The Shadow of the Wind (67 page)

Bea dried her tears with her fists and fixed her eyes on mine. I nodded; there was no need to reply with words.

'Why did you call me Julian?'

Bea cast a glance at the half-open door. 'He's here. In this house. He comes and goes. He discovered me the other day, when I was trying to get into the house. Without my saying anything, he knew who I was and what was happening. He set me up in this room, and he brought me a blanket, water, and some food. He told me to wait. He said that everything was going to turn out all right, that you'd come for me. At night we talked for hours. He talked to me about Penelope, about Nuria - above all he spoke about you, about us two. He told me I had to teach you to forget him. . ..'

'Where is he now?'

'Downstairs. In the library. He said he was waiting for someone, and told me not to move from here.'

'Waiting for who?'

'I don't know. He said it was someone who would come with you, that you'd bring him. . ..'

When I peered into the corridor, I could already hear footsteps below, near the staircase. I recognized the spidery shadow on the walls, the black raincoat, the hat pulled down like a hood, and the gun in his hand shining like a scythe. Fumero. He had always reminded me of someone, or something, but until then I hadn't understood what.

4

I snuffed out the candles with my fingers and made a sign to Bea to keep quiet. She grabbed my hand and looked at me questioningly. Fumero's slow steps could be heard below us. I led Bea back inside the room and signalled to her to stay there, hiding behind the door.

'Don't leave this room, whatever happens,' I whispered.

'Don't leave me now, Daniel. Please.'

'I must warn Carax.'

Bea gave me an imploring look, but I went out into the corridor and tiptoed to the top of the main staircase. There was no sign of Fumero. He had stopped at some point in the darkness and stood there, motionless, patient. I stepped back into the corridor and walked down it, past the row of bedrooms, until I got to the front of the mansion. A large window coated in frost refracted two blue beams of light, cloudy as stagnant water. I moved over to the window and saw a black car stationed in front of the main gate, its lights on. I recognized it as Lieutenant Palacios's car. The glowing ember of a cigarette in the dark gave away his presence behind the steering wheel. I went slowly back to the staircase and began to descend, step by step, placing my feet with infinite care. Halfway down, I stopped and scanned the darkness that had engulfed the ground floor.

Fumero had left the front door open as he came in. The wind had blown out the candles and was spitting whirls of snow and frozen leaves across the hall. I went down four more steps, hugging the wall, and caught a glimpse of the large library windows. There was still no sign of Fumero. I wondered whether he had gone down to the basement or to the crypt. The powdery snow that blew in from outside was fast erasing his footprints. I slipped down to the base of the stairs and peered into the corridor that led to the main door. An icy wind hit me. The claw of the submerged angel was just visible outside. I looked in the other direction. The entrance to the library was about ten yards from the foot of the staircase. The anteroom that led to it was sunk in shadows, and I realized that Fumero could be only a few yards from where I was standing, watching me. I looked into the darkness, as impenetrable as the waters of a well. Taking a deep breath, I groped across the distance that separated me from the entrance to the library.

The large oval hall was submerged in a dim, misty light, speckled with shadows that were cast by the snow falling heavily on the other side of the windows. My eyes skimmed over the empty walls in search of Fumero - could he be standing by the entrance? An object protruded from the wall just a couple of yards on my right. For a moment I thought I saw it move, but it was only the reflection of the moon on the blade. A knife, perhaps a double-bladed penknife, had been sunk into the wood panelling. It pierced a square of paper or cardboard. I stepped closer and recognized the image. It was an identical copy of the half-burned photograph that a stranger had once left on the bookshop counter. In the picture, Julian and Penelope, still adolescents, smiled in happiness. The knife went through Julian's chest. I understood then that it hadn't been Lain Coubert, or Julian Carax, who had left the photograph for me, like an invitation. It had been Fumero. The photograph had been poisoned bait. I raised my hand to snatch it away from the knife, but the icy touch of Fumero's gun on my neck stopped me.

'An image is worth more than a thousand words, Daniel. If your father hadn't been a shitty bookseller, he would have taught you that by now.'

I turned slowly and faced the barrel of the pistol. It stank of fresh gunpowder. Fumero's face was contorted into a terrifying grimace.

'Where's Carax?' he demanded.

'Far from here. He knew you would come for him. He's left.'

Fumero observed me in silence. 'I'm going to blow your brains out, kid.'

'That's not going to help you much. Carax isn't here.'

'Open your mouth,' ordered Fumero.

'What for?'

'Open your mouth or I'll open it myself with a bullet.'

I parted my lips. Fumero stuck the revolver in my mouth. I felt nausea rising in my throat. Fumero's thumb tensed on the hammer.

'Now, you bastard, think about whether you have any reason to go on living. What do you say?'

I nodded slowly.

'Then tell me where Carax is.'

I tried to mumble. Fumero slowly pulled out the gun.

'Where is he?'

'Downstairs. In the crypt.'

'You lead the way. I want you to be there when I tell that son of a bitch how Nuria Monfort moaned when I dug the knife into—'

Glancing over Fumero's shoulder, I thought I saw the darkness stirring and a figure without a face, his eyes burning, glided towards us in absolute silence, as if he barely touched the floor. Fumero saw the reflection in my tear-filled eyes, and his face slowly became distorted.

When he turned and shot at the mantle of blackness that surrounded him, two deformed leather claws gripped his throat. They were the hands of Julian Carax, grown out of the flames. Carax pushed me aside and crushed Fumero against the wall. The inspector clutched his revolver and tried to place it under Carax's chin. Before he could pull the trigger, Carax grabbed his wrist and hammered it against the wall, again and again, but Fumero didn't drop the gun. A second shot exploded in the dark and hit the wall, making a hole in the wood panelling. Tears of burning gunpowder and red-hot splinters rained down over the inspector's face. A stench of singed flesh filled the room.

With a violent jerk, Fumero tried to get away from the force that was immobilizing his neck and the hand holding the gun, but Carax wouldn't loosen his grip. Fumero roared with anger and tilted his head until he was able to bite Carax's fist. He was possessed by an animal fury. I heard the snap of his teeth as he tore at the dead skin, and saw Fumero's lips dripping with blood. Ignoring the pain, or perhaps unable to feel it, Carax grabbed hold of the dagger on the wall. He pulled it out and skewered the inspector's right wrist to the wall with a brutal blow that buried the blade into the wooden panel almost to the hilt. Fumero let out a terrible cry of pain as his hand opened in a spasm, and the gun fell to his feet. Carax kicked it into the shadows.

The horror of that scene passed before my eyes in just a few seconds. I felt paralysed, incapable of acting or even thinking. Carax turned to me and fixed his eyes on mine. As I looked at him, I was able to reconstruct his lost features, which I had so often imagined from photographs and old stories.

'Take Beatriz away from here, Daniel. She knows what you must do.

Don't let her out of your sight. Don't let anyone take her from you. Anyone or anything. Look after her. More than your own life.'

I tried to nod, but my eyes turned to Fumero, who was struggling with the knife that pierced his wrist. He yanked it out and collapsed on his knees, holding the wounded arm that was pouring blood.

'Leave,' Carax murmured.

Fumero watched us from the floor, blind with hatred, holding the bloody knife in his left hand. Carax turned to him. I heard hurried footsteps approaching and realized that Palacios was coming to the aid of his boss, alerted by the shots. Before Carax was able to seize the knife from Fumero, Palacios entered the library holding his gun up high.

'Move back,' he warned.

He threw a quick glance at Fumero, who was getting up with some difficulty, and then he looked at us - first at me and then at Carax. I could see horror and doubt etched on his face.

'I said move back.'

Carax paused and withdrew. Palacios observed us coldly, trying to work out what he should do. His eyes rested on me.

'You, get out of here. This doesn't have anything to do with you. Go.'

I hesitated for a moment. Carax nodded.

'No one's leaving this place,' Fumero cut in. 'Palacios, hand me your gun.'

Palacios didn't answer.

'Palacios,' Fumero repeated, stretching out his blood-drenched hand, demanding the weapon.

'No,' mumbled Palacios, gritting his teeth.

Fumero, his maddened eyes filled with disdain and fury, grabbed Palacios's gun and pushed him aside with a swipe of his hand. I glanced at Palacios and knew what was going to happen. Fumero raised the gun slowly. His hand shook, and the revolver shone with blood. Carax drew back a step at a time, in search of the shadows, but there was no escape. The revolver's barrel followed him. I felt all the muscles in my body burn with rage. Fumero's deathly grimace, and the way he kept licking his lips like a madman woke me up like a slap in the face. Palacios was looking at me, silently shaking his head. I ignored him. Carax had given up by now and stood motionless in the middle of the room, waiting for the bullet.

Fumero never saw me. For him only Carax existed and that bloodstained hand holding the revolver. I leaped at him. I felt my feet rise from the ground, but everything seemed to freeze in midair. The blast of the shot reached me from afar, like the echo of a receding storm. There was no pain. The bullet went through my ribs. At first there was a blinding flash, as if I'd been hit by a metal bar and propelled through the air for a couple of yards. I didn't feel the fall, although I thought I saw the walls converging and the ceiling descending at great speed towards me.

A hand held the back of my head, and I saw Julian Carax's face bending over me. In my vision Carax appeared exactly as I'd imagined him, as if the flames had never destroyed his features. I noticed the horror in his eyes and saw how he placed his hand on my chest, and wondered what that smoking liquid was flowing between his fingers. It was then I felt that terrible fire, like the hot breath of embers burning inside me. I tried to scream but nothing surfaced except warm blood. I recognized the face of Palacios next to me, full of remorse, defeated. I raised my eyes, and then I saw her. Bea was advancing slowly from the library door, her face suffused with terror and her hands on her lips. She was trembling and shaking her head without speaking. I tried to warn her, but a biting cold was coursing up my arms, stabbing its way into my body.

Fumero was hiding behind the door. Bea didn't notice his presence. When Carax leaped up and Bea turned, the inspector's gun was already almost touching her forehead. Palacios rushed to stop him. He was too late. Carax was already there. I heard his faraway scream, which bore Bea's name. The room lit up with the flash of the shot. The bullet went through Carax's right hand. A moment later the man without a face was falling upon Fumero. I leaned over to see Bea running to my side, unhurt. I looked for Carax, but I couldn't find him. Another figure had taken his place. It was Lain Coubert, just as I'd learned to fear him reading the pages of a book, so many years ago. This time Coubert's claws sank into Fumero's eyes like hooks and pulled him away. I managed to see the inspector's legs as they were hauled out through the library door. I managed to see how his body shook with spasms as Coubert dragged him without pity towards the main door, saw how his knees hit the marble steps and the snow spat on his face, how the man without a face grabbed him by the neck and, lifting him up like a puppet, threw him into the frozen bowl of the fountain. The hand of the angel pierced his chest, spearing him, the accursed soul driven out like black vapour, falling like frozen tears over the mirror of frozen water.