The Shadow Of The Wind Part 12

'Exactly. Mysteries galore. They should knock that building down and throw lime over the ground.'

I thanked him for the information and was about to turn down the avenue when I looked up and saw Tibidabo Mountain awakening behind the gauzy clouds. Suddenly I felt like taking the funicular up the hill to visit the old amus.e.m.e.nt park crowning its top and wander among its merry-go-rounds and the eerie automaton halls, but I had promised to be back in the bookshop on time.

As I returned to the station, I pictured Julian Carax walking down that same road, gazing at those same solemn facades that had hardly changed since then, perhaps even waiting to board the blue tram that tiptoed up to heaven. When I reached the foot of the avenue, I took out the photograph of Penelope Aldaya smiling in the courtyard of the family mansion. Her eyes spoke of an untroubled soul and the promise of the future. 'Penelope, who loves you.'

I imagined Julian Carax at my age, holding that image in his hands, perhaps under the shade of the same tree that now sheltered me. I could almost see him smiling confidently, contemplating a future as wide and luminous as that avenue, and for a moment I thought there were no more ghosts there than those of absence and loss, and that the light that smiled on me was borrowed light, only real as long as I could hold it in my eyes, second by second.

18.

When I got back home, I realized that Fermin or my father had already opened the bookshop. I went up to the apartment for a moment to have a quick bite. My father had left some toast and jam and a Thermos flask of strong coffee on the dining-room table for me. I polished it all off and was down again in ten minutes, reborn. I entered the bookshop through the door in the back room that adjoined the entrance hall of the building and went straight to my cupboard. I put on the blue ap.r.o.n I usually wore to protect my clothes from the dust on boxes and shelves. At the bottom of the cupboard, I kept an old tin biscuit box, a treasure chest of sorts. There I stored a menagerie of useless bits of rubbish that I couldn't bring myself to throw away: watches and fountain pens damaged beyond repair, old coins, marbles, wartime bullet cases I'd found in Laberinto Park and fading postcards of Barcelona from the turn of the century. Still floating among all those bits and pieces was the old sc.r.a.p of newspaper on which Isaac Montfort had written down his daughter Nuria's address, the night I went to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books to hide The Shadow of the Wind. I examined it in the dusty light that filtered between shelves and piled-up boxes, then closed the tin box and put the address in my wallet. Having resolved to occupy both mind and hands with the most trivial job I could find, I walked into the shop.

'Good morning,' I announced.

Fermin was cla.s.sifying the contents of various parcels that had arrived from a collector in Salamanca, and my father was struggling to decipher a German catalogue of Lutheran apocrypha.

'And may G.o.d grant us an even better afternoon,' sang Fermin - a veiled reference, no doubt, to my meeting with Bea.

I didn't grant him the pleasure of an answer. Instead I turned to the inevitable monthly ch.o.r.e of getting the account book up to date, checking receipts and order forms, collections and payments. The sound of the radio orchestrated our serene monotony, treating us to a selection of hit songs by celebrated crooner Antonio Machin, who was quite fas.h.i.+onable at the time. Caribbean rhythms tended to get on my father's nerves, but he tolerated the tropical soundscape because the tunes reminded Fermin of his beloved Cuba. The scene was repeated every week: my father pretended not to hear, and Fermin would abandon himself to a vague wiggling in time to the danzdn, punctuating the commercial breaks with anecdotes about his adventures in Havana. The shop door was ajar, and a sweet aroma of fresh bread and coffee wafted through, lifting our spirits. After a while our neighbour Merceditas, who was on her way back from doing her shopping in Boqueria Market, stopped by the shop window and peered round the door.

'Good morning, Senor Sempere,' she sang.

My father blushed and smiled at her. I had the feeling that he liked Merceditas, but his monkish manners confined him to an impregnable silence. Fermin ogled her out of the corner of his eye, keeping the tempo with his gentle hip swaying and licking his lips as if a Swiss roll had just walked in through the door. Merceditas opened a paper bag and gave us three s.h.i.+ny apples. I imagined she still fancied the idea of working in the bookshop and made little effort to hide her dislike for Fermin, the usurper.

'Aren't they beautiful? I saw them and said to myself, These are for the Semperes,' she said in an affected tone. 'I know you intellectuals like apples, like that Isaac with his gravity thing, you know.'

'Isaac Newton, pumpkin,' Fermin specified.

Merceditas looked angrily at him. 'h.e.l.lo, Mr Smarty-pants. You can be grateful that I've brought one for you, too, and not a sour grapefruit, which is what you deserve.'

'But, woman, coming from your nubile hands, this offering, this fleshy fruit of original sin, ignites my-'

'Fermin, please,' interrupted my father.

'Yes, Senor Sempere,' said Fermin obediently, beating a retreat.

Merceditas was on the point of shooting something back at Fermin when we heard an uproar in the street. We all fell silent, listening expectantly. We could hear indignant cries outside, followed by a surge of murmuring. Merceditas carefully put her head round the door. We saw a number of shopkeepers walk by looking uncomfortable and swearing under their breath. Soon Don Anacleto Olmo appeared - a resident of our block and unofficial spokesman for the Royal Academy of Language in the neighbourhood. Don Anacleto was a secondary-school teacher with a degree in Spanish literature and a handful of other Humanities, and he shared an apartment on the first floor with seven cats. When he was not teaching, he moonlighted as a blurb writer for a prestigious publis.h.i.+ng firm, and it was rumoured that he also composed erotic verse that he published under the saucy alias of 'Humberto Peac.o.c.k'. While among friends Don Anacleto was an una.s.suming, genial fellow, in public he felt obliged to act the part of declamatory poet, and the affected purple prose of his speech had won him the nickname of 'the Victorian'.

That morning the teacher's face was pink with distress, and his hands, in which he held his ivory cane, were almost shaking. All four of us stared at him.

'Don Anacleto, what's the matter?' asked my father.

'Franco has died, please say he has,' prompted Fermin.

'Shut up, you beast,' Merceditas cut in. 'Let the doctor talk.'

Don Anacleto took a deep breath, regained his composure, and, with his customary majesty, unfolded his account of what had happened.

'Dear friends, life is the stuff of drama, and even the n.o.blest of the Lord's creatures can taste the bitterness of destiny's capricious and obstinate ways. Last night, in the small hours, while the city enjoyed the well-deserved sleep of all hardworking people, Don Federico Flavia i Pujades, a well-loved neighbour who has so greatly contributed to this community's enrichment and solace in his role as watchmaker, only three doors down from this bookshop, was arrested by the State Police.'

I felt my heart sink.

'Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!' remarked Merceditas.

Fermin puffed with disappointment, for it was clear that the dictator remained in perfect health.

Well on his way now, Don Anacleto took a deep breath and prepared to go on: 'According to a reliable account revealed to me by sources close to Police Headquarters, last night, shortly after midnight, two bemedalled undercover members of the Crime Squad caught Don Federico clad in the lush, licentious costume of a diva and singing risque variety songs on the stage of some dive in Calle Escudillers, where he was allegedly entertaining an audience mostly made up of cerebrally deficient members of the public. These G.o.dforsaken creatures, who had eloped that same afternoon from the sheltering premises of a hospice belonging to a religious order, had pulled down their trousers in the frenzy of the show and were dancing about with no restraint, clapping their hands, with their privates in full view, and drooling.'

Merceditas made the sign of the cross, alarmed by the salacious turn events were taking.

'On learning of what had transpired, the pious mothers of some of those poor souls made a formal complaint on the grounds of public scandal and affront to the most basic code of morality. The press, that nefarious vulture that feeds on misfortune and dishonour, did not take long to pick up the scent of carrion. Thanks to the wretched offices of a professional informer, not forty minutes had elapsed since the arrival of the two members of the police when Kiko Calabuig appeared on the scene. Calabuig, ace reporter for the muckraking daily El Caso, was determined to uncover whatever deplorable vignettes were necessary and to leave no shady stone unturned in order to spice up his lurid report in time for today's edition. Needless to say, the spectacle that took place in those premises is described with tabloid viciousness as horrifying and Dantesque, in twenty-four-point headlines.'

'This can't be right,' said my father. 'I thought Don Federico had learned his lesson.'

Don Anacleto gave a priestly nod. 'Yes, but don't forget the old sayings: "The leopard cannot change his spots," and "Man cannot live by bromide alone. . . ." And you still haven't heard the worst.'

'Then, please, sire, could you get to the frigging point? Because with all this metaphorical spin and flourish, I'm beginning to feel a fiery bowel movement at the gates,' Fermin protested.

'Pay no attention to this animal. I love the way you speak. It's like the voice on the newsreel, Dr Anacleto,' interposed Merceditas.

'Thank you, child, but I'm only a humble teacher. So, back to what I was saying, without further delay, preambles or frills. It seems that the watchmaker, who at the time of his arrest was going by the nom de guerre of "Lady of the Curls", had already been arrested under similar circ.u.mstances on a couple of occasions - which were registered in the annals of crime by the guardians of law and order.'

'Criminals with a badge, you mean,' Fermin spat out.

'I don't get involved in politics. But I can tell you that, after knocking poor Don Federico off the stage with a well-aimed bottle, the two officers led him to the police station in Via Layetana. With a bit of luck, and under different circ.u.mstances, things would just have ended up with some joke cracking and perhaps a couple of slaps in the face and other minor humiliations, but, by great misfortune, it so happened that the noted Inspector Fumero was on duty last night.'

'Fumero,' muttered Fermin. The very mention of his nemesis made him shudder.

'The one and only. As I was saying, the champion of urban safety, who had just returned from a triumphant raid on an illegal betting and beetle-racing establishment on Calle Vigatans, was informed about what had happened by the anguished mother of one of the missing boys and the alleged mastermind behind the escapade, Pepet Guardiola. At that the famous inspector, who, it appears, had knocked back some twelve double shots of brandy since suppertime, decided to intervene in the matter. After examining the aggravating factors at hand, Fumero proceeded to inform the sergeant on duty that so much f.a.ggotry (and I cite the word in its starkest literal sense, despite the presence of a young lady, for its doc.u.mentary relevance to the events in question) required a lesson, and that what the watchmaker - that is to say, our Don Federico Flavia i Pujades - needed, for his own good and that of the immortal souls of the Mongoloid children, whose presence was incidental but a deciding factor in the case, was to spend the night in a common cell, down in the lower bas.e.m.e.nt of the inst.i.tution, in the company of a select group of thugs. As you probably know, this cell is famous in the criminal world for its inhospitable and precarious sanitary conditions, and the inclusion of an ordinary citizen in the list of guests is always cause for celebration, for it adds spice and novelty to the monotony of prison life.'

Having reached this point, Don Anacleto proceeded to sketch a brief but endearing portrait of the victim, whom, of course, we all knew well.

'I don't need to remind you that Senor Flavia i Pujades has been blessed with a fragile and delicate personality, all goodness of heart and Christian charity. If a fly finds its way into his shop, instead of smas.h.i.+ng it with a slipper, he'll open the door and windows wide so that the insect, one of G.o.d's creatures, is swept back by the draught into the ecosystem. I know that Don Federico is a man of faith, always very devout and involved in parish activities, but all his life he has had to live with a hidden compulsion, which, on very rare occasions, has got the better of him, sending him off into the streets dolled up as a tart. His ability to mend anything from wrist.w.a.tches to sewing machines is legendary, and as a person he is well loved by every one of us who knew him and frequented his establishment, even by those who did not approve of his occasional night escapades sporting a wig, a comb and a flamenco dress.'

'You speak of him as if he were dead,' ventured Fermin with dismay.

'Not dead, thank G.o.d.'

I heaved a sigh of relief. Don Federico lived with his deaf octogenarian mother, known in the neighbourhood as 'La Pepita', who was famous for letting off hurricane-force wind capable of stunning the sparrows on her balcony and sending them spiralling down to the ground.

'Little did Pepita imagine that her Federico,' continued the schoolteacher, 'had spent the night in a filthy cell, where a whole band of pimps and roughnecks had handled him like a party wh.o.r.e, only to give him the beating of his life when they had tired of his lean flesh, while the rest of the inmates sang in chorus, "Pansy, pansy, eat s.h.i.+t you old dandy!"'

A deadly silence came over us. Merceditas sobbed. Fermin tried to comfort her with a tender embrace, but she jumped to one side.

19.

'Imagine the scene,' Don Anacleto concluded.

The epilogue to the story did nothing to raise our hopes. Halfway through the morning, a grey 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 jewellery. 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 Fermin'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,' Fermin 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 an animal, convinced that he's doing good, that he's always right, and sanctimoniously proud to go around f.u.c.king up, if you'll excuse the French, anyone he perceives to be different from himself, be it because of skin colour, creed, language, nationality or, as in the case of Don Federico, his leisure pursuits. What the world really needs are 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 ma.s.s, but n.o.body 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 ever done to you, may I ask?'

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

'Yes, Senor 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, 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 face of which one must prioritize one's efforts, I will refrain from clarifying a few cardinal points for you-'

'Fermin!' cried my father.

Fermin 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 G.o.d .. . Apes, that's what we get in the cla.s.srooms. Darwin was a dreamer, I can a.s.sure you. No evolution or anything of the sort. For every one who can reason, I have to battle with nine orang-utans.'

We could only nod meekly. Don Anacleto raised a hand to say goodbye and left, his head bowed. He looked five years older than when he came in. My father sighed. We glanced 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 day 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 Fermin. G.o.d 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 Fermin 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 Velazquez 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 Fermin on the case and charge Velazquez 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 pleasant girl came by the shop. Fermin says she's Tomas 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 adopting 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 Fermin here and going along to the Liceo Opera House with Barcelo. This afternoon they're performing Tannhauser, 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 have you liked Wagner?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth... . Besides, with Barcelo 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 Fermin 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 Fermin doesn't get a fright when he closes at the end of the day.'