The Shadow of the Wind (28 page)

'But Julian Carax wasn't really one of them,' I observed.

'Sometimes these illustrious institutions offer a scholarship or two for the sons of the gardener or the shoeshine man, just to show their magnanimity and Christian charity,' Fermin proffered. 'The most efficient way of rendering the poor harmless is to teach them to want to imitate the rich. That is the poison with which capitalism blinds the—'

'Please don't get carried away with social doctrine, Fermin. If one of these priests hears you, they'll kick us out of here.' I realized that a couple of padres were watching us with a mixture of curiosity and concern from the top of the steps that led up to the front door of the school. I wondered whether they'd heard any of our conversation.

One of them moved forward with a courteous smile, his hands crossed over his chest like a bishop. He must have been in his early fifties, and his lean build and sparse hair lent him the air of a bird of prey. He had a penetrating gaze and gave off an aroma of fresh eau de cologne and mothballs.

'Good morning. I'm Father Fernando Ramos,' he announced. 'How can I help you?'

Fermin held out his hand. The priest examined it briefly before shaking it, giving us an icy smile.

'Fermin Romero de Torres, bibliographic adviser to Sempere and Son. It is an enormous pleasure to greet Your Most Devout Excellency. Here, at my side, my collaborator and friend, Daniel, a young man of promise and much-recognized Christian qualities.'

Father Fernando observed us without blinking. I wanted the earth to swallow me.

'The pleasure is all mine, Senor Romero de Torres,' he replied amicably. 'May I ask what brings such a formidable duo to our humble institution?5

I decided to intervene before Fermin made some other outrageous comment and we had to make a quick exit. 'Father Fernando, we're trying to locate two former alumni of San Gabriel's: Jorge Aldaya and Julian Carax.'

Father Fernando pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. 'Julian died over fifteen years ago, and Aldaya went off to Argentina,' he said dryly.

'Did you know them?' asked Fermin.

The priest's sharp gaze rested on each of us before he answered. 'We were classmates. May I ask what your interest is in this matter?'

I was wondering how to answer the question, but Fermin beat me to it. 'You see, it so happens that we have in our possession a number of articles that belong or belonged - for on this particular the legal interpretation leads to confusion - to the two persons in question.'

'And what is the nature of these articles, if you don't mind my asking?'

'I beg Your Grace to accept our silence, for God knows there are abundant reasons for conscience and secrecy that have nothing to do with the unquestioning faith Your Excellency merits, as does the order which you represent with such measure of gallantry and piety,' Fermin spewed out at great speed.

Father Fernando appeared to be almost in shock. I decided to take up the conversation again before Fermin had time to get his breath back.

'The articles Senor Romero de Torres is referring to are of a personal nature, mementos and objects of purely sentimental value. What we would like to ask you, Father, if this isn't too much trouble, is to tell us what you remember about Julian and Aldaya from your days as schoolboys.'

Father Fernando was still looking at us suspiciously. It became obvious to me that the explanations we'd given him were not enough to justify our interest and earn us his collaboration. I threw a look of desperation at Fermin, begging him to find some cunning argument with which to win over the priest.

'Do you know that you look a bit like Julian when he was young?' asked Father Fernando suddenly.

Fermin's eyes lit up. Here he goes, I thought. All our luck rests on this card.

'Very shrewd of you, Your Reverence,' proclaimed Fermin, feigning surprise. 'Your uncanny insight has unmasked us. You'll end up as a cardinal at least, or even a pope.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Isn't it obvious and patent, Your Lordship?'

'Quite frankly, no.'

'Can we count on the secrecy of the confessional?'

'This is a garden, not a confessional.'

'It will be enough if you grant us your ecclesiastic discretion.'

'You have it.'

Fermin heaved a deep sigh and looked at me with a melancholy expression. 'Daniel, we can't go on lying to this saintly soldier of Christ.'

'Of course not. . .' I corroborated, completely lost.

Fermin went up to the priest and murmured in a confidential tone, 'Father, we have most solid grounds to suspect that our friend Daniel here is none other than the secret son of the deceased Julian Carax. Hence our interest in reconstructing the past and recovering the memory of an illustrious person, whom the Fates tore away from the side of a poor child.'

Father Fernando fixed his astounded eyes on me. 'Is this true?'

I nodded. Fermin patted my back, his face full of sorrow.

'Look at him, poor lad, searching for a father lost in the mist of memory. What could be sadder than this? Tell me, Your Most Saintly Grace.'

'Have you any proof to support your assertions?'

Fermin grabbed my chin and offered up my face as payment. 'What further proof would the clergyman require than this little face, silent, irrefutable witness of the paternal fact in question?'

The priest seemed to hesitate.

'Will you help me, Father?' I implored cunningly. 'Please . . .'

Father Fernando sighed uncomfortably. 'I don't suppose there's any harm in it,' he said at last. 'What do you want to know?'

'Everything,' said Fermin.

25

We went into Father Fernando's office, where he summoned up his memories, adopting the tone of a sermon. He sculpted his sentences neatly, measuring them out with a cadence that seemed to promise an ultimate moral that never came. Years of teaching had left him with that firm and didactic tone of someone used to being heard, but not certain of being listened to.

'If I remember correctly, Julian Carax started at San Gabriel's in 1914. I got along with him right away, because we both belonged to the small group of pupils who did not come from wealthy families. They called us 'The Starving Gang', and each one of us had his own special story. I'd managed to get a scholarship thanks to my father, who worked in the kitchens of this school for twenty-five years. Julian had been accepted thanks to the intercession of Senor Aldaya, who was a customer of the Fortuny hat shop, owned by Julian's father. Those were different times, of course, and during those days power was still concentrated within families and dynasties. That world has vanished - the last few remains were swept away with the fall of the Republic, for the better, I suppose. All that is left are the names on the letterheads of companies, banks, and faceless consortiums. Like all old cities, Barcelona is a sum of its ruins. The great glories so many people are proud of - palaces, factories, and monuments, the emblems with which we identify - are nothing more than relics of an extinguished civilization.'

Having reached this point, Father Fernando allowed for a solemn pause in which he seemed to be waiting for the congregation to answer with some empty Latin phrase or a response from the missal.

'Amen, Reverend Father. What great truth lies in those wise words,' offered Fermin to fill the awkward silence.

'You were telling us about my father's first year at the school,' I put in gently.

Father Fernando nodded. 'In those days he already called himself Carax, although his paternal surname was Fortuny. At first some of the boys teased him for that, and for being one of The Starving Gang, of course. They also laughed at me because I was the cook's son. You know what kids are like. Deep down, God has filled them with goodness, but they repeat what they hear at home.'

'Little angels,' punctuated Fermin.

'What do you remember about my father?'

'Well, it's such a long time ago. . . . Your father's best friend at that time was not Jorge Aldaya but a boy called Miquel Moliner. Miquel's family was almost as wealthy as the Aldayas, and I daresay he was the most extravagant pupil this school has ever seen. The headmaster thought he was possessed by the devil because he recited Marx in German during mass.'

'A clear sign of possession,' Fermin agreed.

'Miquel and Julian got on extremely well. Sometimes we three would get together during the lunch break and Julian would tell us stories. Other times he would tell us about his family and the Aldayas.

The priest seemed to hesitate.

'Even after leaving school, Miquel and I stayed in touch for a time. Julian had already gone to Paris by then. I know that Miquel missed him. He often spoke about him, remembering secrets Julian had once confided in him. Later, when I entered the seminary, Miquel told me I'd gone over to the enemy. It was meant as a joke, but the fact is that we drifted apart.'

'Do you remember hearing that Miquel married someone called Nuria Monfort?'

'Miquel, married?'

'Do you find that odd?'

'I suppose I shouldn't, but ... I don't know. The truth is that I haven't heard from Miquel for years. Since before the war.'

'Did he ever mention the name of Nuria Monfort?'

'No, never. And he didn't say he was thinking of getting married or that he had a fiancee. . . . Listen, I'm not at all sure that I should be talking to you about this. These are personal things Julian and Miquel told me, with the understanding that they would remain between us.'

'And are you going to refuse a son his only chance of discovering his father's past?' asked Fermin.

Father Fernando was torn between doubt and, it seemed to me, the wish to remember, to recover those lost days. 'I suppose so many years have gone by that it doesn't matter anymore. I can still remember the day when Julian told us how he'd met the Aldayas and how, without realizing it, his life was changed forever.. . .'

. .. In October 1914 an artifact that many took to be a pantheon on wheels stopped one afternoon in front of the Fortuny hat shop on Ronda de San Antonio. From it emerged the proud, majestic, and arrogant figure of Don Ricardo Aldaya, by then already one of the richest men not only in Barcelona but also in the whole of Spain. His textile empire took in citadels of industry and colonies of commerce along all the rivers of Catalonia. His right hand held the reins of the banks and landed estates of half the province. His left hand, ever active, pulled at the strings of the provincial council, the city hall, various ministries, the bishopric, and the customs service at the port.

That afternoon the man with exuberant moustache and kingly sideburns, whom everybody feared, needed a hat. He entered the shop of Don Antoni Fortuny, and, after a quick glance at the premises, he looked at the hatter and his assistant, the young Julian, and said as follows: 'I've been told that, despite appearances, the best hats in Barcelona come out of this shop. Autumn is looking decidedly grim, and I'm going to need six top hats, a dozen bowler hats, hunting caps, and something to wear for the Cortes in Madrid. Are you making a note of this, or do you expect me to repeat it all?'

That was the beginning of a laborious and lucrative process during which father and son combined their efforts to get the order completed for Don Ricardo Aldaya. Julian, who read the papers, was well aware of Aldaya's position and told himself he could not fail his father now, at the most crucial and decisive moment of his business career. From the moment the magnate had set foot in his shop, the hatter almost levitated with joy. Aldaya had promised him that if he was satisfied, he would recommend his establishment to all his friends. That meant that the Fortuny hat shop, from being a dignified but modest enterprise, would attain the highest spheres, covering the heads both large and small of parliamentary members, mayors, cardinals and ministers. That week seemed to fly by like an enchanted dream. Julian skipped school and spent up to eighteen or twenty hours a day working in the backroom workshop. His father, exhausted by his own enthusiasm, hugged him every now and then and even kissed him without thinking. He even went so far as to give his wife, Sophie, a dress and a pair of new shoes for the first time in fourteen years. The hatter was unrecognizable. One Sunday he forgot to go to church, and that same afternoon, brimming with pride, he put his arms around Julian and said, with tears in his eyes, 'Grandfather would have been proud of us.'