The Shadow of the Wind (42 page)

'Fermin, for God's sake, we must get you to a hospital right away.'

He shook his head energetically. 'Take me to her.'

'To who, Fermin?'

'To Bernarda. If I'm going to die, I'd rather it was in her arms.'

32

That night I returned to Plaza Real, to the apartment I'd sworn I would never set foot in again. A couple of regulars who had witnessed the beating from the door of the Xampanet Tavern offered to help me take Fermin to a taxi rank in Calle Princesa while a waiter called the number I had given him, to warn of our arrival. The taxi ride seemed endless. Fermin had lost consciousness before we set off. I held him in my arms, clutching him against my chest and trying to warm him up. I could feel his tepid blood soaking my clothes. I whispered in his ear that we were nearly there, that he was going to be all right. My voice trembled. The driver shot me furtive looks through the mirror.

'Listen, I don't want any trouble, do you hear? If he dies, you'll have to get out.'

'Just shut up and floor it.'

By the time we reached Calle Fernando, Gustavo Barcelo and Bernarda were waiting by the main door of the building, along with Dr Soldevila. When she saw us covered in blood and dirt, Bernarda started to scream in panic. The doctor quickly took Fermin's pulse and assured us that the patient was still alive. Between the four of us, we managed to carry Fermin up the stairs and into Bernarda's room, where a nurse, who had come along with the doctor, was getting everything ready. Once the patient was laid on the bed, the nurse began to undress him. Dr Soldevila insisted that we all leave the room and let him get on with his work. He closed the door on us with a brief, 'He'll live.'

In the corridor Bernarda sobbed inconsolably. She moaned that now that she'd found a good man, for the first time in her life, God had come along and mercilessly wrenched him away from her. Don Gustavo Barcelo took her in his arms and led her to the kitchen, where he proceeded to ply her with brandy until the poor thing could hardly stand up. Once the maid's words were unintelligible, the bookseller poured himself a glass and downed it in one gulp.

'I'm sorry. I didn't know where to go . . .' I began.

'That's all right. You've done the right thing. Soldevila is the best orthopaedic surgeon in Barcelona.' He spoke without addressing anyone in particular.

'Thank you,' I murmured.

Barcelo sighed and poured me a good shot of brandy in a tumbler. I declined his offer, and it was passed on to Bernarda, who quickly made it disappear.

'Will you please go and have a shower and put on some clean clothes,' Barcelo said. 'If you go back home looking like that, your father will die of a heart attack.'

'It's all right… I'm okay,' I said.

'In that case stop trembling. Go on, you can use my bathroom, it has a water heater. You know the way. In the meantime, I'm going to call your father and tell him . . . well, I don't know what I'll tell him. I'll think of something.'

I nodded.

'This is still your home, Daniel,' said Barcelo as I wandered off down the corridors. 'We've missed you.'

I found Gustavo Barcelo's bathroom, but not the light switch. I took off my filthy, bloodstained clothes and hauled myself into the imperial bathtub. A pearly mist filtered in through the window that looked out onto the inner courtyard of the building, and there was enough light for me to be able to make out the outline of the room and the pattern of the enamelled tiles on the floor and walls. The water came out boiling hot and with much greater pressure than our modest bathroom on Calle Santa Ana could offer; it felt like being in a luxury hotel, not that I'd ever set foot in one. I stood under the shower's steamy rays for a few minutes without moving.

The echo of the blows raining down on Fermin still hammered in my ears. I couldn't get Fumero's words out of my mind, or the face of the policeman who had held me down. After a while I noticed that the water was beginning to get cold, and I assumed the reserve in my host's boiler was coming to an end. When I had finished the last drop of lukewarm water, I turned off the tap. The steam rose up my body like silken threads. Through the shower curtains, I noticed a figure standing by the door, her marble gaze shining like the eyes of a cat.

'You can come out. There's nothing to worry about, Daniel. Despite all my evil doings, I still can't see you.'

'Hello, Clara.'

She held out a clean towel towards me. I stretched out my hand and took it, wrapping myself in it with the modesty of a schoolgirl. Even in the steamy darkness, I could see that Clara was smiling, guessing at my movements.

'I didn't hear you come in.'

'I didn't call out. Why are you taking a shower in the dark?'

'How do you know the light isn't on?'

'The buzzing of the bulb,' she said. 'You never came back to say goodbye.'

Yes, I did come back, I thought, but you were busy. The words died on my lips; their animosity seemed distant, ridiculous.

'I know. I'm sorry.'

I got out of the shower and stood on the mat. The steamy air glowed with specks of silver, and the pale light from the window cast a white veil over Clara's face. She hadn't changed a bit. Four years of absence had not helped me.

'Your voice has changed,' she said. 'Have you changed, too, Daniel?'

'I'm just as stupid as before, if that's what you're wondering.'

And more of a coward, I thought. She still had that same broken smile that hurt, even in the dark. She stretched out her hand, and, just as on that afternoon in the Ateneo library some eight years before, I understood immediately. I guided her hand to my damp face and felt her fingers rediscovering me, her lips shaping words in silence.

'I never wanted to hurt you, Daniel. Forgive me.'

I took her hand and kissed it in the dark. 'No: you must forgive me.'

Any possibility of a melodrama was shattered when Bernarda stuck her head round the door. Despite being quite drunk, she realized that I was naked, dripping, and holding Clara's hand against my lips with the light out.

'For the love of Christ, Master Daniel, have you no shame? Jesus. Mary, and Joseph. Some people never learn . . .'

In her embarrassment Bernarda beat a hasty retreat, and I hoped that once the effects of the brandy wore off, the memory of what she had seen would also fade from her mind, like the traces of a dream. Clara moved away a few steps and handed me the clothes she held under her left arm.

'My uncle gave me this suit for you to put on. It's from his younger days. He says you've grown a lot and it will fit you. I'll leave you, so you can get dressed. I shouldn't have come in without knocking.'

I took the change of clothes she was offering me and started to put on the underwear, which was clean-smelling and warm, then the pale pink cotton shirt, the socks, the waistcoat, the trousers, and jacket. The mirror showed me a door-to-door salesman whose smile had abandoned him. When I returned to the kitchen, Dr Soldevila had come out of the bedroom to give us all a bulletin on Fermin's condition.

'For the moment the worst is over,' he announced. 'There's no need to worry. These things always look more serious than they are. Your friend has a broken left arm and two broken ribs, he's lost three teeth, and has a large number of bruises, cuts, and contusions. But luckily there's no internal bleeding and no symptoms of any brain damage. The folded newspapers the patient wore under his clothes to keep him warm and accentuate his figure, as he puts it, served as armour and cushioned the blows. A few moments ago, when he recovered consciousness, the patient asked me to tell you that he's feeling like a twenty-year-old, that he wants blood sausage sandwiches with fresh garlic, a chocolate bar, and some lemon Sugus sweets. I see no problem with that, though I think it would be better to start off with fruit juice, yoghurt, and perhaps a bit of boiled rice. Moreover, as proof of his vigour and presence of mind, he has asked me to transmit to you the fact that, when Nurse Amparito was putting a few stitches in his leg, he had an iceberg of an erection.'

'It's just that he's all man,' Bernarda murmured apologetically.

'When will we be able to see him?' I asked.

'Not just yet. Perhaps by daybreak. It will do him good to rest a bit. Tomorrow, at the latest, I'd like him to be taken to the Hospital del Mar so that he can have a brain scan, just for peace of mind. But I think we can rest assured that Senor Romero de Torres will be as good as new within a few days. Judging from the marks and scars on his body, this man has got out of tighter spots. He's a true survivor. If you need a copy of the report to take along to the police—'

'It won't be necessary,' I interrupted.

'Young man, let me warn you that this could have been very serious. You must report it to the police immediately.'

Barcelo was watching me attentively. I looked back at him, and he nodded.

'There'll be plenty of time for that, Doctor, don't worry,' said Barcelo. 'What's important now is to make sure the patient is well. I will report this incident myself, tomorrow morning, first thing. Even the authorities have a right to a little peace and quiet at night.'

It was obvious that the doctor took a dim view of my suggestion to keep the incident from the police, but when he realized that Barcelo was taking responsibility for the matter, he shrugged his shoulders and returned to the bedroom to continue with his treatment. As soon as the doctor had disappeared, Barcelo told me to follow him to his study. Bernarda sighed on her stool, numb with shock and brandy.

'Bernarda, keep yourself busy. Make some coffee. Nice and strong.'

'Yes, sir. Right away.'

I followed Barcelo to his study, a cave blanketed in clouds of tobacco smoke that curled around columns of books and papers. The discordant echoes of Clara's piano-playing reached us in fits and starts. It was obvious that Maestro Neri's lessons hadn't done much good, at least not in the field of music. The bookseller pointed me to a chair and proceeded to fill his pipe.

'I've phoned your father and told him that Fermin had a minor accident and that you'd brought him here.'

'Did he believe you?'

'I don't think so.'

'Right.'

The bookseller lit his pipe and sat back in the armchair behind his desk. At the other end of the apartment, Clara was tormenting Debussy. Barcelo rolled his eyes.

'What happened to the music teacher?' I asked.

'He was fired. Seems like there were not enough keys on the piano to keep his fingers busy.'

'Right.'

'Are you sure you haven't had a beating, too? You're talking in monosyllables. When you were a young boy, you were much more talkative.'

The study door opened, and Bernarda came in carrying a tray with two steaming cups of coffee and a sugar bowl. She was swaying from side to side as she walked, and I was afraid I might be caught under a shower of boiling-hot coffee.

'May I come in? Will you take yours with a dash of brandy, sir?'

'I think the bottle of Lepanto has earned itself a break for tonight, Bernarda. And you, too. Come on, off you go to sleep. Daniel and I will stay up in case anything is needed. Since Fermin is in your bedroom, you can use mine.'

'Oh, no, sir, I wouldn't hear of it.'

'It's an order. And no arguing. I want you to be asleep in the next five minutes.'

'But, sir . . .'

'Bernarda, you're risking your Christmas bonus.'

'Whatever you say, Senor Barcelo. But I'll sleep on top of the cover. That goes without saying.'