The Shadow Of The Wind Part 19

His main interest, apart from sketching and contradicting every living soul, was the work of a mysterious Austrian doctor who, in years to come, would become famous: Sigmund Freud. Thanks to his deceased mother, Miquel Moliner read and wrote perfect German, and he owned a number of books by the Viennese doctor. His favourite field was the interpretation of dreams. He used to ask people what they had dreamed, and would then make a diagnosis. He always said he was going to die young and that he didn't mind. Julian believed that, by thinking so much about death, he had ended up finding more sense in it than in life.

'The day I die, all that was once mine will be yours, Julian,' he would say. 'Except my dreams.'

Besides Fernando Ramos, Moliner, and Jorge Aldaya, Julian also befriended a shy and rather unsociable boy called Javier, the only son of the caretakers of San Gabriel's, who lived in a modest house stationed at the entrance to the school gardens. Javier, who, like Fernando, was considered by the rest of the boys to be no more than an irritating lackey, prowled about alone in the gardens and courtyards of the compound. From so much wandering around the school, he ended up knowing every nook and cranny of the building, from the tunnels in the bas.e.m.e.nts to the pa.s.sages up to the towers, and all kinds of hiding places that n.o.body remembered anymore. They were his secret world and his refuge. He always carried with him a penknife he had removed from one of his father's drawers, and he liked to carve wooden figures with it, keeping them in the school dovecote. His father, Ramon, the caretaker, was a veteran of the Cuban War, where he had lost a hand and (it was maliciously rumoured) his right t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e, as a result of a pellet shot from Theodore Roosevelt himself during the raid of the Bay of Cochinos. Convinced that idleness was the mother of all evil, 'Ramon Oneball' (as the schoolboys nicknamed him) set his son the task of gathering up all the fallen leaves from the pine grove and the courtyard around the fountains in a sack. Ramon was a good man, rather coa.r.s.e and fatally given to choosing bad company, most notably his wife. He had married a strapping, dim-witted woman with delusions of grandeur and the looks of a scullion, who was wont to dress skimpily in front of her son and the other boys, a habit that gave rise to no end of mirth and ridicule. Her Christian name was Maria c.r.a.poncia, but she called herself Yvonne, because she thought it more elegant. Yvonne used to question her son about the possibilities for social advancement that his friends presented, for she believed that he was making connections with the elite of Barcelona society. She would ask him about the fortune of this or that one, imagining herself dressed in the best silks and being received for tea in the great salons of good society.

Javier tried to spend as little time as possible in the house and was grateful for the jobs his father gave him, however hard they might be. Any excuse was good in order to be alone, to escape into his secret world and carve his wooden figures. When the schoolboys saw him from afar, some would laugh or throw stones at him. One day Julian felt so sorry for him when he saw how a stone had gashed the boy's forehead and knocked him onto a pile of rubble, that he decided to go to his aid and offer him his friends.h.i.+p. At first Javier thought that Julian was coming to finish him off while the others fell about laughing.

'My name is Julian,' he said, stretching out his hand. 'My friends and I were about to go and play chess in the pine grove, and I wondered whether you'd like to join us.'

'I don't know how to play chess.'

'Nor did I, until two weeks ago. But Miquel is a good teacher.

The boy looked at him suspiciously, expecting the prank, the hidden attack, at any moment.

'I don't know whether your friends will want me there.'

'It was their idea. What do you say?'

From that day on, Javier would sometimes join them after finis.h.i.+ng the jobs he had been a.s.signed. He didn't usually say anything but would listen and watch the others. Aldaya was slightly fearful of him. Fernando, who had himself experienced the rejection of others because of his humble origins, would go out of his way to be kind to the strange boy. Miquel Moliner, who taught him the rudiments of chess and watched him with a careful eye, was the most sceptical of all.

'That boy is a nutter. He catches cats and pigeons and tortures them for hours with his knife. Then he buries them in the pine grove. Delightful.'

'Who says so?'

'He told me so himself the other day, while I was explaining the knight's moves to him. He also told me that sometimes his mother gets into his bed at night and fondles him.'

'He must have been pulling your leg.'

'I doubt it. That kid isn't right in the head, Julian, and it's probably not his fault.'

Julian struggled to ignore Miquel's warnings and predictions, but the fact was that he was finding it difficult to establish a friends.h.i.+p with the son of the caretaker. Yvonne in particular did not approve of Julian or of Fernando Ramos. Of all the young men, they were the only ones who didn't have a single peseta. Rumour had it that Julian s father was a simple shopkeeper and that his mother had only got as far as being a music teacher. 'Those people have no money, cla.s.s, or elegance, my love,' his mother would lecture him. 'The one you should befriend is Aldaya. He comes from a very good family.' 'Yes. Mother,' the boy would answer. 'Whatever you say.'

As time went by, Javier seemed to start trusting his new friends. Occasionally he said a few words, and he was carving a set of chess pieces for Miquel Moliner, in appreciation for his lessons. One day, when n.o.body expected it or thought it possible, they discovered that Javier knew how to smile and that he had the innocent laugh of a child.

'You see? He's just a normal boy,' Julian argued.

Miquel Moliner remained unconvinced, and he observed the strange lad with a rigorous scrutiny that was almost scientific.

'Javier is obsessed with you, Julian,' he told him one day. 'Everything he does is only to earn your approval.'

'What nonsense! He has a mother and a father for that; I'm only a friend.'

'Irresponsible, that's what you are. His father is a poor wretch who has trouble finding his own b.u.m, and Dona Yvonne is a harpy with the brain of a flea who spends her time pretending to meet people by chance in her underwear, convinced that she is Venus incarnate or something far worse I'd rather not mention. The boy, quite naturally, is looking for a subst.i.tute, and you, the saviour, fall from heaven and give him your hand. St Julian of the Fountain, patron saint of the dispossessed.'

'This Dr Freud is rotting your brains, Miquel. We all need friends. Even you.'

'That kid doesn't have friends and never will. He has the heart of a spider. And if you don't believe me, time will tell. I wonder what he dreams about. . . ?'

Miquel Moliner could not know that Francisco Javier's dreams were more like his friend Julian's than he would ever have thought possible. Once, some months before Julian had started at the school, the caretaker's son was gathering dead leaves from the fountain courtyard when Don Ricardo Aldaya's luxurious automobile arrived. That afternoon the tyc.o.o.n had company. He was escorted by an apparition, an angel of light dressed in silk who seemed to hover above the ground. The angel, who was none other than Aldaya's daughter Penelope, stepped out of the Mercedes and walked over to one of the fountains, waving her parasol and stopping to splash the water of the pond with her hands. As usual, her governess, Jacinta, followed her dutifully, observant of the slightest gesture from the girl. It wouldn't have mattered if an army of servants had guarded her: Javier only had eyes for the girl. He was afraid that if he blinked, the vision would vanish. He remained there, paralysed, breathlessly spying on the mirage. Soon after, as if the girl had sensed his presence and his furtive gaze, Penelope raised her eyes and looked in his direction. The beauty of that face seemed painful, unsustainable. He thought he saw the hint of a smile on her lips. Terrified, Javier ran off to hide at the top of the water tower, next to the dovecote in the attic of the school building, his favourite hiding place. His hands were still shaking when he gathered his carving utensils and began to work on a new piece in the form of the face he had just sighted. When he returned to the caretaker's home that night, hours later than usual, his mother was waiting for him, half naked and furious. The boy looked down, fearing that if his mother read his eyes, she would see in them the girl from the pond and know what he had been thinking about.

'And where've you been, you little s.h.i.+t?'

'I'm sorry, Mother. I got lost.'

'You've been lost since the day you were born.'

Years later, every time he stuck his revolver into the mouth of a prisoner and pulled the trigger, Chief Inspector Francisco Javier Fumero would remember the day he saw his mother's head burst open like a ripe watermelon near an outdoor bar in Las Fionas and didn't feel anything, just the tedium of dead things. The Civil Guard, alerted by the manager of the bar, who had heard the shot, found the boy sitting on a rock holding a smoking shotgun on his lap. He was staring impa.s.sively at the decapitated body of Maria c.r.a.poncia, alias Yvonne, covered in insects. When he saw the guards coming over to him, he just shrugged his shoulders, his face splattered with blood, as if he were being ravaged by smallpox. Following the sobs, the civil guards found Ramon Oneball squatting by a tree some thirty yards away, in the undergrowth. He was shaking like a child and was unable to make himself understood. The lieutenant of the Civil Guard, after much deliberation, reported that the event had been a tragic accident, and so he recorded it in his statement, though not on his conscience. When they asked the boy if there was anything they could do for him, Francisco Javier asked whether he could keep that old gun, because when he grew up, he wanted to be a soldier. . . .

'Are you feeling all right, Senor Romero de Torres?'

The sudden appearance of Fumero in Father Fernando Ramos's narrative had stunned me, but the effect on Fermin was devastating. He looked white as a sheet and his hands shook.

'A sudden drop in my blood pressure,' Fermin improvised in a tiny voice. 'This Catalan climate can be h.e.l.l for us southerners.'

'May I offer you a gla.s.s of water?' asked the priest in a worried tone.

'If Your Grace wouldn't mind. And perhaps a chocolate, for the glucose, you know . . .'

The priest poured him a gla.s.s of water, which Fermin drank greedily.

'All I have are some eucalyptus sweets. Would they be of any help?'

'G.o.d bless you.'

Fermin swallowed a fistful of sweets and after a while seemed to recover his natural pallor.

'This boy, the son of the caretaker who heroically lost his s.c.r.o.t.u.m defending the colonies, are you sure his name was Fumero, Francisco Javier Fumero?'

'Yes. Quite sure. Do you know him?'

'No,' we intoned in unison.

Father Fernando frowned. 'It wouldn't have surprised me. Regrettably, Francisco Javier has ended up being a notorious character.'

'We're not sure we understand you.

'You understand me perfectly. Francisco Javier Fumero is chief inspector of the Barcelona Crime Squad and is widely known. His reputation has even reached those of us who never leave this establishment, and I'd say that when you heard his name, you shrank a couple of inches.'

'Now that you mention it, Your Excellency, the name does ring a bell.. . .'

Father Fernando looked sidelong at us. 'This young man isn't the son of Julian Carax. Am I right?'

'Spiritual son, Your Eminency. Morally, that has more weight.'

'What kind of mess are you two in? Who has sent you?'

At that point I was certain we were about to be kicked out of the priest's office, and I decided to silence Fermin and, for once, play the honesty card.

'You're right, Father. Julian Carax isn't my father. But n.o.body has sent us. Years ago I happened to come across a book by Carax, a book that was thought to have disappeared, and from that time on, I have tried to discover more about him and clarify the circ.u.mstances of his death. Senor Romero de Torres has helped me-'

'What book?'

'The Shadow of the Wind. Have you read it?'

'I've read all of Julian's novels.'

'Have you kept them?'

The priest shook his head.

'May I ask what you did with them?'

'Years ago someone came into my room and set fire to them.'

'Do you suspect anyone?'

'Of course. I suspect Fumero. Isn't that why you're here?'

Fermin and I exchanged puzzled looks.

'Inspector Fumero? Why would he want to burn the books?'

'Who else would? During the last year we spent together at school, Francisco Javier tried to kill Julian with his father's shotgun. If Miquel hadn't stopped him . . .'

'Why did he try to kill him? Julian had been his only friend.'

'Francisco Javier was obsessed with Penelope Aldaya. n.o.body knew this. I don't think Penelope had even noticed the boy's existence. He kept the secret for years. Apparently he used to follow Julian. I think one day he saw him kiss her. I don't know. What I do know is that he tried to kill him in broad daylight. Miquel Moliner, who had never trusted Fumero, threw himself on him and stopped him at the last moment. The hole made by the bullet is still visible by the entrance. Every time I go past it, I remember that day.'

'What happened to Fumero?'

'He and his family were thrown out of the place. I think Francisco Javier was sent to a boarding school for a while. We heard no more about him until a couple of years later, when his mother died in a hunting accident. There was no such accident. Francisco Javier Fumero is a murderer.'

'If I were to tell you . . .' mumbled Fermin.

'It wouldn't be a bad thing if one of you did tell me something, but something true for a change.'

'We can tell you that Fumero was not the person who burned your books.'

'Who was it, then?'

'In all likelihood it was a man whose face is disfigured by burns; a man who calls himself Lain Coubert.'

'Isn't that the one. . . ?'

I nodded. 'The name of one of Carax's characters. The devil.'

Father Fernando leaned back in his armchair, almost as confused as we were.

'What does seem increasingly clear is that Penelope Aldaya is at the centre of all this business, and she's the person we know least about,' Fermin remarked.

'I don't think I can help you there. I hardly ever saw her, and then only from a distance, two or three times. What I know about her is what Julian told me, which wasn't much. The only other person who I heard mention Penelope's name a few times was Jacinta Coronado.'

'Jacinta Coronado?'

'Penelope's governess. She raised Jorge and Penelope. She loved them madly, especially Penelope. Sometimes she would come to the school to collect Jorge, because Don Ricardo Aldaya wanted his children to be watched over at all times by some member of his household. Jacinta was an angel. She had heard that both Julian and I came from modest families, so she would always bring us afternoon snacks because she thought we went hungry. I would tell her that my father was the cook and not to worry, for I was never without something to eat. But she insisted. Sometimes I'd wait and talk to her. She was the kindest person I've ever met. She had no children, or any boyfriend that I knew of. She was alone in the world and had devoted her life to the Aldaya children. She simply adored Penelope. She still talks about her....'

'Are you still in touch with Jacinta?'

'I sometimes visit her in the Santa Lucia hospice. She doesn't have anyone. For reasons we cannot comprehend, the Good Lord doesn't always reward us during our lifetime. Jacinta is now a very old woman and is as alone as she has always been.'

Fermin and I exchanged looks.

'What about Penelope? Hasn't she ever visited her?'

Father Fernando's eyes grew dark and impenetrable. 'n.o.body knows what happened to Penelope. That girl was Jacinta's life. When the Aldayas left for America and she lost her, she lost everything.'

'Why didn't they take her with them? Did Penelope go to Argentina with the rest of the Aldayas?' I asked.

The priest shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know. n.o.body ever saw Penelope again or heard anything about her after 1919.'

'The year Carax left for Paris,' Fermin observed.

'You must promise me that you're not going to bother this poor old lady and stir up painful memories for her.'

'Who do you take us for, Father?' asked Fermin, annoyed.

Suspecting that he would get no more from us, Father Fernando made us swear to him that we would keep him informed about any new discoveries we made. To rea.s.sure him, Fermin insisted on swearing on a New Testament that lay on the priest's desk.

'Leave the Gospels alone. Your word is enough for me.'

'You don't let anything pa.s.s you, do you, Father? You're sharp as a nail.'

'Come, let me accompany you to the door.'

He led us through the garden until we reached the spiked gate and then stopped at a reasonable distance from the exit, gazing at the street that wound its way down towards the real world, as if he were afraid he might evaporate if he ventured out a few steps further. I wondered when Father Fernando had last left the school grounds.

'I was very sad when I heard that Julian had died,' he said softly. 'Despite everything that happened afterwards and the fact that we grew apart as time went by, we were good friends: Miquel, Aldaya, Julian, and myself. Even Fumero. I always thought we were going to be inseparable, but life must know things that we don't know. I've never had friends like those again, and I don't imagine I ever will. I hope you find what you're looking for, Daniel.'

26.

It was almost midmorning when we reached Paseo de la Bonanova, wrapped in our own thoughts. I had little doubt that Fermin's were largely devoted to the sinister appearance of Inspector Fumero in the story. I glanced over at him and noticed that he seemed consumed by anxiety. A veil of dark red clouds bled across the sky, punctured by splinters of light the colour of fallen leaves.