The Shadow Of The Wind Part 18

'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 scholars.h.i.+p 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, G.o.d 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 ma.s.s.'

'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 a.s.sistant, 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, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with pride, he put his arms around Julian and said, with tears in his eyes, 'Grandfather would have been proud of us.'

One of the most complex processes of the now disappeared science of hat making, both technically and politically, was that of taking measurements. Don Ricardo Aldaya had a cranium that, according to Julian, bordered on the melon-shaped and was quite rugged. The hatter was aware of the difficulties as soon as he saw the great man's head, and that same evening, when Julian said it reminded him of certain peaks in the mountains of Montserrat, Fortuny couldn't help agreeing with him. 'Father, with all due respect, you know that when it comes to taking measurements, I'm better at it than you, because you get nervous. Let me do it' The hatter readily agreed, and the following day, when Aldaya arrived in his Mercedes-Benz, Julian welcomed him and took him to the workshop. When Aldaya realized that he was going to be measured by a boy of fourteen, he was furious. 'But what is this? A child? Are you pulling my leg?' Julian, who was aware of his client's social position but who wasn't in the least bit intimidated by him, answered, 'Sir, I don't know about your leg, but there's not much to pull up here. This crown looks like a bullring, and if we don't hurry up and make you a set of hats, your head will be mistaken for a Barcelona street plan.' When he heard those words, Fortuny wanted the ground to swallow him up. Aldaya, undaunted, fixed his gaze on Julian. Then, to everyone's surprise, he burst out laughing as he hadn't done in years.

'This child of yours will go far, Fortunato,' declared Aldaya, who had not quite learned the hatter's surname.

That is how they discovered that Don Ricardo Aldaya was fed up to his very back teeth with being feared and flattered by everyone; with having people throw themselves on the ground like a doormat as he went by. He despised sycophants, cowards, and anyone who showed any sort of weakness, be it physical, mental, or moral. When he came across a humble boy, barely an apprentice, who had the cheek and the spirit to laugh at him, Aldaya decided he'd hit on the ideal hat shop and immediately doubled his order. That week he gladly turned up every day for his appointment, so that Julian could take measurements and try different models on him. Antoni Fortuny was amazed to see how the champion of Catalan society would fall about laughing at the jokes and stories told by the son who was still a stranger to him, that boy he never spoke to and who, for years, had shown no sign of having any sense of humour. At the end of the week, Aldaya took the hatter aside, to a corner of the shop, and spoke to him in confidence.

'Let's see, Fortunato, this son of yours has great talent, and you've got him stuck here, bored out of his mind, dusting the cobwebs in a two-bit shop.'

'This is a good business, Don Ricardo, and the boy shows a certain flair, even though he lacks backbone.'

'Nonsense. What school does he attend?'

'Well, he goes to the local school.

'Nothing but a production line for workers. When one is young, talent -genius, if you like - must be cultivated, or it becomes twisted and consumes the person who possesses it. It needs direction. Support. Do you understand me, Fortunato?'

'You're mistaken about my son. He's nowhere near a genius. He can barely pa.s.s his geography. His teachers tell me he's a scatterbrain and has a very bad att.i.tude, just like his mother. But at least here he'll always have an honest job and-'

'Fortunato, you bore me. Today, without fail, I'll go to San Gabriel's school to see the admissions board, and I'll let them know that they are to accept your son into the same cla.s.s as my eldest child, Jorge. Anything less would be miserly of me.'

The hatter's eyes were as big as saucers. San Gabriel's was the nursery for the cream of high society.

'But, Don Ricardo, I would be unable to finance-- 'No one is asking you to pay anything. I'll take charge of the boy's education. You, as his father, only have to agree.'

'But of course, certainly, but-'

'That's decided, then. So long as Julian accepts, of course.'

'He'll do what he's told, naturally.'

At this point in the conversation, Julian stuck his head round the door of the back room with a hat mould in his hands.

'Don Ricardo, whenever you're ready. . .'

'Tell me, Julian, what are you doing this afternoon?' Aldaya asked.

Julian looked alternately at his father and the tyc.o.o.n.

'Well, helping my father here, in the shop.'

'Apart from that.'

'I was thinking of going to the library.

'You like books, eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Have you read Conrad? Heart of Darkness?'

'Three times.'

The hatter frowned, utterly lost. And who is this Conrad, if you don't mind my asking?'

Aldaya silenced him with a gesture that seemed like something from a shareholders' meeting.

'In my house I have a library with fourteen thousand books, Julian. When I was young, I read a lot, but now I no longer have the time. Come to think of it, I have three copies signed by Conrad himself. My son Jorge can't even be dragged into the library. The only person who thinks and reads in the house is my daughter Penelope, so all those books are being wasted. Would you like to see them?'

Julian nodded, speechless. The hatter observed the scene with a sense of unease he couldn't quite define. All those names were unknown to him. Novels, as everyone knew, were for women and for people who had nothing better to do. The Heart of Darkness sounded like a mortal sin at the very least.

'Fortunato, your son is coming with me. I want to introduce him to my son Jorge. Don't worry, we'll bring him back to you later. Tell me, young man, have you ever been in a Mercedes-Benz?'

Julian presumed that that was the name of the c.u.mbersome, imperial-looking machine the industrialist used for getting around. He shook his head.

'Well, then, it's about time. It's like going to heaven, but without dying.'

Antoni Fortuny watched them leave in that exceedingly luxurious carriage, and when he searched his heart, all he found was sadness. That night, while he had dinner with Sophie (who was wearing her new dress and shoes and had almost no bruises or scars), he asked himself where he had gone wrong this time. Just when G.o.d was returning a son to him, Aldaya was taking him away.

'Take off that dress, woman, you look like a wh.o.r.e. And don't let me see this wine on the table again. The watered-down sort is quite good enough for us. Greed will corrupt us all in the end.'

Julian had never crossed over to the other side of Avenida Diagonal. That line of groves, empty plots of land, and palaces awaiting the expansion of the city was a forbidden frontier. Hamlets, hills, and mysterious places rumoured to contain unimaginable wealth extended beyond it. As they pa.s.sed through, Aldaya talked to Julian about San Gabriel's, about new friends Julian had never set eyes on, about a future he had not thought possible.

'What do you aspire to, Julian? In life, I mean.'

'I don't know. Sometimes I think I'd like to be a writer. A novelist.'

'Like Conrad, eh? You're very young, of course. And tell me, doesn't banking tempt you?'

'I don't know, sir. The truth is that it hadn't even entered my head. I've never seen more than three pesetas together. High finance is a mystery to me.'

Aldaya laughed. 'There's no mystery, Julian. The trick is not to put pesetas together in threes, but in three million. That way there's no enigma, I can a.s.sure you. No Holy Trinity.'

That afternoon, as he drove up Avenida del Tibidabo, Julian thought he was entering the doors of paradise. Mansions that seemed like cathedrals flanked the way. Halfway along the avenue, the driver turned, and they went through the gates of one of them. Instantly an army of servants set about receiving the master. All Julian could see was a large, majestic house with three floors. It had never occurred to him that real people could live in places like this. He let himself be taken through the lobby, then he crossed a vaulted hall from where a marble staircase rose, framed by velvet curtains, and finally entered a large room whose walls were a tapestry of books, from floor to ceiling.

'What do you think?' asked Aldaya.

Julian was barely listening.

'Damian, tell Jorge to come down to the library immediately.'

The faceless and silent servants glided away at the slightest order from the master with the efficiency and submissiveness of a body of well-trained insects.

'You're going to need a new wardrobe, Julian. There are a lot of morons out there who only go by appearances. . . . I'll tell Jacinta to take care of that; you don't have to worry about it. And it's probably best if you don't mention it to your father, in case it annoys him. Look, here comes Jorge. Jorge, I want you to meet a wonderful young man who is going to be your new cla.s.smate. Julian Fortu-'

'Julian Carax,' he corrected.

'Julian Carax,' repeated a satisfied Aldaya. 'I like the sound of it. This is my son Jorge.'

Julian held out his hand, and Jorge Aldaya shook it. His touch was lukewarm, unenthusiastic, and his face had a pale, chiselled look that came from having grown up in that doll-like world. To Julian, his clothes and shoes seemed like something out of a novel. His eyes gave off an air of bravado and arrogance, of disdain and sugary politeness. Julian smiled at him openly, reading insecurity, fear, and emptiness under that sh.e.l.l of vanity.

'Is it true you haven't read any of these books?'

'Books are boring.'

'Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you,' answered Julian.

Don Ricardo Aldaya laughed again. 'Well, I'll leave you two alone so you can get to know each other. Julian, you'll see that although he seems spoiled and conceited, underneath that mask Jorge isn't as stupid as he looks. He has something of his father in him.'

Aldaya's words seemed to fall like knives on the boy, though he didn't let his smile fade at all. Julian regretted his answer and felt sorry for him.

'You must be the hatter's son,' said Jorge, without malice. 'My father talks about you a lot these days.'

'It's the novelty. I hope you don't hold that against me. Under this mask of a know-it-all meddler, I'm not such an idiot as I seem.'

Jorge smiled at him, Julian thought he smiled the way people smile who have no friends - with grat.i.tude.

'Come, I'll show you the rest of the house.'

They left the library behind them and went off towards the main door and the gardens. When they crossed the hall with the staircase, Julian looked up and glimpsed a figure ascending the stairs with one hand on the banister. He felt as if he were caught up in a vision. The girl must have been about twelve or thirteen and was escorted by a mature woman, small and rosy-cheeked, who looked like a governess. The girl wore a blue satin dress. Her hair was the colour of almonds, and the skin on her shoulders and slim neck seemed translucent. She stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around briefly. For a second their eyes met, and she offered him the ghost of a smile. Then the governess put her arms round the girl's shoulders and led her to the entrance of a corridor into which they both disappeared. Julian looked down and he fixed his eyes on Jorge's again.

'That's Penelope, my sister. You'll meet her later. She's a bit nutty. She spends all day reading. Come on, I want to show you the chapel in the bas.e.m.e.nt. The cooks say it's haunted.'

Julian followed the boy meekly, but he cared little about anything else. Now he understood. He had dreamed about her countless times, on that same staircase, with that same blue dress and that same movement of her ash-grey eyes, without knowing who she was or why she smiled at him. When he went out into the garden, he let himself be led by Jorge as far as the coach houses and the tennis courts that stretched out beyond. Only then did he turn around to look back and saw her in her window on the second floor. He could barely make out her shape, but he knew she was smiling at him and that somehow she, too, had recognized him.

That fleeting glimpse of Penelope Aldaya at the top of the staircase remained with him during his first weeks at San Gabriel's. His new world was not all to his liking: the pupils at San Gabriel's behaved like haughty, arrogant princes, while their teachers were like docile servants. The first friend Julian made there, apart from Jorge Aldaya, was a boy called Fernando Ramos, the son of one of the cooks at the school, who would never have imagined he would end up wearing a ca.s.sock and teaching in the same cla.s.srooms in which he himself had grown up. Fernando, whom the rest nicknamed the 'Kitchen Sweep', and whom they treated like a servant, was alert and intelligent but had hardly any friends among the schoolboys. His only companion was an eccentric boy called Miquel Moliner, who in time would become the best friend Julian ever made at the school. Miquel Moliner, who had too much brain and too little patience, enjoyed teasing his teachers by questioning all their statements, using clever arguments in which he displayed both ingenuity and a poisonous sting. The rest feared his sharp tongue and considered him a member of some other species. In a way this was not entirely mistaken, for despite his bohemian traits and the unaristocratic tone he affected, Miquel was the son of a businessman who had become obscenely rich through the manufacture of arms.

'Carax, isn't it? I'm told your father makes hats,' he said when Fernando Ramos introduced them.

'Julian to my friends. I'm told yours makes cannons.'

'He just sells them, actually. The only thing he knows how to make is money. My friends, among whom I only count Nietzsche and Fernando here, call me Miquel.'

Miquel Moliner was a sad boy. He suffered from an unhealthy obsession with death and all matters funereal, a field to the consideration of which he dedicated much of his time and talent. His mother had died three years earlier as a result of a strange domestic accident, which some foolish doctor had dared describe as suicide. It was Miquel who had discovered the body s.h.i.+ning under the waters of the well, in the summer mansion the family owned in Argentona. When they pulled her out with ropes, they found that the pockets of the dead woman's coat were filled with stones. There was also a letter written in German, the mother's native tongue, but Senor Moliner, who had never bothered to learn the language, burned it that very afternoon without allowing anyone to read it. Miquel Moliner saw death everywhere - in fallen leaves, in birds that had dropped out of their nests, in old people, and in the rain, which swept everything away. He was exceptionally talented at drawing and would often become distracted for hours, creating charcoal sketches in which a lady, whom Julian took to be his mother, always appeared against a background of mist and deserted beaches.

'What do you want to be when you grow up, Miquel?'

'I'll never grow up,' he would answer enigmatically.