The Shadow of the Wind (37 page)

W
E HAD NO NEWS FROM
F
ERMÍN ALL DAY.
M
Y FATHER INSISTED
on opening the bookshop as usual to offer a show of normality and innocence. The police had posted an officer by the door to our stairs, and another watched over Plaza de Santa Ana, sheltering beneath the church door like the effigy of a saint. We could see them shivering under the intense 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 neighbors walked straight past, with a quick glance through the shop window, but not a single buyer ventured in.

“The rumor must have spread,” I said.

My father only nodded. He'd spent all morning without speaking to me, expressing himself only with gestures. The page with 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 Julián Carax. I went to see her to ask her what she remembered about Carax. That's all. She was the daughter of Isaac, the keeper. It was he who gave me her address.”

“Did Fermín know her?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“How can you doubt him and believe these fabrications? All Fermín 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 Fermín, or—”

“Dad, from what we know of Fermín, what it says there is impossible.”

“And what do we know about Fermín, 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, in many things. Who asks you to go digging up other people's lives?”

“I'm free to speak to whomever 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 last name, 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 that 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 must know what you're responsible for and what you're not, Daniel. Sometimes I no longer know who you are.”

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, dragging 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 toward me at full speed. At the last moment, a passerby behind me 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 zooming 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 gray raincoat. I remained rooted to the spot, breathless. Through the curtain of rain, I noticed that my savior 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 Mr. Aguilar was to turn up 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 the bolts and latches began to perform their sounds. 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 looked 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 Tomás, 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 Mr. and Mrs. Aguilar to the doctor, about two hours ago.”

“To the doctor? Is she ill?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“And what 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 Tomás? 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 Tomás's voice in the distance and then some steps approaching. I made up a pretext with which to explain my unannounced visit to my friend. But the figure that appeared at the door of the entrance hall was again Cecilia's. She looked at me contritely, and my forced smile vanished.

“Master Tomás 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 cut my breath.

“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 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 apartment of the Aguilars. I could see the silhouette of my old friend Tomás outlined against his bedroom window. He was staring at me, motionless. I waved my hand at him. 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.

O
N 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 made out the stoical figure of the sentinel on duty stationed opposite the bookshop. When I got to Don Federico Flaviá's shop, I noticed that the watchmaker was standing in the doorway observing the downpour. The scars from his stay at Police Headquarters still showed on his face. He wore an impeccable gray wool suit and held a cigarette that he hadn't bothered to light. I raised a hand 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 without understanding. Don Federico's eyes were fixed on mine, and his smile hadn't diminished. I nodded and followed him into his marvelous bazaar. As soon as we were inside, he handed me a small brown paper bag.

“You'd better leave right away. The scarecrow watching over 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 Fermín held in his hands the last time I'd seen him. Don Federico, pushing me back toward 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 toward to the plainclothes policeman guarding the bookshop. When I passed in front of him, I greeted him with the same hand in which I 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 into the small toilet by the back room and examine the missal. Fermín's note slipped out, fluttering about like a butterfly. I caught it in the 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.

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 missed 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 candy. 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, made me think of a small weasel, looked me up and down. His ratlike 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 with 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 he was on the verge of crapping his pants. What was I supposed to do?”

“Leave him in the street and let him warm up with it.”

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 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 pajamas 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 like haze 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 gray 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 walked down to the street. The newsstands in the Ramblas were already lighting up in the distance. I steered a course toward 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 printed under a cross, and I couldn't bring myself to look at it. I walked away with the newspaper folded under my arm, in search of darkness. The funeral was that afternoon, in Montjuïc Cemetery. After walking around the block, I returned home. My father was still asleep, and I went back into my room. I sat at my desk and took the Meinsterstück 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 months or years to come, that I would always relive her memory in the touch of a stranger, in the recollection of images that no longer belonged to me.