The Shadow of the Wind (17 page)

I
MAGINE THE SCENE,”
D
ON
A
NACLETO CONCLUDED TO EVERYONE'S
dismay.

The epilogue to the story did nothing to raise our hopes. Halfway through the morning, a gray police van had dumped Don Federico on his doorstep. He was covered in blood, his dress was in shreds, and he had lost his wig and his collection of fine costume jewelry. He had been urinated on, and his face was full of cuts and bruises. The baker's son had discovered him huddled in the doorframe, shaking and crying like a baby.

“It's not fair, no, sir,” argued Merceditas, positioned by the door of the bookshop, far from Fermín's wandering hands. “Poor thing, he has a heart of gold, and he always minds his own business. So he likes dressing up as a Gypsy and singing in front of people? Who cares? People are evil.”

“Not evil,” Fermín objected. “Moronic, which isn't quite the same thing. Evil presupposes a moral decision, intention, and some forethought. A moron or a lout, however, doesn't stop to think or reason. He acts on instinct, like a stable animal, convinced that he's doing good, that he's always right, and sanctimoniously proud to go around fucking up, if you'll excuse the French, anyone he perceives to be different from himself, be it because of skin color, creed, language, nationality, or, as in the case of Don Federico, his leisure habits. What the world needs is more thoroughly evil people and fewer borderline pigheads.”

“Don't talk nonsense. What we need is a bit more Christian charity and less spitefulness. We're a disgraceful lot,” Merceditas cut in. “Everybody goes to mass, but nobody pays attention to the words of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Merceditas, let's not mention the missal industry. That's part of the problem, not the solution.”

“There goes the atheist again. And what has the clergy done to you, may I ask?”

“Come on, don't quarrel now,” interrupted my father. “And you, Fermín, go and see about Don Federico, find out whether he needs anything, whether he wants someone to go to the pharmacy for him or have something bought at the market.”

“Yes, Mr. Sempere. Right away. Oratory is my undoing, as you know.”

“Your undoing is the shamelessness and the irreverence you carry around with you,” said Merceditas. “Blasphemer. You ought to have your soul cleaned out with hydrochloric acid.”

“Look here, Merceditas, just because I know you're a good person (though a bit narrow-minded and as ignorant as a brick), and because right now we're facing a social emergency in the neighborhood, in the face of which one must prioritize one's efforts, I will refrain from clarifying a few cardinal points for you—”

“Fermín!” cried my father.

Fermín closed his mouth and rushed out of the shop. Merceditas watched him with disapproval.

“That man is going to get you into trouble one of these days, mark my words. He's an anarchist, a Mason, or a Jew at the very least. With that great big nose of his—”

“Pay no attention to him. He likes to be contradictory.”

Merceditas looked annoyed and shook her head. “Well, I'll leave you now. Some of us have more than one job to do, and time is short. Good morning.”

We all nodded politely and watched her walk away, straight-backed, taking it out on the street with her high heels. My father drew a deep breath, as if wanting to inhale the peace that had just been recovered. Don Anacleto sagged next to him, having finally descended from his flights of rhetoric. His face was pale, and a sad autumnal look had flooded his eyes. “This country has gone to the dogs,” he said.

“Come now, Don Anacleto, cheer up. Things have always been like this, here and everywhere else. The trouble is, there are some low moments, and when those strike close to home, everything looks blacker. You'll see how Don Federico overcomes this. He's stronger than we all think.”

The teacher was mumbling under his breath. “It's like the tide, you see?” he said, beside himself. “The savagery, I mean. It goes away, and you feel safe, but it always returns, it always returns…and it chokes us. I see it every day at school. My God…Apes, that's what we get in the classrooms. Darwin was a dreamer, I can assure you. No evolution or anything of the sort. For every one who can reason, I have to battle with nine orangutans.”

We could only nod meekly. Dr. Anacleto raised a hand to say good-bye and left, his head bowed. He appeared five years older than when he came in. My father sighed. We looked at each other briefly, not knowing what to say. I wondered whether I should tell him about Inspector Fumero's visit to the bookshop. This has been a warning, I thought. A caution. Fumero had used poor Don Federico as a telegram.

“Is anything the matter, Daniel? You're pale.”

I sighed and looked down. I started to tell him about the incident with Inspector Fumero the other afternoon and his threats. My father listened, containing the anger that the burning in his eyes betrayed.

“It's my fault,” I said. “I should have said something….”

My father shook his head. “No. You couldn't have known, Daniel.”

“But—”

“Don't even think about it. And not a word to Fermín. God knows how he would react if he knew the man was after him again.”

“But we have to do something.”

“Make sure he doesn't get into trouble.”

I nodded, not very convinced, and began to continue the work Fermín had started while my father returned to his correspondence. Between paragraphs my father would look over at me. I pretended not to notice.

“How did it go with Professor Velázquez yesterday? Everything all right?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

“Yes. He was pleased with the books. He mentioned that he was looking for a book of Franco's letters.”

“The
Moorslayer
book. But it's apocryphal…a joke by Madariaga. What did you say to him?”

“That we were on the case and would give him some news in two weeks' time at the latest.”

“Well done. We'll put Fermín on the case and charge Velázquez a fortune.”

I nodded. We continued going through the motions of our routine. My father was still looking at me. Here we go, I thought.

“Yesterday a very nice girl came by the shop. Fermín says she's Tomás Aguilar's sister?”

“Yes.”

My father nodded, considering the coincidence with an expression of mild surprise. He granted me a moment's peace before he charged at me again, this time adopted the look of someone who has just remembered something.

“By the way, Daniel, we're not going to be very busy today, and, well, maybe you'd like to take some time off to do your own thing. Besides, I think you've been working too hard lately.”

“I'm fine, thanks.”

“I was even considering leaving Fermín here and going along to the Liceo Opera House with Barceló. This afternoon they're performing
Tannhäuser,
and he's invited me, as he has a few seats reserved in the stalls.” My father pretended to be reading his letters. He was a dreadful actor.

“Since when do you like Wagner?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth…. Besides, with Barceló it makes no difference what it is, because he spends the whole show commenting on the performance and criticizing the wardrobe and the tempo. He often asks after you. Perhaps you should go around to see him at the shop one day.”

“One of these days.”

“Right, then, if you agree, let's leave Fermín in charge today and we'll go out and enjoy ourselves a bit. It's about time. And if you need any money…”

“Dad. Bea is not my girlfriend.”

“Who said anything about girlfriends? That's settled, then. It's up to you. If you need any money, take it from the till, but leave a note so Fermín doesn't get a fright when he closes at the end of the day.”

Having said that, he feigned absentmindedness and wandered into the back room, smiling from ear to ear. I looked at my watch. It was ten-thirty in the morning. I had arranged to meet Bea at five in the university cloister, and, to my dismay, the day was turning out to be longer than
The Brothers Karamazov.

Fermín soon returned from the watchmaker's home and informed us that a commando team of women from the neighborhood had set up a permanent guard to attend to poor Don Federico, whom the doctor had diagnosed as having three broken ribs, a large number of bruises, and an uncommonly severe rectal tear.

“Did you have to buy anything?” asked my father.

“They had enough medicines and ointments to open a pharmacy, so I took the liberty of buying him some flowers, a bottle of cologne, and three jars of peach juice—Don Federico's favorite.”

“You did the right thing. Let me know what I owe you,” said my father. “And how did you find him?”

“Beaten to a pulp, quite frankly. Just to see him huddled up in his bed like a ball of wool, moaning that he wanted to die, I was filled with murderous intentions, believe me. I feel like showing up at the offices of the Crime Squad and bumping off half a dozen pricks with a blunderbuss, beginning with that burst boil, Fumero.”

“Fermín, let's have some peace and quiet. I strictly forbid you to do anything of the sort.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Sempere.”

“And how has Pepita taken it?”

“With exemplary courage. The neighbors have doped her with shots of brandy, and when I saw her, she had collapsed onto the sofa and was snoring like a boar and letting off farts that pierced bullet holes through the upholstery.”

“True to character. Fermín, I'm going to ask you to look after the shop today; I'm going around to Don Federico's for a while. Later I've arranged to meet Barceló. And Daniel has things to do.”

I raised my eyes just in time to catch Fermín and my father exchanging meaningful looks.

“What a couple of matchmakers,” I said. They were still laughing at me when I walked out through the door.

 

A
COLD, SLASHING BREEZE SWEPT THE STREETS, SCATTERING STRIPS OF
mist in its path. The steely sun snatched copper reflections from the roofs and belfries of the Gothic quarter. There were still some hours to go until my appointment with Bea in the university cloister, so I decided to try my luck and call on Nuria Monfort, hoping she was still living at the address provided by her father some time ago.

Plaza de San Felipe Neri is like a small air shaft in the maze of streets that crisscross the Gothic quarter, hidden behind the old Roman walls. The holes left by machine-gun fire during the war pockmark the church walls. That morning a group of children played soldiers, oblivious to the memory of the stones. A young woman, her hair streaked with silver, watched them from the bench where she sat with an open book on her lap and an absent smile. The address showed that Nuria Monfort lived in a building by the entrance to the square. The year of its construction was still visible on the blackened stone arch that crowned the front door: 1801. Once I was in the hallway, there was just enough light to make out the shadowy chamber from which a staircase twisted upward in an erratic spiral. I inspected the beehive of brass letterboxes. The names of the tenants appeared on pieces of yellowed cardboard inserted in slots, as was common in those days.

Miquel Moliner /Nuria Monfort
3–2

I went up slowly, almost fearing that the building would collapse if I were to tread firmly on those tiny dollhouse steps. There were two doors on every landing, with no number or sign. When I reached the third floor, I chose one at random and rapped on it with my knuckles. The staircase smelled of damp, of old stone, and of clay. I rapped a few times but got no answer. I decided to try my luck with the other door. I knocked with my fist three times. Inside the apartment I could hear a radio blaring the pious daily broadcast of
Moments for Reflection with Father Martín Calzado.

The door was opened by a woman in a padded turquoise-blue checked dressing gown, slippers, and a helmet of curlers. In that dim light, she looked like a deep-sea diver. Behind her the velvety voice of Father Martín Calzado was devoting some words to the sponsors of the program, a brand of beauty products called Aurorín, much favored by pilgrims to the sanctuary of Lourdes and with miraculous properties when it came to pustules and warts.

“Good afternoon. I'm looking for Señora Monfort.”

“Nurieta? You've got the wrong door, young man. It's the one opposite.”

“I'm so sorry. It's just that I knocked and there was no answer.”

“You're not a debt collector, are you?” asked the neighbor suddenly, suspicious from experience.

“No. Señora Monfort's father sent me.”

“Ah, all right. Nurieta must be down below, reading. Didn't you see her when you came up?”

When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I saw that the woman with the silvery hair and the book in her hands was still fixed on her bench in the square. I observed her carefully. Nuria Monfort was a beautiful woman, with the sort of features that graced fashion magazines or studio portraits, but a woman whose youth seemed to be ebbing away through her eyes. There was something of her father in her slightness of build. I imagined she must be in her early forties, judging from the gray hair and the lines that aged her face. In a low light, she would have seemed ten years younger.

“Señora Monfort?”

She looked at me as though waking up from a trance, without seeing me.

“My name is Daniel. Your father gave me your address some time ago. He said you might be able to talk to me about Julián Carax.”

When she heard those words, her dreamy look left her. I had a feeling that mentioning her father had not been a good idea.

“What is it you want?” she asked suspiciously.

I felt that if I didn't gain her trust at that very moment, I would have blown my one chance. The only card I could play was to tell the truth.