The Shadow of the Wind (16 page)

We went down to the cabinet and opened the top drawer. An ochre-coloured envelope lay on top of a collection of stopped watches, buttons, and coins that had ceased being legal tender twenty years ago. I picked up the envelope and examined it.

'Did you read it?'

'What do you take me for?'

'I meant no offence. It would have been quite natural, under the circumstances, if you thought that Julian was dead. . . .'

The caretaker shrugged, looked down, and started walking towards the door. I took advantage of that moment to put the letter in the inside pocket of my jacket.

'Look, I don't want you to get the wrong impression,' said the caretaker.

'Of course not. What did the letter say?'

'It was a love letter. Like the stories on the radio, only sadder, you know, because it sounded as if it were really true. Believe me, I felt like crying when I read it.'

'You're all heart, Dona Aurora.'

'And you're a devil.'

That same afternoon, after saying goodbye to Dona Aurora and promising that I would keep her up to date with my investigations on Julian Carax, I went along to see the manager of the apartment block. Senor Molins had seen better days and now mouldered away in a filthy first-floor office on Calle Floridablanca. Still, Molins was a cheerful and self-satisfied individual. His mouth was glued to a half-smoked cigar that seemed to grow out of his moustache. It was hard to tell whether he was asleep or awake, because he breathed like most people snore. His hair was greasy and flattened over his forehead, and he had mischievous piggy eyes. His suit wouldn't have fetched more than ten pesetas in the Encantes Flea Market, but he made up for it with a gaudy tie of tropical colours. Judging by the appearance of the office, not much was managed anymore, except the bugs and cobwebs of a forgotten Barcelona.

'We're in the middle of refurbishment,' he said apologetically.

To break the ice, I let drop Dona Aurora's name as if I were referring to some old friend of the family.

'When she was young, she was a real looker,' was Molins's comment. 'With age she's gone on the heavier side, but then I'm not what I used to be either. You may not believe this, but when I was your age, I was an Adonis. Girls would go on their knees to beg for a quickie, or to have my babies. Alas, the twentieth century is nothing but shit. What can I do for you, young man?'

I presented him with a more or less plausible story about a supposed distant relationship with the Fortunys. After five minutes' chatter, Molins dragged himself to his filing cabinet and gave me the address of the lawyer who dealt with anything related to Sophie Carax, Julian's mother.

'Let me see . . . Jose Maria Requejo. Fifty-nine, Calle Leon XIII. But we send the mail twice a year to a PO box in the main post office on Via Layetana.'

'Do you know Senor Requejo?'

'I've spoken to his secretary occasionally on the telephone. The fact is that any business with him is done by post, and my secretary deals with that. And today she's at the hairdresser's. Lawyers don't have time for face-to-face dealings anymore. There are no gentlemen left in the profession.'

There didn't seem to be any reliable addresses left either. A quick glance at the street guide on the manager's desk confirmed what I suspected: the address of the supposed lawyer, Senor Requejo, didn't exist. I told Mr Molins, who took the news in as if it were a joke.

'Well, I'll be damned!' he said laughing. 'What did I say? Crooks.'

The manager lay back in his chair and made another of his snoring noises.

'Would you happen to have the number of that PO Box?'

'According to the index card it's 2837, although I can't read my secretary's numbers. As I'm sure you know, women are no good at maths. What they're good for is—'

'May I see the card?'

'Sure. Help yourself.'

He handed me the index card, and I looked at it. The numbers were perfectly legible. The PO box was 2321. It horrified me to think of the accounting that must have gone on in that office.

'Did you have much contact with Senor Fortuny during his lifetime?' I asked.

'So so. Quite the ascetic type. I remember that when I found out that the Frenchwoman had left him, I invited him to go whoring with a few mates of mine, nearby, in a fabulous establishment I know next to the La Paloma dance hall. Just to cheer him up, eh? That's all. And you know what? He would not talk to me, even greet me in the street anymore, as if I were invisible. What do you make of that?'

'I'm in shock. What else can you tell me about the Fortuny family? Do you remember them well?'

'Those were different times,' he murmured nostalgically. 'The fact is that I already knew Grandfather Fortuny, the one who started the hat shop. About the son, there isn't much to tell. Now, the wife, she was spectacular. What a woman. And decent too. Despite all the rumours and the gossip

'Like the one about Julian's not being Fortuny's legitimate son?'

'And where did you hear that?'

'As I said, I'm part of the family. Everything gets out.'

'None of that was ever proved.'

'But it was talked about,' I said encouragingly.

'People talk too much. Humans aren't descended from monkeys. They come from parrots.'

'And what did people say?'

'Don't you feel like a little glass of rum? It's Cuban, like all the good stuff that kills you.'

'No thanks, but I'll keep you company. In the meantime, you can tell me .. .'

Antoni Fortuny, whom everyone called the hatter, met Sophie Carax in 1899 by the steps of Barcelona Cathedral. He was returning from making a vow to St Eustace -for of all the saints, St Eustace was considered the most diligent and the least fussy when it came to granting miracles to do with love. Antoni Fortuny, who was already over thirty and a confirmed bachelor, was looking for a wife, and wanted her right away. Sophie was a French girl who lived in a boarding-house for young ladies in Calle Riera Alta and gave private music and piano lessons to the offspring of the most privileged families in Barcelona. She had no family or capital to rely on, only her youth and what musical education she had received from her father - the pianist at a Nimes theatre - before he died of tuberculosis in 1886. Antoni Fortuny, on the contrary, was a man on the road to prosperity. He had recently inherited his father's business, a hat shop of some repute in Ronda de San Antonio, where he had learned the trade that he dreamed one day of teaching his own son. He found Sophie Carax fragile, beautiful, young, docile, and fertile. St Eustace had obliged. After four months of insistent courting, Sophie accepted Antoni s marriage proposal. Senor Molins, who had been a friend of Fortuny the elder, warned Antoni that he was marrying a stranger. He said that Sophie seemed like a nice girl, but perhaps this marriage was a bit too convenient for her, and he should wait a year at least. . . Antoni Fortuny replied that he already knew everything he needed to know about his future wife. The rest did not interest him. They were married at the Basilica del Pino and spent their three-day honeymoon in a spa in the nearby seaside resort of Mongat. The morning before they left, the hatter asked Senor Molins, in confidence,  to be initiated into the mysteries of the bedroom. Molins sarcastically told him to ask his wife. The newlyweds returned to Barcelona after only two days. The neighbours said Sophie was crying when she came into the building. Years later Vicenteta swore that Sophie had told her the following: that the hatter had not laid a finger on her and that when she had tried to seduce him, he had called her a whore and told her he was disgusted by the obscenity of what she was proposing. Six months later Sophie announced to her husband that she was with child. By another man.

Antoni Fortuny had seen his own father hit his mother on countless occasions and did what he thought was the right thing to do. He stopped only when he feared that one more blow would kill her. Despite the beating, Sophie refused to reveal the identity of the child's father. Applying his own logic to the matter, Antoni Fortuny decided that it must be the devil, for that child was the child of sin, and sin had only one father: the Evil One. Convinced in this manner that sin had sneaked into his home and also between his wife's thighs, the hatter took to hanging crucifixes everywhere: on the walls, on the doors of all the rooms, and on the ceiling. When Sophie discovered him scattering crosses in the bedroom to which she had been confined, she grew afraid and, with tears in her eyes, asked him whether he had gone mad. Blind with rage, he turned around and hit her. A whore like the rest,' he spat as he threw her out onto the landing, after flaying her with blows from his belt. The following day, when Antoni Fortuny opened the door of his apartment to go down to the hat shop, Sophie was still there, covered in dried blood and shivering with cold. The doctors never managed to fix the fractures on her right hand completely. Sophie Carax would never be able to play the piano again, but she would give birth to a boy, whom she would name Julian after the father she had lost when she was still too young - as happens with all good things in life. Fortuny considered throwing her out of his home but thought the scandal would not be good for business. Nobody would buy hats from a man known to be a cuckold - the two didn't go together. From then on, Sophie was assigned a dark, cold room at the back of the apartment. It was there she gave birth to her son with the help of two neighbours. Antoni did not return home until three days later. 'This is the son God has given you,' Sophie announced. If you want to punish anyone, punish me, but not an innocent creature. The boy needs a home and a father. My sins are not his. I beg you to take pity on us.'

The first months were difficult for both of them. Antoni Fortuny had downgraded his wife to the rank of servant. They no longer shared a bed or table and rarely exchanged any words except to resolve some domestic matter. Once a month, usually coinciding with the full moon, Antoni Fortuny showed up in Sophie's bedroom at dawn and, without a word, charged at his former wife with vigour but little skill. Making the most of these rare and aggressive moments of intimacy, Sophie tried to win him over by whispering words of love and caressing him. But the hatter was not a man for frivolities, and the eagerness of desire evaporated in a matter of minutes, or even seconds. These assaults brought no children. After a few years, Antoni Fortuny stopped visiting Sophie's chamber for good and took up the habit of reading the Gospels until the small hours, seeking in them a solace for his torment.

With the help of the Gospels, the hatter made an effort to kindle some affection for the child with deep eyes who loved making a joke of everything and inventing shadows where there were none. Despite his efforts, Antoni Fortuny was unable to feel as if little Julian were his flesh and blood, nor did he recognize any aspect of himself in him. The boy, for his part, did not seem very interested either in hats or in the teachings of the catechism. During the Christmas season he would amuse himself by changing the positions of the small figures in the Nativity scene and devising plots in which Baby Jesus had been kidnapped by the three magi from the East who had wicked intentions. He soon became obsessed with drawing angels with wolf's teeth and inventing stories about hooded spirits that came out of walls and ate people's ideas while they slept. In time the hatter lost all hope of being able to set this boy on the right path. The child was not a Fortuny and never would be. Julian maintained that he was bored in school and came home with his notebooks full of drawings of monstrous beings, winged serpents, and buildings that were alive, walked, and devoured the unsuspecting. By then it was quite clear that fantasy and invention interested him far more than the daily reality around him. Of all the disappointments amassed during his lifetime, none hurt Antoni Fortuny more than that son whom the devil had sent to mock him.

At the age of ten, Julian announced that he wanted to be a painter, like Velazquez. He dreamed of embarking on canvases that the great master had been unable to paint during his life because, Julian argued, he'd been obliged to paint so many time-consuming portraits of mentally retarded royals. To make matters worse, Sophie, perhaps to relieve her loneliness and remember her father, decided to give him piano lessons. Julian, who loved music, art, and all matters that were not considered practical in the world of men, soon learned the rudiments of harmony and concluded that he preferred to invent his own compositions rather than follow the music-book scores. At that time Antoni Fortuny still suspected that part of the boy's mental deficiencies were due to his diet, which was far too influenced by his mother's French cooking. It was a well-known fact that the richness of buttery foods led to moral ruin and confusion of the intellect. He forbade Sophie to cook with butter ever again. The results were not entirely as he had anticipated.