuel rebuked
them angrily: "Or do you know only too well? Because it is quite clear to
us all that he's been dead for at least a day." Don Manuel was obviously
referring to the regulations and was no fool. According to him, when the third
policeman heard his protests, he went up to him, looked him straight in the
eye, and asked him whether he'd care to join the deceased on his last voyage.
Don Manuel was terrified. The man had the eyes of a lunatic, and Don Manuel
didn't doubt for one moment that he meant what he said. He mumbled that he was
only trying to comply with the regulations, that nobody knew who the man was,
and that, consequently, he couldn't be buried yet. "This man is whoever I
say he is," answered the policeman. Then he picked up the registration
form and signed it, closing the case. Don Manuel says he'll never forget that
signature, because during the war years, and for a long time afterwards, he
would come across it on dozens of death certificates for bodies that arrived
from goodness knows where - bodies that nobody managed to identify. . . .'
'Inspector Francisco Javier Fumero 'The pride and glory of Central Police
Headquarters. Do you realize what this means, Daniel?' 'That we've been lashing
out blindly from the very beginning.' Barcelo took his hat and stick and walked
over to the door, tut-tutting under his breath. 'No, it means the lashings are
about to start now.' 40 I spent the afternoon surveying the grim letter
announcing my draft, hoping for signs of life from Fermin. Half an hour after
our closing time, Fermin's whereabouts remained unknown. I picked up the
telephone and called the pension in Calle Joaquin Costa. Dona Encarna answered,
her voice thick with alcohol. She said she hadn't seen Fermin since that
morning. 'If he's not back within the next half hour, he'll have to have his
supper cold. This isn't the Ritz, you know. I hope nothing's happened to him.'
'Don't worry, Dona Encarna. He had some errand to do and must have been
delayed. In any case, if you do see him before going to bed, I'd be very
grateful if you could ask him to call me. It's Daniel Sempere, your friend
Merceditas's neighbour.' 'Of course, but I must warn you that I turn in for the
night at half past eight.' After that I phoned Barcelo's home, hoping that
Fermin might have turned up there to empty Bernarda's larder or carry her off
into the ironing room. It hadn't occurred to me that Clara might answer the
phone. 'Daniel, what a surprise.' You stole my line, I thought. Talking to her
in a roundabout manner worthy of Don Anacleto, the schoolteacher, I let drop
the reason for my call, but in a very casual manner, almost in passing. 'No,
Fermin hasn't come by all day. And Bernarda has been with me all afternoon, so
I would know. Actually, we've been talking about you.' 'What a boring
conversation.' 'Bernarda says you look very handsome, quite grown up.' 'I take
lots of vitamins.' A long silence. 'Daniel, do you think we could be friends
again some day? How many years will it take you to forgive me?' 'We are friends
already, Clara, and I don't need to forgive you for anything. You know that.'
'My uncle says you're still investigating Julian Carax. Why don't you come by
some afternoon for tea and tell me the latest. I've also got things to tell
you.' 'One of these days, I promise.' 'I'm getting married, Daniel.' I stared
at the receiver. I felt as if my feet were sinking into the ground or I had
shrunk a few inches. 'Daniel, are you there?' 'Yes.' 'You're surprised.' I
swallowed - my mouth felt like concrete. 'No. What surprises me is that you're
not already married. You can't have lacked suitors. Who's the lucky man?' 'You
don't know him. His name is Jacobo. He's a friend of Uncle Gustavo. A director
of the Bank of Spain. We met at an opera recital organized by my uncle. Jacobo
is enthusiastic about opera. He's older than me, but we're very good friends,
and that's what matters, don't you think?' My mouth was full of malice, so I
bit my tongue. It tasted like poison. 'Of course ... So listen,
congratulations.' 'You'll never forgive me, will you, Daniel? For you I'll
always be the perfidious Clara Barcelo.' 'To me you'll always be Clara Barcelo,
period. And you know that as well as I do.' There was another silence, the kind
in which grey hairs seem to creep up on you. 'What about you, Daniel? Fermin
tells me you have a beautiful girlfriend.' 'I've got to go, Clara, a client has
just come in. I'll call you one of these days, and we'll meet for tea.
Congratulations once again.' I put down the phone and sighed. My father
returned from his visit to the client looking dejected and not in the mood for
conversation. He got dinner ready while I set the table, without even asking
after Fermin or how the day had gone in the bookshop. We stared at our plates
during the meal, hiding behind the chatter of the news on the radio. My father
hardly ate. He just stirred the watery, tasteless soup with his spoon, as if he
were looking for gold in the bottom. 'You haven't touched your food,' I said.
My father shrugged his shoulders. The radio continued to bombard us with
nonsense. My father got up and turned it off. 'What did the letter from the
army say?' he asked finally. 'I have to join up in two month's time.’ His face
seemed to age by ten years. 'Barcelo says he'll try to pull some strings so
that I can be transferred to the Military Government in Barcelona, after the
initial training. I'll even be able to come home to sleep,' I added. My father
replied with an anaemic nod. I found it painful to hold his gaze, so I got up
to clear the table. My father remained seated, his eyes lost and his hands
clasped under his chin. I was about to wash up the dishes when I heard footsteps
pounding up the stairs. Firm, hurried footsteps that spoke a terrible warning.
I looked up and exchanged glances with my father. The footsteps stopped on our
landing. My father stood up, looking anxious. A second later we heard banging
on the door and a furious booming voice that sounded vaguely familiar. 'Police!
Open up!' A thousand daggers stabbed at my mind. Another volley of banging made
the door shake. My father walked up to the doorway and lifted the cover of the
peephole. 'What do you want at this time of night?' 'Open the door or we'll
kick it down, Sempere. Don't make me have to repeat myself.' I recognized the
voice as Fumero's, and my heart turned to ice. My father threw me a questioning
look. I nodded. Suppressing a sigh, he opened the door. Fumero and his two
henchmen were silhouetted against the yellowish light of the landing,
ashen-faced puppets in grey raincoats. 'Where is he?' shouted Fumero, swiping
my father aside and pushing his way into the dining room. My father tried to
stop him, but one of the policemen who was covering the inspector's back
grabbed him by the arm and pushed him against the wall, holding him with the
coldness and efficiency of a man accustomed to the task. It was the same man
who had followed Fermin and myself, the same one who had held me while Fumero
beat up my friend outside the Hospice of Santa Lucia, the same one who had kept
watch on me a couple of nights before. He shot me an empty, deadpan look. I
went up to Fumero, displaying all the calm I could muster. The inspector's eyes
were bloodshot. A recent scratch ran down his left cheek, edged with dry blood.
'Where?' 'Where what?' Fumero looked down suddenly and shook his head, mumbling
to himself. When he raised his face, he had a wolfish grimace on his lips and a
revolver in his hand. Without taking his eyes off mine, he banged the butt of
his revolver against the vase of withered flowers on the table. The vase
smashed into small fragments, spilling the water and shrivelled stalks over the
tablecloth. Despite myself, I shivered. My father was shouting from the
entrance hall, held firmly in the grip of the two policemen. I could barely
decipher his words. All I could absorb was the icy pressure of the gun's barrel
sunk into my cheek, and the smell of gunpowder. 'Don't fuck with me, you little
shit, or your father will have to pick up your brains off the floor. Do you
hear me?' I nodded. I was shaking. Fumero pressed the barrel hard against my
cheek. I could feel it cutting into my skin, but I didn't even dare blink.
'This is the last time I'll ask you. Where is he?' I saw myself reflected in
the black pupils of the inspector's eyes. They slowly contracted as he
tightened the hammer with his thumb. 'Not here. I haven't seen him since
lunchtime. It's the truth.' Fumero stood still for almost half a minute,
digging the gun into my face and smacking his lips. 'Lerma,' he ordered. 'Take
a look around.' One of the policemen hurried off to inspect the apartment. My
father struggled in vain with the third officer. 'If you've lied to me and we
find him in this house, I swear I'll break both your father's legs,' whispered
Fumero. 'My father doesn't know anything. Leave him alone.' 'You're the one who
doesn't know what he's playing at. But as soon as I get hold of your friend,
the game's over. No judges, no hospitals, no fucking nothing. This time I'll
personally see to it that he's put out of circulation. And I'm going to enjoy
doing it, believe me. I'm going to take my time. You can tell him if you see
him. Because I'm going to find him even if I have to turn over every stone in
the city. And you're next on the list.' The officer called Lerma reappeared in
the dining room and gave a slight shake of his head. Fumero loosened his grip
on the hammer and removed the revolver. 'Pity,' said Fumero. 'What has he done?
Why are you looking for him?' Fumero turned his back on me and went up to the
policemen, who, at his signal, let go of my father. 'You're going to remember
this,' spat my father. Fumero's eyes rested on his. Instinctively, my father
took a step back. I feared that Inspector Fumero's visit had only just begun,
but suddenly the man shook his head, laughing under his breath, and left the
apartment. Lerma followed him. The third policeman, my sentinel, paused for a
moment in the doorway. He looked silently at me, as if he wanted to say
something. 'Palacios!' yelled Fumero, his voice fading into the echo of the
stairwell. Palacios lowered his eyes and disappeared round the door. I went out
to the landing. I could see blades of light emerging from the half-open doors
of the neighbours, their frightened faces peeping out in the dark. The three
shadowy shapes of the policemen vanished down the stairs, and the angry sound
of their footsteps receded like a poisoned tide, leaving behind it a residue of
fear. It was about midnight when we heard more banging on the door, this time
weaker, almost fearful. My father, who was dabbing iodine on the bruise left on
my cheek by Fumero's gun, stopped in his tracks. Our eyes met. There were three
more knocks. For a moment I thought it was Fermin, who had perhaps witnessed
the whole incident hidden in some dark corner of the staircase. 'Who's there?'
asked my father. 'Don Anacleto, Senor Sempere.' My father gave out a sigh. We
opened the door to find the teacher, looking paler than ever. 'Don Anacleto,
what's the matter? Are you all right?' my father asked, letting him in. The
teacher was holding a folded newspaper. He handed it to us with a horrified
look. The paper was still warm, the ink still damp. 'It's tomorrow's edition,'
murmured Don Anacleto. 'Page six.' What first caught my eye were the two
photographs under the heading. The first was a picture of Fermin, with a fuller
figure and more hair, perhaps fifteen or twenty years younger. The second
showed the face of a woman with her eyes closed and skin like marble. It took
me a few seconds to recognize her, because I was used to seeing her in the
half-light. TRAMP MURDERS WOMAN IN BROAD DAYLIGHT Barcelona Press Agency Police
are looking for the tramp who stabbed a woman to death this afternoon. Her name
was Nuria Monfort Masdedeu, and she lived in Barcelona. The crime took place in
midafternoon in the neighbourhood of San Gervasio, where the victim was
assaulted by the tramp with no apparent motive. According to Central Police
Headquarters, it would appear that the tramp had been following her for reasons
that have not yet been made clear. It seems that the murderer, 55-year-old
Antonio Jose Gutierrez Alcayete, from Villa Inmunda in the province of Caceres,
is a well-known criminal with a long record of mental illness, who escaped from
La Modelo Prison six years ago and has managed to elude the authorities by
assuming different identities. At the time of the murder, he was dressed in a
cassock. He is armed, and the police describe him as highly dangerous. It is
not yet known whether the victim and her murderer knew one another, although
sources from Police Headquarters indicate that everything points towards this;
nor is it known what may have been the motive behind the crime. The victim was
stabbed six times in her stomach, chest, and throat. The attack, which took
place close to a school, was witnessed by a number of pupils, who alerted the
teachers. They in turn called the police and an ambulance. According to the
police report, death was caused by multiple wounds. The victim was pronounced
dead on arrival at Barcelona's Hospital Clinico at 18.15. 41 We had no news
from Fermin all day. My father insisted on opening the bookshop as usual, as if
nothing had happened and as a declaration of Fermin's innocence. The police had
posted an officer by the door to our stairs, and another watched over the Plaza
Santa Ana, sheltering beneath the church door like the effigy of a saint. We
could see them shivering under the heavy rain that had arrived with the dawn,
the steam from their breath becoming less visible as the day wore on, their
hands buried in the pockets of their raincoats. A few neighbours walked
straight past, with a quick glance through the shop window, but not a single
buyer ventured in. 'The rumour must have spread,' I said. My father only
nodded. He'd spent all morning without speaking to me, expressing himself only
through gestures. The page detailing the news of Nuria Monfort's murder lay on
the counter. Every twenty minutes he would wander over and reread it with an
inscrutable expression. All day long he had been bottling up his anger, letting
it accumulate inside him. 'However many times you read the article, it's not
going to be true,' I said. My father raised his head and looked at me severely.
'Did you know this person? Nuria Monfort?' 'I'd spoken to her a couple of
times.' Nuria Monfort's face took over my thoughts. My lack of honesty was
nauseating. I was still haunted by her smell and the touch of her lips, the
image of that desk so impeccably tidy and her sad, wise eyes. 'A couple of
times.' 'Why did you have to speak to her? What did she have to do with you?'
'She was an old friend of Julian Carax. I went to see her to ask her what she
remembered about Carax. That's all. She was Isaac's daughter, the keeper. He
was the one who gave me her address.' 'Did Fermin know her?' 'No.' 'How can you
be sure?' 'How can you doubt him and believe these lies? All Fermin knew about
that woman was what I told him.' 'And is that why he was following her?' 'Yes.'
'Because you'd asked him to.' I didn't answer. My father heaved a sigh. 'You
don't understand, Dad.' 'You can be sure of that. I don't understand you, or
Fermin, or—' 'Dad, from what we know of Fermin, what it says there is
impossible.' ‘And what do we know about Fermin, eh? To begin with, it turns out
that we didn't even know his real name.' 'You're mistaken about him.' 'No,
Daniel. You're the one who's mistaken. Who asked you to go digging into other
people's lives?' 'I'm free to speak to whoever I want.' 'I suppose you also
feel free from the consequences.' 'Are you insinuating that I'm responsible for
this woman's death?' 'This woman, as you call her, had a first name and a
surname, and you knew her.' 'There's no need to remind me,' I answered with
tears in my eyes. My father looked at me sadly, shaking his head. 'Oh, God, I
don't even want to think how poor Isaac must be feeling.' 'It's not my fault
she's dead,' I said in a tiny voice, thinking that perhaps if I repeated those
words often enough, I would end up believing them. My father retired to the
back room, still shaking his head. 'You know what you're responsible for and
what you're not, Daniel. Sometimes I don't know who you are anymore.' I grabbed
my raincoat and escaped into the street and the rain, where nobody would know
me. I gave myself up to the freezing rain, going nowhere in particular. I
walked with my eyes downcast, carrying with me the image of Nuria Monfort,
lifeless, stretched out on a cold marble slab, her body riddled with stab
wounds. I passed a crossing with Calle Fontanella and didn't stop to look at
the traffic lights. It was only when a strong gust of wind hit my face that I
turned to see a wall of metal and light hurtling towards me at full speed. At
the last moment, a passer-by pulled me back and moved me out of the bus's path.
I gazed at the metal behemoth that shimmered only an inch or two from my face;
what could have been certain death speeding by, a tenth of a second away. By
the time I realized what had happened, the person who had saved my life was
walking away over the pedestrian crossing, just a silhouette in a grey
raincoat. I remained rooted to the spot, breathless. Through the curtain of
rain, I noticed that my saviour had stopped on the other side of the street and
was watching me under the downpour. It was the third policeman, Palacios. A
thick wall of traffic slid by between us, and when I looked again, Officer
Palacios was no longer there. I set off toward Bea's house, incapable of
waiting any longer. I needed to recall what little good there was in me, what
she had given me. I rushed up the stairs and stopped outside the door of the
Aguilars' apartment, almost out of breath. I held the door knocker and gave
three loud knocks. While I waited, I gathered my courage and became aware of my
appearance: soaked to the skin. I pushed the hair back from my forehead and
told myself that the dice had been cast. If Senor Aguilar was ready to break my
legs and smash my face, the sooner the better. I knocked again and after a
while heard footsteps approaching. The peephole opened a fraction. A dark,
suspicious eye stared at me. 'Who's there?' I recognized the voice of Cecilia,
one of the maids who worked for the Aguilar family. 'It's Daniel Sempere,
Cecilia.' The peephole closed, and within a few seconds I could hear the sound
of the bolts and latches being drawn back. The large door opened slowly, and I
was received by Cecilia in her cap and uniform, holding a candle in a
candleholder. From her alarmed expression, I gathered that I must look like a
ghost. 'Good afternoon, Cecilia. Is Bea in?' She looked at me without
understanding. In her experience of the household routine, my presence, which
lately had been an unusual occurrence, was associated only with Tomas, my old
school friend. 'Miss Beatriz isn't here. . . .' 'Has she gone out?' Cecilia,
who at the best of times was a frightened soul, nodded. 'Do you know when she's
coming back?' The maid shrugged. 'She went with Senor and Senora Aguilar to the
doctor, about two hours ago.' 'To the doctor? Is she ill?' 'I don't know, sir.'
'And which doctor did they go to?' 'That I don't know, sir.' I decided not to
go on tormenting the poor maid. The absence of Bea's parents opened up other
avenues. 'What about Tomas? Is he in?' 'Yes, Master Daniel. Come in, I'll call
him.' I went into the hall and waited. In the past I would have gone straight
to my friend's room, but I hadn't been to that house for so long that I felt
like a stranger. Cecilia disappeared down the corridor wrapped in an aura of
light, abandoning me to the dark. I thought I could hear Tomas's voice in the
distance and then some footsteps approaching. I quickly made up a pretext to
explain my unannounced visit to my friend. But the figure that appeared at the
door of the entrance hall was Cecilia's. She looked at me contritely, and my
forced smile vanished. 'Master Tomas says he's very busy and cannot see you
right now.' 'Did you tell him who I was? Daniel Sempere.' 'Yes, Master Daniel.
He told me to tell you to go away.' A stab of cold steel in my stomach took my
breath away. 'I'm sorry, sir,' said Cecilia. I nodded, not knowing what to say.
The maid opened the door of the residence that, until not very long ago, I had
considered my second home. 'Does the young master want an umbrella?' 'No thank
you, Cecilia.' 'I'm, sorry, Master Daniel,' the maid repeated. I smiled weakly.
'Don't worry, Cecilia.' The door closed, leaving me in the shadows. I stayed
there a few moments and then dragged myself down the stairs. The rain was still
pouring down, relentlessly. I walked off down the street. When I reached the
corner, I stopped and turned around for a moment. I looked up at the Aguilars'
apartment. I could see the silhouette of my old friend Tomas outlined against
his bedroom window. He was staring at me, motionless. I waved at him but he
didn't return the greeting. A few seconds later, he moved away to the back of
the room. I waited almost five minutes, hoping he would reappear, but he
didn't. 42 On my way back to the bookshop, I crossed the street by the Capitol
Cinema, where two painters standing on a scaffold watched with dismay as their
freshly painted placard became streaked under the rain. In the distance I could
make out the stoical figure of the sentinel stationed opposite the bookshop.
When I got to Don Federico Flavia's shop, I noticed that the watchmaker was
standing in the doorway watching the downpour. The scars from his stay at
police headquarters still showed on his face. He wore an impeccable grey wool
suit and held a cigarette that he hadn't bothered to light. I waved to him, and
he smiled back. 'What have you got against umbrellas, Daniel?' 'What could be
more beautiful than the rain, Don Federico?' 'Pneumonia. Come on in, I have
your repair ready.' I looked at him, not understanding. Don Federico's eyes
were fixed on mine, and his smile hadn't diminished. I nodded and followed him
into his marvellous bazaar. As soon as we were inside, he handed me a small brown
paper bag. 'You'd better leave right away. The scarecrow watching the bookshop
hasn't taken his eyes off us.' I looked inside the bag. It contained a small,
leather-bound book. A missal. The missal Fermin had held in his hands the last
time I'd seen him. Don Federico, pushing me back towards the street, vowed me
to silence with a solemn nod. Once I was outside again, he recovered his happy
expression and raised his voice. 'And remember, don't force the key when you
wind it up, or it'll come loose again, all right?' 'Don't worry, Don Federico,
and thanks.' I walked away with a knot in my stomach that tightened with every
step I took. When I passed in front of the plainclothes policeman guarding the
bookshop, I greeted him with the same hand that held the bag given to me by Don
Federico. The policeman looked at it with vague interest. I slipped into the
bookshop. My father was still standing behind the counter, as if he hadn't
moved since I'd left. He gave me a troubled look. 'Listen Daniel, about what I
said 'Don't worry. You were right.' 'You're trembling.' I nodded casually and
saw him go off in search of the Thermos. I seized the moment to go to the small
toilet by the back room and examine the missal. Fermin's note slipped out,
fluttering about like a butterfly. I caught it in mid-air. The message was
written on an almost transparent piece of cigarette paper in minute writing,
and I had to hold it up against the light to be able to decipher it. Dear
Daniel, Don't believe one word of what the newspapers say about the murder of
Nuria Monfort. As usual, it's nothing but a tall tale. I'm safe and sound,
hiding in a secure place. Don't try to find me or send me messages. Destroy
this note as soon as you've read it. No need to swallow it, just burn it or
tear it up into small pieces. I'll use my wits to get in touch with you - and
the help of friendly intermediaries. I beg you to transmit the essence of this
message, in code and with all discretion, to my beloved. Don't you do anything.
Your friend, the third man, FRdT I was beginning to reread the note when
someone's knuckles rapped on the toilet door. 'May I come in?' asked an unknown
voice. My heart skipped a beat. Not knowing what else to do, I scrunched up the
cigarette paper and put it in my mouth. I pulled the chain, and while the water
thundered through pipes and cisterns, I swallowed the little paper ball. It
tasted of wax and Sugus sweets. When I opened the door, I encountered the
reptilian smile of the police officer who had been stationed in front of the
bookshop. 'Excuse me. I don't know whether it's listening to the rain all day,
but suddenly it seems there's something of an emergency building down there,
and when nature calls 'But of course,' I said, making way for him. 'It's all
yours.' 'Much obliged.' The policeman, who, in the light of the bare bulb,
reminded me of a small weasel, looked me up and down. His rat like eyes paused
on the missal I held in my hands. 'If I don't have something to read, I just
can't go,' I explained. 'It's the same for me. And people say Spaniards don't
read. May I borrow it?' 'On top of the cistern, you'll find the latest Critics'
Prize,' I said, cutting him short. 'It's infallible.' I walked away without
losing my composure and joined my father, who was pouring me a cup of white
coffee. 'What's he doing here?' I asked. 'He swore on his mother's grave that
he was on the verge of wetting himself. What was I supposed to do?' 'Leave him
in the street and let him warm up that way?' My father frowned. 'If you don't
mind, I'm going up to the apartment.' 'Of course I don't mind. And put on some
dry clothes. You're going to catch your death.' The apartment was cold and
silent. I went into my bedroom and peeped out of the window. The second
sentinel was still there, by the door of the Church of Santa Ana. I took off my
soaking clothes and put on some thick pyjamas and a dressing gown that had
belonged to my grandfather. I lay down on the bed without bothering to turn on
the light and abandoned myself to the darkness and the sound of the rain on the
windowpanes. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up the image of Bea, her
touch and smell. The night before I hadn't slept at all, and soon I was
overcome by exhaustion. In my dreams the hooded figure of Death rode over
Barcelona, a ghostly apparition that hovered above the towers and roofs,
trailing black ropes that held hundreds of small white coffins. The coffins
left behind them their own trail of black flowers, on whose petals, written in
blood, was the name Nuria Monfort. I awoke at the break of a grey dawn. The
windows were steamed up. I dressed for the cold weather and put on some
calf-length boots, then went out into the corridor and groped my way through
the apartment. I slipped out through the door and went down to the street. The newsstands
in the Ramblas were already lighting up in the distance. I steered a course
towards the one that was anchored at the mouth of Calle Tallers and bought the
first edition of the day's paper, which still smelled of warm ink. I rushed
through the pages until I found the obituary section. Nuria Monfort's name lay
under a printed cross, and I couldn't bring myself to look at it. I walked away
with the newspaper folded under my arm. The funeral was that afternoon, in
Montjuic Cemetery. After walking round the block, I returned home. My father
was still asleep, so I went back into my room. I sat at my desk and took the
Meisterstuck pen out of its case, then took a blank sheet of paper and hoped
the nib would guide me. In my hands the pen had nothing to say. In vain I tried
to conjure up the words I wanted to offer Nuria Monfort, but I was incapable of
writing or feeling anything except the terror of her absence, of knowing she
was lost, wrenched away. I knew that one day she would return to me, in the months
or years to come, and that I would always relive her memory in the touch of a
stranger, in the recollection of images that no longer belonged to me. 43
Shortly before three o'clock, I got on a bus in Paseo de Colon that would take
me to the cemetery on Montjuic. Through the window I could see the forest of
masts and fluttering pennants in the docks. The bus, which was almost empty,
circled Montjuic mountain and started up the road to the eastern gates of the
boundless cemetery. I was the last passenger to get off. 'What time does the
last bus leave?' I asked the driver. 'At half past four.' The driver left me by
the cemetery gates. An avenue of cypress trees rose in the mist. Even from
there, at the foot of the mountain, you could already begin to see the vast
city of the dead that scaled the slope to the very top: avenues of tombs, walks
lined with gravestones and alleyways of mausoleums, towers crowned by fiery
angels and whole forests of sepulchres that seemed to grow into one another.
The city of the dead was a vast abyss guarded by an army of rotting stone
statues sinking into the mud. J took a deep breath and entered the labyrinth.
My mother lay buried only a hundred yards from the path along which I walked.
With every step I took, I could feel the cold, the emptiness, and the fury of
that place; the horror of its silence, of the faces trapped in old photographs
abandoned to the company of candles and dead flowers. After a while I caught
the distant glimpse of gas lamps around a grave, the shapes of half a dozen
people lined up against an ashen sky. I quickened my pace and stopped where I
could hear the words of the priest. The coffin, an unpolished pine box, rested
on the mud. Two gravediggers guarded it, leaning on spades. I scanned those
present. Old Isaac, the keeper of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, had not
attended his daughter's funeral. I recognized the neighbour who lived opposite.
She shook her head, sobbing, while a man stroked her back with a resigned air.
Her husband, I imagined. Next to them was a woman of about forty, dressed in
grey and carrying a bunch of flowers. She cried quietly, looking away from the
grave with tight lips. I had never seen her before. Separated from the group,
clad in a dark raincoat and holding his hat behind his back, was the policeman
who had saved my life the day before. Palacios. He raised his eyes and observed
me for a few seconds without blinking. The blind, senseless words of the priest
were all that separated us from the terrible silence. I stared at the mud-splattered
coffin. I imagined Nuria lying inside it, and I didn't realize I was crying
until the woman in grey came up to me and offered me one of the flowers from
her bunch. I remained there until the group had dispersed. At a sign from the
priest, the gravediggers got ready to do their work. I kept the flower in my
coat pocket and walked away, unable to express my final farewell. It was
beginning to get dark by the time I reached the cemetery gates, and I assumed
I'd missed the last bus. I was about to start a long walk, under the shadow of
the necropolis, following the road that skirted the port back to Barcelona. A
black car was parked about twenty yards ahead of me, its lights on. Inside, a
figure smoked a cigarette. As I drew near, Palacios opened the passenger door.
'Get in. I'll take you home. You won't find any buses or taxis around here at
this time of day.' I hesitated for a moment. 'I'd rather walk.' 'Don't be
silly. Get in.' He spoke in the steely tone of someone used to giving orders
and being obeyed instantly. 'Please,' he added. I got into the car, and the
policeman started the engine. 'Enrique Palacios,' he said, holding his hand out
to me. I didn't shake it. 'If you leave me in Colon, that's fine.' The car sped
off. We joined the traffic on the main road and travelled a good stretch
without uttering a single word. 'I want you to know I'm very sorry about Senora
Monfort.' Coming from him, the words seemed obscene, an insult. 'I'm grateful
to you for saving my life the other day, but I must tell you I don't give a
shit what you feel, Senor Enrique Palacios.' 'I'm not what you think, Daniel.
I'd like to help you.' 'If you expect me to tell you where Fermin is, you can
leave me right here.' 'I don't give a damn where your friend is. I'm not on duty
now.' I didn't reply. 'You don't trust me, and I don't blame you. But at least
listen to me. This has already gone too far. There was no reason why this woman
should have died. I beg you to let this matter drop and put this man, Carax,
out of your mind forever.' 'You speak as if I'm in control of what's happening.
I'm only a spectator. The whole show has been staged by you and your boss.'
'I'm tired of funerals, Daniel. I don't want to have to go to yours.' 'All the
better, because you're not invited.' 'I'm serious.' 'Me, too. Please stop and
let me out' 'We'll be in Colon in two minutes.' 'I don't care. This car smells
of death, like you. Let me out.' Palacios slowed down and stopped on the hard
shoulder. I got out of the car and banged the door shut, eluding Palacios's
eyes. I waited for him to leave, but the police officer didn't seem to be going
anywhere. I turned around and saw him lowering the car window. I thought I read
honesty, even pain, in his face, but I refused to believe it. 'Nuria Monfort died
in my arms, Daniel,' he said. 'I think her last words were a message for you.'
'What did she say?' I asked, my voice gripped by an icy cold. 'Did she mention
my name?' 'She was delirious, but I think she was referring to you. At one
point she said there were worse prisons than words. Then, before she died, she
asked me to tell you to let her go.' I looked at him without understanding. 'To
let who go?' 'Someone called Penelope. I imagined she must be your girlfriend.'
Palacios looked down and set off into the twilight. I remained there, staring
disconcerted at the lights of the car as they disappeared into the blue-and-red
dusk. Then I walked on towards Paseo de Colon, repeating to myself those last
words of Nuria Monfort but finding no meaning to them. When I reached the
square called Portal de la Paz, I stopped next to the pleasure boats to gaze at
the port. I sat on the steps that disappeared into the murky water, in the same
place where, on a night that was now in the distant past, I had met Lain Coubert,
the man without a face. 'There are worse prisons than words,' I murmured. Only
then did I understand that the message from Nuria Monfort was not meant for me.
I wasn't the one who had to let Penelope go. Her last words hadn't been for a
stranger, but for a man she had loved in silence for twenty years: Julian
Carax. 44 Night was falling when I reached Plaza de San Felipe Neri. The bench
on which I had first caught sight of Nuria Monfort stood at the foot of a
streetlamp, empty and tattooed by penknives with the names of lovers, with
insults and promises. I looked up to the windows of Nuria Monfort's home on the
third floor and noticed a dim, flickering copper light. A candle. I entered the
cavernous foyer and groped my way up the stairs. My hands shook when I reached
the third-floor landing. A sliver of reddish light shone from beneath the frame
of the half-open door. I placed my hand on the doorknob and remained there
motionless, listening. I thought I heard a whisper, a choked voice coming from
within. For a moment I thought that if I opened that door, I'd find her waiting
for me on the other side, smoking by the balcony, her legs tucked under her,
leaning against the wall, anchored in the same place I'd left her. Gently,
fearing I might disturb her, I opened the door and went into the apartment. In
the dining room, the balcony curtains swayed in the breeze. A figure was
sitting by the window, completely still, holding a burning candle in its hands.
I couldn't make out the face, but a bright pearl slid down its cheek, shining
like fresh resin, then falling onto the figure's lap. Isaac Monfort turned, his
face streaked with tears. 'I didn't see you this afternoon at the funeral,' I
said. He shook his head, drying his tears with the back of his lapel. 'Nuria wasn't
there,' he murmured after a while. 'The dead never go to their own funeral.' He
looked around him, as if his daughter was in that very room, sitting next to us
in the dark, listening to us. 'Do you know that I've never been inside this
house before?' he asked. 'Whenever we met, it was always Nuria who came to me.
"It's easier for you, Father," she would say. "Why go up all
those stairs?" I'd always say to her, "All right, if you don't want
to invite me, I won't come," and she'd answer, "I don't need to
invite you to my home, Father. Only strangers need an invitation. You can come
whenever you like." In over fifteen years, I didn't go to see her once. I
always told her she'd chosen a bad neighbourhood. Not enough light. An old
building. She would just nod in agreement. Like when I used to tell her she'd
chosen a bad life. Not much future. A husband without a job. It's funny how we
judge others and don't realize the extent of our own disdain until the ones we
love are no longer there, until they are taken from us. They're taken from us
because they've never really belonged to us . . .' The old man's voice,
deprived of its usual irony, faltered and seemed almost as weary as he looked.
'Nuria loved you very much, Isaac. Don't doubt that for an instant. And I know
she also felt loved by you,' I said. Old Isaac shook his head again. He smiled,
but his silent tears did not stop falling. 'Perhaps she loved me, in her own
way, as I loved her, in mine. But we didn't know one another. Perhaps because I
never allowed her to know me, or I never took any steps towards getting to know
her. We spent our lives like two strangers who see each other every single day
and greet one another out of politeness. And I think she probably died without
forgiving me.' 'Isaac, I can assure you—' 'Daniel, you're young and you try
hard, but even though I've had a bit to drink and I don't know what I'm saying,
you still haven't learned to lie enough to fool an old man whose heart has been
broken by misfortune.' I looked down. 'The police say that the man who killed
her is a friend of yours,' Isaac ventured. 'The police are lying.' Isaac
assented. 'I know.' 'I can assure you—' 'There's no need, Daniel. I know you're
telling the truth,' said Isaac, pulling an envelope from his coat pocket. 'The
afternoon before she died, Nuria came to see me, as she used to do years ago. I
remember we used to go and eat in a cafe in Calle Guardia, where I would take
her when she was a child. We always talked about books, about old books. She
would sometimes tell me things about her work, trifles, the sort of things you
tell a stranger on a bus. . . . Once she told me she was sorry she'd been a
disappointment to me. I asked her where she'd got that ridiculous idea.
"From your eyes, Father, from your eyes," she said. Not once did it
occur to me that perhaps I'd been an even greater disappointment to her.
Sometimes we think people are like lottery tickets, that they're there to make
our most absurd dreams come true.' 'Isaac, with all due respect, you've been
drinking like a fish, and you don't know what you're saying.' 'Wine turns the
wise man into a fool and the fool into a wise man. I know enough to understand
that my own daughter never trusted me. She trusted you more, Daniel, and she'd
only met you a couple of times.' 'I can assure you you're wrong.' 'The last
afternoon we saw each other, she brought me this envelope. She was restless,
worried about something that she didn't want to talk about. She asked me to
keep the envelope and, should anything happen to her, to give it to you.'
'Should anything happen?' 'Those were her words. She looked so distressed that
I suggested we go together to the police, that, whatever the problem, we'd find
a solution. Then she said that the police station was the last place she could
go to for help. I begged her to let me know what was going on, but she said she
had to leave and made me promise that I'd give you this envelope if she didn't
come back for it within a couple of days. She asked me not to open it.' Isaac
handed me the envelope. It was open. 'I lied to her, as usual,' he said. I
examined the envelope. It contained a wad of handwritten sheets of paper. 'Have
you read them?' I asked. The old man nodded slowly. 'What do they say?' The old
man looked up. His lips were trembling. He seemed to have aged a hundred years
since the last time I'd seen him. 'It's the story you were looking for, Daniel.
The story of a woman I never knew, even though she bore my name and my blood.
Now it belongs to you.' I put the envelope into my coat pocket. 'I'm going to
ask you to leave me alone here, with her, if you don't mind. A while ago, as I
was reading those pages, it seemed to me that I could almost see her again.
However hard I try, I can only remember her the way she was as a little girl. She
was very quiet then, you know. She looked at everything pensively, and never
laughed. What she liked best were stories, and I don't think any child has ever
learned to read so young. She used to say she wanted to be an author and write
encyclopaedias and treatises on history and philosophy. Her mother said it was
all my fault. She said that Nuria adored me and because she thought her father
loved only books, she wanted to write books to make her father love her.'
'Isaac, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be on your own tonight. Why
don't you come home with me? Spend the night with us, and that way you can keep
my father company.' Isaac shook his head again. 'I have things to do, Daniel.
You go home and read those pages. They belong to you.' The old man looked away,
and I took a few steps towards the door. I was in the doorway when Isaac's
voice called to me, barely a whisper. 'Daniel?' 'Yes?' 'Take great care.' When
I went out into the street, it seemed as if darkness were creeping along the
pavement, pursuing me. I quickened my pace and didn't slow down until I reached
the apartment in Calle Santa Ana. When I got home, I found my father in his
armchair with an open book on his lap. It was a photograph album. On seeing me,
he sat up with an expression of great relief. 'I was beginning to get worried,'
he said, 'How was the funeral?' I shrugged, and my father nodded gravely. 'I've
some dinner ready for you. If you like, I could warm it up and—' 'Thanks, but
I'm not hungry. I had a bite to eat earlier.' He fixed his gaze on me and
nodded again. He turned to remove the plates he'd placed on the table. It was
then, without quite knowing why, that I went up to him and hugged him. And my
father, surprised, hugged me back. 'Daniel, are you all right?' I held my
father tightly in my arms. 'I love you,' I murmured. The cathedral bells were
ringing when I began to read Nuria Monfort's manuscript. Her small, neat
writing reminded me of her impeccable desk. Perhaps she had been trying to find
in these words the peace and safety that life had not granted her. NURIA
MONFORT: REMEMBRANCE OF THE LOST 1933-1955 1 There are no second chances in
life, except to feel remorse. Julian Carax and I met in the autumn of 1933. At
that time I was working for the publisher Josep Cabestany, who had discovered
him in 1927 in the course of one of his 'book-scouting' trips to Paris. Julian
earned his living playing piano at a hostess bar in the afternoons, and at
night he wrote. The owner of the establishment, one Irene Marceau, knew most of
the Paris publishers, and, thanks to her entreaties, favours, or threats of
disclosure, Julian Carax had managed to get a number of novels published,
though with disastrous commercial results. Cabestany acquired the exclusive
rights to publish Carax's works in Spain and Latin America for a song, which
price included the translation of the French originals into Spanish by the
author himself. Cabestany hoped to sell around three thousand copies per novel,
but the first two titles he brought out in Spain turned out to be a total flop,
with barely a hundred copies of each sold. Despite these dismal results, every
two years we received a new manuscript from Julian, which Cabestany accepted
without any objections, saying that he'd signed an agreement with the author,
that profit wasn't everything, and that good literature had to be supported no
matter what. One day I was intrigued enough to ask him why he continued to
publish Julian Carax's novels when they were making such a loss. In answer to
my question, Cabestany ceremoniously walked over to his bookshelf, took down
one of Julian's books, and invited me to read it. I did. Two weeks later I'd
read them all. This time my question was, how could we possibly sell so few
copies of those novels? 'I don't know, dear,' replied Cabestany. 'But we'll
keep on trying.' Such a noble and admirable gesture didn't quite fit the
picture I had formed of Senor Cabestany. Perhaps I had underestimated him. I
found the figure of Julian Carax increasingly intriguing, as everything related
to him seemed to be shrouded in mystery. At least twice a month, someone would
call asking for his address. I soon realized that it was always the same
person, using a different name each time. But I would tell him simply what
could be read on the back cover of Julian's novels: that he lived in Paris.
After a time, the man stopped calling. Just in case, I deleted Carax's address
from the company files. I was the only one who wrote to him, and I knew the
address by heart. Months later I chanced upon some bills sent by the printers
to Senor Cabestany. Glancing through them, I noticed that the expense of our
editions of Julian Carax's books was defrayed, in its entirety, by someone
outside our firm whose name I had never heard before: Miquel Moliner. Moreover,
the cost of printing and distributing these books was substantially lower than
the sum of money invoiced to Senor Moliner. The numbers didn't lie: the
publishing firm was making money by printing books that went straight to a
warehouse. I didn't have the courage to question Cabestany's financial
irregularities. I was afraid of losing my job. What I did do was take down the
address to which we sent Miquel Moliner's invoices — a mansion on Calle
Puertaferrissa. I kept that address for months before I plucked up the courage
to visit him. Finally my conscience got the better of me, and I turned up at
his house to tell him that Senor Cabestany was swindling him. He smiled and
told me he already knew. 'We all do what we're best at.' I asked him whether he
was the person who had phoned so often asking for Carax's address. He said he
wasn't, and told me with a worried look that I should never give that address
to anyone. Ever. Miquel Moliner was a bit of a mystery. He lived on his own in
a cavernous crumbling mansion that was part of his inheritance from his father,
an industrialist who had grown rich through arms manufacture and, it was said,
warmongering. Far from living a life of luxury, Miquel led an almost monastic
existence, dedicated to squandering his father's money, which he considered to
be stained with blood, on the restoration of museums, cathedrals, schools,
libraries, and hospitals, and on ensuring that the works of his childhood
friend, Julian Carax, were published in his native city. 'I have more money
than I need, but not enough friends like Julian,' was his only explanation. He
hardly kept in touch with his siblings or the rest of the family, whom he
referred to as strangers. He hadn't married and seldom left the grounds of his
mansion, of which he occupied only the top floor. There he had set up his
office, where he worked feverishly writing articles and columns for various
newspapers and magazines in Madrid and Barcelona, translating technical texts
from German and French, copy-editing encyclopaedias and school textbooks.
Miquel Moliner suffered from that affliction of people who feel guilty when
they're not working; although he respected and even envied the leisure others
enjoyed, he fled from it. Far from gloating about his manic work ethic, he
would joke about his obsessive activity and dismiss it as a minor form of
cowardice. "While you're working, you don't have to look life in the eye.'
Almost without realizing it, we became good friends. We both had a lot in
common, probably too much. Miquel liked to talk to me about books, about his
beloved Dr Freud, about music, but above all about his old friend Julian. We
saw each other almost every week. Miquel would tell me stories about the days
when Julian was at San Gabriel's. He kept a collection of old photographs and
stories written by a teenage Julian. Miquel adored Julian, and, through his
words and his memories, I came to know him, or at least to create an image of
him in his absence. A year after we had met, Miquel confessed that he'd fallen
in love with me. I did not wish to hurt him, but neither did I want to deceive
him. It was impossible to deceive Miquel. I told him I was extremely fond of
him, that he'd become my best friend, but I wasn't in love with him. Miquel
told me he already knew. 'You're in love with Julian, but you don't yet know
it.' In August 1933, Julian wrote to inform me that he'd almost finished the
manuscript of another novel, called The Cathedral Thief. Cabestany had some
contracts with Gallimard that were due for renewal in September. He'd been
paralysed for several weeks with a vicious attack of gout and, as a reward for
my dedication, he decided that I should travel to France in his place to
negotiate the new contracts. At the same time, I could visit Julian Carax and
collect his new opus. I wrote to Julian telling him of my visit, which was
planned for mid-September, and asking him whether he could recommend a
reliable, inexpensive hotel. Julian replied saying that I could stay at his
place, a modest apartment in the Saint-Germain quarter, and keep the hotel
money for other expenses. The day before I left, I went to see Miquel to ask
him whether he had any message for Julian. For a long while he seemed to
hesitate, and then he said he didn't. The first time I saw Julian in person was
at the Gare d'Austerlitz. Autumn had sneaked up early in Paris, and the station
vault was thick with fog. I waited on the platform while the other passengers
made their way towards the exit. Soon I was left alone. Then I saw a man wearing
a black coat, standing at the entrance to the platform, watching me through the
smoke from his cigarette. During the journey I had often wondered how I would
recognize Julian. The photographs I'd seen of him in Miquel Moliner's
collection were at least thirteen or fourteen years old. I looked up and down
the platform. There was nobody there except that figure and me. I noticed that
the man was looking at me with some curiosity: perhaps he, too, was waiting for
someone. It couldn't be him. According to my calculations, Julian would be
thirty-three, and that man seemed older. His hair was grey, and he looked sad
or tired. Too pale and too thin, or maybe it was just the fog and the wearying
journey, or that the only pictures in my mind were of an adolescent Julian.
Tentatively, I went up to the stranger and looked him straight in the eye.
'Julian?' The stranger smiled and nodded. Julian Carax possessed the most
charming smile in the world. It was all that was left of him. Julian lived in
an attic in Saint-Germain. The apartment only had two rooms: a living room with
a minute kitchen and a tiny balcony from which you could see the towers of
Notre Dame looming out of a jungle of rooftops and mist, and a bedroom with no
windows and a single bed. The bathroom was at the end of a corridor on the
floor below, and he shared it with the rest of his neighbours. The whole of the
apartment was smaller than Cabestany's office. Julian had cleaned it up and got
everything ready to welcome me with simple modesty. I pretended to be delighted
with the apartment, which still smelled of disinfectant and furniture wax,
applied by Julian with more determination than skill. The sheets on the bed
looked brand new and appeared to have a pattern of dragons and castles.
Children's sheets. Julian excused himself: he'd bought them at a very reduced
price, but they were top quality. The ones with no pattern were twice the
price, he explained, and they were boring. In the sitting room, an old wooden
desk faced the view of the cathedral towers. On it stood the Underwood
typewriter that Julian had bought with Cabestany's advance and two piles of
writing paper, one blank and the other written on both sides. Julian shared the
attic apartment with a huge white cat he called Kurtz. The animal watched me
suspiciously as he lay at his master's feet, licking his paws. I counted two
chairs, a coat rack, and little else. The rest were all books. Books lined the
walls from floor to ceiling, in double rows. Seeing me inspect the place,
Julian sighed. 'There's a hotel two blocks away. Clean, affordable, and
respectable. I took the liberty of making a reservation.' I thought about it
but was afraid of offending him. 'I'll be fine here, so long as it's not a
bother for you, or for Kurtz.' Kurtz and Julian exchanged glances. Julian shook
his head, and the cat imitated him. I hadn't noticed how alike they looked.
Julian insisted on letting me have his bedroom. He hardly slept, he explained,
and would set himself up in the sitting room on a folding bed, lent to him by
his neighbour, Monsieur Darcieu - an old conjuror who read young ladies' palms
in exchange for a kiss. That first night I slept right through, exhausted after
the journey. I woke up at dawn and discovered that Julian had gone out. Kurtz
was asleep on top of his master's typewriter. He snored like a mastiff. I went
over to the desk and saw the manuscript of the new novel that I had come to
collect. The Cathedral Thief On the first page, as in all Julian's other
novels, was the handwritten dedication: For P I was tempted to start reading. I
was about to pick up the second page when I noticed that Kurtz was looking at
me out of the corner of his eye. I shook my head the way I'd seen Julian do.
The cat, in turn, shook his head, and I put the pages back in their place.
After a while Julian appeared, bringing with him freshly baked bread, a Thermos
of coffee and some cheese. We had breakfast by the balcony. Julian spoke
incessantly but avoided my eyes. In the light of dawn, he seemed like an aged
child. He had shaved and put on what I imagined must be his only decent outfit,
a cream-coloured cotton suit that looked worn but elegant. I listened to him as
he talked about the mysteries of Notre Dame; about a ghostly barge that was
said to cleave the waters of the Seine at night, gathering up the souls of
desperate lovers who had ended their lives by jumping into the frozen waters. I
listened to a thousand and one magical tales he invented as he went along just
to keep me from asking him any questions. I watched him silently, nodding,
searching in him for the man who had written the books I knew almost by heart,
the boy whom Miquel Moliner had described to me so often. 'How many days are
you going to be in Paris?' he asked. My business with Gallimard would take me
about two or three days, I said. My first meeting was that afternoon. I told
him I'd thought of taking a couple of days off to get to know the city before
returning to Barcelona. 'Paris requires more than two days,' said Julian. 'It
won't listen to reason.' 'I don't have any more time, Julian. Senor Cabestany
is a generous employer, but everything has a limit.' 'Cabestany is a pirate,
but even he knows that you can't see Paris in two days, or in two months, or
even in two years.' 'I can't spend two years in Paris, Julian.' He looked at me
for a long while, without speaking, and then he smiled. 'Why not? Is there
someone waiting for you?' The dealings with Gallimard and my courtesy calls to
various publishers with whom Cabestany did business took up three whole days,
just as I had foreseen. Julian had assigned me a guide and protector, a young
boy called Herve who was barely thirteen and knew the city intimately. Herve
would accompany me from door to door, making sure I knew which cafes to stop at
for a bite, which streets to avoid, which sights to take in. He would wait for
me for hours at the door of the publishers' offices without losing his smile or
accepting any tips. Herve spoke an amusing broken Spanish, which he mixed with
overtones of Italian and Portuguese. 'Signore Carax, he already pay, with tuoda
generosidade for meus servicios...' From what I gathered, Herve was the orphan
of one of the ladies at Irene Marceau's establishment, in whose attic he lived.
Julian had taught him to read, write, and play the piano. On Sundays he would
take him to the theatre or a concert. Herve idolized Julian and seemed prepared
to do anything for him, even guide me to the end of the world if necessary. On
our third day together, he asked me whether I was Signore Carax's girlfriend. I
said I wasn't, that I was only a friend on a visit. He seemed disappointed.
Julian spent most nights awake, sitting at his desk with Kurtz on his lap,
going over pages of his work or simply staring at the cathedral towers
silhouetted in the distance. One night, when I couldn't sleep either because of
the noise of the rain pattering on the roof, I went into the sitting room. We
looked at one another without saying a word, and Julian offered me a cigarette.
For a long time we stared silently at the rain. Later, when the rain stopped, I
asked him who P was. 'Penelope,' he answered. I asked him to talk to me about
her, about those fourteen years of exile in Paris. In a whisper, in the
half-light, Julian told me Penelope was the only woman he had ever loved. One
night, in the winter of 1921, Irene Marceau had found Julian wandering in the
Paris streets, unable to remember his name and coughing up blood. All he had on
him were a few coins and some folded sheets of paper with writing on them.
Irene read them and thought she'd come across some famous author who had drunk
too much, and that perhaps a generous publisher would reward her when he
recovered consciousness. That, at least, was her version, but Julian knew she'd
saved him out of compassion. He spent six months recovering in an attic room in
Irene's brothel. The doctors warned Irene that if that man poisoned himself
again, they would not be held responsible. He had ruined his stomach and his
liver and was going to have to spend the rest of his days eating only milk,
cottage cheese, and fresh bread. When Julian was able to speak again, Irene
asked him who he was. 'Nobody,' answered Julian. 'Well, nobody is living here
at my expense. What can you do?' Julian said he could play the piano. 'Prove
it.' Julian sat at the drawing-room piano and, facing a rapt audience of
fifteen-year-old prostitutes in their underwear, he played a Chopin nocturne.
They all clapped except for Irene, who told him that what she had just heard
was music for the dead and they were in the business of the living. Julian
played her a ragtime tune and a couple of pieces by Offenbach. 'That's better.
Let's keep it upbeat.' His new job earned him a living, a roof, and two hot
meals a day. He survived in Paris thanks to Irene Marceau's charity, and she
was the only person who encouraged him to keep on writing. Her favourite books
were romantic novels and biographies of saints and martyrs, which intrigued her
enormously. In her opinion Julian's problem was that his heart was poisoned;
that was why he could only write those stories full of horror and darkness.
But, despite her objections, it was thanks to Irene that Julian found a
publisher for his first novels. She was the one who had provided him with the
attic in which he hid from the world; the one who dressed him and took him out
to get some sun and fresh air, who bought him books and made him go to mass
with her on Sundays, followed by a stroll through the Tuileries. Irene Marceau
kept him alive without asking for anything in return except his friendship and
the promise that he would continue writing. In time she would allow him,
occasionally, to take one of her girls up to the attic, even if they were only
going to sleep hugging each other. Irene joked that the girls were almost as
lonely as he was, and all they wanted was some affection. 'My neighbour,
Monsieur Darcieu, thinks I'm the luckiest man in the universe,' he told me. I
asked him why he had never returned to Barcelona in search of Penelope. He fell
into a long, deep silence, and when I looked at his face in the dark, I saw it
was lined with tears. Without quite knowing what I was doing, I knelt down next
to him and hugged him. We remained like that, embracing, until dawn caught us
by surprise. I no longer know who kissed whom first, or whether it matters. I
know I found his lips and let him caress me without realizing that I, too, was
crying and didn't know why. That dawn, and all the ones that followed in the
two weeks I spent with Julian, we made love to one another on the floor, never
saying a word. Later, sitting in a cafe or strolling through the streets, I
would look into his eyes and know, without any need to question him, that he
still loved Penelope. I remember that during those days I learned to hate that
seventeen-year-old girl (for Penelope was always seventeen to me) whom I had
never met and who now haunted my dreams. I invented excuses for cabling
Cabestany to prolong my stay. I no longer cared whether I lost my job or the
grey existence I had left behind in Barcelona. I have often asked myself
whether my life was so empty when I arrived in Paris that I fell into Julian's
arms - like Irene Marceau's girls, who, despite themselves, craved for
affection. All I know is that those two weeks I spent with Julian were the only
time in my life when I felt, for once, that I was myself; when I understood
with the hopeless clarity of what cannot be explained that I would never be
able to love another man the way I loved Julian, even if I spent the rest of my
days trying. One day Julian fell asleep in my arms, exhausted. The previous
afternoon, as we passed by a pawnshop, he had stopped to show me a fountain pen
that had been on display there for years. According to the pawnbroker, it had
once belonged to Victor Hugo. Julian had never owned even a fraction of the
means to buy that pen, but he would stop and look at it every day. I dressed
quietly and went down to the pawnshop. The pen cost a fortune, which I didn't
have, but the pawnbroker said that he'd accept a cheque in pesetas on any
Spanish bank with a branch in Paris. Before she died, my mother had promised me
she would save up to buy me a wedding dress. Victor Hugo's pen took care of
that, veil and all, and although I knew it was madness, I have never spent any
sum of money with more satisfaction. When I left the shop with the fabulous
case, I noticed that a woman was following me. She was very elegant, with
silvery hair and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. She came up to me and
introduced herself. She was Irene Marceau, Julian's patron. Herve, my guide,
had spoken to her about me. She only wanted to meet me and ask me whether I was
the woman Julian had been waiting for all those years. I didn't have to reply.
Irene nodded in sympathy and kissed my cheek. I watched her walking away down
the street, and at that moment I understood that Julian would never be mine. I
went back to the attic with the pencase hidden in my bag. Julian was awake and
waiting for me. He undressed me without saying anything, and we made love for
the last time. When he asked me why I was crying, I told him they were tears of
joy. Later, when Julian went down to buy some food, I packed my bags and placed
the case with the pen on his typewriter. I put the manuscript of the novel in
my suitcase and left before Julian returned. On the landing I came upon
Monsieur Darcieu, the old conjuror who read the palms of young ladies in
exchange for a kiss. He took my left hand and gazed at me sadly. 'Vous avez du
poison au coeur, mademoiselle? When I tried to pay him his fee, he shook his
head gently, and instead it was he who kissed my hand. I got to the Gare
d'Austerlitz just in time to catch the twelve o'clock train to Barcelona. The
ticket inspector who sold me the ticket asked me whether I was feeling all
right. I nodded and shut myself up in the compartment. The train was already
leaving when I looked out the window and caught a glimpse of Julian's
silhouette on the platform, in the same place I'd seen him for the first time.
I closed my eyes and didn't open them again until we had lost sight of the
station and that bewitching city to which I could never return. I arrived in
Barcelona the following morning, as day was breaking. It was my twenty-fourth
birthday, and I knew that the best part of my life was already behind me. 2
After I returned to Barcelona, I let some time pass before visiting Miquel
Moliner again. I needed to get Julian out of my head, and I realized that if
Miquel were to ask me about him, I wouldn't know what to say. When we did meet
again, I didn't need to tell him anything. Miquel just looked me in the eyes
and knew. He seemed to me thinner than before my trip to Paris; his face had an
almost unhealthy pallor, which I attributed to the enormous workload with which
he punished himself. He admitted that he was going through financial
difficulties. He had spent almost all the money from his inheritance on his
philanthropic causes, and now his brothers' lawyers were trying to evict him
from the home, claiming that a clause in old Moliner's will specified that he
could live there only providing he kept it in good condition and could prove he
had the financial means for the upkeep of the property. Otherwise the
Puertaferrissa mansion would pass into the custody of his other brothers. 'Even
before dying, my father sensed that I was going to spend his money on all the
things he most detested in life, down to the last centimo.' Miquel's income as
a newspaper columnist and translator was far from enough to maintain that sort
of residence. 'Making money isn't hard in itself,' he complained. 'What's hard
is to earn it doing something worth devoting your life to.' I suspected that he
was beginning to drink in secret. Sometimes his hands shook. Every Sunday I
went over to see him and made him come out with me and get away from his desk
and his encyclopaedias. I knew it hurt him to see me. He acted as if he didn't
remember that he'd offered to marry me and I'd refused him, but at times I'd
catch him gazing at me with a look of mingled yearning and defeat. My sole
excuse for submitting him to such cruelty was purely selfish: only Miquel knew
the truth about Julian and Penelope Aldaya. During those months I spent away
from Julian, Penelope Aldaya became a spectre who stole my sleep and invaded my
thoughts. I could still remember the expression of disappointment on Irene
Marceau's face when she realized I was not the woman Julian had been waiting
for. Penelope Aldaya, treacherously absent, was too powerful an enemy for me.
She was invisible, so I imagined her as perfect. Next to her I was unworthy,
vulgar, all too real. I had never thought it possible to hate someone so much
and so despite myselfsomeone I didn't even know, and had never seen in my life.
I suppose I thought that if I met her face to face, if I could prove to myself
that she was flesh and blood, her spell would break and Julian would be free
again. And I with him. I wanted to believe that it was only a matter of time
and patience. Sooner or later Miquel would tell me the truth. And the truth
would liberate me. One day, as we strolled through the cathedral cloister,
Miquel once again hinted at his interest in me. I looked at him and saw a
lonely man, devoid of hope. I knew what I was doing when I took him home and
let myself be seduced by him. I knew I was deceiving him and that he knew, too,
but had nothing else in the world. That is how we became lovers, out of
desperation. I saw in his eyes what I would have wanted to see in Julian's. I
felt that by giving myself to him I was taking revenge on Julian and Penelope and
on everything that had been denied to me. Miquel, who was ill with desire and
loneliness, knew that our love was a farce, but even so he couldn't let me go.
Every day he drank more heavily and often could hardly make love to me. He
would then joke bitterly that, after all, we'd turned into the perfect married
couple in record time. We were hurting one another through spite and cowardice.
One night, almost a year after I had returned from Paris, I asked him to tell
me the truth about Penelope. Miquel had been drinking, and he became violent,
as I'd never seen him before. In his rage he insulted me and accused me of
never having loved him, of being a vulgar whore. He tore my clothes off me,
shredding them in the process, and when he tried to force himself on me, I lay
down, offering my body without resistance, crying quietly to myself. Miquel
broke down and begged me to forgive him. How I wished I were able to love him
and not Julian, to be able to choose to remain by his side. But I couldn't. We
embraced in the dark, and I asked his forgiveness for all the pain I had caused
him. He then told me that if it mattered so much to me, he would tell me the
truth about Penelope Aldaya. It was another one of my mistakes. That Sunday in
1919, when Miquel Moliner went to the station to give his friend Julian his
ticket to Paris and see him off, he already knew that Penelope would not be
coming to the rendezvous. Two days earlier, when Don Ricardo Aldaya returned
from Madrid, his wife had confessed that she'd surprised Julian and their
daughter Penelope in the governess's room. Jorge Aldaya had revealed all this
to Miquel the day before, making him swear he would never tell anyone. Jorge
explained how, when he was given the news, Don Ricardo exploded with anger and
rushed up to Penelope's room, shouting like a madman. When she heard her
father's cries, Penelope locked her door and wept with terror. Don Ricardo
kicked in the door and found his daughter on her knees, trembling and begging
for mercy. Don Ricardo then slapped her in the face so hard that she fell down.
Not even Jorge was able to repeat the words Don Ricardo hurled at her in his
fury. All the members of the family and the servants waited downstairs,
terrified, not knowing what to do. Jorge hid in his room, in the dark, but even
there he could hear Don Ricardo's shouts. Jacinta was dismissed that same day.
Don Ricardo didn't even deign to see her. He ordered the servants to throw her
out of the house and threatened them with a similar fate if any of them had any
contact with her again. When Don Ricardo went down to the library, it was
already midnight. He'd left Penelope locked up in what had been Jacinta's
bedroom and strictly forbade anyone, whether members of his staff or family, to
go up to see her. From his room Jorge could hear his parents talking on the
ground floor. The doctor arrived in the early hours. Senora Aldaya led him to
the room where they kept Penelope under lock and key and waited by the door
while the doctor examined her. When he came out, the doctor only nodded and
collected his fee. Jorge heard Don Ricardo telling him that if he told anyone
about what he'd seen there, he would personally ensure that his reputation was
ruined and he would never be able to practise medicine again. Even Jorge knew what
that meant. Jorge admitted that he was very worried about Penelope and Julian.
He had never seen his father so beside himself with rage. Even taking into
account the offence committed by the lovers, he could not understand the extent
of his anger. There must be something else, he said, something else. Don
Ricardo had already ordered San Gabriel's school to expel Julian and had got in
touch with the boy's father, the hatter, about sending him off to the army
immediately. When Miquel heard all this, he decided he couldn't tell Julian the
truth. If he disclosed to Julian that Don Ricardo was keeping Penelope locked
up, and that she might be carrying his child, Julian would never take that
train to Paris. He knew that if his friend remained in Barcelona, that would be
the end of him. So he decided to deceive him and let him go to Paris without
knowing what had happened; he would let him think that Penelope was going to
join him sooner or later. When he said goodbye to Julian that day in the
Estacion de Francia, even Miquel wanted to believe that not all was lost. Some
days later, when it was discovered that Julian had disappeared, all hell broke
loose. Don Ricardo Aldaya was foaming at the mouth. He set half the police
department in pursuit of the fugitive, but without success. He then accused the
hatter of having sabotaged the plan they had agreed on and threatened to ruin
him completely. The hatter, who couldn't understand what was going on, in turn
accused his wife, Sophie, of having plotted the escape of that despicable son
and threatened to throw her out of their home. It didn't occur to anyone that
it was Miquel Moliner who had planned the whole thing - to anyone, that is,
except Jorge Aldaya, who went to see him a fortnight later. He no longer exuded
the fear and anxiety that had gripped him earlier. This was a different Jorge
Aldaya, an adult robbed of all innocence. Whatever the secret that hid behind
Don Ricardo's anger was, Jorge had found out. The reason for his visit was
clear: he knew it was Miquel who had helped Julian escape. He told him their
friendship was over, that he didn't ever want to see him again, and he
threatened to kill him if he told anyone what he had revealed to him two weeks
before. A few weeks later, Miquel received a letter, with a false sender's
name, posted by Julian in Paris. In it he gave him his address, told him he was
well and missed him, and inquired after his mother and Penelope. He included a
letter addressed to Penelope, which Miquel was to post from Barcelona, the first
of many that Penelope would never read. Miquel prudently allowed a few months
to go by. He wrote to Julian once a week, mentioning only what he felt was
suitable, which was almost nothing. Julian, in turn, spoke to him about Paris,
about how difficult everything was turning out to be, how lonely and desperate
he felt. Miquel sent him money, books, and his friendship. In every letter
Julian would include another one for Penelope. Miquel mailed them from
different post offices, even though he knew it was useless. In his letters
Julian never stopped asking after Penelope but Miquel couldn't tell him
anything. He knew from Jacinta that Penelope had not left the house on Avenida
del Tibidabo since her father had locked her in the room on the third floor.
One night Jorge Aldaya waylaid Miquel in the dark, two blocks from his home.
'Have you come to kill me then?' asked Miquel. Jorge said that he had come to
do him and his friend Julian a favour. He handed him a letter and advised him
to make sure it reached Julian, wherever he was hiding. 'For everyone's sake,'
he declared portentously. The envelope contained a sheet of paper handwritten
by Penelope Aldaya. Dear Julian; I'm writing to notify you of my forthcoming
marriage and to entreat you not to write to me anymore, to forget me and
rebuild your life. I don't bear you any grudge, but I wouldn't be honest if I
didn't confess to you that I have never loved you and never will be able to
love you. I wish you the best, wherever you may be. Penelope Miquel read and
reread the letter a thousand times. The handwriting was unmistakable, but he
didn't believe for a moment that Penelope had written that letter willingly: '.
. . wherever you may be.' Penelope knew perfectly well where Julian was: in
Paris, waiting for her. If she was pretending not to know his whereabouts,
Miquel reflected, it was to protect him. But for that same reason, Miquel
couldn't understand what could have induced her to write those words. What
further threats could Don Ricardo Aldaya bring down on her, on top of keeping
her locked up for months in that room like a prisoner? More than anyone,
Penelope knew that her letter would be like a poisoned dagger to Julian's
heart: a young boy of nineteen, lost in a distant and hostile city, abandoned
by everyone, surviving only on his false hopes of seeing her again. What did
she want to protect him from by pushing him from her in that way? After much
consideration, Miquel decided not to send the letter. Not without knowing the
reason for it first. Without a good reason, it would not be his hand that
plunged that dagger into his friend's soul. Some days later he found out that
Don Ricardo Aldaya, tired of seeing Jacinta waiting like a sentry at the doors
of his house, begging for news of Penelope, had used his contacts to get her
admitted into the Horta lunatic asylum. When Miquel Moliner tried to see her,
he was denied access. Jacinta Coronado was to spend the first three months in
solitary confinement. After three months of silence and darkness, he was told
by one of the doctors - a cheerful young individual - the patient's submission
was guaranteed. Following a hunch, Miquel decided to pay a visit to the pension
where Jacinta had been staying after her dismissal. When he identified himself,
the landlady remembered that Jacinta had left a note for him and still owed her
three weeks' rent. He paid the debt, even though he doubted its existence, and
took the note. In it the governess explained how she had been informed that
Laura, one of the Aldayas' servants, had been dismissed when it was discovered
that she had secretly posted a letter from Penelope to Julian. Miquel deduced
that the only address to which Penelope, from her captivity, could have sent
the letter was Julian's parents' apartment in Ronda de San Antonio, hoping that
they, in turn, would make sure it reached Julian in Paris. Miquel decided to
visit Sophie . Carax to recover the letter and forward it to Julian. When he
arrived at the Fortunys' home, Miquel was in for an unpleasant surprise: Sophie
Carax no longer lived there. She had abandoned her husband a few days earlier -
or that, at least, was the rumour that was doing the rounds of the neighbours.
Miquel then tried to speak to the hatter, who spent his days shut away in his
shop, consumed by anger and humiliation. Miquel told him that he'd come to
collect a letter that must have arrived for his son, Julian, a few days
earlier. 'I have no son,' was the only answer he received. Miquel Moliner went
away without knowing that the letter in question had ended up in the hands of
the caretaker and that, many years later, you, Daniel, would find it and read
the words Penelope had meant for Julian, this time straight from her heart:
words that he never received. As Miquel left the Fortuny hat shop, one of the
residents in the block of apartments, who identified herself as Vicenteta,
approached him and asked him whether he was looking for Sophie. Miquel said he
was and told her he was a friend of Julian's. Vicenteta informed him that
Sophie was staying in a boarding-house hidden in a small street behind the post
office building, waiting for the departure of the boat that would take her to
America. Miquel went to the address, where he found a narrow, miserable
staircase almost devoid of light and air. At the top of the dusty spiral of
sloping steps, he found Sophie Carax, in a damp, dark, room on the fourth
floor. Julian's mother was facing the window, sitting on the edge of a
makeshift bed on which two closed suitcases were lying like coffins, containing
her twenty-two years in Barcelona. When she read the letter signed by Penelope
that Jorge Aldaya had given Miquel, Sophie shed tears of anger. 'She knows,'
she murmured. 'Poor child, she knows. . . .' 'Knows what?' asked Miquel. 'It's
my fault,' said Sophie. 'It's all my fault.' Miquel held her hands, not
understanding. Sophie didn't dare meet his eyes. 'Julian and Penelope are
brother and sister,' she whispered. 3 Years before becoming Antoni Fortuny's
slave, Sophie Carax had been a woman who made a living from her talents. She
was only nineteen when she arrived in Barcelona in search of a promised job
that never materialized. Before dying, her father had obtained the necessary
references for her to go into the service of the Benarenses, a prosperous
family of merchants from Alsace who had established themselves in Barcelona.
'When I die,' he urged her, 'go to them, and they'll treat you like a
daughter.' The warm welcome she received was part of the problem. Monsieur
Benarens indeed received her with open arms - all too open, in the opinion of
Madame Benarens. Madame Benarens gave Sophie one hundred pesetas and turned her
out of the house, but not without showing some pity towards her and her bad
fortune. 'You have your whole life ahead of you; but the only thing I have is
this miserable, lewd husband.' A music school in Calle. Diputacion agreed to
give Sophie work as a private music and piano tutor. In those days it was
considered respectable for girls of well-to-do families to be taught proper
social graces with a smattering of music for the drawing room, where the
polonaise was considered less dangerous than conversation or questionable
literature. That is how Sophie Carax began her visits to palatial mansions,
where starched, silent maids would lead her to the music rooms. There the
hostile offspring of the industrial aristocracy would be waiting for her, to
laugh at her accent, her shyness, or her lowly position - the fact that she
could read music didn't alter that. Gradually Sophie learned to concentrate on
the tiny number of pupils who rose above the status of perfumed vermin and
forget the rest of them. It was about that time that Sophie met a young hatter
(for so he liked to be referred to, with professional pride) called Antoni
Fortuny, who seemed determined to court her, whatever the cost. Antoni Fortuny,
for whom Sophie felt a warm friendship and nothing else, did not take long to
propose to her, an offer Sophie refused - and kept refusing, a dozen times a
month. Every time they parted, Sophie hoped she wouldn't see him again, because
she didn't want to hurt him. The hatter, brushing aside her refusals, stayed on
the offensive, inviting her to dances, to take a stroll, or have a hot
chocolate with sponge fingers on Calle Canuda. Being all alone in Barcelona,
Sophie found it difficult to resist his enthusiasm, his company, and his
devotion. She only had to look at Antoni Fortuny to know that she would never
be able to love him. Not the way she dreamed she would love somebody one day.
But she also found it hard to cast aside the image of herself that she saw
reflected in the hatter's besotted eyes. Only in them did she see the Sophie
she would have wished to be. And so, either through need or through weakness,
Sophie continued to entertain the hatter's advances, in the belief that one day
he would meet a girl who would return his affection and his life would take a
more rewarding course. In the meantime, being desired and appreciated was
enough to alleviate the loneliness and the longing she felt for everything she
had left behind. She saw Antoni on Sundays, after mass. The rest of the week
was taken up by her music lessons. Her favourite pupil was a highly talented
girl called Ana Valls, the daughter of a prosperous manufacturer of textile
machinery who had built up his fortune from nothing, by dint of great effort
and sacrifices, although mostly other people's. Ana expressed her desire to
become a great composer and would make Sophie listen to small pieces she had
composed, imitating motifs by Grieg and Schumann, and not without skill.
Although Senor Valls was convinced that women were incapable of creating
anything but knitted garments or crocheted bedspreads, he approved of his
daughter becoming competent on the keyboard, for he had plans of marrying her
off to some heir with a good surname. He knew that refined people liked to
discover unusual qualities in a marriageable girl, besides submissiveness and
the fecundity of youth. It was in the Valls residence that Sophie met one of
Senor Valls's greatest benefactors and financial godfathers: Don Ricardo
Aldaya, inheritor of the Aldaya empire, and by then already the great white
hope of the Catalan oligarchy of the end of the century. A few months earlier,
Don Ricardo Aldaya had married a rich heiress, a dazzling beauty with an
unpronounceable name - attributes that wagging tongues held to be true, despite
the fact that her newlywed husband seemed to see no beauty in her at all and
never bothered to mention her name. It had been a match between families and
banks, none of that sentimental nonsense, said Senor Valls, for whom it was
very clear that the bed was one thing, and the other the head. Sophie had only
to exchange one look with Don Ricardo Aldaya to know she was doomed. Aldaya had
wolfish eyes, hungry and sharp; the eyes of a man who knew where and when to
strike. He kissed her hand slowly, caressing her knuckles with his lips. Just
as the hatter exuded kindness and warmth, Don Ricardo radiated cruelty and
power. His canine smile made it clear that he could read her thoughts and
desires and found them laughable. Sophie felt for him the sort of contempt that
is awakened in us by the things we subconsciously most desire. She immediately
told herself she would not see him again, would stop teaching her favourite
pupil if that was what it took to avoid any future encounters with Ricardo
Aldaya. Nothing had ever terrified her so much as sensing that animality under
her own skin, the prey's instinctive recognition of the predator. It took her
only a few seconds to make up a flimsy excuse for leaving the room, to the
puzzlement of Senor Valls, the amusement of Aldaya, and the dejection of little
Ana, who understood people better than she did music and knew she had
irretrievably lost her teacher. A week later Sophie saw Don Ricardo Aldaya
waiting for her at the entrance to the music school in Calle Diputacion,
smoking and leafing through a newspaper. They exchanged glances, and, without
saying a word, he led her to a building two blocks away. It was a new building,
still uninhabited. They went up to the first floor. Don Ricardo opened the door
and ushered her in. Sophie entered the apartment, a maze of corridors and
galleries, bare of any furniture, paintings, lamps, or any other object that
might have identified it as a home. Don Ricardo Aldaya shut the door, and they
looked at one another. 'I haven't stopped thinking about you all week. Tell me
you haven't done the same and I'll let you go, and you won't ever see me
again,' said Ricardo. Sophie shook her head. Their secret meetings lasted
ninety-six days. They met in the afternoons, always in that empty apartment on
the corner of Diputacion and Rambla de Cataluna. Tuesdays and Thursdays, at
three. Their meetings never lasted more than an hour. Sometimes Sophie stayed
on alone once Aldaya had left, crying or shaking in a corner of the bedroom.
Then, when Sunday came, Sophie looked desperately into the hatter's eyes for
traces of the "woman who was disappearing, yearning for both devotion and
deception. The hatter didn't see the marks on her skin, the cuts and burns that
peppered her body. The hatter didn't see the despair in her smile, in her
meekness. The hatter didn't see anything. Perhaps for that reason, she accepted
his promise of marriage. By then she already suspected that she was carrying
Aldaya's child, but was afraid of telling him, almost as much as she was afraid
of losing him. Once again it was Aldaya who saw in Sophie what she was
incapable of admitting. He gave her five hundred pesetas and an address in
Calle Plateria and ordered her to get rid of the baby. Sophie refused. Don
Ricardo Aldaya slapped her until her ears bled, then threatened to have her
killed if she dared mention their meetings to anyone or admit that the child
was his. When Sophie told the hatter that some thugs had assaulted her in Plaza
del Pino, he believed her. When she told him she wanted to be his wife, he
believed her. On the day of her wedding, someone erroneously sent a funeral
wreath to the church. Everyone laughed nervously when they saw the florist's
mistake. All except Sophie, who knew perfectly well that Don Ricardo Aldaya had
not forgotten her on her wedding day. 4 Sophie Carax never imagined that years
later she would see Ricardo again - a mature man by now, heading up the family
empire, and a father of two - nor that he would return to meet the boy he had
wished to erase with five hundred pesetas. 'Perhaps it's because I'm growing
old,' was his only explanation, 'but I want to get to know this child and give
him the opportunities in life that a son of my flesh and blood deserves. He
hadn't crossed my mind in all these years, and now,. strangely enough, I'm
unable to think of anything else.' Ricardo Aldaya had decided that he couldn't
see himself in his firstborn, Jorge. The boy was weak, reserved, and he lacked
his father's steadfast spirit. He lacked everything, except the right surname.
One day Don Ricardo had woken up in the maid's bed feeling that his body was
getting old, that God had removed His blessing. Seized with panic, he ran to look
at himself naked in the mirror and felt that the mirror was lying. That man was
not Ricardo Aldaya. He now wanted to find the man who had disappeared. For
years he had known about the hatter's son. And he had not forgotten Sophie, in
his own way. Don Ricardo Aldaya never forgot anything. The moment had arrived
to meet the boy. It was the first time in fifteen years that he had come across
someone who wasn't afraid of him, who dared to defy him and even laugh at him.
He recognized gallantry in the child, the silent ambition that fools can't see
but is there all the same. God had given him back his youth. Sophie, only an
echo of the woman he remembered, didn't even have the strength to come between
them. The hatter was just a buffoon, a spiteful and resentful peasant whose
complicity Aldaya counted on buying. He decided to tear Julian away from that
stifling world of mediocrity and poverty and open the doors of his financial
paradise to him. He would be educated in San Gabriel's school, would enjoy all
the privileges of his class, and would be initiated onto the path his father
had chosen for him. Don Ricardo wanted a successor worthy of himself. Jorge
would always be cocooned in the privileges of his class, hiding from his
mediocrity in creature comforts. Penelope, the beautiful Penelope, was a woman,
and therefore a treasure, not a treasurer. Julian, who had the soul of a poet,
and therefore the soul of a murderer, fulfilled all the requirements. It was
only a question of time. Don Ricardo estimated that within ten years he would
have stamped his image on the boy. Never, in all the time Julian spent with the
Aldayas as one of the family (as the chosen one, even), did it occur to Don
Ricardo that the only thing Julian wanted from him was Penelope. It didn't occur
to him for an instant that Julian secretly despised him, that his affection was
a sham, only a pretext to be close to Penelope. To possess her completely and
utterly. They did resemble one another in that. When his wife told him she'd
discovered Julian and Penelope naked together, his entire world went up in
flames. Horror at this treason, the rage of knowing that he had been
unspeakably affronted, outwitted at his own game, humiliated and stabbed in the
back by the one person he had learned to adore as the image of himself - all
these feelings assailed him with such fury that nobody could understand the
magnitude of his pain. When the doctor who came to examine Penelope confirmed
that the girl had been deflowered and that she was possibly pregnant, Don Ricardo's
soul dissolved into the thick, viscous liquid of blind hatred. He saw his own
hand in Julian's hand, the hand that had plunged the dagger deep into his
heart. He didn't yet know it, but the day he ordered Penelope to be locked up
in the third-floor bedroom was the day he began to die. Everything he did from
then on was only the last throes of his self-destruction. In collaboration with
the hatter, whom he had so deeply despised, he arranged for Julian's removal
from Barcelona and his entry into the army, where Aldaya had given orders that
he should meet with an 'accidental' death. He forbade that anyone - doctors,
servants, even members of the family, except himself and his wife - should see
Penelope during the months when the girl remained imprisoned in that room that
smelled of illness and death. By then, Aldaya's partners had secretly withdrawn
their support and were manoeuvring behind his back to seize power, using the
very fortune that he had made available to them. By then the Aldaya empire was
beginning to crumble, at secret board meetings in Madrid, in hushed corridors,
in Geneva banks. Julian, as Aldaya should have suspected, had escaped. Deep
down he secretly felt proud of the boy, even though he wished him dead. Julian
had done what he would have done in his place. Someone else would have to pay
for Julian's actions. Penelope Aldaya gave birth to a stillborn baby boy on 26
September 1919. If a doctor had been able to examine her, he would have said
that the baby had already been in danger for some days and must be delivered by
Caesarean. If a doctor had been present, perhaps he would have been able to
stop the haemorrhaging that took Penelope's life, while she shrieked and
scratched at the locked door, on the other side of which her father wept in
silence and her mother cowered, staring at her husband. If a doctor had been
present, he would have accused Don Ricardo Aldaya of murder, for there was no
other word that could describe the scene within that dark, bloodstained cell.
But there was nobody there, and when at last they opened the door and found
Penelope lying dead in a pool of her own blood, hugging a shining,
purple-coloured baby, nobody was capable of uttering a single word. The two
bodies were buried in the basement crypt, with no ceremony or witnesses. The
sheets and the afterbirth were thrown into the boilers, and the place was
sealed with a brick wall. When Jorge Aldaya, drunk with guilt and shame, told
Miquel Moliner what had happened, Miquel decided to send Julian the letter, signed
by Penelope, in which she declared that she didn't love him, begged him to
forget her, and announced a fictitious wedding. He preferred that Julian should
believe the lie and rebuild his life, feeling himself betrayed, than to present
him with the truth. When, two years later, Senora Aldaya died, there were those
who blamed her death on the curse that lay on the mansion, but her son, Jorge,
knew that what had killed her was the fire that raged inside her, Penelope's
screams and her desperate banging on that door that hammered incessantly in her
head. By then the family had already fallen from grace, and the Aldaya fortune
was collapsing like a sand castle, swept away by a combination of greed and
revenge. Secretaries and accountants devised the flight to Argentina; the
beginning of a new, more modest, business. The important thing was to get away.
Away from the spectres that scurried through the corridors of the Aldaya
mansion, as they had always done. They departed one dawn of 1926, travelling
under false names on board the ship that would take them across the Atlantic to
the port of La Plata. Jorge and his father shared a cabin. Old Aldaya, smelling
foul and dying, could barely stand up. The doctors whom he had not permitted to
see Penelope feared him too much to tell him the truth, but he knew that death
had boarded the ship with them, and that his body, which God had begun to steal
from him on the morning he decided to look for his son Julian, was wasting
away. Throughout that long crossing, sitting on the deck, shivering under the
blankets and facing the ocean's infinite emptiness, he knew that he would never
see land. Sometimes, sitting at the stern, he would watch the school of sharks
that had been following them since they left Tenerife. He heard one of the
officers say that such a sinister escort was normal in transatlantic cruises.
The beasts fed on the animal remains that the ship left in its wake. But Don
Ricardo thought otherwise. He was convinced that those devils were following
him. You're waiting for me, he thought, seeing in them God's true face. It was
then he approached his son Jorge, whom he had so often despised and whom he now
saw as his last resort, and made him swear he would carry out his dying wish.
'You will find Julian Carax and you'll kill him. Swear that you will.' One
dawn, two days before reaching Buenos Aires, Jorge woke up and saw that his
father's berth was empty. He went out to look for him; the deck was deserted,
bathed in mist and spray. He found his father's dressing gown, still warm,
abandoned on the stern of the ship. The ship's wake disappeared into a cloud of
scarlet, a stain on the calm waters, as if the ocean itself were bleeding. It
was then he noticed that the sharks had stopped following them. He saw them, in
the distance, their dorsal fins flapping as they danced in a circle. During the
remainder of the crossing, no passenger sighted the school again. When Jorge
Aldaya disembarked in Buenos Aires and the customs officer asked him whether he
was travelling alone, he nodded in assent. He had been travelling alone for a
long time. 5 Ten years after disembarking in Buenos Aires, Jorge Aldaya, or the
spent force he had become, returned to Barcelona. The misfortunes that had
started to eat away at the Aldaya family in the Old World had only grown worse
in Argentina. Jorge was left on his own to face the world, a fight for which he
had neither his father's strength nor his composure. Jorge had reached Buenos
Aires with a numb heart, shot through with remorse. The New World he would
later say, by way of apology or epitaph, is an illusion, a land of savage
predators, and he'd been educated into the privileges and frivolous refinements
of Old Europe - a dead continent held together by inertia. In only a few years,
he lost everything, starting with his reputation and ending with the gold watch
his father had given him for his first communion. Thanks to the watch, he was
able to buy himself a return ticket. The man who came back to Spain was almost
a beggar, a bundle of bitterness and failure, poisoned by the memory of what he
felt had been snatched from him and the hatred for the person on whom he blamed
his ruin: Julian Carax. The promise he had made to his father was still branded
on his mind. As soon as he arrived, he tried to pick up Julian's trail, only to
discover that, like him, Carax also appeared to have vanished from Barcelona.
It was then, through chance or fate, that he encountered a familiar character
from his youth. After a prominent career in reformatories and state prisons,
Francisco Javier Fumero had joined the army, attaining the rank of lieutenant.
There were many who envisaged him as a future general, but a murky scandal
caused his expulsion from the army. Even then his reputation outlasted his
rank. He was talked about a great deal, but above all he was feared. Francisco
Javier Fumero, that shy, disturbed boy who once gathered dead leaves from the
courtyard of San Gabriel's, was now a murderer. It was rumoured that he killed
notorious characters for money, and that he dispatched political figures on
request. Fumero was said to be death incarnate. Aldaya and he recognized one
another instantly through the haze of the Novedades cafe. Aldaya was ill,
stricken by a strange fever that he blamed on the insects of the South American
jungles. 'There, even the mosquitoes are sons of bitches,' he complained.
Fumero listened to him with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. He revered
mosquitoes and all insects in general. He admired their discipline, their
fortitude and organization. There was no laziness in them, no irreverence or
racial degeneration. His favourite species were spiders, blessed with that rare
science for weaving a trap in which they awaited their prey with infinite
patience, knowing that sooner or later the prey would succumb, either through
stupidity or negligence. In his opinion society had a lot to learn from
insects. Aldaya was a clear case of moral and physical ruin. He had aged
noticeably and looked shabby, with no muscle tone. Fumero couldn't bear people
with no muscle tone. They nauseated him. 'Javier, I feel dreadful,' Aldaya
pleaded. 'Could you help me out for a few days?' Fumero agreed to take Jorge
Aldaya to his home. He lived in a gloomy apartment in the Raval quarter, in
Calle Cadena, in the company of numerous insects stored in jars, and half a
dozen books. Fumero detested books as much as he loved insects, hut these were
no ordinary volumes: they were the novels of Julian Carax published by
Cabestany. Two prostitutes lived in the apartment opposite - a mother and
daughter who allowed themselves to be pinched and burned with cigars when
business was slow, especially at the end of the month. Fumero paid them to take
care of Aldaya while he was at work. He had no desire to see him die. Not yet.
Francisco Javier Fumero had joined the Crime Squad. There was always work there
for the type of person who could confront the most awkward situations, the sort
of situations that had to be solved discreetly so that respectable citizens
could continue living in blissful ignorance. Words to that effect had been used
by Lieutenant Duran, a man given to solemn pronouncements, and under whose
command Fumero had joined the police force. 'Being a policeman isn't a job,
it's a mission,' Duran would proclaim. 'Spain needs more balls and less
chatter.' Unfortunately, Lieutenant Duran was soon to die in a lamentable
accident during a police raid in the district of La Barceloneta: in the
confusion of an encounter with a group of anarchists, he fell through a
skylight, and plunged five floors to his death. Everyone agreed that Spain had
lost a great man, a national hero with vision for the future, a thinker who did
not fear action. Fumero took over his post with pride, knowing that he had done
the right thing by pushing him, for Duran was getting too old for the job.
Fumero found old men revolting - as he did crippled men, Gypsies, and queers -
whether or not they had good muscle tone. Sometimes God made mistakes. It was
the duty of every upright citizen to correct these small failings and keep the
world looking presentable. In March 1932, a few weeks after their meeting in
the Novedades Cafe, Jorge Aldaya began to feel better and opened his heart to
Fumero. He begged forgiveness for the way he had treated him during their school
days. With tears in his eyes, he told Fumero the whole story, without omitting
anything. Fumero listened silently, nodding, taking it in, all the while
wondering whether he should kill Aldaya there and then, or wait. He wondered
whether Aldaya would be so weak that the blade would meet only tepid resistance
from that stinking flesh, softened by so many years of indolence. He decided to
postpone the vivisection. He was intrigued by the story, especially insofar as
it concerned Julian Carax. He knew, from the information he obtained at the
publishing house, that Carax lived in Paris, but Paris was a very large city,
and nobody in Cabestany's company seemed to know the exact address. Nobody
except for a woman called Monfort who kept it to herself. Fumero had followed
her two or three times on her way out of the office, without her realizing. He
had even travelled in a tram at half a yard's distance from her. Women never
noticed him, and if they did, they turned their faces the other way, pretending
not to have seen him. One night, after following her right up to her front door
in Plaza de San Felipe Neri, Fumero went back to his home and masturbated
furiously; as he did so, he imagined himself plunging a knife into that woman's
body, an inch or so at a time, slowly, methodically, his eyes fixed on hers.
Maybe then she would deign to give him Carax's address and treat him with the
respect due to a police officer. Julian Carax was the only person whom Fumero
had failed to kill once he'd made up his mind. Perhaps because he had been
Fumero's first, and it takes time to master your game. When Fumero heard that
name again, he smiled in a way his neighbours, the prostitutes, found so
frightening: without blinking, and slowly licking his upper lip. He could still
remember Carax kissing Penelope Aldaya in the large mansion on Avenida del
Tibidabo. His Penelope. His had been a pure love, a true love, like the ones
you saw in movies. Fumero was very keen on movies and went to the cinema at
least twice a week. It was in a cinema that he had understood that Penelope had
been the love of his life. The rest, especially his mother, had been nothing
but tarts. As he listened to the last snippets of Aldaya's story, he decided
that he wasn't going to kill him after all. In fact, he was pleased that fate
had reunited them. He had a vision, like the ones in the films he so enjoyed:
Aldaya was going to hand him the others on a platter. Sooner or later they
would all end up ensnared in his web. 6 In the winter of 1934, the Moliner brothers
finally managed to evict Miquel from the house on Calle Puertaferrissa, which
is still empty and in a derelict state to this day. All they wanted was to see
him out on the street, shorn of what little he had left, his books and the
freedom and independence that so offended them and filled them with such deep
hatred. He didn't tell me anything or come to me for help. I only discovered
he'd become a virtual beggar when I went to look for him in what had been his
home and found his brothers' hired legal thugs drawing up an inventory of the
property and selling off the few objects that had belonged to him. Miquel had
already been spending a few nights in a pension on Calle Canuda, a dismal, damp
hovel that looked and smelled like a brothel. When I saw the tiny room in which
he was confined, like a coffin with no windows and a prisoner's bunk, I grabbed
hold of him and took him home. He couldn't stop coughing, and he looked
emaciated. He said it was a lingering cold, an old maid's complaint that would
go away when it got bored. Two weeks later he was worse. As he always dressed
in black, it took me some time to realize that those stains on his sleeves were
bloodstains. I called a doctor, and after he examined Miquel, he asked me why
I'd waited so long to call him. Miquel had tuberculosis. Bankrupt and ill, he
now lived only on his memories and regrets. He was the kindest and frailest man
I had ever known, my only friend. We got married one cold February morning in a
county court. Our honeymoon consisted of taking the bus up to Guell Park and
gazing down on Barcelona - a little world of fog - from its sinuous terraces.
We didn't tell anyone we'd got married, not Cabestany, or my father, or
Miquel's family, who believed him to be dead. Eventually I wrote a letter to
Julian, telling him about it, but I never mailed it. Ours was a secret
marriage. A few months after the wedding, someone knocked on our door saying
his name was Jorge Aldaya. He looked like a shattered man, and his face was
covered in sweat despite the biting cold. When he saw Miquel again after more
than ten years, Aldaya smiled bitterly and said, 'We're all cursed, Miquel.
You, Julian, Fumero, and me.' The alleged reason for the visit was an attempt
to make up with his old friend Miquel, who he hoped would now let him know how
to get in touch with Julian Carax, because he had a very important message for
him from his deceased father, Don Ricardo Aldaya. Miquel said he didn't know
where Carax was. 'We lost touch years ago,' he lied. 'The last thing I heard,
he was living in Italy.' Aldaya was expecting such an answer. 'You disappoint
me, Miquel. I had hoped that time and misfortune would have made you wiser.'
'Some disappointments honour those who inspire them.' Shrivelled up and on the
verge of collapse, Aldaya laughed. 'Fumero sends you his most heartfelt
congratulations on your marriage,' he said on his way to the door. Those words
froze my heart. Miquel didn't wish to speak, but that night, while I held him
close and we both pretended to fall asleep, I knew that Aldaya had been right.
We were cursed. A few months went by without any news from either Julian or
Aldaya. Miquel was still writing regular pieces for the press in Barcelona and
Madrid. He worked without pause, sitting at the typewriter pouring out what he
considered to be drivel, to feed commuters on the tram. I kept my job at the
publishing house, perhaps because that was where I felt closest to Julian. He
had sent me a brief note saying he was working on a new novel, called The
Shadow of the Wind, which he hoped to finish within a few months. The letter
made no mention at all of what had happened in Paris. The tone was colder and
more distant than before. But my attempts at hating him were unsuccessful. I
began to believe that Julian was not a man, he was an illness. Miquel had no
illusions about my feelings. He offered me his affection and devotion without
asking for anything in exchange except my company and perhaps my discretion. No
reproach or complaint ever passed his lips. In time I came to feel an immense
tenderness for him, beyond the friendship that had brought us together and the
compassion that had later doomed us. Miquel opened a savings account in my
name, into which he deposited almost all the income he earned from his
journalism. He never said no to an article, a review, or a gossip column. He
wrote under three different pseudonyms, fourteen or sixteen hours a day. When I
asked him why he worked so hard, he just smiled or else he said that if he
didn't do anything, he'd be bored. There was never any deceit between us, not
even the wordless kind. Miquel knew he would soon die. 'You must promise that
if anything happens to me, you'll take that money and get married again, that
you'll have children, and that you'll forget about us all, starting with me.'
'And who would I marry, Miquel? Don't talk nonsense.' Sometimes I'd catch him
looking at me with a gentle smile, as if the very sight of my presence were his
greatest treasure. Every afternoon he would come to meet me on my way out of the
office, his only moment of leisure in the whole day. He feigned strength, but I
saw how he stooped when he walked, and how he coughed. He would take me for a
snack or to window-shop in Calle Fernando, and then we'd go back home, where he
would continue working until well after midnight. I silently blessed every
minute we spent together, and every night he would fall asleep embracing me,
while I hid the tears caused by the anger I felt at having been incapable of
loving that man the way he loved me, incapable of giving him what I had so
pointlessly abandoned at Julian's feet. Many a night I swore to myself that I
would forget Julian, that I would devote the rest of my life to making that
poor man happy and returning to him some small part of what he had given me. I
was Julian's lover for two weeks, but I would be Miquel's wife the rest of my
life. If some day these pages should reach your hands and you should judge me,
as I have judged myself when writing them, looking at my reflection in this
mirror of remorse, remember me like this, Daniel. The manuscript of Julian's
last novel arrived towards the end of 1935. I don't know whether it was out of
spite or out of fear, but I handed it to the printer without even reading it.
Miquel's last savings had financed the edition in advance, months earlier, so
Cabestany, who at the time was having health problems, paid little attention.
That week the doctor who was attending Miquel came to see me at the office,
looking very concerned. He told me that if Miquel didn't slow down and give
himself some rest, there was little he could do to help him fight the
tuberculosis. 'He should be in the mountains, not in Barcelona breathing in
clouds of bleach and charcoal. He's not a cat with nine lives, and I'm not a
nanny. Make him listen to reason. He won't pay any attention to me.' That
lunchtime I decided to go home and speak to him. Before I opened the door of
the apartment, I heard voices filtering from inside. Miquel was arguing with
someone. At first I assumed it was someone from the newspaper, but then I
thought I caught Julian's name in the conversation. I heard footsteps
approaching the door, and I ran up to hide on the attic landing. From there I
was able to catch a glimpse of the visitor. A man dressed in black, with somewhat
nondescript features and thin lips, like an open scar. His eyes were black and
expressionless, fish eyes. Before he disappeared down the stairs, he looked up
into the darkness. I leaned against the wall, holding my breath. The visitor
remained there for a few moments, as if he could smell me, licking his lips
with a doglike grin. I waited for his steps to fade away completely before I
left my hiding place and went into the apartment. A smell of camphor drifted in
the air. Miquel was sitting by the window, his arms hanging limply on either
side of the chair. His lips trembled. I asked him who that man was and what he
wanted. 'It was Fumero. He came with news of Julian.' "What does he know
about Julian?' Miquel looked at me, more dispirited than ever. 'Julian is
getting married.' The news left me speechless. I fell into a chair, and Miquel
took my hands. He seemed tired and spoke with difficulty. Before I was able to
open my mouth, he began to give me a summary of the events Fumero had related
to him, and what could be inferred from them. Fumero had made use of his
contacts in the Paris police to discover Julian Carax's whereabouts and keep a
watch on him. This could have taken place months or even years earlier, Miquel
said. What worried him wasn't that Fumero had found Carax - that was just a
question of time - but that he should have decided to tell Miquel about it now,
together with some bizarre news about an improbable marriage. The wedding, it
seemed, was going to take place in the early summer of 1936. All that was known
about the bride was her name, which in this case was more than sufficient:
Irene Marceau, the owner of the club where Julian had worked as a pianist for
years. 'I don't understand,' I murmured. 'Julian is marrying his patron?'
'Exactly. This isn't a wedding. It's a contract.' Irene Marceau was twenty-five
or thirty years older than Julian. Miquel suspected she had decided on the
marriage so that she could transfer her assets to Julian and secure his future.
'But she already helps him. She always has done.' 'Perhaps she knows she's not
going to be around forever,' Miquel suggested. The echo of those words cut us
both to the quick. I knelt down next to him and held him tight, biting my lips
because I didn't want him to see me cry. 'Julian doesn't love this woman,
Nuria,' he said, thinking that was the cause of my sorrow. 'Julian doesn't love
anyone but himself and his damned books,' I muttered. I looked up to find
Miquel wearing the wise smile of an old child. 'And what does Fumero hope to gain
by bringing this out into the open now?' It didn't take us long to find out.
Two days later a ghostlike, hollow-eyed Jorge Aldaya turned up at our home,
inflamed with anger. Fumero had told him that Julian was going to marry a rich
woman in a splendid, romantic ceremony. Aldaya had spent days obsessing over
the thought that the man responsible for his misfortunes was now clothed in
glamour, sitting astride a fortune, while his had disappeared. Fumero had not
told him that Irene Marceau, despite being a woman of some means, was the owner
of a brothel and not a princess in some fairy tale. He had not told him that
the bride was thirty years older than Carax and that, rather than a marriage,
this was an act of charity towards a man who had reached the end of the road.
He had not told him when or where the wedding was going to take place. All he
had done was sow the seeds of a fantasy that was devouring what little energy
remained in Jorge's wizened, polluted body. 'Fumero has lied to you, Jorge,'
said Miquel. 'And you, king of liars, you dare accuse your brother!' cried a
delirious Aldaya. There was no need for Aldaya to disclose his thoughts. In a
man so withered, they could easily be read beneath the scrawny skin that
covered his haunted face. Miquel saw Fumero's game clearly. After all, he was
the one who had shown him how to play chess twenty years earlier in San
Gabriel's school. Fumero had the strategy of a praying mantis and the patience
of the immortals. Miquel sent Julian a warning note. When Fumero decided the
moment was right, he had taken Aldaya aside and told him Julian was getting
married in three days' time. Since he was a police officer, he explained, he
couldn't get involved in this sort of thing. But Aldaya, as a civilian, could
go to Paris and make sure that the wedding in question never took place. How? a
feverish Aldaya would ask, smouldering with hatred. By challenging him to a
duel on the very day of his wedding. Fumero even supplied the weapon with which
Jorge was convinced he would perforate the stony heart that had ruined the
Aldaya dynasty. The report from the Paris police would later state that the
weapon found at his feet was faulty and could never have done more than what it
did: blow up in Jorge's hands. Fumero already knew this when he handed it to
him in a case on the platform of the Estacion de Francia. He knew perfectly
well that even if fever, stupidity, and blind anger didn't prevent Aldaya from
killing Julian Carax in a duel, the weapon he carried almost certainly would.
It wasn't Carax who was destined to die in that duel, but Aldaya. Fumero also
knew that Julian would never agree to confront his old friend, dying as Aldaya
was, reduced to nothing but a whimper. That is why Fumero carefully coached
Aldaya on every step he must take. He would have to admit to Julian that the
letter Penelope had written to him years ago, announcing her wedding and asking
him to forget her, was a lie. He would have to disclose that it was he, Jorge
Aldaya, who had forced his sister to write that string of lies while she cried
in despair, protesting her undying love for Julian. He would have to tell
Julian that she had been waiting for him, with a broken soul and a bleeding
heart, ever since then, dying of loneliness. That would be enough. Enough for Carax
to pull the trigger and shoot him in the face. Enough for him to forget any
wedding plans and to think of nothing else but returning to Barcelona in search
of Penelope. And, once in Barcelona, his cobweb, Fumero would be waiting for
him. 7 Julian Carax crossed the French border a few days before the start of
the Civil War. The first and only edition of The Shadow of the Wind had left
the press two weeks earlier, bound for the anonymity of its predecessors. By
then Miquel could barely work: although he sat in front of the typewriter for
two or three hours a day, weakness and fever prevented him from coaxing more
than a feeble trickle of words out onto the paper. He had lost several of his
regular columns due to missed deadlines. Other papers were fearful of
publishing his articles after receiving anonymous threats. He had only one
daily column left in the Diario de Barcelona, which he signed under the name of
'Adrian Maltes'. The spectre of the war could already be felt in the air. The
country stank of fear. With nothing to occupy him, and too weak to complain,
Miquel would go down into the square or walk up to Avenida de la Catedral,
always carrying with him one of Julian's books as if it were an amulet. The
last time the doctor had weighed him, he was only eight stone thirteen pounds.
We listened to the news of the uprising in Morocco on the radio, and a few
hours later a colleague from Miquel's newspaper came round to tell us that
Cansinos, the editor in chief, had been murdered with a bullet to the neck,
opposite the Canaletas cafe, two hours earlier. Nobody dared remove the body,
which was still lying there, staining the pavement with a web of blood. The
brief but intense days of initial terror soon arrived. General Goded's troops
set off along the Diagonal and Paseo de Gracia towards the centre, where the
shooting began. It was a Sunday, and a lot of people had still come out onto
the streets thinking they would spend the day picnicking along the road to Las
Planas. The blackest days of the war in Barcelona, however, were still two
years away. Shortly after the start of the skirmish, General Goded's troops
surrendered, due to a miracle or to poor communication between the commanders.
Lluis Companys's government seemed to have regained control, but what really
happened would become obvious in the next few weeks. Barcelona had passed into
the hands of the anarchist unions. After days of riots and street fighting,
rumours began to circulate that the four rebel generals had been executed in
Montjuic Castle shortly after the surrender. A friend of Miquel's, a British
journalist who was present at the execution, said that the firing squad was
made up of seven men but that at the last moment dozens of militiamen joined
the party. When they opened fire, the bodies were riddled with so many bullets
that they collapsed into unrecognizable pieces and had to be put into the
coffins in an almost liquid state. There were those who wanted to believe that
this was the end of the conflict, that the fascist troops would never reach
Barcelona and the rebellion would be extinguished along the way. We learned
that Julian was in Barcelona on the day of Goded's surrender, when we received
a letter from Irene Marceau in which she told us that Julian had killed Jorge
Aldaya in a duel, in Pere Lachaise cemetery. Even before Aldaya had expired, an
anonymous call had alerted the police to the event. Julian was forced to flee
from Paris immediately, pursued by the police, who wanted him for murder. We
had no doubt as to who had made that call. We waited anxiously to hear from
Julian so that we could warn him of the danger that stalked him and protect him
from a worse trap than the one laid out for him by Fumero: the discovery of the
truth. Three days later Julian still had not appeared. Miquel did not want to
share his anxiety with me, but I knew perfectly well what he was thinking.
Julian had come back for Penelope, not for us. 'What will happen when he finds
out the truth?' I kept asking. 'We'll make sure he doesn't,' Miquel would answer.
The first thing he was going to discover was that the Aldaya family had
disappeared. He would not find many places where he could start looking for
Penelope. We made a list, and began our own expedition. The mansion on Avenida
del Tibidabo was just an empty property, locked away behind chains and veils of
ivy. A flower vendor, who sold bunches of roses and carnations on the opposite
corner, said he only remembered seeing one person approaching the house
recently, but that was almost an old man, with a bit of a limp. 'Frankly, he
seemed pretty nasty. I tried to sell him a carnation for his lapel, and he told
me to piss off, saying there was a war on and it was no time for flowers.' He
hadn't seen anyone else. Miquel bought some withered roses from him and, just
in case, gave him the phone number of the editorial department at the Diario de
Barcelona. The man could leave a message there if, by chance, anyone should
turn up looking like the person we'd described. Our next stop was San
Gabriel's, where Miquel met up with Fernando Ramos, his old school companion.
Fernando was now a Latin and Greek teacher and had been ordained a priest. His
heart sank when he saw Miquel looking so frail. He told us Julian had not come
to see him, but he promised to get in touch with us if he did, and would try to
hold him back. Fumero had been there before us, he confessed with alarm, and
had told him that, in times of war, he'd do well to be careful. 'He said a lot
of people were going to die very soon, and uniforms -soldiers' or priests' -
would be no defence against the bullets. . . .' Fernando Ramos admitted that it
wasn't clear which unit or group Fumero belonged to, and he hadn't wanted to
ask him either. I find it impossible to describe to you those first days of the
war in Barcelona, Daniel. The air seemed poisoned with fear and hatred. People
eyed one another suspiciously, and the streets held a silence that put knots in
your stomach. Every day, every hour, fresh rumours and gossip circulated. I
remember one night when Miquel and I were walking home down the Ramblas. They
were completely deserted. Miquel looked at the buildings, glimpsing faces
hidden behind closed shutters, noticing how they scanned the shadows of the
street. He said he could feel the knives being sharpened behind those walls.
The following day we went to the Fortuny hat shop, without much hope of finding
Julian there. One of the residents in the building told us that the hatter was
terrified by the upheavals of the last few days and had locked himself up in
the shop. No matter how much we knocked, he wouldn't open the door. That
afternoon there had been a shoot-out only a block away, and the pools of blood
were still fresh on the pavement. A dead horse still lay there, at the mercy of
stray dogs that were tearing open its bullet-ridden stomach, while a group of
children watched and threw stones at them. We only managed to see the hatter's
frightened face though the grille of the door. We told him we were looking for
his son, Julian. The hatter replied that his son was dead and told us to leave
or he'd call the police. We left the place feeling disheartened. For days we
scoured cafes and shops, asking for Julian. We made inquiries in hotels and
pensiones, in railway stations, in banks where he might have gone to change
money - nobody remembered a man fitting Julian's description. We feared that he
might already have fallen into Fumero's clutches, and Miquel managed to get one
of his colleagues from the newspaper, who had contacts in Police Headquarters,
to find out whether Julian had been put in jail. There was no sign of him. Two
weeks went by, and it looked as if Julian had vanished into thin air. Miquel
hardly slept, hoping for news of his friend. One evening he returned from his
usual afternoon walk with a bottle of port, of all things. The newspaper staff
had presented it to him, he said, because he'd been told by the subeditor that
they were going to have to cancel his column. 'They don't want trouble, I
understand.' 'And what are you going to do?' 'Get drunk, for a start.' Miquel
drank barely half a glass, but I finished off almost the entire bottle on an
empty stomach without noticing it. Around midnight, I was overpowered by
drowsiness and collapsed on the sofa. I dreamed that Miquel was kissing my forehead
and covering me with a shawl. When I woke up, I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in
my head, which I recognized as the prelude to a fierce hangover. I went to look
for Miquel, to curse the hour when he'd had the bright idea of getting me
drunk, but I realized I was alone in the apartment. I went over to the desk and
saw that there was a note on the typewriter in which he asked me not to be
alarmed and to wait for him there. He'd gone out in search of Julian and would
soon bring him home. He ended the note by saying that he loved me. The note
fell from my hands. Then I noticed that before leaving, Miquel had removed his
things from the desk, as if he wasn't planning to use it anymore. I knew that I
would never see him again. 8 That afternoon the flower vendor had called the
offices of the Diario de Barcelona and left a message for Miquel saying he'd
seen the man we had described to him prowling around the old mansion like a
ghost. It was past midnight when Miquel reached number 32, Avenida del
Tibidabo. At night, the place was a dark, deserted valley struck by darts of
moonlight that filtered through the grove. Although he hadn't seen him for
seventeen years, Miquel recognized Julian by his light, almost catlike walk as
his silhouette glided through the shadows of the garden, near the fountain.
Julian had jumped over the garden wall and lay in wait by the house like a
restless animal. Miquel could have called out to him, but he preferred not to
alert any possible witnesses. He felt that furtive eyes were spying on the
avenue from the dark windows of neighbouring mansions. He walked round the
walls of the estate until he reached the part by the old tennis courts and the
coach houses. There he noticed the crevices in the wall that Julian must have
used as steps, and the flagstones that had come loose on the top. He lifted
himself up, almost out of breath, feeling an acute pain in his chest and
experiencing periodic waves of blindness. He lay down on the wall, his hands
shaking, and called Julian in a whisper. The silhouette that hovered by the
fountain stood still, joining the rest of the statues. Miquel saw two shining
eyes fixing on him. He wondered whether Julian would recognize him, after
seventeen years and an illness that had taken away his very breath. The silhouette
slowly came closer, wielding a long, shiny object in his right hand. A piece of
glass. 'Julian . . .' Miquel murmured. The figure stopped in its tracks. Miquel
heard the piece of glass fall on the gravel. Julian's face emerged from the
shadows. A two-week stubble covered his features, which were sharper than they
used to be. 'Miquel?' Unable to jump down to the other side, or even climb back
to the street, Miquel held out his hand. Julian hauled himself onto the wall
and, holding his friend's fist tightly with one hand, laid the palm of his
other hand on his face. They gazed silently at one another for a long time,
each sensing the wounds life had inflicted on the other. 'We must leave this
place, Julian. Fumero is looking for you. That business with Aldaya was a
trap.' 'I know,' murmured Carax in a monotone. 'The house is locked. Nobody has
lived here for years,' Miquel added. 'Come on, help me down, and let's get out
of here.' Carax climbed down the wall. When he clutched Miquel with both hands,
he could feel his friend's wasted body under the loose clothes. There seemed to
be no flesh or muscle left. Once they were on the other side, Carax gripped
Miquel by the armpits, so that he was almost carrying him, and they walked off
together into the darkness of Calle Roman Macaya. 'What is wrong with you?'
whispered Carax. 'It's nothing. Some fever. I'm getting better.' Miquel already
gave off the smell of illness, and Julian asked no further questions. They went
down Leon XIII until they reached Paseo de San Gervasio, where they saw the
lights of a cafe. They sought refuge at a table at the back of the room, away
from the entrance and the windows. A couple of regulars sat at the bar, smoking
cigarettes and listening to the radio. The waiter, a man with a waxy pallor and
downcast eyes, took their order. Warm brandy, coffee, and whatever food was
available. Miquel didn't eat at all. Carax, obviously starving, ate for both of
them. The two friends looked at each other in the sticky light of the cafe,
spellbound. The last time they had seen each other face-to-face, they were half
the age they were now. They had parted as boys, and now life presented one of
them with a fugitive and the other with a dying man. Both wondered whether this
was due to the cards they'd been dealt or to the way they had played them.
'I've never thanked you for everything you've done for me over the years,
Miquel.' 'Don't begin now. I did what I had to do and what I wanted to do.
There's nothing to thank me for.' 'How's Nuria?' 'The same as you left her.'
Carax looked down. 'We got married months ago. I don't know whether she wrote
to tell you.' Carax's lips froze, and he shook his head slowly. 'You have no
right to reproach her for anything, Julian.' 'I know. I have no right to
anything.' 'Why didn't you come to us for help, Julian?' 'I didn't want to get
you into trouble.' 'That is out of your hands now. Where have you been all this
time? We thought the ground had swallowed you.' 'Almost. I've been at home. In
my father's apartment.' Miquel stared at him in amazement. Julian went on to
explain how, when he arrived in Barcelona, unsure of where to go, he had set
off towards his childhood home, fearing there would be nobody left there. The
doors of the hat shop were still open, and an old-looking man, with no hair and
no fire in his eyes, languished behind the counter. Julian hadn't wanted to go
in, or let him know he'd returned, but Antoni Fortuny had raised his eyes and
looked at the stranger on the other side of the window. Their eyes met. Much as
Julian wanted to run away, he was paralysed. He saw tears welling up in the
hatter's eyes, saw him drag himself to the door and come out into the street,
speechless. Without uttering a word, he led his son into the shop and pulled
down the metal grille. Once the outer world had been sealed off, he embraced
him, trembling and howling with grief. Later the hatter explained that the
police had been round asking after Julian two days earlier. Someone called
Fumero - a man with a bad reputation, who had supposedly been in the pay of
General Goded's fascist thugs only a month before and was now making out he was
friends with the anarchists - had told him that Julian Carax was on his way to
Barcelona, that he'd cold-bloodedly murdered Jorge Aldaya in Paris, and that he
was sought for a number of other crimes, a catalogue that the hatter didn't
bother to listen to. Fumero trusted that, if by some remote and improbable
chance his prodigal son made an appearance, the hatter would see fit to do his
duty as a citizen and report him. Fortuny told Fumero that of course he could
count on his help, though secretly it irritated him that a snake like Fumero
should assume him to be so base. No sooner had the sinister cortege left the
shop than the hatter set off towards the cathedral chapel where he had first
met Sophie. There he prayed to his saint, begging him to guide his son back
home before it was too late. Now that Julian had arrived, he warned him of the
danger that awaited him. 'Whatever has brought you to Barcelona, son, let me do
it for you while you hide in the apartment. Your room is just as you left it
and it's yours for however long you may need it.' Julian admitted that he'd
returned to look for Penelope Aldaya. The hatter swore he would find her and
that, once they had been reunited, he would help them both to flee to a safe
place, far from Fumero, far from the past, far from everything. For days Julian
hid in the apartment in Ronda de San Antonio while the hatter combed the city
looking for some sign of Penelope. Julian spent the days in his old room,
which, as his father had promised, was unchanged, though now everything seemed
smaller, as if objects had shrunk with time. Many of his old notebooks were
still there, pencils he remembered sharpening the week he left for Paris, books
waiting to be read, the boy's clean clothes in the cupboards. The hatter told
Julian that Sophie had left him shortly after his escape, and although for
years he didn't hear from her, she wrote to him at last from Bogota, where she
had been living for some time with another man. They corresponded regularly,
'always talking about you,' the hatter admitted, 'because it's the only thing
that binds us.' When he spoke those words, it seemed to Julian that the hatter
had put off falling in love with his wife until he had already lost her. 'You
only love truly once in a lifetime, Julian, even if you aren't always aware of
it.' The hatter, who seemed to be caught in a race against time to disentangle
a whole life of misfortune, had no doubt that Penelope was that love of his
son's life. Without realizing it, he thought that if he helped Julian recover
her, perhaps he, too, would recover some part of what he had lost, that void
that weighed on his bones like a curse. Despite his determination, and much to
his despair, the hatter soon discovered that there was no trace of Penelope
Aldaya, or of her family, in the whole of Barcelona. A man of humble origins
who had had to work all his life to stay solvent, the hatter had never doubted
the staying power of money and social station, but fifteen years of ruin and
destitution had been sufficient to remove mansions, industries, the very
footprints of a dynasty from the face of the earth. When the name Aldaya was
mentioned, there were many who had heard of it but very few who remembered its
significance. The day Miquel Moliner and I went to the hat shop and asked after
Julian, the hatter was certain we were two of Fumero's henchmen. Nobody was
going to snatch his son away from him again. This time God Almighty could
descend from the heavens, the same God who had spent His whole life ignoring
the hatter's prayers, and Fortuny would gladly have pulled His eyes out if He
dared take Julian away again. The hatter was the man whom the flower vendor
remembered seeing a few days before, prowling around the Aldaya mansion. What
the flower vendor interpreted as 'pretty nasty' was only the intensity that
comes to those who, better late than never, have found a purpose in life and
are pursuing it to make up for lost time. Unfortunately, the Lord once again
disregarded the hatter's pleadings. Having crossed the threshold of despair,
the old man was still unable to find what he needed for his son's salvation,
for his own salvation: some sign of the girl. How many lost souls do You need,
Lord, to satisfy Your hunger? the hatter asked. God, in His infinite silence,
looked at him without blinking. 'I can't find her, Julian. ... I swear that—'
'Don't worry, Father. This is something I must do. You've already helped me as
much as you could.' That night Julian at last went out into the streets of
Barcelona, determined to find Penelope. As Miquel listened to his friend's
tale, it did not occur to him to be suspicious of the waiter when he went over
to the telephone and mumbled something with his back to them or, later, when he
surreptitiously kept an eye on the door, wiping glasses too thoroughly for an
establishment where dirt was otherwise so at home. It didn't occur to him that
Fumero would already have been in that cafe, and in dozens of cafes like it, a
stone's throw from the Aldaya mansion; that as soon as Carax set foot in any
one of them, the call would be placed in a matter of seconds. When the police
car stopped in front of the cafe and the waiter disappeared into the kitchen,
Miquel felt the cold and serene stillness of fate. Carax read his eyes, and
they both turned at the same time to see three grey raincoats flapping behind
the windows, three faces blowing steam onto the windowpane. None of them was
Fumero. The vultures preceded him. 'Let's leave this place, Julian. 'There's
nowhere to go,' said Carax, with an oddly calm tone of voice that made his
friend eye him carefully. It was only then that Miquel noticed the revolver in
Julian's hand. The doorbell sounded above the murmur of the radio. Miquel
snatched the gun from Carax's hands and fixed his eyes on him. 'Give me your
papers, Julian.' The three policemen pretended to sit at the bar. One of them
gave Miquel and Julian a sidelong glance. The other two felt inside their
raincoats. 'Your papers, Julian. Now.' Carax silently shook his head. 'I have
only a month left, perhaps two, with luck. One of us has to get out of here,
Julian. You have more going for you than I do. I don't know whether you'll find
Penelope. But Nuria is waiting for you.' 'Nuria is your wife.' 'Remember the
deal we made. The day I die, all that was once mine will be yours. . . .' '. .
. Except your dreams.' They smiled at one another for the last time. Julian
handed him his passport. Miquel put it next to the copy of The Shadow of the
Wind that he had been carrying in his coat pocket since the day he'd received
it. 'See you soon,' Julian whispered. 'There's no hurry. I'll be waiting.' Just
as the three policemen turned towards them, Miquel rose from the table and went
up to them. At first all they saw was a pale, tremulous man who seemed to be at
death's door as he smiled at them, blood showing on the corners of his thin,
lifeless lips. By the time they noticed the gun in his right hand, Miquel was
barely three yards away from them. One of them was about to scream, but the
first shot blew off his lower jaw. The body fell on its knees at Miquel's feet,
lifeless. The other two police officers had already drawn their weapons. The
second shot went through the stomach of the one who looked older, the bullet
snapping his backbone in two and splattering a handful of guts against the bar.
Miquel never had time to fire a third shot. The remaining policeman was already
pointing his gun at him. He felt it in his ribs, on his heart, and saw the
man's steely eyes, lit up with panic. 'Stand still, you son of a bitch, or I
swear I'll tear you apart.' Miquel smiled and slowly raised his gun towards the
policeman's face. The man couldn't have been more than twenty-five, and his
lips trembled. 'You tell Fumero, from Carax, that I remember his little sailor
suit.' He felt no pain, no fire. The impact, like a muffled blow, threw him
into the window, extinguishing the sound and colour of things. As he crashed
through the pane, he noticed an intense cold creeping down his throat and the
light receding like dust in the wind. Miquel Moliner turned his head for the
last time and saw his friend Julian running down the street. Miquel was
thirty-six years old, which was longer than he'd hoped to live. Before he
collapsed onto a pavement strewn with bloodstained glass, he was already dead.
9 That night an unidentified van arrived in response to the call from the
policeman who had killed Miquel. I never knew his name, nor do I think he realized
whom he had murdered. Like all wars, private or public, that one was like a
stage show. Two men carried off the bodies of the dead policemen and made sure
the manager of the bar understood that he must forget what had happened or
there would be trouble. Never underestimate the talent for forgetting that wars
awaken, Daniel. Miquel Moliner's corpse was abandoned in an alleyway of the
Raval quarter twelve hours later, so that his death could not be connected to
that of the two police officers. When the body finally arrived at the morgue,
it had been dead for two days. Miquel had left his own papers at home before
going out. All the employees at the morgue could find was a disfigured passport
in the name of Julian Carax, and a copy of The Shadow of the Wind. The police
concluded that the deceased man was Julian Carax. The passport still gave his
address as Fortuny's apartment in Ronda de San Antonio. By then the news had
reached Fumero, who went along to the morgue to bid farewell to Julian. There
he met the hatter, whom the police had fetched to identify the body. Senor
Fortuny, who hadn't seen Julian for two days, feared the worst. When he
recognized the body as that of the man who had knocked on his door only a week
earlier, asking after Julian (and whom he'd taken to be one of Fumero's
henchmen), he began to scream and left. The police took this response to mean
he recognized the corpse. Fumero, who had witnessed the scene, went up to the
body and inspected it silently. He hadn't seen Julian for seventeen years. When
he recognized Miquel Moliner, all he did was smile and sign the forensic report
confirming that the body in question was Julian Carax. He then ordered its
immediate removal to a common grave in Montjuic. For a long time, I wondered
why Fumero would do something like that. But that was simply Fumero's logic. By
dying with Julian's identity, Miquel had involuntarily provided Fumero with the
perfect alibi. From that moment on, Julian Carax didn't exist. There would be
no official link between Fumero and the man who, sooner or later, he hoped to
find and murder. It was wartime, and few would ask for explanations concerning
the death of someone who didn't even have a name. Julian had lost his identity.
He was a shadow. I spent two days in the apartment waiting for Miquel or
Julian, thinking I was going mad. On the third day, Monday, I went back to work
at the publishing firm. Senor Cabestany had been taken into hospital a few
weeks previously, and would not be returning to the office. His eldest son, Alvaro,
had taken over the business. I didn't say anything to anyone. There was nobody
I could turn to. That same afternoon I received a call from an employee at the
morgue, Manuel Gutierrez Fonseca. Senor Gutierrez Fonseca explained that the
body of someone called Julian Carax had been brought into the morgue. Having
compared the deceased man's passport with the name of the author of the book
that was on the body when it arrived, and suspecting, moreover, if not a breach
in the rules, a certain laxity on the part of the police, he had felt it his
moral duty to call the publishers and inform them of what had happened. As I
listened to him, I almost died. The first thing I thought was that it was a
trap set up by Fumero. Senor Gutierrez Fonseca expressed himself with the
correct tones of a conscientious public official, although there was something
else in his voice, something that even he would not have been able to explain.
I had taken the call in Cabestany's office. Thank God, Alvaro had gone out for
lunch and I was alone, otherwise it would have been difficult for me to explain
away my tears and the shaking of my hands as I held the telephone. Senor
Gutierrez Fonseca told me he had thought it appropriate to let me know what had
happened. I thanked him for his call with the false formality of all such
conversations. As soon as I put down the receiver, I closed the office door and
bit my fists so as not to scream. I washed my face and left for home
immediately, leaving a message for Alvaro to say I was unwell and would return
the following day earlier than usual, to catch up with correspondence. In the
street, I had to make an effort not to run, to walk with the anonymous grey
calm of people who have nothing to hide. When I inserted the key in the
apartment door, I realized that the lock had been forced. I froze. The doorknob
began to turn from within. I wondered whether I was going to die like this, in
a dark staircase, and without knowing what had become of Miquel. The door
opened, and I encountered the dark eyes of Julian Carax. May God forgive me,
but at that moment I felt that life was returning to me, and I thanked the
heavens for giving me back Julian instead of Miquel. We melted in a long
embrace, but when I searched for his lips, Julian moved away and lowered his
eyes. I closed the door and, taking Julian's hand, led him to the bedroom. We
lay together on the bed in silence. Evening was closing in, and the shadows of
the apartment were fringed with purple. As on every night since the start of
the war, shots could be heard in the distance. Julian was crying as he lay on
my chest, and I felt a tiredness beyond words. Later, once night had fallen,
our lips met, and in the shelter of that pressing darkness, we removed our
clothes, which smelled of fear and of death. I wanted to remember Miquel, but
the fire of those hands on my stomach stole all my shame and grief. I wanted to
lose myself in them, even though I knew that at dawn, exhausted and perhaps
overcome by contempt for ourselves, we would be unable to look each other in
the eye without wondering what sort of people we had become. 10 I was woken by
the pitter-patter of the rain at daybreak. The bed empty, the room bathed in
grey light. I found Julian sitting in front of what had been Miquel's desk,
stroking the keys of his typewriter. He looked up and gave me that lukewarm,
distant smile that said he would never be mine. I felt like spitting out the
truth to him, like hurting him. It would have been so simple. Reveal to him
that Penelope was dead. That he was living a lie. That I was now all he had in
the world. 'I should never have returned to Barcelona,' he murmured, shaking
his head. I knelt beside him. 'What you are searching for is not here, Julian.
Let's go away. The two of us. Far from here. While there is still time.' Julian
looked at me for a long moment, without blinking. 'You know something you
haven't told me, don't you?' he asked. I shook my head and swallowed. Julian
just nodded. 'Tonight I'm going back there.' 'Julian, please 'I must make sure.'
'Then I'll go with you.' 'No.' 'The last time I stayed here and waited, I lost
Miquel. If you go, I go, too.' 'This has nothing to do with you, Nuria. It's
something that concerns only me.' I wondered whether he didn't realize how much
his words hurt me, or whether he just didn't care. 'That's what you think,' I
said. He tried to stroke my cheek, but I drew his hand away. 'You should
despise me, Nuria. It would bring you better luck.' 'Yes, I know.' We spent the
day outside, far from the oppressive darkness of the apartment that still
smelled of warm sheets and skin. Julian wanted to see the sea. I went with him
to La Barceloneta, and we walked along the almost deserted beach, the
shimmering sand seeming to trail off into the summer haze. We sat on the sand,
near the shore, the way children or old people do. Julian smiled, saying
nothing. As evening fell, we took a tram near the aquarium and went up Via
Layetana to Paseo de Gracia, then onto Plaza de Lesseps and Avenida de la
Republica Argentina, until we came to the end of the route. Julian gazed
silently at the streets, as if he were afraid of losing the city as we
travelled through it. Halfway through our journey, he took my hand and kissed
it without saying a word. He held it until we got off. An elderly man who was
accompanied by a little girl dressed in white looked at us, smiling, and asked
us whether we were engaged. It was dark by the time we walked up Calle Roman
Macaya towards the Aldayas' old mansion on Avenida del Tibidabo. A fine rain
was falling, coating the thick stone walls with silver. We climbed the external
wall at the back, near the tennis courts. The large, rambling house rose into
view through the rain. I recognized it immediately. I had come across that
house in a thousand different guises in Julian's books. In The Red House, it
was a sinister mansion that was larger inside than out. It slowly changed
shape, grew new corridors, galleries, and improbable attics, endless stairs
that led nowhere; it illuminated dark rooms that came and went from one day to
the next, taking with it any unsuspecting individual who entered them, never to
be seen again. We stopped outside the main door, locked with chains and a
padlock the size of a fist. The large windows on the first floor were boarded
up with wooden planks that were covered in ivy. The air smelled of weeds and
wet earth. The stone, dark and slimy with rain, shone like the scales of a huge
reptile. I wanted to ask Julian how he intended to get past that large oak
door, which looked like the door of a basilica or a prison. Julian pulled a jar
out from his coat and unscrewed the top. A fetid vapour issued from it, forming
a slow, bluish spiral. He held one end of the padlock and poured the acid into
the lock. The metal hissed like red-hot iron, enveloped in a cloud of yellow
smoke. We waited a few minutes, and then he picked up a cobblestone that lay
among the weeds and split the padlock by banging it half a dozen times. Julian
then gave the door a kick. It opened slowly, like a tomb, exhaling a thick,
damp breath. Beyond the doorway I could sense a velvety darkness. Julian had
brought a benzine lighter, which he lit after taking a few steps into the
entrance hall. I followed him, leaving the door behind us ajar. Julian walked
on a few yards, holding the flame above his head. A carpet of dust lay at our
feet, with no footprints but ours. The naked walls took on an amber hue from
the flame. There was no furniture, no mirrors, or lamps. The doors were still
on their hinges, but the bronze doorknobs had been pulled out. The mansion was
just a skeleton. We stopped at the bottom of the staircase. Julian looked up,
his eyes scanning the heights. He turned around for a moment to look at me, and
I wanted to smile, but in the half-light we could barely see each other's eyes.
I followed him up the stairs, treading the steps on which Julian had first seen
Penelope. I knew where we were heading, and I felt a coldness inside me that
had nothing to do with the biting, damp air of that place. We went up to the
third floor, where a narrow corridor led to the south wing of the house. Here
the ceilings were much lower and the doors smaller. It was the floor for the
servants' living quarters. The last room, I knew without Julian having to tell
me, had been Jacinta Coronado's bedroom. Julian approached it slowly,
fearfully. That had been the last place he'd seen Penelope, where he had made
love to a girl barely seventeen years old, and who, months later, would bleed
to death in that same cell. I wanted to stop him, but Julian had reached the
doorway and was looking absently inside. I peered into the room with him. It
was just a cubicle stripped of all ornamentation. The marks where a bed had
once stood were still visible beneath the flood of dust that covered the
floorboards. A tangle of black stains snaked across the middle of the room.
Julian stared at the emptiness for almost a minute, disconcerted. I could see
from his look that he hardly recognized the place, that the sight of it seemed
like a cruel trick. I took his arm and led him back to the stairs. 'There's
nothing here, Julian,' I murmured. 'The family sold everything before leaving
for Argentina.' Julian nodded weakly. We walked down the stairs again, and when
we reached the ground floor, Julian made his way to the library. The shelves
were empty, the fireplace choked with rubble. The walls, a deathly pale,
flickered in the breath of the flame. Creditors and usurers had managed to
remove every last bit of it, most of which must be lost in the twisted heaps of
some junkyard by now. 'I've come back for nothing,' Julian mumbled. Better this
way, I thought. I was counting the seconds that separated us from the door. If
I managed to get him away from there, we might still have a chance. I let
Julian absorb the ruin of that place, purging his memories. 'You had to return
and see it again,' I said. 'Now you know there's nothing here. It's just a
large old, uninhabited house, Julian. Let's go home.' He looked at me,
pale-faced, and nodded. I took his hand, and we went along the passageway that
led to the exit. The chink of outdoor light was only half a dozen yards away. I
could smell the weeds and the drizzle in the air. Then I felt I was losing
Julian's hand. I stopped and turned to see him standing motionless, his eyes
staring into the darkness. 'What is it, Julian?' He didn't reply. He was
gazing, mesmerized, at the mouth of a narrow corridor that led towards the
kitchen area. I walked over to him and looked into the shadows. The door at the
end of the corridor was bricked up, a wall of red bricks laid roughly with
mortar that bled out of the corners. I couldn't quite understand what it meant,
but I felt an icy cold that took my breath away. Julian was slowly getting
closer. All the other doors in the corridor - in the whole house - were open,
their locks and doorknobs gone. All except this one. 'Julian, please, let's go.
. . .' The impact of his fist on the brick wall drew a hollow echo on the other
side. I thought I saw his hands trembling when he placed the lighter on the floor
and gestured for me to move back a few steps. 'Julian ...' The first kick
brought down a rain of red dust. Julian charged again. I thought I could hear
his bones breaking, but Julian was unperturbed. He banged against the wall
again and again, with the rage of a prisoner forcing his way out to freedom.
His fists and his arms were bleeding when the first brick broke and fell onto
the other side. In the dark, with bloodstained fingers, Julian struggled to
enlarge the gap. He panted, exhausted, possessed by a fury of which I would
never have thought him capable. One by one, he loosened the bricks and the wall
came down. Julian stopped, covered in a cold sweat, his hands flayed. He picked
up the lighter and placed it on the edge of one of the bricks. A wooden door,
carved with angel motifs, rose up on the other side. Julian stroked the wooden
reliefs, as if he were reading a hieroglyph. The door yielded to the pressure
of his hands. A glutinous darkness came at us from the other side. A little
further back, the form of a staircase could be discerned. Black stone steps
descended until they were lost in shadows. Julian turned for a moment, and I
met his eyes. I saw fear and despair in them, as if he could sense what lay
beyond. I shook my head, begging him without speaking not to go down. He turned
back, dejected, and plunged into the gloom. I looked through the brick frame
and saw him lurching down the steps. The flame flickered, now just a breath of
transparent blue. 'Julian?' All I got was silence. I could see Julian's shadow,
motionless at the bottom of the stairs. I went through the brick hole and
walked down the steps. The room was rectangular, with marble walls. It exuded
an intense, penetrating chill. The two tombstones were covered with a veil of
cobwebs that fell apart like rotten silk with the flame from the lighter. The
white marble was scored with black tears of dampness that looked like blood
dripping out of the clefts left by the engraver's chisel. They lay side by
side, like maledictions, chained together. PENELOPE ALDAYA DAVID ALDAYA
1902-1919 1919 11 I have often paused to think about that moment of silence and
tried to imagine what Julian must have felt when he discovered that the woman
he had been waiting seventeen years for was dead, their child gone with her,
and that the life he had dreamed about, the very breath of it, had never
existed. Most of us have the good or bad fortune of seeing our lives fall apart
so slowly we barely notice it. In Julian's case that certainty came to him in a
matter of seconds. For a moment I thought he was going to rush up the stairs
and flee from that accursed place, and that I would never see him again.
Perhaps it would have been better that way. I remember that the flame from the
lighter slowly went out, and I lost sight of his silhouette. My hands searched
for him in the shadows and I found him trembling, speechless. He could barely
stand, and he dragged himself into a corner. I hugged him and kissed his
forehead. He didn't move. I felt his face with my fingers, but there were no
tears. I thought that perhaps, unconsciously, he had known it all those years,
that perhaps the encounter was necessary for him to face the truth and set
himself free. We had reached the end of the road. Julian would now understand
that nothing held him in Barcelona any longer and that we could leave, go far
away. I wanted to believe that our luck was about to change and that Penelope
had finally forgiven us. I looked for the lighter on the floor and lit it
again. Julian was staring vacantly, indifferent to the blue flame. I held his
face in my hands and forced him to look at me. I found lifeless, empty eyes,
consumed by anger and loss. I felt the venom of hatred spreading slowly through
his veins, and I could read his thoughts. He hated me for having deceived him.
He hated Miquel for having wished to give him a life that now felt like an open
wound. But above all he hated the man who had caused this calamity, this trail
of death and misery: himself. He hated those filthy books to which he had
devoted his life and about which nobody cared. He hated every stolen second. He
looked at me without blinking, the way one looks at a stranger or some foreign
object. I kept shaking my head, slowly, my hands searching his hands. Suddenly
he moved away, roughly, and stood up. I tried to grab his arm, but he pushed me
against the wall. I saw him go silently up the stairs, a man I no longer knew.
Julian Carax was dead. By the time I stepped out into the garden, there was no
trace of him. I climbed the wall and jumped down onto the other side. The
desolate streets seemed to bleed in the rain. I shouted out his name, walking
down the middle of the deserted avenue. Nobody answered my call. It was almost
four in the morning when I got home. The apartment was full of smoke and the
stench of burned paper. Julian had been there. I ran to open the windows. I
found a small case on my desk with the pen I had bought for him years ago in
Paris, the fountain pen I had paid a fortune for on the pretence it once had
belonged to Victor Hugo. The smoke was oozing from the central-heating boiler.
I opened the hatch and saw that Julian had thrown copies of his novels into it.
I could just about read the titles on the leather spines; the rest had turned
to cinders. I looked on my bookshelves: all of his books were gone. Hours
later, when I went to the publishing house in the middle of the morning, Alvaro
Cabestany called me into his office. His father hardly ever came by anymore;
the doctors said his days were numbered - as was my time at the firm.
Cabestany's son informed me that a gentleman called Lain Coubert had turned up
early that morning, saying he was interested in acquiring our entire stock of
Julian Carax's novels. The publisher's son told him we had a warehouse full of them
in the Pueblo Nuevo district, but as there was such a demand for them, he
insisted on a higher price than Coubert was offering. Coubert had not taken the
bait and had marched out. Now Alvaro Cabestany wanted me to find this person
called Lain Coubert and accept his offer. I told the fool that Lain Coubert
didn't exist; he was a character in one of Carax's novels. That he wasn't in
the least interested in buying his books; he only wanted to know where we
stored them. Old Senor Cabestany was in the habit of keeping a copy of every
book published by his firm in his office library, even the works of Julian
Carax. I slipped into the room, unnoticed, and took them. That evening I
visited my father in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books and hid them where nobody,
especially Julian, would ever find them. Night had fallen when I left the
building. I wandered off down the Ramblas and from there to La Barceloneta,
where I made for the beach, looking for the spot where I had gazed at the sea
with Julian. The pyre of flames from the Pueblo Nuevo warehouse was visible in
the distance, its amber trail spilling out over the sea and spirals of smoke
rising to the sky like serpents of light. When the fire-fighters managed to
extinguish the flames shortly before daybreak, there was nothing left, just the
brick-and-metal skeleton that held up the vault. There I found Lluis Carbo, who
had been the night watchman for ten years. He stared in disbelief at the
smouldering ruins. His eyebrows and the hairs on his arm were singed, and his
skin shone like wet bronze. It was he who told me that the blaze had started
shortly after midnight and had devoured tens of thousands of books, until dawn
came and he was faced with a river of ashes. Lluis still held a handful of
books he had managed to save, some of Verdaguer's collected poems and two
volumes of the History of the French Revolution. That was all that had
survived. Various members of the union had arrived to help the fire-fighters.
One of them told me the fire-fighters found a burned body among the debris. At
first they had assumed that the man was dead, but then one of them noticed he
was still breathing, and they had taken him to the nearby Hospital del Mar. I
recognized him by his eyes. The fire had eaten away his skin, his hands, and his
hair. The flames had torn off his clothes, and his whole body was a raw wound
that oozed beneath his bandages. They had confined him to a room on his own at
the end of a corridor, with a view of the beach, and had numbed him with
morphine while they waited for him to die. I wanted to hold his hand, but one
of the nurses warned me that there was almost no flesh under the bandages. The
fire had cut away his eyelids. The nurse who found me collapsed on the floor,
crying, asked me whether I knew who he was. I said I did: he was my husband.
When a priest appeared to administer the last rites over him, I frightened him
off with my screams. Three days later Julian was still alive. The doctors said
it was a miracle, that his will to live gave him a strength no medicine could
offer. They were wrong. It was not a will to live. It was hatred. A week later,
when they saw that this death-bitten body refused to expire, he was officially
admitted under the name of Miquel Moliner. He would remain there for eleven
months. Always in silence, with burning eyes, without rest. I went to the
hospital every day. Soon the nurses began to treat me less formally and invited
me to lunch with them in their hall. They were all women who were on their own,
strong women waiting for their men to return from the front. Some did. They
taught me how to clean Julian's wounds, how to change his bandages, how to
change the sheets and make a bed with an inert body lying on it. They also
taught me to lose all hope of ever seeing the man who had once been held by
those bones. Three months later we removed his face bandages. Julian was a
skull. He had no lips or cheeks. It was a featureless face, the charred remains
of a doll. His eye sockets had become larger and now dominated his face. The
nurses would not admit it to me, but they were revolted by his appearance,
almost afraid. The doctors had told me that, as the wounds healed, a sort of
purplish, reptile like skin would slowly form. Nobody dared to comment on his
mental state. Everyone assumed that Julian - Miquel - had lost his mind in the
blaze, and that he had survived thanks to the obsessive care of a wife who
stood firm where so many others would have fled in terror. I looked into his
eyes and knew that Julian was still in there, alive, tormenting himself,
waiting. He had lost his lips, but the doctors thought that the vocal cords had
not suffered permanent damage and that the burns on his tongue and larynx had
healed months earlier. They assumed that Julian didn't say anything because his
mind was gone. One afternoon, six months after the fire, when he and I were
alone in the room, I bent over him and kissed him on the brow. . 'I love you,'
I said. A bitter, harsh sound emerged from the doglike grimace that was now his
mouth. His eyes were red with tears. I wanted to dry them with a handkerchief,
but he repeated that sound. 'Leave me,' he said. 'Leave me.' Two months after
the warehouse fire, the publishing firm had gone bankrupt. Old Cabestany, who
died that year, had predicted that his son would manage to ruin the company
within six months. An unrepentant optimist to the last. I tried to find work
with another publisher, but the war did away with everything. They all said
that hostilities would soon cease and things would improve. But there were
still two years of war ahead, and worse was yet to come. One year after the
fire, the doctors told me that they had done all that could be done in a
hospital. The situation was difficult, and they needed the room. They
recommended that Julian be taken to a sanatorium like the Hospice of Santa
Lucia, but I refused. In October 1937 I took him home. He hadn't uttered a
single word since that 'Leave me'. Every day I told him that I loved him. I set
him up in the armchair by the window, wrapped in blankets. I fed him with fruit
juices, toast, and milk - when there was any to be found. Every day I read to
him for a couple of hours. Balzac, Zola, Dickens . .. His body was beginning to
fill out and soon after returning home, he began to move his hands and arms. He
tilted his neck. Sometimes, when I got back, I found the blankets on the floor,
and objects that had been knocked over. One day I found him crawling on the
floor. Then, a year and a half after the fire, I woke up in the middle of a
stormy night and found that someone was sitting on the bed stroking my hair. I
smiled at him, hiding my tears. He had managed to find one of my mirrors,
although I'd hidden them all. In a broken voice, he told me he'd been
transformed into one of his fictional monsters, into Lain Coubert. I wanted to
kiss him, to show him that his appearance didn't disgust me, but he wouldn't
let me. He would hardly allow me to touch him. Day by day he was getting his
strength back. He would prowl around the house while I went out in search of something
to eat. The savings Miquel had left me kept us afloat, but soon I had to begin
selling jewellery and old possessions. When there was no other alternative, I
took the Victor Hugo pen I had bought in Paris and went out to sell it to the
highest bidder. I found a shop behind the Military Government buildings where
they took in that sort of merchandise. The manager did not seem impressed by my
solemn oath that the pen had belonged to Victor Hugo, but he admitted it was a
marvellous piece of its kind and agreed to pay me as much as he could, bearing
in mind these were times of great hardship. When I told Julian that I'd sold
it, I was afraid he would fly into a rage. All he said was that I'd done the
right thing, that he'd never deserved it. One day, one of the many when I'd
gone out to look for work, I returned to find that Julian wasn't there. He
didn't come back until daybreak. When I asked him where he'd been, he just
emptied the pockets of his coat (which had belonged to Miquel) and left a
fistful of money on the table. From then on he began to go out almost every
night. In the dark, concealed under a hat and scarf, with gloves and a
raincoat, he was just one more shadow. He never told me where he went, and he
almost always brought back money or jewellery. He slept in the mornings,
sitting upright in his armchair, with his eyes open. Once I found a penknife in
one of his pockets. It was a double-edged knife, with an automatic spring. The
blade was marked with dark stains. It was then that I began to hear stories in
town about some individual who was going around at night, smashing bookshop
windows and burning books. Other times the strange vandal would slip into a
library or a collector's study. He always took two or three volumes, which he
would then burn. In February 1938 I went to a secondhand bookshop to ask
whether it was possible to find any books by Julian Carax on the market. The
manager said it wasn't: someone had been making them disappear. He had owned a
couple himself and had sold them to a very strange person, a man who hid his
face and whose voice he could barely understand. 'Until recently there were a
few copies left in private collections, here and in France, but a lot of
collectors are beginning to get rid of them. They're frightened,' he said, 'and
I don't blame them.' More and more, Julian would vanish for whole days at a
time. Soon his absences lasted a week. He always left and returned at night,
and he always brought back money. He never gave any explanations, or if he did,
they were meaningless. He told me he'd been in France: Paris, Lyons, Nice.
Occasionally letters arrived from France addressed to Lain Coubert. They were
always from secondhand booksellers, or from collectors. Someone had located a
lost copy of Julian Carax's works. Like a wolf, he would disappear for a few
days, then return. It was during one of those absences that I came across
Fortuny, the hatter, wandering about in the cathedral cloister, lost in his
thoughts. He still remembered me from the day I'd gone with Miquel to inquire
after Julian, two years before. He took me to a corner and told me
confidentially that he knew that Julian was alive, somewhere, but he suspected
that his son wasn't able to get in touch with us for some reason he couldn't
quite figure out. 'Something to do with that cruel man Fumero.' I told him that
I felt the same. Wartime was turning out to be very profitable for Fumero. His
loyalties shifted from month to month, from the anarchists to the communists,
and from them to whoever came his way. He was called a spy, a henchman, a hero,
a murderer, a conspirator, a schemer, a saviour, a devil. Little did it matter.
They all feared him. They all wanted him on their side. Perhaps because he was
so busy with the intrigues of wartime Barcelona, Fumero seemed to have
forgotten Julian. Probably, like the hatter, he imagined that Julian had
already escaped and was out of his reach. Senor Fortuny asked me whether I was
an old friend of his son's, and I said I was. He asked me to tell him about
Julian, about the man he'd become, because, he sadly admitted, he didn't really
know him. 'Life separated us, you know?' He told me he'd been to all the
bookshops in Barcelona in search of Julian's novels, but they were
unobtainable. Someone had told him that a madman was looking for them in every
corner of the city and then burning them. Fortuny was convinced that the
culprit was Fumero. I didn't contradict him. Whether through pity or spite, I
lied as best I could. I told him I thought that Julian had returned to Paris,
that he was well, that I knew for a fact he was very fond of Fortuny the
hatter, that he would come back to see him as soon as circumstances permitted.
'It's this war,' he complained, 'it just rots everything.' Before we said
goodbye, he insisted on giving me his address and that of his ex-wife, Sophie,
with whom he was back in touch after many years of 'misunderstandings'. Sophie
now lived in Bogota with a prestigious doctor, he said. She ran her own music
school and often wrote asking after Julian. 'It's the only thing that brings us
together now, you see. Memories. We make so many mistakes in life, young lady,
but we only realize this when old age creeps up on us. Tell me, are you
religious?' I took my leave, promising to keep him and Sophie informed if I
ever had any news from Julian. 'Nothing would make his mother happier than to
hear how he is. You women listen more to your heart and less to all the
nonsense,' the hatter concluded sadly. 'That's why you live longer.' Despite
the fact that I'd heard so many appalling stories about him, I couldn't help
feeling sorry for the poor old man. He had little else to do in life but wait
for the return of his son. He seemed to live in the hope of recovering lost
time, through some miracle of the saints, whom he visited with great devotion
at their chapels in the cathedral. I had become used to picturing him as an
ogre, a despicable and resentful human being, but all I could see before me was
a kind man, blind to reality, confused like everybody else. Perhaps because he
reminded me of my own father, who hid from everyone, including himself, in that
refuge of books and shadows, or because the hatter and I were also linked by
the hope of recovering Julian, I felt a growing affection for him and became
his only friend. Unbeknownst to Julian, I often called on him at the apartment
in Ronda de San Antonio. The hatter no longer worked in his shop downstairs. 'I
don't have the hands, or the sight, or the customers . . .' he would say. He
waited for me almost every Thursday and offered me coffee, biscuits, and
pastries that he scarcely touched. He spent hours reminiscing about Julian's
childhood, about how they worked together in the hat shop, and he would show me
photographs. He would take me to Julian's room, which he kept as immaculate as
a museum, and bring out old notebooks and everyday objects without ever
realizing that he'd already shown them to me before, that he'd told me all
those stories on a previous visit. He seemed to be reconstructing a past that
had never existed. One of those Thursdays, as I walked up the stairs, I ran
into a doctor who had just been to see Fortuny. I asked him how the hatter was,
and he looked at me strangely. 'Are you a relative?' I told him I was the
closest the poor man had to one. The doctor then told me that Fortuny was very
ill, that it was just a matter of months. 'What's wrong with him?' 'I could
tell you it's his heart, but what is really killing him is loneliness. Memories
are worse than bullets.' The hatter was pleased to see me and confessed that he
didn't trust that doctor. Doctors are just second-rate witches, he said. All
his life the hatter had been a man of profound religious beliefs, and old age
had only reinforced them. He saw the hand of the devil everywhere. The devil, he
said, clouds the mind and destroys mankind. 'Just look at this war, or look at
me. Of course, I'm old now and weak, but as a young man I was rotten, a
coward.' It was the devil who had taken Julian away from him, he added. 'God
gives us life, but the world's landlord is the devil. . . .' And so we passed
the afternoon, nibbling on stale sponge fingers and discussing theology. I once
told Julian that if he wanted to see his father again before he died, he'd
better hurry up. It turned out that he, too, had been visiting the hatter,
without his knowing: from afar, at dusk, sitting at the other end of a square,
watching him grow old. Julian said he would rather the old man took with him
the image of the son he had created in his mind during those years than the person
he had become. 'You keep that one for me,' I said, instantly regretting my
words. He didn't reply, but for a moment it seemed as if he could think clearly
again and was fully aware of the hell into which we had descended. The doctor's
prognosis did not take long to come true. Senor Fortuny didn't live to see the
end of the war. He was found sitting in his armchair, looking at old
photographs of Sophie and Julian. The last days of the war were the prelude to
an inferno. The city had lived through the combat from afar, like a wound that
throbs dully, with months of skirmishes and battles, bombardments and hunger.
The spectacle of murders, fights, and conspiracies had been corroding the
city's heart for years, but even so, many wanted to believe that the war was
still something distant, a storm that would pass them by. If anything, the wait
made the inevitable even worse. When the storm broke, there was no compassion.
Nothing feeds forgetfulness better than war, Daniel. We all remain silent and
they try to convince us that what we've seen, what we've done, what we've
learned about ourselves and about others, is an illusion, a nightmare that will
pass. Wars have no memory, and nobody has the courage to understand them until
there are no voices left to tell what really happened, until the moment comes
when we no longer recognize them and they return, with another face and another
name, to devour everything they left behind. By then Julian hardly had any
books left to burn. His father's death, about which we never spoke, had turned
him into an invalid. The anger and hatred that had at first possessed him were
spent. We lived on rumours, secluded. We heard that Fumero had betrayed all the
people who had helped him advance during the war and was now in the service of
the victors. It was said that he was personally executing his main allies in
the cells of Montjuic Castle - his preferred method a pistol shot to the mouth.
The heavy mantle of collective forgetfulness seemed to descend around us the
day the weapons went quiet. In those days I learned that nothing is more
frightening than a hero who has lived to tell his story, to tell what all those
who fell at his side will never be able to tell. The weeks that followed the
fall of Barcelona were indescribable. More blood was shed during those days
than during the combat, but secretly, stealthily. When peace finally came, it
was the sort of peace that haunts prisons and cemeteries, a shroud of silence
and shame that rots the soul. There were no guiltless hands or innocent looks.
Those of us who were there, all without exception, will take the secret with us
to the grave. A faint patina of normality was being restored, but by now Julian
and I were living in abject poverty. We had spent all the savings and the booty
from Lain Coubert's nightly escapades, and there was nothing left in the house
to sell. I looked desperately for work as a translator, typist, or cleaner, but
it seemed that my past association with Cabestany had marked me out as
undesirable. People were suspicious. A government employee in a shiny new suit,
with brilliantined hair and a pencil moustache - one of the hundreds who seemed
to crawl out of the woodwork during those months - hinted that an attractive
girl like me shouldn't have to resort to such mundane jobs. Our neighbours
accepted my story that I was taking care of my poor husband, Miquel, who had
become an invalid and was disfigured as a result of the war. They would bring
us offerings of milk, cheese, or bread, sometimes even salted fish or sausages
that had been sent to them by relatives in the country. After months of
hardship, convinced that it would take a long time to find a job, I decided on
a strategy borrowed from one of Julian's novels. I wrote to Julian's mother in
Bogota, adopting the name of a fictitious new lawyer whom the deceased Senor
Fortuny had consulted in his last days, when he was trying to put his affairs
in order. I informed her that, as the hatter had died without having made a
will, his estate, which included the apartment in Ronda de San Antonio and the
shop situated in the same building, was now theoretically the property of her
son Julian who, it was believed, was living in exile in France. Since the death
duties had not been satisfied, and since she lived abroad, the lawyer (whom I
christened Jose Maria Requejo in memory of the first boy who had kissed me in
school) asked her for authorization to start the necessary proceedings and
carry out the transfer of the properties to the name of her son, whom he
intended to contact through the Spanish embassy in Paris. In the meantime he
was assuming the transitory and temporary ownership of the said properties, as
well as a certain level of financial compensation. He also asked her to get in
touch with the manager of the building and instruct him to send all the
documents, together with payment for the property expenses, to Senor Requejo's
office, in whose name I opened a PO box with a fake address - that of an old,
disused garage two blocks away from the ruins of the Aldaya mansion. I was
hoping that, blinded by the possibility of being able to help Julian and
getting back in contact with him, Sophie would not stop to question all that
legal gibberish and would agree to help us, especially in view of her
prosperous situation in far-off Colombia. A couple of months later, the manager
of the building began to receive a monthly money order to cover the expenses of
the apartment in Ronda de San Antonio and the fees of Jose Maria Requejo's law
firm, which he proceeded to send as an open cheque to PO Box 2321 in Barcelona,
just as Sophie Carax had requested him to do. The manager, I noticed, retained
an unauthorized percentage every month, but I preferred not to say anything.
That way he wetted his beak and did not question such a convenient arrangement.
With the money that remained, Julian and I had enough to survive. Terrible,
bleak years went by, during which I managed to find occasional work as a
translator. By then nobody remembered Cabestany, and people began to forgive
and forget, putting aside old rivalries and grievances. But I lived under the
perpetual threat that Fumero might decide to begin rummaging in the past again.
Sometimes I convinced myself that it wouldn't happen, that he must have given
Julian up for dead by now or forgotten him. Fumero wasn't the thug he was years
ago. Now he had graduated into a public figure, an ambitious member of the
fascist regime, who couldn't afford the luxury of hunting Julian Carax's ghost.
Other times I woke up in the middle of the night with my heart pounding,
covered in sweat, thinking that the police were hammering on my door. I feared
that some of the neighbours might begin to be suspicious of that ailing husband
of mine who never left the house -who sometimes cried or banged the walls like a
madman - and that they might report us to the police. I was afraid that Julian
might escape again, that he might decide to go out hunting for his books once
more. Distracted by so much fear, I forgot that I was growing old, that life
was passing me by, and that I had sacrificed my youth to love a man who was now
almost a phantom. But the years went by in peace. Time goes faster the more
hollow it is. Lives with no meaning go straight past you, like trains that
don't stop at your station. Meanwhile, the scars from the war were, of
necessity, healing. I found some work in a couple of publishing firms and spent
most of the day out of the house. I had lovers with no name, desperate faces I
came across in cinemas or in the metro, with whom I would share my loneliness.
Then, absurdly, I'd be consumed by guilt, and when I saw Julian again, I always
felt like crying and would swear to myself that I would never betray him again,
as if I owed him something. On buses or in the street, I caught myself looking
at women who were younger than me holding small children by the hand. They
seemed happy, or at peace, as if those helpless little beings could fill all
the emptiness in the world. Then I would remember the days when, fantasizing, I
had imagined myself as one of those women, with a child in my arms, Julian's
child. And then I would think about the war and about the fact that those who
waged it had also been children once. I had started to believe that the world
had forgotten us when someone turned up one day at our house. He looked young,
barely a boy, a novice who blushed when he looked me in the eye. He asked after
Miquel Moliner, and said he was updating some file at the School of Journalism.
He told me that Senor Moliner might be the beneficiary of a monthly pension,
but if he were to apply for it, he would first have to update a number of
details. I told him that Senor Moliner hadn't been living there since the start
of the war, that he'd gone abroad. He said he was very sorry and went away
leering. He had the face of a young informer, and I knew that I had to get
Julian out of my apartment that night, without fail. By now he had almost
shrivelled up completely. He was as docile as a child, and his whole life
revolved around the evenings we spent together, listening to music on the
radio, as he held my hand and stroked it in silence. When night fell, I took
the keys of the apartment in Ronda de San Antonio, which the manager of the
building had sent to a nonexistent Senor Requejo, and accompanied Julian back
to the home where he had grown up. I set him up in his room and promised him
I'd return the following day, reminding him to be very careful. 'Fumero is
looking for you again,' I said. He made a vague gesture with his head, as if he
couldn't remember who Fumero was, or no longer cared. Several weeks passed in
that way. I always went to the apartment at night, after midnight. I asked
Julian what he'd done during the day, and he looked at me, without
understanding. We would spend the night together, holding each other, and I
would leave at daybreak, promising to return as soon as I could. When I left, I
always locked the door of the apartment. Julian didn't have a copy of the key.
I preferred to keep him there like a prisoner rather than risk his life. Nobody
else came round to ask after Miquel, but I made sure the rumour got about in
the neighbourhood that my husband was in France. I wrote a couple of letters to
the Spanish consulate in Paris saying that I knew that the Spanish citizen
Julian Carax was in the city and asking for their assistance in finding him. I
imagined that sooner or later the letters would reach the right hands. I took
all the precautions, but I knew it was only a question of time. People like
Fumero never stop hating. The apartment in Ronda de San Antonio was on the top
floor. I discovered that there was a door to the roof terrace at the top of the
staircase. The roof terraces of the whole block formed a network of enclosures
separated from one another by walls just a yard high, where residents went to
hang out their laundry. It didn't take me long to locate a building at the
other end of the block, with its front door on Calle Joaquin Costa, to whose
roof terrace I could gain access and therefore reach the Ronda de San Antonio
building without anyone seeing me go in or come out of the property. I once got
a letter from the building manager telling me that neighbours had heard sounds
coming from the Fortuny apartment. I answered in Requejo's name stating that
occasionally a member of the firm had gone to the apartment to look for papers
or documents and there was no cause for alarm, even if the sounds were heard at
night. I added a comment implying that among gentlemen - accountants and
lawyers - a secret bachelor pad was no small treasure. The manager, showing
professional understanding, answered that I need not worry in the least, that
he completely understood the situation. During those years, playing the role of
Senor Requejo was my only source of entertainment. Once a month I went to visit
my father at the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. He never showed any interest in
meeting my invisible husband, and I never offered to introduce him. We would
skirt around the subject in our conversations like expert mariners dodging
reefs near the water's surface. Occasionally he asked me whether I needed any
help, whether there was anything he could do. On Saturdays, at dawn, I
sometimes took Julian to look at the sea. We would go up to the roof, cross
over to the adjoining building and then step out into Calle Joaquin Costa. From
there we made our way down towards the port through the narrow streets of the
Raval quarter. We never encountered anyone. People were afraid of Julian, even
from a distance. At times we went as far as the breakwater. Julian liked to sit
on the rocks, facing the city. We could spend hours like that, hardly speaking.
Some afternoons we'd slip into a cinema, when the show had already started. In
the dark nobody noticed Julian. As the months went by, I learned to confuse
routine with normality and in time I came to believe that my arrangement was
perfect. What a fool I was. 12 Nineteen forty-five, a year of ashes. Only six
years had elapsed since the end of the Civil War, and although its bruises were
still being felt, almost nobody spoke about it openly. Now people talked about
the other war, the world war, that had polluted the entire globe with a stench
of corpses that would never go away. Those were years of want and misery,
strangely blessed by the sort of peace that the dumb and the disabled inspire
in us - halfway between pity and revulsion. At last, after years of searching
in vain for work as a translator, I found a job as a copy-editor in a
publishing house run by a businessman of the new breed - Pedro Sanmarti.
Sanmarti had built his company with the fortune belonging to his father-in-law,
who had then been promptly dispatched to a nursing home on the shores of Lake
Banolas while Sanmarti awaited a letter containing his death certificate. The
businessman liked to court young ladies half his age by presenting himself as
the self-made man, an image much in vogue at the time. He spoke broken English
with a thick accent, convinced that it was the language of the future, and he
finished his sentences with 'Okay'. Sanmarti's firm (which he had named
Endymion because he thought it sounded impressive and was likely to sell books)
published catechisms, manuals on etiquette, and various series of moralizing
novels whose protagonists were either young nuns involved in humorous capers,
Red Cross workers, or civil servants who were happy and morally sound. We also
published a comic-book series about soldiers called Brave Commando - a roaring
success among young boys in need of heroes. I made a good friend in the firm,
Sanmarti's secretary, a war widow called Mercedes Pietro, with whom I soon felt
a great affinity. Mercedes and I had a lot in common: we were two women adrift,
surrounded by men who were either dead or hiding from the world. Mercedes had a
seven-year-old son who suffered from muscular dystrophy, whom she cared for as
best she could. She was only thirty-two, but the lines on her face spoke of a
life of hardship. All those years Mercedes was the only person to whom I felt
tempted to tell everything. It was she who told me that Sanmarti was a great
friend of the increasingly renowned and decorated Inspector Javier Fumero. They
both belonged to a clique of individuals that had risen from the ruins of the
war to spread its tentacles throughout the city, a new power elite. One day
Fumero turned up at the publishing firm. He was coming to visit his friend
Sanmarti, with whom he'd arranged to have lunch. Under some pretext or other, I
hid in filing room until they had both left. When I returned to my desk,
Mercedes threw me a look; nothing needed to be said. From then on, every time
Fumero made an appearance in the offices of the publisher, she would warn me so
that I could hide. Not a day passed without Sanmarti trying to take me out to
dinner, to the theatre or the cinema, using any excuse. I always replied that
my husband was waiting for me at home and that surely his wife must be anxious,
as it was getting late. Senora Sanmarti fell well below the Bugatti on the list
of her husband's favourite items. Indeed, she was close to losing her role in
the marriage charade altogether, now that her father's fortune had passed into
Sanmarti's hands. Mercedes had already warned me: Sanmarti, whose powers of
concentration were limited, hankered after young, undisclosed flesh and
concentrated his inane womanizing on any new arrivals - which, at the moment,
meant me. He would resort to all manner of ploys: 'They tell me your husband,
this Senor Moliner, is a writer. . . . Perhaps he would be interested in
writing a book about my friend Fumero. I have the title: Fumero, the Scourge of
Crime. What do you think, Nurieta?' 'I'm very grateful, Senor Sanmarti, but
Miquel is busy writing a novel at the moment, and I don't think he would be
able to.' Sanmarti would burst out laughing. 'A novel? Goodness, Nurieta . . .
the novel is dead and buried. A friend of mine from New York was telling me
only the other day. Americans are inventing something called television which
will be like the cinema, only in your own home. There'll be no more need for
books, or churches, or anything. Tell your husband to forget about novels. If
at least he were well known, if he were a football player or a bullfighter .. .
Look, how about getting into the Bugatti and going to eat a paella in
Castelldefels so we can discuss all this? Come on, woman, you've got to make an
effort. . . You know I'd like to help you. And your nice husband, too. You know
only too well that in this country, without the right kind of friends, there's
no getting anywhere.' I began to dress like a pious widow or one of those women
who seem to confuse sunlight with mortal sin. I went to work with my hair drawn
back into a bun and no makeup. Despite my tactics, Sanmarti continued to shower
me with lascivious remarks accompanied by his oily, putrid smile. It was a
smile full of disdain, typical of those self-important imbeciles who hang like
stuffed sausages from the top of all corporate ladders. I had two or three
interviews for prospective jobs elsewhere, but sooner or later I would always
come up against another version of Sanmarti. His type grew like a plague of
fungi, thriving on the dung on which companies are built. One of them took the
trouble to phone Sanmarti and tell him that Nuria Monfort was looking for work
behind his back. Sanmarti summoned me to his office, wounded by my ingratitude.
He put his hand on my cheek and tried to stroke it. His fingers smelled of
tobacco and stale sweat. I went deathly pale. 'Come on, if you're not happy,
all you have to do is tell me. What can I do to improve your work conditions?
You know how much I appreciate you, and it hurts me to hear that you want to
leave us. How about going out to dinner, you and me, to make up?' I removed his
hand from my face, unable to go on hiding the repugnance it caused me. 'You
disappoint me, Nuria. I have to admit that you don't seem to be a team player,
that you don't appear to believe in this company's business objectives
anymore.' Mercedes had already warned me that sooner or later something like
this would happen. A few days afterwards, Sanmarti, whose grammar was no better
than an ape's, started returning all the manuscripts that I corrected, alleging
that they were full of errors. Practically every day I stayed on in the office
until ten or eleven at night, endlessly redoing pages and pages with Sanmarti's
crossings-out and comments. 'Too many verbs in the past tense. It sounds dead,
lifeless. . . . The infinitive should not be used after a semicolon. Everyone
knows that.' Some nights Sanmarti would also stay late, secluded in his study.
Mercedes tried to be there, but more than once he sent her home. Then, when we
were left alone, he would come out of his office and wander over to my desk.
'You work too hard, Nuria. Work isn't everything. You need to enjoy yourself
too. And you're still young. But youth passes, you know, and we don't always
know how to make the most of it.' He would sit on the edge of my table and
stare at me. Sometimes he would stand behind me and remain there a couple of
minutes. I could feel his foul breath on my hair. Other times he placed his
hands on my shoulders. 'You're tense. Relax.' I trembled, I wanted to scream or
run away and never return to that office, but I needed the job and its miserly
pay. One night Sanmarti started on his routine massage and then he began to
fondle me. 'One of these days you're going to make me lose my head,' he moaned.
I leaped up, breaking free from his grasp, and ran towards the exit, grabbing
my coat and bag. Behind me, Sanmarti laughed. At the bottom of the staircase, I
ran straight into a dark figure. 'What a pleasant surprise, Senora Moliner
Inspector Fumero gave me one of his snakelike smiles. 'Don't tell me you're
working for my good friend Sanmarti! Lucky girl He's at the top of his game,
just like me. So tell me, how's your husband?' I knew that my time was up. The
following day, a rumour spread round the office that Nuria Monfort was a dyke -
since she remained immune to Don Pedro Sanmartfs charms and his garlic breath -
and that she was involved with Mercedes Pietro. More than one promising young
man in the company swore that on a number of occasions he had seen that 'couple
of sluts' kissing in the filing room. That afternoon, on her way out, Mercedes
asked me whether she could have a quick word with me. She could barely bring
herself to look at me. We went to the corner cafe without exchanging a single
word. There Mercedes told me what Sanmarti had told her: that he didn't approve
of our friendship, that the police had supplied him with a report on me,
detailing my suspected communist past. 'I can't afford to lose this job, Nuria.
I need it to take care of my son.' She broke down crying, burning with shame
and humiliation. 'Don't worry, Mercedes. I understand,' I said. 'This man,
Fumero, he's after you, Nuria. I don't know what he has against you, but it
shows in his face.' 'I know.' The following Monday, when I arrived at work, I
found a skinny man with greased-back hair sitting at my desk. He introduced
himself as Salvador Benades, the new copy-editor. 'And who are you?' Not a
single person in the office dared look at me or speak to me while I collected
my things. On my way down the stairs, Mercedes ran after me and handed me an
envelope with a wad of banknotes and some coins. 'Nearly everyone has
contributed whatever they could. Take it, please. Not for your sake, for ours.'
That night I went to the apartment in Ronda de San Antonio. Julian was waiting
for me as usual, sitting in the dark. He'd written a poem for me, he said. It
was the first thing he'd written in nine years. I wanted to read it, but I
broke down in his arms. I told him everything, because I couldn't hold back any
longer. Julian listened to me without speaking, holding me and stroking my
hair. It was the first time in years that I felt I could lean on him. I wanted
to kiss him because I was sick with loneliness, but Julian had no lips or skin
to offer me. I fell asleep in his arms, curled up on the bed in his room, a
child's bunk. When I woke up, Julian wasn't there. At dawn I heard his
footsteps on the roof terrace and pretended I was still asleep. Later that
morning I heard the news on the radio without realizing its significance. A
body had been found sitting on a bench on Pasco del Borne. The dead man had his
hands crossed over his lap and was staring at the basilica of Santa Maria del
Mar. A flock of pigeons pecking at his eyes caught the attention of a local
resident, who alerted the police. The corpse had had its neck broken. Senora
Sanmarti identified it as her husband, Pedro Sanmarti Monegal. When the
father-in-law of the deceased heard the news in his Banolas nursing home, he
gave thanks to heaven and told himself he could now die in peace. 13 Julian
once wrote that coincidences are the scars of fate. There are no coincidences,
Daniel. We are puppets of our subconscious desires. For years I had wanted to
believe that Julian was still the man I had fallen in love with, or what was
left of him. I had wanted to believe that we could manage to keep going with
sporadic bursts of misery and hope. I had wanted to believe that Lain Coubert
had died and returned to the pages of a book. We are willing to believe
anything other than the truth. Sanmarti's murder opened my eyes. I realized
that Lain Coubert was still alive, residing within Julian's burned body and
feeding on his memory. He had found out how to get in and out of the apartment
in Ronda de San Antonio through a window that gave onto the inner courtyard,
without having to force open the door I locked every time I left him there. I
discovered that Lain Coubert had been roaming through the city and visiting the
old Aldaya mansion. I discovered that in his madness he had returned to the
crypt and had broken the tombstones, that he had taken out the coffins of
Penelope and his son. What have you done, Julian? The police were waiting for
me when I returned home, to interrogate me about the death of Sanmarti, the
publisher. They took me to their headquarters where, after five hours of
waiting in a dark office, Fumero arrived, dressed in black, and offered me a
cigarette. 'You and I could be friends, Senora Moliner. My men tell me your
husband isn't home.' 'My husband left me. I don't know where he is.' He knocked
me off the chair with a brutal slap in the face. I crawled into a corner,
seized by fear. I didn't dare look up. Fumero knelt beside me and grabbed me by
my hair. 'Try to understand this, you fucking whore: I'm going to find him, and
when I do, I'll kill you both. You first, so he can see you with your guts
hanging out. And then him, once I've told him that the other tart he sent to
the grave was his sister.' 'He'll kill you first, you son of a bitch.' Fumero
spat in my face and let me go. I thought he was going to beat me up, but then I
heard his steps as he walked away down the corridor. I rose to my feet,
trembling, and wiped the blood off my face. I could smell that man's hand on my
skin, but this time I recognized the stench of fear. They kept me in that room,
in the dark and with no water, for six hours. Night had fallen when they let me
out. It was raining hard and the streets shimmered with steam. When I got home,
I found a sea of debris. Fumero's men had been there. Among the fallen
furniture and the drawers and bookshelves thrown on the floor, I found my
clothes all torn to shreds and Miquel's books destroyed. On my bed I found a
pile of faeces and on the wall, written in excrement, I read the word WHORE. I
ran to the apartment in Ronda de San Antonio, making a thousand detours to
ensure that none of Fumero's henchmen had followed me to the door in Calle
Joaquin Costa. I crossed the roof terraces - they were flooded with the rain -
and saw that the front door of the apartment was still locked. I went in
cautiously, but the echo of my footsteps told me it was empty. Julian was not
there. I waited for him, sitting in the dark dining room, listening to the
storm, until dawn. When the morning mist licked the balcony shutters, I went up
to the roof terrace and gazed at the city, crushed under a leaden sky. I knew
that Julian would not return there. I had lost him forever. I saw him again two
months later. I had gone into a cinema at night, alone, feeling incapable of
returning to my cold, empty apartment. Halfway through the film, some stupid
romance between a Romanian princess eager for adventure and a handsome American
reporter with perfect hair, a man sat down next to me. It wasn't the first
time. In those days cinemas were crawling with anonymous men who reeked of
loneliness, urine, and eau de cologne, wielding their sweaty, trembling hands
like tongues of dead flesh. I was about to get up and warn the usher when I
recognized Julian's wrinkled profile. He gripped my hand tightly, and we
remained like that, looking at the screen without seeing it. 'Did you kill
Sanmarti?' I murmured. 'Does anyone miss him?' We spoke in whispers, under the
attentive gaze of the solitary men who were dotted around the stalls, green
with envy at the apparent success of their shadowy rival. I asked him where
he'd been hiding, but he didn't reply. 'There's another copy of The Shadow of
the Wind,' he murmured. 'Here, in Barcelona.' 'You're wrong, Julian. You
destroyed them all.' 'All but one. It seems that someone more clever than I hid
it in a place where I would never be able to find it. You.' That's how I first
came to hear about you. Some bigmouthed bookseller called Gustavo Barcelo had
been boasting to a group of collectors about having located a copy of The
Shadow of the Wind. The world of rare books is like an echo chamber. In less
than two months, Barcelo was receiving offers for the book from collectors in
London, Paris, and Rome. Julian's mysterious flight from Paris after a bloody
duel and his rumoured death in the Spanish Civil War had conferred on his works
an undreamed-of market value. The black legend of a faceless individual who
searched for them in every bookshop, library, and private collection and then
burned them only added to the interest and the price. 'We have the circus in
our blood,' Barcelo would say. Julian, who continued to pursue the shadow of
his own words, soon picked up the rumour. This is how he learned that Gustavo
Barcelo didn't have the book: apparently the copy belonged to a boy who had
discovered it by chance and who, fascinated by the novel and its mysterious
author, refused to sell it and guarded it as his most precious possession. That
boy was you, Daniel. 'For heaven's sake, Julian, don't tell me you're going to
harm a child ...' I whispered, not quite sure of his intentions. Julian then
told me that all the books he'd stolen and destroyed had been snatched from
people who felt nothing for them, from people who just did business with them
or kept them as curiosities. Because you refused to sell the book at any price
and tried to rescue Carax from the recesses of the past, you awoke a strange
sympathy in him, and even respect. Unbeknownst to you, Julian observed you and
studied you. 'Perhaps, if he ever discovers who I am and what I am, he, too,
will decide to burn the book.' Julian spoke with the clear, unequivocal
lucidity of madmen who have escaped the hypocrisy of having to abide by a
reality that makes no sense. 'Who is this boy?' 'His name is Daniel. He's the
son of a bookseller whose shop Miquel used to frequent in Calle Santa Ana. He
lives with his father in an apartment above the shop. He lost his mother when
he was very young.' 'You sound as if you were speaking about yourself.'
'Perhaps. This boy reminds me of myself.' 'Leave him alone, Julian. He's only a
child. His only crime has been to admire you.' 'That's not a crime, it's a
misconception. But he'll get over it. Perhaps then he'll return the book to me.
When he stops admiring me and begins to understand me.' A minute before the end
of the film, Julian stood up and left. For months we saw each other like that,
in the dark, in cinemas or alleyways, at midnight. Julian always found me. I
felt his silent presence without seeing him and was always vigilant. Sometimes
he mentioned you. Every time I heard him talk about you, I sensed a rare
tenderness in his voice that confused him, a tenderness that, for years now, I
had thought lost. I found out that he'd returned to the Aldaya mansion and that
he now lived there, halfway between a ghost and a beggar, watching over
Penelope's remains and those of their son. It was the only place that he still
felt was his. There are worse prisons than words. I went there once a month to
make sure he was all right, or at least alive. I would jump over the
tumbled-down wall at the back of the property, that couldn't be seen from the
street. Sometimes I'd find him there, other times Julian had disappeared. I
left food for him, money, books. ... I would wait for him for hours, until it
got dark. A few times I began to explore the rambling old house. That is how I
discovered that he'd destroyed the tombstones in the crypt and taken out the
coffins. I no longer thought Julian was mad, nor did I view that desecration as
a monstrous act, just a tragic one. When I did find him there we would speak
for hours, sitting by the fire. Julian confessed that he had tried to write
again but was unable to. He vaguely remembered his books as if they were the
work of some other person that he'd happened to read. The pain of his attempts
to write was visible. I discovered that he burned the pages he had written
feverishly while I was not there. Once, taking advantage of his absence, I
rescued a pile of them from the ashes. They spoke about you. Julian had once
told me that a story is a letter the author writes to himself, to tell himself
things that he would be unable to discover otherwise. For some time now, Julian
had been wondering whether he'd gone out of his mind. Does the madman know he
is mad? Or are the madmen those who insist on convincing him of his unreason in
order to safeguard their own idea of reality? Julian observed you, watched you
grow, and wondered who you were. He wondered whether your presence was perhaps
a miracle, a pardon he had to win by teaching you not to make the same mistakes
he'd made. More than once I asked myself whether Julian hadn't reached the
conclusion that you, in that twisted logic of his universe, had become the son
he had lost, a blank page on which to restart a story that he could not invent
but could remember. Those years in the old mansion went by, and Julian became
increasingly watchful of you, of your progress. He talked to me about your
friends, about a woman called Clara with whom you had fallen in love, about
your father, a man he admired and esteemed, about your friend Fermin, and about
a girl in whom he wanted to see another Penelope - your Bea. He spoke about you
as if you were his son. You were both looking for one another, Daniel. He
wanted to believe that your innocence would save him from himself. He had
stopped chasing his books, stopped wanting to destroy them. He was learning to
see the world again through your eyes, to recover the boy he had once been, in
you. The day you came to my apartment for the first time, I felt I already knew
you. I feigned distrust so I could hide the fear you inspired in me. I was
afraid of you, of what you might discover. I was afraid of listening to Julian
and starting to believe, as he did, that we were all bound together in a
strange chain of destiny, afraid of recognizing in you the Julian I had lost. I
knew that you and your friends were investigating our past, that sooner or
later you would discover the truth, but I hoped that it would be in due course,
when you were able to understand its meaning. And I knew that sooner or later
you and Julian would meet. That was my mistake. Because someone else knew it,
someone who sensed that, in time, you would lead him to Julian: Fumero. I only
understood what was happening when there was no turning back, but I never lost
hope that you might lose the trail, that you might forget about us, or that
life - yours and not ours - might take you far away, to safety. Time has taught
me not to lose hope, yet not to trust too much in hope either. Hope is cruel,
and has no conscience. For a long time, Fumero has been watching me. He knows
I'll fall, sooner or later. He's in no hurry. He lives to avenge himself.
Without vengeance, without anger, he would melt away. Fumero knows that you and
your friends will take him to Julian. He knows that after almost fifteen years,
I have no more strength or resources. He has watched me die for years, and he's
only waiting for the moment when he will deal me the final blow. I have never
doubted that I will die by his hand. Now I know the moment is drawing near. I
will give these pages to my father, asking him to make sure they reach you if
anything should happen to me. I pray to that God who never crossed my path that
you will never have to read them, but I sense that my fate, despite my wishes
and my vain hopes, is to hand you this story. Yours, despite your youth and
your innocence, is to set it free. When you read these words, this prison of
memories, it will mean that I will no longer be able to say goodbye to you as I
would have wished, that I will not be able to ask you to forgive us, especially
Julian, and to take care of him when I am no longer there to do so. I know I
cannot ask anything of you, but I can ask you to save yourself. Perhaps so many
pages have managed to convince me that whatever happens, I will always have a
friend in you, that you are my only hope, my only real hope. Of all the things
that Julian wrote, the one I have always felt closest to my heart is that as
long as we are remembered, we remain alive. As so often happened to me with
Julian, years before meeting him, I feel that I know you and that if I can
trust in anyone, that someone is you. Remember me, Daniel, even if it's only in
a corner and secretly. Don't let me go. Nuria Monfort THE SHADOW OF THE WIND
1955 1 Day was breaking when I finished reading Nuria Monfort's manuscript.
That was my story. Our story. In Carax's lost footsteps, I now recognized my
own, irretrievable. I stood, devoured by anxiety, and began to pace up and down
the room. All my reservations, my suspicions and fears, seemed insignificant; I
was overwhelmed by exhaustion, remorse, and dread, but I felt incapable of remaining
there, hiding from the trail left by my actions. I slung on my coat, thrust the
folded manuscript into the inside pocket, and ran down the stairs. As I stepped
out of the front door, it had started to snow, and the sky was melting into
slow tears of light that seemed to lie on my breath before fading away. I ran
up to Plaza de Cataluna. It was almost deserted but in the centre of the square
stood the lonely figure of an old man, with long white hair and clad in a
wonderful grey overcoat. King of the dawn, he raised his eyes to heaven and
tried in vain to catch the snowflakes with his gloves, laughing to himself. As
I walked past him, he looked at me and smiled gravely. His eyes were the colour
of gold, like magic coins at the bottom of a fountain. 'Good luck,' I thought I
heard him say. I tried to cling to that blessing and quickened my step, praying
that it would not be too late and that Bea, the Bea of my story, would still be
waiting for me. My throat was burning with the cold when, panting after the
run, I reached the building where the Aguilars lived. The snow was beginning to
settle. I had the good fortune of finding Don Saturno Molleda stationed at the
entrance. Don Saturno was the caretaker of the building and (from what Bea had
told me) a secret surrealist poet. He had come out to watch the spectacle of
the snow, broom in hand, wrapped in at least three scarves and wearing combat
boots. 'It's God's dandruff,' he said, marvelling, offering the snow a preview
of his unpublished verse. 'I'm going up to the Aguilar's apartment,' I
announced. 'We all know that the early bird catches the worm, but you're trying
to catch an elephant, young man.' 'It's an emergency. They're expecting me.'
'Ego te absolvo,' he recited, blessing me. I ran up the stairs. As I ascended,
I weighed up my options with some caution. If I was lucky, one of the maids
would open the door, and I was ready to break through her blockade without
bothering about the niceties. However, if the fates didn't favour me, perhaps
Bea's father would open the door, given the hour. I wanted to think that in the
intimacy of his home, he would not be armed, at least not before breakfast. I
paused for a few moments to recover my breath before knocking and tried to
conjure up words that never came. Little did it matter. I struck the door hard
with the knocker three times. Fifteen seconds later I repeated the operation,
and went on doing this, ignoring the cold sweat that covered my brow and the
beating of my heart. When the door opened, I was still holding the knocker in
my hand. 'What do you want?' The eyes of my old friend Tomas, cold with anger,
bored through me. 'I've come to see Bea. You can smash my face in if you feel
like it, but I'm not leaving without speaking to her.' Tomas observed me with a
fixed stare. I wondered whether he was going to cleave me in two there and
then. I swallowed hard. 'My sister isn't here.' 'Tomas . . .' 'Bea's gone.'
There was despondency and pain in his voice, which he was barely able to
disguise as wrath. 'She's gone? Where?' 'I was hoping you would know.' 'Me?'
Ignoring Tomas's closed fists and the threatening expression on his face, I
slipped into the apartment. 'Bea?' I shouted. 'Bea, it's me, Daniel___' I
stopped halfway along the corridor. The apartment threw back the echo of my
voice. Neither Senor Aguilar nor his wife nor the servants appeared in response
to my cries. 'There's no one here. I've told you,' said Tomas behind me. 'Now
get out and don't come back. My father has sworn he'll kill you, and I'm not
going to be the one to stop him.' 'For God's sake, Tomas. Tell me where your
sister is.' He looked at me as if he wasn't sure whether to spit at me or
ignore me. 'Bea has left home, Daniel. My parents have been looking everywhere
for her, desperately, for two days, and so have the police.' 'But. . .' 'The
other night, when she came back after seeing you, my father was waiting for
her. He slapped her so much he made her mouth bleed. But don't worry, she
refused to give him your name. You don't deserve her.' 'Tomas.. .' 'Shut up.
The following day my parents took her to the doctor.' 'What for? Is Bea ill?'
'She's ill because of you, you idiot. My sister is pregnant. Don't tell me you
didn't know.' I felt my lips quivering. An intense cold spread through my body,
my voice stolen, my eyes fixed. I dragged myself toward the front door, but
Tomas grabbed me by the arm and threw me against the wall. 'What have you done
to her?' 'Tomas, I....' His eyes flashed with impatience. The first blow cut my
breath in two. I slid to the floor, my back against the wall, my knees giving
way. A powerful grip seized me by the throat and held me up, nailed to the
wall. 'What have you done to her, you son of a bitch?' I tried to get away, but
Tomas knocked me down with another punch to the face. I fell into blackness, my
head wrapped in a blaze of pain. I collapsed onto the corridor tiles. I tried
to crawl away, but Tomas grasped my coat collar and dragged me to the landing.
He tossed me onto the staircase like a piece of rubbish. 'If anything has
happened to Bea, I swear I'll kill you,' he said from the doorway. I got up on
my knees, begging for a moment of time, for an opportunity to recover my voice.
But the door closed, abandoning me to the darkness. There was a sharp pain in
my left ear, and I put my hand to my head, twisting with agony. I could feel
warm blood. I stood up as best I could. My stomach muscles, where Tomas's first
blow had landed, were smarting - that was just the beginning. I slid down the
stairs. Don Saturno shook his head when he saw me. 'Here, come inside for a
minute, until you feel better.' I shook my head, holding my stomach with both
hands. The left side of my head throbbed, as if the bones were trying to detach
themselves from the flesh. 'You're bleeding,' said Don Saturno with a concerned
look. 'It's not the first time___' 'Well, if you keep on fooling around, you
won't have many chances left. Here, come in and I'll call a doctor, please.' I
managed to get to the main door and escape the caretaker's kindness. It was now
snowing hard and the pavements were covered in veils of white mist. The icy
wind whistled through my clothes and stung the bleeding wound on my face. I
don't know whether I was crying with pain, anger, or fear. The indifferent snow
silenced my cowardly weeping, and I walked away slowly into the dawn, one more
shadow leaving his tracks in God's dandruff. 2 As I approached the crossing
with Calle Balmes, I noticed that a car was following me, hugging the pavement.
The pain in my head had given way to a feeling of vertigo that made me reel, so
that I had to walk holding onto the walls. The car stopped, and two men got
out. A sharp, whistling sound had filled my ears, and I couldn't hear the
engine or the calls of the two figures in black who grabbed hold of me, one on
either side, and dragged me hurriedly to the car. I fell into the back seat,
drunk with nausea. Floods of blinding light came and went inside my brain. I
felt the car moving. A pair of hands touched my face, my head, my ribs. Coming
upon the manuscript of Nuria Monfort, which was hidden inside my coat, one of
the figures snatched it from me. I tried to stop him with jellylike arms. The
other silhouette leaned over me. I knew he was talking when I felt his breath
on my face. I waited to see Fumero's face light up and feel the blade of his
knife on my throat. Two eyes rested on mine, and as the curtain of
consciousness fell, I recognized the toothless, welcoming smile of Fermin
Romero de Torres. I woke up in a sweat that stung my skin. Two hands held my
shoulders firmly and settled me into a small bed surrounded by candles, as in a
wake. Fermin's face appeared on my right. He was smiling, but even in my
delirium I could sense his anxiety. Next to him, standing, I recognized Don
Federico Flavia, the watchmaker. 'He seems to be coming round, Fermin,' said
Don Federico. 'Shall I go and prepare some broth to revive him?' 'It won't do
him any harm. While you're at it, could you make me a sandwich? Whatever you
can find. A double-decker, if you please. All this excitement has suddenly
revived my appetite.' Federico scurried off, and we were left alone. 'Where are
we, Fermin?' 'In a safe place. Technically speaking, we're in a small apartment
on the left side of the Ensanche quarter, the property of some friends of Don
Federico, to whom we owe our lives and more. Slanderers would describe it as a
love nest, but for us it's a sanctuary.' I tried to sit up. The pain in my ear
was now a burning throb. 'Will I go deaf?' 'I don't know about that, but a bit
more beating and you'd certainly have been left a borderline vegetable. That
troglodyte Senor Aguilar almost pulped your grey cells.' 'It wasn't Senor
Aguilar who beat me. It was Tomas.' 'Tomas? Your friend? The inventor?' I
nodded. 'You must have done something to deserve it.' 'Bea has left home . . .'
I began. Fermin frowned. 'Go on.' 'She's pregnant.' Fermin was looking at me
open-mouthed. For once his expression was impenetrable. 'Don't look at me like
that, Fermin, please.' 'What do you want me to do? Start handing out cigars?' I
tried to get up, but the pain and Fermin's hands stopped me. 'I've got to find
her, Fermin.' 'Steady, there. You're not in any fit state to go anywhere. Tell
me where the girl is, and I'll go and find her.' 'I don't know where she is.'
'I'm going to have to ask you to be more specific' Don Federico appeared
carrying a cup of steaming broth. He smiled at me warmly. 'How are you feeling,
Daniel?' 'Much better, thanks, Don Federico.' 'Take a couple of these pills
with the soup.' He glanced briefly at Fermin, who nodded. 'They're
painkillers.' I swallowed the pills and sipped the cup of broth, which tasted
of sherry. Don Federico, the soul of discretion, left the room and closed the
door. It was then that I noticed that Fermin had Nuria Montfort's manuscript on
his lap. The clock ticking on the bedside table showed one o'clock - in the
afternoon, I supposed. 'Is it still snowing?' 'That's an understatement. This
is a powdery version of the Flood.' 'Have you read it?' I asked. Fermin simply
nodded. 'I must find Bea before it's too late. I think I know where she is.' I
sat up in bed, pushing- Fermin's arms aside. I looked around me. The walls
swayed like weeds at the bottom of a pond and the ceiling seemed to be moving
away. I could barely hold myself upright. Fermin effortlessly laid me back on
the bed again. 'You're not going anywhere, Daniel.' 'What were those pills?'
'Morpheus's liniment. You're going to sleep like a log.' 'No, not now, I
can't...' I continued to blabber until my eyelids closed and I dropped into a
black, empty sleep, the sleep of the guilty. It was almost dusk when the
tombstone was lifted from me. I opened my eyes to a dark room watched over by
two tired candles flickering on the bedside table. Fermin, defeated on an armchair
in the corner, snored with the fury of a man three times his size. At his feet,
scattered like a flood of tears, lay Nuria Monfort's manuscript. The headache
had lessened to a slow, tepid throb. I tiptoed over to the bedroom door and
went out into a little hall with a balcony and a door that seemed to open onto
the staircase. My coat and shoes lay on a chair. A purplish light came in
through the window, speckled with iridescence. I walked over to the balcony and
saw that it was still snowing. Half the roofs of Barcelona were mottled with
white and scarlet. In the distance the towers of the Industrial College looked
like needles in the haze, clinging to the last rays of sun. The windowpane was
coated with frost. I put my index finger on the glass and wrote: Gone to find
Bea. Don't follow me. Back soon. The truth had struck me as soon as I woke up,
as if some stranger had whispered it to me in a dream. I stepped out onto the
landing and rushed down the stairs and out of the front door. Calle Urgel was like
a river of shiny white sand as the wind blew the snow about in gusts.
Streetlamps and trees emerged like masts in the fog. I walked to the nearest
subway station, Hospital Clinico, past the stand of afternoon papers carrying
the news on the front page, with photographs of the Ramblas covered in snow and
the Canaletas fountain bleeding stalactites. snowfall of the century, the
headlines blared. I fell onto a bench on the platform and breathed in that
perfume of tunnels and soot that trains bring with them. On the other side of
the tracks, on a poster proclaiming the delights of the Tibidabo amusement
park, the blue tram was lit up like a street party, and behind it you could
just make out the outline of the Aldaya mansion. I wondered whether Bea had
seen the same image and realized she had nowhere else to go. 3 When I came out
of the subway tunnel, it was starting to get dark. Avenida del Tibidabo lay
deserted, stretching out in a long line of cypress trees and mansions. I
glimpsed the shape of the blue tram at the stop and heard the conductor's bell
piercing the wind. A quick run, and I jumped on just as it was pulling away.
The conductor, my old acquaintance, took the coins, mumbling under his breath,
and I sat down inside the carriage, a bit more sheltered from the snow and the
cold. The sombre mansions filed slowly by, behind the tram's icy windows. The
conductor watched me with a mixture of suspicion and bemusement, which the cold
seemed to have frozen on his face. 'Number thirty-two, young man.' I turned and
saw the ghostly silhouette of the Aldaya mansion advancing towards us like the
prow of a dark ship. The tram stopped with a shudder. I got off, fleeing from
the conductor's gaze. 'Good luck,' he murmured. I watched the tram disappear up
the avenue, leaving behind only the echo of its bell. Darkness fell around me.
I hurried along the garden wall, looking for the gap at the back, where it had
tumbled down. As I climbed over, I thought I could hear footsteps on the snow
approaching on the opposite pavement. I stopped for a second and remained
motionless on top of the wall. The sound of footsteps faded in the wind. I
jumped down to the other side and entered the garden. The weeds had frozen into
stems of crystal. The statues of the fallen angels were covered in shrouds of
ice. The water in the fountain had frozen over, forming a black, shiny mirror,
from which only the stone claw of the sunken angel protruded, like an obsidian
sword. Tears of ice hung from the index finger. The accusing hand of the angel pointed
straight at the main door, which stood ajar. I ran up the steps without
bothering to muffle the sound of my footsteps. Pushing the door open, I walked
into the entrance hall. A procession of candles lined the way towards the
interior. They were Bea's candles but had almost burned down to the floor. I
followed their trail and stopped at the foot of the grand staircase. The path
of candles continued up the steps to the first floor. I ventured up the stairs,
following my distorted shadow on the walls. When I reached the first-floor
landing, I saw two more candles set along the corridor. A third one flickered
outside the room that had once been Penelope's. I went up to the door and
rapped gently with my knuckles. 'Julian?' came a shaky voice. I grabbed hold of
the doorknob and slowly opened the door. Bea gazed at me from a corner of the
room, wrapped in a blanket. I ran to her side and held her. I could feel her
dissolving into tears. ‘I didn't know where to go,' she murmured. 'I called
your home a few times, but there was no answer. I was scared....' Bea dried her
tears with her fists and fixed her eyes on mine. I nodded; there was no need to
reply with words. 'Why did you call me Julian?' Bea cast a glance at the
half-open door. 'He's here. In this house. He comes and goes. He discovered me
the other day, when I was trying to get into the house. Without my saying
anything, he knew who I was and what was happening. He set me up in this room,
and he brought me a blanket, water, and some food. He told me to wait. He said
that everything was going to turn out all right, that you'd come for me. At
night we talked for hours. He talked to me about Penelope, about Nuria - above
all he spoke about you, about us two. He told me I had to teach you to forget
him. . ..' 'Where is he now?' 'Downstairs. In the library. He said he was
waiting for someone, and told me not to move from here.' 'Waiting for who?' 'I
don't know. He said it was someone who would come with you, that you'd bring
him. . ..' When I peered into the corridor, I could already hear footsteps
below, near the staircase. I recognized the spidery shadow on the walls, the
black raincoat, the hat pulled down like a hood, and the gun in his hand
shining like a scythe. Fumero. He had always reminded me of someone, or
something, but until then I hadn't understood what. 4 I snuffed out the candles
with my fingers and made a sign to Bea to keep quiet. She grabbed my hand and
looked at me questioningly. Fumero's slow steps could be heard below us. I led
Bea back inside the room and signalled to her to stay there, hiding behind the
door. 'Don't leave this room, whatever happens,' I whispered. 'Don't leave me
now, Daniel. Please.' 'I must warn Carax.' Bea gave me an imploring look, but I
went out into the corridor and tiptoed to the top of the main staircase. There
was no sign of Fumero. He had stopped at some point in the darkness and stood
there, motionless, patient. I stepped back into the corridor and walked down
it, past the row of bedrooms, until I got to the front of the mansion. A large
window coated in frost refracted two blue beams of light, cloudy as stagnant
water. I moved over to the window and saw a black car stationed in front of the
main gate, its lights on. I recognized it as Lieutenant Palacios's car. The glowing
ember of a cigarette in the dark gave away his presence behind the steering
wheel. I went slowly back to the staircase and began to descend, step by step,
placing my feet with infinite care. Halfway down, I stopped and scanned the
darkness that had engulfed the ground floor. Fumero had left the front door
open as he came in. The wind had blown out the candles and was spitting whirls
of snow and frozen leaves across the hall. I went down four more steps, hugging
the wall, and caught a glimpse of the large library windows. There was still no
sign of Fumero. I wondered whether he had gone down to the basement or to the
crypt. The powdery snow that blew in from outside was fast erasing his
footprints. I slipped down to the base of the stairs and peered into the
corridor that led to the main door. An icy wind hit me. The claw of the
submerged angel was just visible outside. I looked in the other direction. The
entrance to the library was about ten yards from the foot of the staircase. The
anteroom that led to it was sunk in shadows, and I realized that Fumero could
be only a few yards from where I was standing, watching me. I looked into the
darkness, as impenetrable as the waters of a well. Taking a deep breath, I
groped across the distance that separated me from the entrance to the library.
The large oval hall was submerged in a dim, misty light, speckled with shadows
that were cast by the snow falling heavily on the other side of the windows. My
eyes skimmed over the empty walls in search of Fumero - could he be standing by
the entrance? An object protruded from the wall just a couple of yards on my
right. For a moment I thought I saw it move, but it was only the reflection of
the moon on the blade. A knife, perhaps a double-bladed penknife, had been sunk
into the wood panelling. It pierced a square of paper or cardboard. I stepped
closer and recognized the image. It was an identical copy of the half-burned
photograph that a stranger had once left on the bookshop counter. In the
picture, Julian and Penelope, still adolescents, smiled in happiness. The knife
went through Julian's chest. I understood then that it hadn't been Lain
Coubert, or Julian Carax, who had left the photograph for me, like an
invitation. It had been Fumero. The photograph had been poisoned bait. I raised
my hand to snatch it away from the knife, but the icy touch of Fumero's gun on
my neck stopped me. 'An image is worth more than a thousand words, Daniel. If
your father hadn't been a shitty bookseller, he would have taught you that by now.'
I turned slowly and faced the barrel of the pistol. It stank of fresh
gunpowder. Fumero's face was contorted into a terrifying grimace. 'Where's
Carax?' he demanded. 'Far from here. He knew you would come for him. He's
left.' Fumero observed me in silence. 'I'm going to blow your brains out, kid.'
'That's not going to help you much. Carax isn't here.' 'Open your mouth,'
ordered Fumero. 'What for?' 'Open your mouth or I'll open it myself with a
bullet.' I parted my lips. Fumero stuck the revolver in my mouth. I felt nausea
rising in my throat. Fumero's thumb tensed on the hammer. 'Now, you bastard,
think about whether you have any reason to go on living. What do you say?' I
nodded slowly. 'Then tell me where Carax is.' I tried to mumble. Fumero slowly
pulled out the gun. 'Where is he?' 'Downstairs. In the crypt.' 'You lead the
way. I want you to be there when I tell that son of a bitch how Nuria Monfort
moaned when I dug the knife into—' Glancing over Fumero's shoulder, I thought I
saw the darkness stirring and a figure without a face, his eyes burning, glided
towards us in absolute silence, as if he barely touched the floor. Fumero saw
the reflection in my tear-filled eyes, and his face slowly became distorted.
When he turned and shot at the mantle of blackness that surrounded him, two
deformed leather claws gripped his throat. They were the hands of Julian Carax,
grown out of the flames. Carax pushed me aside and crushed Fumero against the
wall. The inspector clutched his revolver and tried to place it under Carax's
chin. Before he could pull the trigger, Carax grabbed his wrist and hammered it
against the wall, again and again, but Fumero didn't drop the gun. A second
shot exploded in the dark and hit the wall, making a hole in the wood
panelling. Tears of burning gunpowder and red-hot splinters rained down over
the inspector's face. A stench of singed flesh filled the room. With a violent
jerk, Fumero tried to get away from the force that was immobilizing his neck
and the hand holding the gun, but Carax wouldn't loosen his grip. Fumero roared
with anger and tilted his head until he was able to bite Carax's fist. He was
possessed by an animal fury. I heard the snap of his teeth as he tore at the
dead skin, and saw Fumero's lips dripping with blood. Ignoring the pain, or
perhaps unable to feel it, Carax grabbed hold of the dagger on the wall. He
pulled it out and skewered the inspector's right wrist to the wall with a
brutal blow that buried the blade into the wooden panel almost to the hilt.
Fumero let out a terrible cry of pain as his hand opened in a spasm, and the
gun fell to his feet. Carax kicked it into the shadows. The horror of that
scene passed before my eyes in just a few seconds. I felt paralysed, incapable
of acting or even thinking. Carax turned to me and fixed his eyes on mine. As I
looked at him, I was able to reconstruct his lost features, which I had so
often imagined from photographs and old stories. 'Take Beatriz away from here,
Daniel. She knows what you must do. Don't let her out of your sight. Don't let
anyone take her from you. Anyone or anything. Look after her. More than your
own life.' I tried to nod, but my eyes turned to Fumero, who was struggling
with the knife that pierced his wrist. He yanked it out and collapsed on his
knees, holding the wounded arm that was pouring blood. 'Leave,' Carax murmured.
Fumero watched us from the floor, blind with hatred, holding the bloody knife
in his left hand. Carax turned to him. I heard hurried footsteps approaching
and realized that Palacios was coming to the aid of his boss, alerted by the
shots. Before Carax was able to seize the knife from Fumero, Palacios entered
the library holding his gun up high. 'Move back,' he warned. He threw a quick
glance at Fumero, who was getting up with some difficulty, and then he looked
at us - first at me and then at Carax. I could see horror and doubt etched on
his face. 'I said move back.' Carax paused and withdrew. Palacios observed us
coldly, trying to work out what he should do. His eyes rested on me. 'You, get
out of here. This doesn't have anything to do with you. Go.' I hesitated for a
moment. Carax nodded. 'No one's leaving this place,' Fumero cut in. 'Palacios,
hand me your gun.' Palacios didn't answer. 'Palacios,' Fumero repeated,
stretching out his blood-drenched hand, demanding the weapon. 'No,' mumbled
Palacios, gritting his teeth. Fumero, his maddened eyes filled with disdain and
fury, grabbed Palacios's gun and pushed him aside with a swipe of his hand. I
glanced at Palacios and knew what was going to happen. Fumero raised the gun
slowly. His hand shook, and the revolver shone with blood. Carax drew back a
step at a time, in search of the shadows, but there was no escape. The
revolver's barrel followed him. I felt all the muscles in my body burn with rage.
Fumero's deathly grimace, and the way he kept licking his lips like a madman
woke me up like a slap in the face. Palacios was looking at me, silently
shaking his head. I ignored him. Carax had given up by now and stood motionless
in the middle of the room, waiting for the bullet. Fumero never saw me. For him
only Carax existed and that bloodstained hand holding the revolver. I leaped at
him. I felt my feet rise from the ground, but everything seemed to freeze in
midair. The blast of the shot reached me from afar, like the echo of a receding
storm. There was no pain. The bullet went through my ribs. At first there was a
blinding flash, as if I'd been hit by a metal bar and propelled through the air
for a couple of yards. I didn't feel the fall, although I thought I saw the
walls converging and the ceiling descending at great speed towards me. A hand
held the back of my head, and I saw Julian Carax's face bending over me. In my
vision Carax appeared exactly as I'd imagined him, as if the flames had never destroyed
his features. I noticed the horror in his eyes and saw how he placed his hand
on my chest, and wondered what that smoking liquid was flowing between his
fingers. It was then I felt that terrible fire, like the hot breath of embers
burning inside me. I tried to scream but nothing surfaced except warm blood. I
recognized the face of Palacios next to me, full of remorse, defeated. I raised
my eyes, and then I saw her. Bea was advancing slowly from the library door,
her face suffused with terror and her hands on her lips. She was trembling and
shaking her head without speaking. I tried to warn her, but a biting cold was
coursing up my arms, stabbing its way into my body. Fumero was hiding behind
the door. Bea didn't notice his presence. When Carax leaped up and Bea turned,
the inspector's gun was already almost touching her forehead. Palacios rushed
to stop him. He was too late. Carax was already there. I heard his faraway
scream, which bore Bea's name. The room lit up with the flash of the shot. The
bullet went through Carax's right hand. A moment later the man without a face
was falling upon Fumero. I leaned over to see Bea running to my side, unhurt. I
looked for Carax, but I couldn't find him. Another figure had taken his place.
It was Lain Coubert, just as I'd learned to fear him reading the pages of a
book, so many years ago. This time Coubert's claws sank into Fumero's eyes like
hooks and pulled him away. I managed to see the inspector's legs as they were
hauled out through the library door. I managed to see how his body shook with
spasms as Coubert dragged him without pity towards the main door, saw how his
knees hit the marble steps and the snow spat on his face, how the man without a
face grabbed him by the neck and, lifting him up like a puppet, threw him into
the frozen bowl of the fountain. The hand of the angel pierced his chest,
spearing him, the accursed soul driven out like black vapour, falling like
frozen tears over the mirror of frozen water. I collapsed then, unable to keep
my eyes focused any longer. A white light flooded my pupils and Bea's face
receded from me. I closed my eyes and felt her hands on my cheeks and the
breath of her voice begging God not to take me, whispering in my ear that she
loved me and wouldn't let me go. All I remember is that at that moment a
strange peace enveloped me and took away the pain of the slow fire that burned
inside me. I saw myself and Bea - an elderly couple - walking hand in hand
through the streets of Barcelona, that bewitched city. I saw my father and
Nuria Monfort placing white roses on my grave. I saw Fermin crying in
Bernarda's arms, and my old friend Tomas, who had fallen silent forever. I saw
them the way you see strangers from a train that is moving away too fast. It
was then, almost without realizing it, that I remembered my mother's face, a
face I had lost so many years before, as if an old cutting had suddenly fallen
out of the pages of a book. Her light was all that came with me as I descended.
POSTMORTEM 27 NOVEMBER 1955 The room was white, a shimmer of sheets, gauzy
curtains and bright sunshine. From my window I could make out a blue sea. One
day someone would try to convince me that you cannot see the sea from the
Corachan Clinic; that its rooms are not white or ethereal, and that the sea that
November was like a leaden pond, cold and hostile; that it went on snowing
every day of that week until all of Barcelona was buried in three feet of snow,
and that even Fermin, the eternal optimist, thought I was going to die again. I
had already died before, in the ambulance, in the arms of Bea and Lieutenant
Palacios, who ruined his uniform with my blood. The bullet, said the doctors,
who spoke about me thinking that I couldn't hear them, had destroyed two ribs,
had brushed my heart, had severed an artery, and had come out at full speed
through my side, dragging with it everything it had encountered on the way. My
heart had stopped beating for sixty-four seconds. They told me that when I
returned from my excursion to eternity, I opened my eyes and smiled before
losing consciousness again. I didn't come round until eight days later. By then
the newspapers had already published the news of Francisco Javier Fumero's
death during a struggle with an armed gang of criminals and the authorities
were busy trying to find a street or an alleyway they could rename in memory of
the distinguished police inspector. His was the only body found in the old
Aldaya mansion. The bodies of Penelope and her son were never discovered. I
awoke at dawn. I remember the light, like liquid gold, pouring over the sheets.
It had stopped snowing, and somebody had exchanged the sea outside my window
for a white square from which a few swings could be seen, and little else. My
father, sunk in a chair by my bed, looked up and gazed at me in silence. I
smiled at him, and he burst into tears. Fermin, who was sleeping like a baby in
the corridor, and Bea, who was holding his head on her lap, heard my father's
loud wailing and came into the room. I remember that Fermin looked white and
thin, like the backbone of a fish. They told me that the blood running through
my veins was his, that I'd lost all mine, and that my friend had been spending
days stuffing himself with meat sandwiches in the hospital's canteen to breed
more red blood corpuscles, in case I should need them. Perhaps that explains
why I felt wiser and less like Daniel. I remember there was a forest of flowers
and that in the afternoon - or perhaps two minutes later, I couldn't say - a
whole cast of people filed through the room, from Gustavo Barcelo and his niece
Clara to Bernarda and my friend Tomas, who didn't dare look me in the eye and
who, when I embraced him, ran off to weep in the street. I vaguely remember Don
Federico, who came along with Merceditas and Don Anacleto, the schoolteacher. I
particularly remember Bea, who looked at me without saying a word while all the
others dissolved into cheers and thanks to the heavens, and I remember my
father, who had slept on that chair for seven nights, praying to a God in whom
he did not believe. When the doctors ordered the entire committee to vacate the
room and leave me to have a rest I did not want, my father came up to me for a
moment and told me he'd brought my pen, the Victor Hugo fountain pen, and a
notebook, in case I wanted to write. From the doorway Fermin announced that
he'd consulted the whole staff of doctors in the hospital and they had assured
him I would not have to do my military service. Bea kissed me on the forehead
and took my father with her to get some fresh air, because he hadn't been out
of that room for over a week. I was left alone, weighed down by exhaustion, and
I gave in to sleep, staring at the pen case on my bedside table. I was woken up
by footsteps at the door. I waited to see my father at the end of the bed, or
perhaps Dr Mendoza, who had never taken his eyes off me, convinced that my
recovery was the result of a miracle. The visitor went round the bed and sat on
my father's chair. My mouth felt dry. Julian Carax put a glass of water to my
lips, holding my head while I moistened them. His eyes spoke of farewell, and
looking into them was enough for me to understand that he had never discovered
the true identity of Penelope. I can't remember his exact words, or the sound
of his voice. I do know that he held my hand and I felt as if he were asking me
to live for him, telling me I would never see him again. What I have not
forgotten is what I told him. I told him to take that pen, which had always
been his, and to write again. When I woke again, Bea was cooling my forehead
with a cloth dampened with eau de cologne. Startled, I asked her where Carax
was. She looked at me in confusion and told me that Carax had disappeared in
the storm eight days before, leaving a trail of blood on the snow, and that
everyone had given him up for dead. I said that wasn't true, he'd been right
there, with me, only a few seconds ago. Bea smiled at me without saying
anything. The nurse who was taking my pulse slowly shook her head and explained
that I'd been asleep for six hours, that she'd been sitting at her desk by the
door all that time, and that certainly nobody had come into my room. That
night, when I was trying to get to sleep, I turned my head on my pillow and
noticed that the pen case was open. The pen was gone. THE WATERS OF MARCH 1956
Bea and I were married in the church of Santa Ana three months later. Senor
Aguilar, who still spoke to me in monosyllables and would go on doing so until
the end of time, had given me his daughter's hand in view of the impossibility
of obtaining my head on a platter. Bea's disappearance had done away with his
anger, and now he seemed to live in a state of perpetual shock, resigned to the
fact that his grandson would soon call me Dad and that life, in the shape of a
rascal stitched back together after a bullet wound, had robbed him of his girl
- a girl who, despite his bifocals, he still saw as the child in her
first-communion dress, not a day older. A week before the ceremony, Bea's
father turned up at the bookshop to present me with a gold tiepin that had
belonged to his father and to shake hands with me. 'Bea is the only good thing
I've ever done in my life,' he said. 'Take care of her for me.' My father went
with him to the door and watched him walk away down Calle Santa Ana, with that
sadness that softens men who are aware that they are growing old together.
'He's not a bad person, Daniel,' he said. 'We all love in our own way.' Dr
Mendoza, who doubted my ability to stay on my feet for more than half an hour,
had warned me that the bustle of a wedding and all the preparations were not
the best medicine for a man who had been on the point of leaving his heart in
the operating room. 'Don't worry,' I reassured him. 'They're not letting me do
anything.' I wasn't lying. Fermin Romero de Torres had set himself up as
absolute dictator over the ceremony, the banquet, and all related matters. When
the parish priest discovered that the bride was arriving pregnant at the altar,
he flatly refused to perform the wedding and threatened to summon the spirits of
the Holy Inquisition and make them cancel the event. Fermin flew into a rage
and dragged him out of the church, shouting to all and sundry that he was
unworthy of his habit and of the parish, and swearing that if the priest as
much as raised an eyebrow, he was going to stir up such a scandal in the
bishopric that at the very least he would be exiled to the Rock of Gibraltar to
evangelize the monkeys. A few passers-by clapped, and the flower vendor in the
square gave Fermin a white carnation, which he went on to wear in his lapel
until the petals turned the same colour as his shirt collar. All ready to go
but lacking a priest, Fermin went to San Gabriel's school, where he recruited
the services of Father Fernando Ramos, who had not performed a wedding in his
life and whose specialty was Latin, trigonometry, and gymnastics, in that
order. 'You see, Your Reverence, the bridegroom is very weak, and I can't upset
him again. He sees in you a reincarnation of the great glories of the Mother
Church, there, up high, with St Thomas, St Augustine, and the Virgin of Fatima.
He may not seem so, but the boy is, like me, extremely devout. A mystic. If I
have to tell him that you've failed me, we may well have to celebrate a funeral
instead of a wedding.' 'If you put it like that.' From what they told me later
- because I don't remember it, and weddings always stay more clearly in the
memory of others - before the ceremony Bernarda and Gustavo Bercelo (following
Fermin's detailed instructions) softened up the poor priest with muscatel wine
to rid him of his stage fright. When the time came for Father Fernando to
officiate, wearing a saintly smile and a pleasantly rosy complexion, he chose,
in a breach of protocol, to replace the reading of I don't know which Letter to
the Corinthians with a love sonnet, the work of a poet called Pablo Neruda.
Some of Senor Aguilar's guests identified said poet as a confirmed communist
and a Bolshevik, while others looked in the missal for those verses of intense
pagan beauty, wondering whether this was one of the first effects of the
impending Ecumenical Council. The night before the wedding, Fermin told me he
had organized a bachelor party to which only he and I were invited. 'I don't
know Fermin. I don't really like them—' 'Trust me.' On the night of the crime,
I followed Fermin meekly to a foul hovel in Calle Escudillers, where the stench
of humanity coexisted with the most potent odour of refried food on the entire
Mediterranean coast. A line-up of ladies with their virtue for rent - and a lot
of mileage on the clock - greeted us with smiles that would only have excited a
student of dentistry. 'We've come for Rociito,' Fermin informed a pimp whose
sideburns bore a surprising resemblance to Cape Finisterre. 'Fermin,' I
whispered, terrified. 'For heaven's sake . . .' 'Have faith.' Rociito arrived
in all her glory - which I reckoned to amount to around thirteen stone, not
counting the feather shawl and a skeleton-tight red viscose dress - and
examined me from head to toe. 'Hi, sweetheart. I thought you was older, to tell
the God's honest truth.' 'This is not the client,' Fermin clarified. I then
understood the nature of the situation, and my fears subsided. Fermin never
forgot a promise, especially if it was I who had made it. The three of us went
off in search of a taxi that would take us to the Santa Lucia Hospice. During
the journey Fermin, who, in deference to my delicate health and my status as
fiance, had offered me the front seat, was sitting in the back with Rociito,
taking in her attributes with obvious relish. 'You're a dish fit for a pope,
Rociito. That egregious ass of yours is the Revelation According to
Botticelli.' 'Oh, Senor Fermin, since you got yourself a girlfriend, you've
forgotten me, you rogue.' 'You're too much of a woman for me, Rociito, and now
I'm monogamous.' 'Nah! Good ole Rociito will cure that for you with some good
rubs of penicillin.' We reached Calle Moncada after midnight, escorting
Rociito's heavenly body, and slipped her into the hospice by the back door -
the one used for taking out the deceased through an alleyway that looked and
smelled like hell's oesophagus. Once we had entered the shadows of The
Tenebrarium, Fermin proceeded to give Rociito his final instructions while I
tried to find the old granddad to whom I'd promised a last dance with Eros
before Thanatos settled accounts with him. 'Remember, Rociito, the old geezer's
probably as deaf as a post, so speak to him in a loud voice, clear and dirty,
saucy, the way you know how. But don't get too carried away either. We don't
want to give him heart failure and send him off to kingdom come before his
time.' 'No worries, pumpkin. I'm a professional.' I found the lonely recipient
of those favours in a corner of the first floor. He raised his eyes and stared
at me, confused. 'Am I dead?' 'No. You're very much alive. Don't you remember
me?' 'I remember you as well as I remember my first pair of shoes, young man,
but seeing you like this, looking so pale, I thought you must be a vision from
beyond. Don't hold it against me. Here you lose what you outsiders call
discernment. So this isn't a vision?' 'No. The vision is waiting for you
downstairs, if you'll do the honours.' I led the old man to a gloomy room that
Fermin and Rociito had decorated festively with some candles and a few puffs of
perfume. When his eyes rested on the abundant beauty of our Andalusian Venus,
the old man's face lit up. 'May God bless you all.' 'And may you live to see
it,' said Fermin, as he signalled to the siren from Calle Escudillers to start
displaying her wares. I saw her caress the old man with infinite delicacy,
kissing the tears that fell down his cheeks. Fermin and I left the scene to
grant them their deserved privacy. In our winding journey through that gallery
of despair, we encountered Sister Emilia, one of the nuns who managed the
hospice. She threw us a venomous look. 'Some patients are telling me you've
brought in a hooker. Now they all want one.' 'Most Illustrious Sister, what do
you take us for? Our presence here is strictly ecumenical. This young lad, who
tomorrow will be a man in the eyes of the Holy Mother Church, and I, have come
to inquire after the patient Jacinta Coronado.' Sister Emilia raised an
eyebrow. 'Are you related?' 'Spiritually.' 'Jacinta died two weeks ago. A
gentleman came to visit her the night before. Is he a relative of yours?' 'Do
you mean Father Fernando?' 'He wasn't a priest. He said his name was Julian. I
can't remember his last name.' Fermin looked at me, dumbstruck. 'Julian is a
friend of mine,' I said. Sister Emilia nodded. 'He was with her for a few
hours. I hadn't heard her laugh for years. When he left, she told me they'd
been talking about the old days, when they were young. She said that man had
brought news of her daughter, Penelope. I didn't know Jacinta had a daughter. I
remember, because that morning Jacinta smiled at me, and when I asked her why
she was so happy, she said she was going home, with Penelope. She died at dawn,
in her sleep.' Rociito concluded her love ritual a short while later, leaving
the old man merrily exhausted and in the hands of Morpheus. As we were leaving,
Fermin paid her double, but Rociito, who was crying at the sight of those poor,
helpless people, forsaken by God and the devil, insisted on handing her fee to
Sister Emilia so that they could all be given a meal of hot chocolate and sweet
buns, because, she said, that was something that always made her forget the
sorrows of life. 'I'm ever so sentimental. Take that poor old soul, Senor
Fermin. . .. All he wanted was to be hugged and stroked. Breaks your heart, it
does....' We put Rociito into a taxi with a good tip and walked up Calle
Princesa, which was deserted and strewn with mist. 'We ought to get to bed,
because of tomorrow,' said Fermin. 'I don't think I'll be able to sleep.' We
set off toward La Barceloneta. Before we knew it, we were walking along the
breakwater with the whole city, shining with silence, spread out at our feet in
the reflection from the harbour waters, like the greatest mirage in the
universe. We sat on the edge of the jetty to gaze at the sight. 'This city is a
sorceress, you know, Daniel? It gets under your skin and steals your soul
without you knowing it.' 'You sound like Rociito, Fermin.' 'Don't laugh, it's
people like her who make this lousy world a place worth visiting.' 'Whores?'
'No. We're all whores, sooner or later. I mean good-hearted people. And don't
look at me like that. Weddings turn me to jelly.' We remained there embracing
that special silence, gazing at the reflections on the water. After a while
dawn tinged the sky with amber, and Barcelona woke up. We heard the distant
bells from the basilica of Santa Maria del Mar, just emerging from the mist on
the other side of the harbour. 'Do you think Carax is still there, somewhere in
the city?' I asked. 'Ask me another question.' 'Do you have the rings?' Fermin
smiled. 'Come on, let's go. They're waiting for us, Daniel. Life is waiting for
us.' She wore an ivory-white dress and held the world in her eyes. I barely
remember the priest's words or the faces of the guests, full of hope, who
filled the church on that March morning. All that remains in my memory is the
touch of her lips and, when I half opened my eyes, the secret oath I carried
with me and would remember all the days of my life. DRAMATIS PERSONAE 1966
Julian Carax concludes The Shadow of the Wind with a brief coda in which he
gathers up the threads of his characters' fates in years to come. I've read
many books since that distant night in 1945, but Carax's last novel remains my
favourite. Today, with three decades behind me, I can't see myself changing my
mind. As I write these words on the counter of my bookshop, my son, Julian, who
will be ten tomorrow, watches me with a smile and looks with curiosity at the
pile of sheets that grows and grows, convinced, perhaps, that his father has
also caught the illness of books and words. Julian has his mother's eyes and
intelligence, and I like to think that perhaps he possesses my sense of wonder.
My father, who now has some difficulty reading even the book spines, although
he won't admit it, is at home, upstairs. I sometimes ask myself whether he's a
happy man, a man at peace, whether our company helps him or whether he still
lives within his memories and within that sadness that has always followed him.
Bea and I manage the bookshop now. I do the accounts and the adding up and Bea
does the buying and serves the customers, who prefer her to me. I don't blame
them. Time has made her strong and wise. She hardly ever speaks about the past,
although I often catch her marooned in one of her silences, alone with herself.
Julian adores his mother. I watch them together, and I know they are linked by
an invisible bond that I can barely begin to understand. It is enough for me to
feel a part of their island and to know how fortunate I am. The bookshop
provides us with enough to live modestly, but I can't imagine myself doing
anything else. Our sales lessen year by year. I'm an optimist, and I tell
myself that what goes up comes down and what comes down must, one day, go up
again. Bea says that the art of reading is slowly dying, that it's an intimate
ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry
inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind, and great
readers are becoming more scarce by the day. Every month we receive offers to
turn our bookshop into a store selling televisions, girdles, or rope-soled
shoes. They won't get us out of here unless it's feet first. Fermin and
Bernarda walked down the aisle in 1958, and they already have four children,
all boys and all blessed with their father's nose and ears. Fermin and I see
each other less than we used to, although sometimes we still repeat that walk
to the breakwater at dawn, where we solve the world's problems. Fermin left his
job at the bookshop years ago, and when Isaac Monfort died, he took over from
him as the keeper of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. Perhaps one day someone
will find all the copies of Julian's books that Nuria hid there. Isaac is
buried next to Nuria in Montjuic. I often visit them. There are always fresh
flowers on Nuria's grave. My old friend Tomas Aguilar went off to Germany,
where he works as an engineer for a firm' making industrial machinery,
inventing wonders I have never been able to understand. Sometimes we get
letters from him, always addressed to Bea. He got married a couple of years ago
and has a daughter we have never seen. Although he always sends me his regards,
I know I lost him forever years ago. I sometimes think that life snatches away
our childhood friends for no reason, but I don't always believe it. The
neighbourhood is much the same, and yet there are days when I feel that a
certain brightness is tentatively returning to Barcelona, as if between us all
we'd driven it out but the city had forgiven us in the end. Don Anacleto left
his post in the secondary school, and now he devotes his time exclusively to
writing erotic poetry and to his jacket blurbs, which are more grandiose than
ever. Don Federico Flavia and Merceditas went off to live together when the
watchmaker's mother died. They make a splendid couple, although there is no
lack of malicious people who maintain that a leopard cannot change his spots
and that, every now and then, Don Federico goes out on a binge, dressed up as a
Gypsy queen. Don Gustavo Barcelo closed his bookshop and sold us his stock. He
said he was fed up to the back teeth with the bookseller's trade and was
looking forward to embarking on new challenges. The first and last of these was
the creation of a publishing company dedicated to the re-release of Julian
Carax's works. Volume I, which contained his three novels (recovered from a set
of proofs that had ended up in a furniture warehouse belonging to the Cabestany
family), sold 342 copies, many tens of thousands behind that year's bestseller,
an illustrated hagiography of El Cordobes, the famous bullfighter. Don Gustavo
now devotes his time to travelling around Europe accompanied by distinguished
ladies and sending postcards of cathedrals. His niece Clara married the
millionaire banker, but their union lasted barely a year. Her list of suitors
is still long, though it dwindles year by year, as does her beauty. Now she
lives alone in the apartment in Plaza Real, which she leaves less and less
often. There was a time when I used to visit her, more because Bea reminded me
of her loneliness and her bad fortune than from any desire of my own. With the
passing years, I have seen a bitterness grow in her, though she tries to
disguise it as irony and detachment. Sometimes I think she is still waiting for
that fifteen-year-old Daniel to return to adore her from the shadows. Bea's
presence, or that of any other woman, poisons her. The last time I saw her, she
was feeling her face for wrinkles. I am told that sometimes she still sees her
old music teacher, Adrian Neri, whose symphony is still unfinished and who, it
seems, has made a career as a gigolo among the ladies of the Liceo circle,
where his bedroom acrobatics have earned him the nickname 'The Magic Flute'. The
years were not kind to the memory of Inspector Fumero. Not even those who hated
and feared him seem to remember him anymore. Years ago, in Paseo de Gracia, I
came across Lieutenant Palacios, who left the police force and now teaches
gymnastics at a school in the Bonanova quarter. He told me there is still a
commemorative plaque in honour of Fumero in the basement of Central Police
Headquarters in Via Layetana, but a new soft-drinks machine covers it entirely.
As for the Aldaya mansion, it is still there, against all predictions. In the
end Senor Aguilar's estate agency managed to sell it. It was completely
restored, and the statues of angels were ground down into gravel to cover the
car park that takes up what was once the Aldayas' garden. Today it houses an
advertising agency dedicated to the creation and promotion of that strange
poetry singing the glories of cotton socks, skimmed milk, and sports cars for
jet-setting businessmen. I must confess that one day, giving the most unlikely
reasons, I turned up there and asked if I could be shown around the house. The
old library where I nearly lost my life is now a boardroom decorated with
posters eulogizing deodorants and detergents with magical powers. The room
where Bea and I conceived Julian is now the bathroom of the chief executive.
That day, when I returned to the bookshop after visiting the old house, I found
a parcel bearing a Paris postmark. It contained a book called The Angel of
Mist, a novel, by a certain Boris Laurent. I leafed through the pages, inhaling
the enchanted scent of promise that comes with all new books, and stopped to
read the start of a sentence that caught my eye. I knew immediately who had
written it, and I wasn't surprised to return to the first page and find,
written in the blue strokes of that pen I had so much adored when I was a
child, this dedication: For my friend Daniel, who gave me back my voice and my
pen. And for Beatriz, who gave us both back our lives. A young man, already
showing a few grey hairs, walks through the streets of a Barcelona trapped
beneath ashen skies as dawn pours over Rambla de Santa Monica in a wreath of
liquid copper. He holds the hand of a ten-year-old boy whose eyes are
intoxicated with the mystery of the promise his father made to him at dawn, the
promise of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. 'Julian, you mustn't tell anyone
what you're about to see today. No one.' 'Not even Mummy?' asks the boy in a
whisper. His father sighs, hiding behind that sad smile that has followed him
through life. 'Of course you can tell her,' he answers. 'We have no secrets
from her. You can tell her anything.' Soon afterwards, like figures made of
mist, father and son disappear into the crowd of the Ramblas, their steps lost
forever in the shadow of the wind.
THE END http://www.esnips.com/web/eb00k
THE END http://www.esnips.com/web/eb00k
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