The Shadow of the Wind (48 page)

I embraced him without a word and let him cry. People were giving us strange looks, and I returned their looks with venom. After a while they decided to ignore us. Later, while I walked with Fermin to his pension, my friend recovered his voice.

'What I've told you today ... I beg you not to tell Bernarda.. .'

'I won't tell Bernarda, or anyone else. Not one word, Fermin.'

We said farewell with a handshake.

37

I couldn't sleep at all that night. I lay on my bed with the light on, staring at my smart Montblanc pen, which hadn't written anything for years - it was fast becoming the best pair of gloves ever given to someone with no hands. More than once I felt tempted to go over to the Aguilars' apartment and, for want of a better outcome, give myself up. But after much meditation, I decided that bursting into Bea's home in the early hours of the morning was not going to improve matters. By daybreak, exhausted and confused, I had concluded that the best thing to do was let the water flow; in time the river would carry the bad blood away.

The morning inched by with little activity in the bookshop, and I took advantage of the circumstance to doze, standing up, with what my father described as the grace and balance of a flamingo. At lunchtime, as arranged with Fermin the night before, I pretended I was going out for a walk, while Fermin claimed he had an appointment at the outpatients' department to have a few stitches removed. As far as I could tell, my father swallowed both lies whole. The idea of systematically lying to my father was beginning to unnerve me, and I said as much to Fermin halfway through the morning, while my father was out on an errand.

'Daniel, the father-son relationship is based on thousands of little white lies. Presents from the Three Kings, the tooth fairy, meritocracy, and many others. This is just one more. Don't feel guilty.'

When the time came, I lied again and made my way to the home of Nuria Monfort, whose touch and smell remained indelible in my memory. The cobblestones of Plaza de San Felipe Neri had been taken over by a flock of pigeons, but otherwise the square was deserted. I crossed the paving under the watchful eye of dozens of pigeons and looked around in vain for Fermin, disguised as heaven knows what - he had refused to reveal his plan. I went into the building and saw that the name of Miquel Moliner was still on the letterbox; I wondered whether that would be the first flaw I was going to point out in Nuria Monfort's story. As I went up the stairs in the dark, I almost hoped she wouldn't be at home. Nobody can feel more compassion for a fibber than another one. When I reached the fourth-floor landing, I stopped to gather my courage and devise some excuse with which to justify my visit. The neighbour's radio was still thundering at the other end of the landing, this time broadcasting a game show on which contestants tested their knowledge of religious lore. It went by the name With a Little Help from the Lord, and reputedly held the whole of Spain spellbound every Tuesday at noon.

And now, for five points, and with a little help from the Lord, can you tell us, Bartolome, how does the Evil One disguise his appearance in front of the wise men of the Tabernacle, in the parable of the archangel and the gourd, in the Book of Joshua? a) as a young goat, b) as a jug vendor, or c) as an acrobat with a monkey?

Riding on the wave of applause from the audience in the studios of Radio Nacional, I planted myself in front of Nuria Monfort's door and pressed the bell for a few seconds. I listened to the echo spread through the apartment and heaved a sigh of relief. I was about to leave when I heard footsteps coming to the door. The peephole lit up like a tear of light. I smiled. As the key turned in the lock, I breathed deeply.

38

'Daniel'

The blue smoke of her cigarette coiled around her face. Her lips shone with dark lipstick; they were moist and left marks like bloodstains on the filter she held between her index and ring fingers. There are people you remember and people you dream of. For me, Nuria Montfort was like a mirage: you don't question its veracity, you simply follow it until it vanishes or until it destroys you. I followed her through to the narrow, shadowy room that contained her desk, her books, and that collection of lined-up pencils, like an accident of symmetry.

'I thought I wouldn't see you again.'

'I'm sorry to disappoint you.'

She sat on the chair by her desk, crossing her legs and leaning backwards. I tore my eyes away from her throat and concentrated on a damp spot on the wall. I went up to the window and had a quick glance around the square. No sign of Fermin. I could hear Nuria Monfort breathing behind my back, could feel her eyes brushing my neck. I spoke without taking my eyes off the window.

'A few days ago, a good friend of mine discovered that the property manager responsible for the old Fortuny-Carax apartment had been sending his correspondence to a PO box in the name of a firm of solicitors which, apparently, doesn't exist. This same friend discovered that the person who for years has been collecting the mail to this PO box has been using your name, Senora Monfort—'

'Shut up.'

I turned around and saw her retreating into the shadows.

'You judge me without knowing me,' she said.

'Then help me to get to know you.'

'Have you told anyone about this? Who else knows what you've just said to me?'

'More people than you'd think. The police have been following me for a long time.'

'Fumero?'

I nodded. It seemed to me that her hands were trembling.

'You don't know what you've done, Daniel'

'Then tell me,' I answered with a harshness I didn't feel.

'You think that because you chance upon a book you have a right to enter the lives of people you don't know and meddle in things you cannot understand and that don't belong to you.'

'They belong to me now, whether I like it or not.'

'You don't know what you're saying.'

'I was in the Aldayas' house. I know that Jorge Aldaya is hiding there. I know he was the person who murdered Carax.' I didn't know that I believed these words until I heard myself saying them.

She looked at me for a long time, choosing her words carefully. 'Does Fumero know this?'

'I don't know.'

'You'd better know. Did Fumero follow you to that house?'

The anger in her eyes burned me. I had made my entrance playing the role of accuser and judge, but with every minute that passed, I felt more like the culprit.

'I don't think so. Did you know? Did you know that it was Aldaya who killed Julian and that he's hiding in that house? Why didn't you tell me?'

She smiled bitterly. 'You don't understand anything, do you?'

'I understand that you lied in order to defend the man who murdered the person you call your friend, that you've been covering up his crime for years, protecting a man whose only aim is to erase any trace of the existence of Julian Carax, who burns his books. I also understand that you lied to me about your husband, that he's not in prison and clearly isn't here either. That's what I understand.'

Nuria Monfort shook her head slowly. 'Go away, Daniel. Leave this house now and don't return. You've done enough.'

I walked away towards the door, leaving her in the dining room. I stopped halfway and looked back. Nuria Monfort was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, all concern for appearances gone.

I crossed the square with downcast eyes. I carried with me the pain I had received from the lips of that woman, a pain I now felt I deserved, though I didn't understand why. 'You don't know what you've done, Daniel.' All I wanted was to get away from that place. As I walked past the church, I didn't at first notice the presence of a gaunt, large-nosed priest standing at the entrance holding a missal and a rosary. He blessed me unhurriedly as I passed by.

39

I walked into the bookshop almost forty-five minutes late. When my father saw me, he frowned disapprovingly and looked at the clock.

'What time do you call this? You know I have to go out to visit a client in San Cugat and yet you left me here alone.'

'What about Fermin? Isn't he back yet?'

My father shook his head with that haste that seemed to take over when he was in a bad mood. 'By the way, there's a letter for you. I've left it next to the till.'

'Dad, I'm sorry but—'

He waved my excuses aside, threw on a raincoat and hat, and went out of the door without saying goodbye. Knowing him, I guessed his anger would evaporate before he reached the train station. What I found odd was Fermin's absence. Since I'd seen him dressed up as a vaudeville priest in Plaza de San Felipe Neri, waiting for Nuria Monfort to come rushing out and lead him to the heart of the mystery, my faith in our strategy had crumbled away. I imagined that if Nuria Monfort did go out, Fermin probably ended up following her to the chemist's or the baker's. What a great plan! I went over to the till to have a look at the letter my father had mentioned. The envelope was white and rectangular, like a tombstone, and in the place of a crucifix it bore a return address that managed to crush what little spirit I had left in me that day.

MILITARY GOVERNMENT OF BARCELONA

RECRUITMENT OFFICE

'Hallelujah,' I mumbled.

I knew the contents of the letter without having to open it, but even so I did, just to wallow in my misery. The letter was concise: two paragraphs of that prose, poised somewhere between strident proclamation and the aria from an operetta, that characterizes all military correspondence. It was announced to me that in two months' time I, Daniel Sempere, would have the honour and pride of fulfilling the most sacred and edifying duty that could befall an Iberian male: to serve the Motherland and wear the uniform of the national crusade for the defence of the spiritual bulwark of the West. I hoped that at least Fermin would be able to see the funny side of it and make us laugh a bit with his rhyming version of The Fall of the Judeo-Masonic Conspiracy. Two months. Eight weeks. Sixty days. I could always divide up the time into seconds and get a number a mile long. I had 5,184,000 seconds left of freedom. Perhaps Don Federico, who according to my father could even build a Volkswagen, could make me a clock with brakes. Perhaps someone could explain to me how I was going to manage not to lose Bea forever. When I heard the tinkle of the doorbell, I thought it would be Fermin, returning after having finally persuaded himself that our efforts as detectives were nothing more than a bad joke.

'Well, if it's not the crown prince himself watching over his castle -and so he should be, even if his face is as long as a cat's tail. Cheer up, Little Boy Blue,' said Gustavo Barcelo. He sported a camel-hair coat and his customary ivory walking stick, which he didn't need and which he brandished like a cardinal's mitre. 'Isn't your father in, Daniel?'

'I'm sorry, Don Gustavo. He went out to visit a customer, and I don't suppose he'll be back until—'

'Perfect. Because it's not your father I've come to see, and it's better if he doesn't hear what I have to tell you.'

He winked at me, pulling off his gloves and looking around the shop.

'Where's our colleague Fermin? Is he around?'

'Missing in action.'

'Applying his talents to the Carax case, I imagine?'

'Body and soul. The last time I saw him, he was wearing a cassock and was offering the benediction urbi et orbi'

'I see. . . . It's my fault for egging you on. I wish I hadn't opened my mouth.'

'You seem rather worried. Has anything happened?'

'Not exactly. Or yes, in a way.'

'What did you want to tell me, Don Gustavo?'

The bookseller smiled at me meekly. His usual haughty expression was nowhere to be seen. Instead he looked serious and concerned.