The Shadow Of The Wind Part 20

'If we don't hurry, we're going to get caught in a downpour,' I said.

'Not yet. Those clouds look like night time, like a bruise. They're the sort that wait.'

'Don't tell me you're also an expert on clouds, Fermin.'

'Living on the streets has unexpected educational side effects. Listen, just thinking about this Fumero business has stirred my juices. Would you object to a stop at the bar in Plaza de Sarria to polish off two well-endowed omelette sandwiches, plus tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs?'

We set off towards the square, where a knot of old folks hovered around the local pigeon community, their lives reduced to a ritual of spreading crumbs and waiting. We found ourselves a table near the entrance, and Fermin proceeded to wolf down the two sandwiches, his and mine, a pint of beer, two chocolate bars, and a triple coffee heavily laced with rum and sugar. For dessert he had a Sugus sweet. A man sitting at the next table glanced at Fermin over his newspaper, probably thinking the same thing I was.

'I don't see how you fit it all in, Fermin.'

'In my family we've always had a speedy metabolism. My sister Jesusa, G.o.d rest her soul, was capable of eating a six-egg omelette with blood sausage in the middle of the afternoon and then tucking in like a Cossack at night. Poor thing. She was just like me, you know? Same face and same cla.s.sic figure; rather on the lean side. A doctor from Caceres once told my mother that the Romero de Torres family was the missing link between man and the hammerhead, for ninety per cent of our organism is cartilage, mainly concentrated in the nose and the outer ear. Jesusa was often mistaken for me in the village, because she never grew b.r.e.a.s.t.s and began to shave before I did. She died of consumption when she was twenty-two, a virgin to the end and secretly in love with a sanctimonious priest who, when he met her in the street, always said, "h.e.l.lo, Fermin, you're becoming quite a das.h.i.+ng young man." Life's ironies.'

'Do you miss them?'

'The family?'

Fermin shrugged his shoulders, caught in a nostalgic smile.

'What do I know? Few things are more deceptive than memories. Look at the priest. . . . And you? Do you miss your mother?'

I looked down. 'A lot.'

'Do you know what I remember most about mine?' Fermin asked. 'Her smell. She always smelled clean, like a loaf of sweet bread. It didn't matter if she'd spent the day working in the fields or was wearing the same old rags she'd worn all week. She always smelled of the best things in this world. Mind you, she was pretty uncouth. She could swear like a trooper, but she smelled like a fairy tale princess. Or at least that's what I thought. What about you? What is it you remember most about your mother, Daniel?'

I hesitated for a moment, clawing at words my lips couldn't shape.

'Nothing. For years now I haven't been able to remember my mother. I can't remember what her face was like, or her voice or her smell. I lost them all the day I discovered Julian Carax, and they haven't come back.'

Fermin watched me cautiously, considering his reply. 'Don't you have a photograph of her?'

'I've never wanted to look for them,' I said.

'Why not?'

I'd never told anyone this, not even my father or Tomas. 'Because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of looking at a photograph of my mother and discovering that she's a stranger. You probably think that's nonsense.'

Fermin shook his head. 'And is that why you believe that if you manage to unravel the mystery of Julian Carax and rescue him from oblivion, the face of your mother will come back to you?'

I looked at him. There was no irony or judgment in his expression. For a moment Fermin Romero de Torres seemed to me the wisest and most lucid man in the universe.

'Perhaps,' I said without thinking.

At noon on the dot, we got on a bus that would take us back downtown. We sat at the front, just behind the driver; a circ.u.mstance Fermin used as an excuse to hold a discussion with the man about the many advances, both technical and cosmetic, that he had noticed in public transportation since the last time he'd used it, circa 1940 -especially with regard to signs, as was borne out by the notice that read SPITTING AND FOUL LANGUAGE ARE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. Fermin looked briefly at the sign and decided to acknowledge it by energetically clearing his throat of phlegm. This granted us a sharp look of disapproval from a trio of saintly ladies who travelled like a commando unit at the back of the bus, each one armed with a missal.

'You savage!' murmured the bigot on the eastern flank, who bore a remarkable likeness to the official portrait of Il Duce, but with curls.

'There they go,' said Fermin. 'Three saints has my Spain. St Holier-than-thou, St Holys.h.i.+t and St Holycow. Between us all, we've turned this country into a joke.'

'You can say that again,' agreed the driver. 'We were better off with the Republic. To say nothing of the traffic. It stinks.'

A man sitting at the back of the bus laughed, enjoying the exchange of views. I recognized him as the same fellow who had sat next to us in the bar. His expression seemed to suggest that he was on Fermin's side and that he wanted to see him get merciless with the diehards. We exchanged a quick glance. He gave me a friendly smile and returned to his newspaper. When we got to Calle Ganduxer, I noticed that Fermin had curled up in a ball under his raincoat and was having a nap with his mouth wide open, an expression of bliss and innocence on his face.

The bus was gliding through the wealthy domains of Paseo de San Gervasio when Fermin suddenly woke up. 'I've been dreaming about Father Fernando,' he told me. 'Except that in my dream he was dressed as the centre forward for Real Madrid and he had the league cup next to him, s.h.i.+ning like the Holy Grail.'

'I wonder why?' I asked.

'If Freud is right, this probably means that the priest has sneaked in a goal for us.'

'He struck me as an honest man.'

'Fair enough. Perhaps too honest for his own good. All priests with the makings of a saint end up being sent off to the missions, to see whether the mosquitoes or the piranhas will finish them off.'

'Don't exaggerate.'

"What blessed innocence, Daniel. You'd even believe in the tooth fairy. All right, just to give you an example: the tall tale about Miquel Moliner that Nuria Monfort landed on you. I think the wench told you more whoppers than the editorial page of L'Osservatore Romano. Now it turns out that she's married to a childhood friend of Aldaya and Carax - isn't that a coincidence? And on top of that, we have the story of Jacinta, the good nurse, which might be true but sounds too much like the last act in a play by Alexandre Dumas the younger. Not to mention the star appearance of Fumero.'

'Then do you think Father Fernando lied to us?'

'No. I agree with you that he seems honest, but the uniform carries a lot of weight, and he may well have kept an ova pro n.o.bis or two up his sleeve, if you get my drift. I think that if he lied, it was by way of holding back or decorum, not out of spite or malice. Besides, I don't imagine him capable of inventing such a story. If he could lie better, he wouldn't be teaching algebra and Latin; he'd be in the bishopric by now, growing fat in an office like a cardinal's and plunging soft sponge cakes in his coffee.'

'What do you suggest we do, then?'

'Sooner or later we're going to have to dig up the mummified corpse of the angelic granny and shake it from the ankles to see what falls out. For the time being, I'm going to pull a few strings and see what I can find out about this Miquel Moliner. And it wouldn't be a bad idea to keep an eye on that Nuria Monfort. I think she's turning out to be what my deceased mother would have called a sly old fox.'

'You're mistaken about her,' I claimed.

'You're shown a pair of nice b.r.e.a.s.t.s and you think you've seen St Teresa - which at your age can be excused but not cured. Just leave her to me, Daniel. The fragrance of the eternal female no longer overpowers me the way it mesmerizes you. At my age the flow of blood to the brain takes precedence over that which flows to the loins.'

'Look who's talking.'

Fermin pulled out his wallet and started to count his money.

'You have a fortune there,' I said. 'Is it all change from this morning?'

'Partly. The rest is legitimate. I'm taking my Bernarda out today, and I can't refuse that woman anything. If necessary, I would rob the Central Bank of Spain to indulge her every whim. What about you? What are your plans for the rest of the day?'

'Nothing special.'

'And what about the girl?'

'What girl?'

'Little Bo Peep. Who do you think? Aguilar's sister.'

'I don't know. I don't have any plans.'

'What you don't have, to put it bluntly, is enough b.a.l.l.s to take the bull by the horns.'

At that the conductor made his way up to us with a tired expression, his mouth juggling a toothpick, which he twisted and turned through his teeth with circus like dexterity.

'Excuse me, but the ladies over there want to know if you could use more respectable language.'

'They can mind their own b.l.o.o.d.y business,' answered Fermin in a loud voice.

The conductor turned towards the three ladies and shrugged, indicating that he had done what he could and was not inclined to get involved in a scuffle over a matter of semantic modesty.

'People who have no life always have to stick their nose into the life of others,' said Fermin. 'What were we talking about?'

'About my lack of guts.'

'Right. A textbook case. Trust you me, young man. Go after your girl. Life flies by, especially the bit that's worth living. You heard what the priest said. Like a flash.'

'She's not my girl.'

'Well, then, make her yours before someone else takes her, especially the little tin soldier.'

'You talk as if Bea were a trophy.'

'No, as if she were a blessing,' Fermin corrected. 'Look, Daniel. Destiny is usually just around the corner. Like a thief, a hooker, or a lottery vendor: its three most common personifications. But what destiny does not do is home visits. You have to go for it yourself.'

I spent the rest of the journey considering this pearl of wisdom while Fermin had another snooze, an occupation for which he had a Napoleonic talent. We got off the bus on the corner of Gran Via and Paseo de Gracia under a leaden sky that stole the light of day. b.u.t.toning his raincoat up to his neck, Fermin announced that he was departing in a hurry towards his pension, to smarten up for his meeting with Bernarda.

'You must understand that with rather modest looks such as mine, basic beautification requires at least ninety minutes. You don't get far without some looks; that's the sad truth about these dishonest times. Vanitas peccata mundi.'

I saw him walk away down Gran Via, barely a sketch of a little man sheltering himself in a drab raincoat that flapped in the wind like a ragged flag. I started off for home, where I planned to recruit a good book and hide away from the world. When I turned the corner of Puerta del Angel and Calle Santa Ana, my heart missed a beat. As usual, Fermin had been right. Destiny was waiting for me in front of the bookshop, clad in a tight grey wool suit, new shoes, and silk stockings, studying her reflection in the shop window.

'My father thinks I've gone to twelve o'clock ma.s.s,' said Bea without looking up from her own image.

'You could easily be there. There's been a continuous performance since nine o'clock this morning less than twenty yards from here, in the Church of Santa Ana.'

We spoke like two strangers who have casually stopped by a shop window, looking for each other's eyes in the pane.

'Let's not make a joke of it. I've had to pick up a church leaflet to see what the sermon was about. He's going to ask me for a detailed synopsis.'

'Your father thinks of everything.'

'He's sworn he'll break your legs.'

'Before that he'll have to find out who I am. And while my legs are still in one piece, I can run faster than him.'

Bea was looking at me tensely, glancing over her shoulder at the people who drifted by behind us in puffs of grey and wind.

'I don't know what you're laughing about,' she said. 'He means it.'

'I'm not laughing. I'm scared s.h.i.+tless. It's just that I'm so happy to see you.'

A suggestion of a smile, nervous, fleeting. 'Me, too,' Bea admitted.

'You say it as if it were an illness.'

'It's worse than that. I thought that if I saw you again in daylight, I might come to my senses.'

I wondered whether that was a compliment or a condemnation.

'We can't be seen together, Daniel. Not like this, in full view of everyone.'

'If you like, we can go into the bookshop. There's a coffeepot in the back room and-'

'No. I don't want anyone to see me go into or come out of this place. If anyone sees me talking to you now, I can always say I happened to b.u.mp into my brother's best friend. If we are seen together more than once, we'll arouse suspicion.'

I sighed. 'And who's going to see us? Who cares what we do?'

'People always have eyes for what is none of their business, and my father knows half of Barcelona.'

'So why have you come here to wait for me?'

'I haven't come to wait for you. I've come to church, remember? You said so yourself. Twenty yards from here .. .'

'You scare me, Bea. You lie even better than I do.'

'You don't know me, Daniel.'

'So your brother tells me.'

Our eyes met in the reflection.

'The other night you showed me something I'd never seen before,' murmured Bea. 'Now it's my turn.'

I frowned, intrigued. Bea opened her bag, pulled out a folded card, and handed it to me.

'You're not the only person in Barcelona who knows secrets, Daniel. I have a surprise for you. I'll wait for you at this address today at four. n.o.body must know that we have arranged to meet there.'

'How will I know that I've found the right place?'

'You'll know.'

I looked at her briefly, praying that she wasn't just making fun of me.

'If you don't come, I'll understand,' Bea said. 'I'll understand that you don't want to see me anymore.'

Without giving me a second to answer, she turned around and walked hurriedly off towards the Ramblas. I was left holding the card, my words still hanging on my lips, my eyes following her until her silhouette melted into the shadows that preceded the storm. I opened the card. Inside, in blue handwriting, was an address I knew well.

Avenida del Tibidabo, 32