The Shadow of the Wind (15 page)

Fermín wrote down the number with a ballpoint on his instep, under his sock.

“Piece of cake. All official institutions find me irresistible. Give me a few days and I'll have a full report ready for you.”

“We agreed not to say a word of this to my father?”

“Don't worry. I'll be like the Sphinx.”

“I'm very grateful. Now, go on, off with you, and have a good time.”

I said good-bye with a military salute and watched him leave looking as debonair as a cock on his way to the henhouse.

He couldn't have been gone for more than five minutes when I heard the tinkle of the doorbell and lifted my head from the columns of numbers and crossings-out. A man had just come in, hidden behind a gray raincoat and a felt hat. He sported a pencil mustache and had glassy blue eyes. He smiled like a salesman, a forced smile. I was sorry Fermín was not there, because he was an expert at seeing off travelers selling camphor and other junk whenever they slipped into the bookshop. The visitor offered me his greasy grin, casually picking up a book from a pile that stood by the entrance waiting to be sorted and priced. Everything about him communicated disdain for all he saw. You're not even going to sell me a “good afternoon,” I thought.

“A lot of words, eh?” he said.

“It's a book; they usually have quite a few words. Anything I can do for you, sir?”

The man put the book back on the pile, nodding indifferently and ignoring my question. “I say reading is for people who have a lot of time and nothing to do. Like women. Those of us who have to work don't have time for make-believe. We're too busy earning a living. Don't you agree?”

“It's an opinion. Were you looking for anything in particular?”

“It's not an opinion. It's a fact. That's what's wrong with this country: people don't want to work. There are a lot of layabouts around. Don't you agree?”

“I don't know, sir. Perhaps. Here, as you can see, we only sell books.”

The man came up to the counter, his eyes darting around the shop, settling occasionally on mine. His appearance and manner seemed vaguely familiar, though I couldn't say why. Something about him reminded me of one of those figures from old-fashioned playing cards or the sort used by fortune-tellers, a print straight from the pages of an incunabulum: his presence was both funereal and incandescent, like a curse dressed in Sunday best.

“If you'll tell me what I can do for you…”

“It's really me who was coming to do you a service. Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“No. The owner is my father.”

“And the name is?”

“My name or my father's?”

The man proffered a sarcastic smile. A giggler, I thought.

“I take it that the sign saying Sempere and Son applies to both of you, then?”

“That's very perceptive of you. May I ask the reason for your visit, if you are not interested in a book?”

“The reason for my visit, which is a courtesy call, is to warn you. It has come to my attention that you're doing business with undesirable characters, in particular inverts and criminals.”

I stared at him in astonishment. “Excuse me?”

The man fixed me with his eyes. “I'm talking about pansies and thieves. Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about.”

“I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea, nor am I remotely interested in listening to you any longer.”

The man nodded in an unfriendly and truculent manner. “You'll just have to endure me, then. I suppose you're aware of citizen Federico Flaviá's activities.”

“Don Federico is the neighborhood's watchmaker, an excellent person. I very much doubt that he's a criminal.”

“I was talking about pansies. I have proof that this old queen frequents your shop, I imagine to buy little romantic novels and pornography.”

“And may I ask you what business this is of yours?”

His answer was to pull out his wallet and place it open on the counter. I recognized a grimy police ID with his picture on it, looking a bit younger. I read up to where it said “Chief Inspector Francisco Javier Fumero.”

“Speak to me with respect, boy, or I'll raise hell, and you and your father will be in deep trouble for selling communist rubbish. Do you hear?”

I wanted to reply, but the words had frozen on my lips.

“Still, this pansy isn't what brought me here today. Sooner or later he'll end up in the police station, like all the rest of his persuasion, and I'll make sure he's given a lesson. What worries me is that, according to my information, you're employing a common thief, an undesirable individual of the worst sort.”

“I don't know who you're talking about, Inspector.”

Fumero gave his servile, sticky giggle.

“God only knows what name he's using now. Years ago he called himself Wilfredo Camagüey, the Mambo King, and said he was an expert in voodoo, dance teacher to the Bourbon royal heir, and Mata Hari's lover. Other times he takes the names of ambassadors, variety artists, or bullfighters. We've lost count by now.”

“I'm afraid I'm unable to help you. I don't know anyone called Wilfredo Camagüey.”

“I'm sure you don't, but you know whom I'm referring to, don't you?”

“No.”

Fumero laughed again, that forced, affected laugh that seemed to sum him up like the blurb on a book jacket. “You like to make things difficult, don't you? Look, I've come here as a friend, to warn you that whoever takes on someone as undesirable as this ends up with his fingers scorched, and you're treating me like a liar.”

“Not at all. I appreciate your visit and your warning, but I can assure you that there hasn't—”

“Don't give me that crap, because if I damn well feel like it, I'll beat the shit out of you and lock you up in the cooler, is that clear? But today I'm in a good mood, so I'm going to leave you with just a warning. It's up to you to choose your company. If you like pansies and thieves, you must be a bit of both yourself. Things have to be clear where I'm concerned. Either you're with me or you're against me. That's life. That simple. So what is it going to be?”

I didn't say anything. Fumero nodded, letting go another giggle.

“Very good, Mr. Sempere. It's your call. Not a very good beginning for us. If you want problems, you'll get them. Life isn't like novels, you know. In life you have to take sides. And it's clear which side you've chosen. The side taken by idiots, the losing side.”

“I'm going to ask you to leave, please.”

He walked off toward the door, followed by his sibylline laugh. “We'll meet again. And tell your friend that Inspector Fumero is keeping an eye on him and sends him his best regards.”

The call from the inspector and the echo of his words ruined my afternoon. After a quarter of an hour of running to and fro behind the counter, my stomach tightening into a knot, I decided to close the bookshop before the usual time and go out for a walk. I wandered about aimlessly, unable to rid my mind of the insinuations and threats made by that sinister thug. I wondered whether I should alert my father and Fermín about the visit, but I imagined that would have been precisely Fumero's intention: to sow doubt, anguish, fear, and uncertainty among us. I decided not to play his game. On the other hand, his suggestions about Fermín's past alarmed me. I felt ashamed of myself on discovering that for a moment I had given credit to the policeman's words. In the end, after much consideration, I decided to banish the entire episode to the back of my mind.

On my way home, I passed the watchmaker's shop. Don Federico greeted me from behind the counter, beckoning me to come in. The watchmaker was an affable, cheerful character who never forgot anyone's birthday, the sort of person you could always go to with a dilemma, knowing that he would find a solution. I couldn't help shivering at the thought that he was on Inspector Fumero's blacklist, and wondered whether I should warn him, although I could not imagine how, without getting caught up in matters that were none of my business. Feeling more confused than ever, I went into his shop and smiled at him.

“How are you, Daniel? What's that face for?”

“Bad day,” I said. “How's everything, Don Federico?”

“Smooth as silk. They don't make watches like they used to anymore, so I've got plenty of work. If things go on like this, I'm going to have to hire an assistant. Your friend the inventor, would he be interested? He must be good at this sort of thing.”

It didn't take much to imagine what Tomás's reactionary father would think of his son accepting a job in the establishment of the neighborhood's official fairy queen. “I'll let him know.”

“By the way, Daniel, I've got the alarm clock your father brought around two weeks ago. I don't know what he did to it, but he'd be better off buying a new one than having it fixed.”

I remembered that sometimes, on suffocating summer nights, my father would sleep out on the balcony.

“It probably fell onto the street,” I said.

“That explains it. Ask him to let me know what to do about it. I can get a Radiant for him at a very good price. Look, take this one with you if you like, and let him try it out. If he likes it, he can pay for it later. If not, just bring it back.”

“Thank you very much, Don Federico.”

The watchmaker began to wrap up the monstrosity in question.

“The latest technology,” he said with pleasure. “By the way, I loved the book Fermín sold me the other day. It was by this fellow Graham Greene. That Fermín was a tremendous hire.”

I nodded. “Yes, he's worth twice his weight in gold.”

“I've noticed he never wears a watch. Tell him to come by the shop and we'll sort something out.”

“I will. Thank you, Don Federico.”

When he handed me the alarm clock, the watchmaker observed me closely and arched his eyebrows. “Are you sure there's nothing the matter, Daniel? Just a bad day?”

I nodded again and smiled. “There's nothing the matter, Don Federico. Take care.”

“You too, Daniel.”

When I got home, I found my father asleep on the sofa, the newspaper on his chest. I left the alarm clock on the table with a note saying “Don Federico says dump the old one” and slipped quietly into my room. I lay down on my bed in the dark and fell asleep thinking about the inspector, Fermín, and the watchmaker. When I woke up again, it was already two o'clock in the morning. I peered into the corridor and saw that my father had retired to his bedroom with the new alarm clock. The apartment was full of shadows, and the world seemed a gloomier and more sinister place than it had been only the night before. I realized that, in fact, I had never quite believed that Inspector Fumero existed. I went into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of cold milk, and wondered whether Fermín would be all right in his
pensión.

On my way back to my room, I tried to banish the image of the policeman from my mind. I tried to get back to sleep but realized that it was impossible. I turned on the light and decided to examine the envelope addressed to Julián Carax that I had stolen from Doña Aurora that morning and which was still in the pocket of my jacket. I placed it on my desk, under the beam of the reading lamp. It was a parchmentlike envelope, with yellowing serrated borders and clayish to the touch. The postmark, just a shadow, said “18 October 1919.” The wax seal had come unstuck, probably thanks to Doña Aurora's good offices. In its place was a reddish stain, like a trace of lipstick that had kissed the fold of the envelope on which the return address was written.

Penélope Aldaya
Avenida del Tibidabo, 32, Barcelona

I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, an ocher-colored sheet neatly folded in two. The handwriting, in blue ink, glided nervously across the page, paling slowly until it regained intensity every few words. Everything on that page spoke of another time: the strokes that depended on the ink pot, the words scratched on the thick paper by the tip of the nib, the rugged feel of the paper. I spread the letter out on the desk and read it, breathless.