The Shadow of the Wind (32 page)

G
USTAVO
B
ARCELÓ 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 unraveling my jumbled story, which seemed to amuse him enormously. Every now and then, he would raise a hand and take notes, or he 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 ingenuousness 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, who 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 everything else.”

Barceló tried to keep his laughter to himself. I was about to continue the narration of my adventures when Dr. Soldevila poked his head around 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. This 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 has not wished 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 Fermín. He's obviously still in shock.”

“Perhaps, but I wouldn't rule out shamelessness. There was no way of stopping him pinching the nurse's bottom and reciting rhymed 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, after all, Bernarda had challenged Barceló's orders and was lying next to Fermín on the bed. The fright, the brandy, and the exhaustion had finally sent her to sleep. Covered in bandages, dressings, and slings, Fermín held her tenderly, stroking her hair. His face carried a bruise that 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, Fermín?” 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, Fermín. 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.”

Barceló frowned. Clara went on tinkling at the piano in the distance.

“Don't worry, Daniel. I've survived worse sticks and stones. That guy Fumero can't even kick a bad habit.”

“So the person who's sculpted you a new face is none other than Inspector Fumero,” said Barceló. “I see you two move about in the highest circles.”

“I hadn't got to that part of the story,” I said.

Fermín looked at me in alarm.

“It's all right, Fermín. 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, Fermín, 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 come to my house, and 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 business and Bernarda's. She's quite old enough. And now, let's be frank. What kind of charade are you involved in?”

“What have you told him, Daniel?”

“We got to act two: enter the femme fatale,” Barceló explained.

“Nuria Monfort?” Fermín asked.

Barceló smacked his lips with delight. “But is there more than one? This sounds like
The Abduction from the Seraglio.
”

“Please lower your voice. My fiancée is present.”

“Don't worry, your fiancée 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 think better than two, especially if the third one is mine.”

Fermín attempted to shrug his shoulders under dressings and slings. “I'm not against it, Daniel. It's your call.”

Having resigned myself to have 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 ended, Barceló got up and began pacing up and down the room, pondering. Fermín and I observed him cautiously. Bernarda snored like a baby calf.

“Little angel,” whispered Fermín, 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 Julián 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. Even about the time of day.”

“That's what I've been saying from the start,” said Fermín, casting a glance at me. “Trouble is, some of us suffer from an excess of juvenile ardor and a lack of strategic grasp of the situation.”

“Look who's talking: Saint 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,” Barceló 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 all see only what is good or what we want to see.”

“What a great quote, Don Gustavo,” Fermín said. “Do you mind if I add it to my repertoire?”

“There can always be exceptions,” I objected. “From what we know, Mr. Fortuny was rather peculiar.”

“All we know about him is thirdhand gossip,” said Barceló. “When everyone is determined to present someone as a monster, there are two possibilities: either he's a saint or they themselves are not telling the whole story.”

“The trouble is, you've taken a shining to the hatter just because he's dense,” said Fermín.

“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,” Barceló added.

“What an evening you're having, Don Gustavo,” Fermín 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 Christmas play to a conclusion before Inspector Fumero reserves a suite for you in San Sebas Prison. Fermín, I assume you're with me?”

“I follow Daniel's orders. If he orders it, I'd even play the part of Baby Jesus.”

“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 Fermín 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, Fermín. While Daniel is sticking his neck out, 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's going to 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 feminine psychology.”

“And in the meantime, what are you planning to do, Dr. Freud?” I asked.

“That's my business, and in good time you'll know. And you'll thank me for it.”

I looked for reassurance in Fermín's eyes, but the poor man had slowly been falling asleep hugging Bernarda while Barceló was drawing up his triumphant plan. Fermín'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,” Barceló murmured.

“Fermín is a great guy,” 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.”

Barceló 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 favorite book open in his hands—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 gray, 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.

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 savor 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 Fermín, 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 Doña Beatriz Aguilar, sister of my childhood friend.

“Daniel, you've got your head in the clouds. Is anything worrying you? Is it Fermín?” 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 fastener of a bra.

“Speaking of the devil…”

I raised my eyes, and there he was. Fermín Romero de Torres, the one and only, wearing his best suit and with that ragged posture of a cheap cigar. He was coming 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, Fermín 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, Fermín, for God's sake,” said my horrified father.

“Wouldn't hear of it. Statistics prove it: 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 Fermín's eyes suggested that even though his bones hurt him terribly, the prospect of being alone in his
pensión
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 honor that I won't even lift a finger.”

Fermín 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 Capón, acclaimed as a prodigy by critics all over the country. While he devoted himself to his task, Fermín 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.

 

T
HE 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 in the twilight. 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 property, leaving the door almost closed, so that it looked shut but was ready to be opened by Bea. I had arrived early deliberately. 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 the door. I pushed it gently inward, and felt the breath from inside the house brushing my face, a whiff 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. A copper-colored bubble lit up in my hands and revealed the dancing shapes of the walls that wept with 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 between mantles of impenetrable 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 get warm. 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 gone down enough to chill from my mind the feverish ideas I had been harboring for days and fill me with 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 cookers 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 cabinetmaking, with reliefs in the shape of angels and a large cross in the center. 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 ax, 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 for the door of a broom closet. 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 wet 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 I had kept since my childhood, buried behind curtains of fear.

 

A rainy afternoon on the eastern slope of Montjuïc, 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 remember only as black suits that were 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 gray 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 of ash and rain, was devouring everything, a smell of death and emptiness.

 

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 closet 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 tripods. 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, Penélope.” 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 Penélope 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's 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 toward 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, becoming 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 desires might never turn up grew more acute. To kill that anxiety, I decided to continue with my plumbing and set off in search of radiators that 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, with an asinine smile plastered on my face.

 

W
HEN
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 behavior is to allege 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 making 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 and proving that then and forever afterward anything that might occur to me had already occurred to her.

I remember her sitting with her back against the closed door of that room, her arms hanging down beside her, the palms of her hands opened toward 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 her white thighs received me.