The Shadow Of The Wind Part 29

'In the meantime, I'll be waiting to follow her, an objective I plan to put into practice using the latest techniques in camouflage.'

'It's not going to work, Fermin.'

'O ye of little faith! Come on, what did this girl's father say to get you into this frame of mind? Is it the threat you're worried about? Don't pay any attention to him. Let's see, what did the lunatic say?'

I answered without thinking. 'The truth.'

'The truth according to St Daniel the Martyr?'

'You can laugh as much as you like. It serves me right.'

'I'm not laughing, Daniel. It's just that I feel bad seeing you punish yourself. Anyone would think you're about to put on a hair s.h.i.+rt. You haven't done anything wrong. Life has enough torturers as it is, without you going around moonlighting as a Grand Inquisitor against yourself.'

'Do you speak from experience?'

Fermin shrugged.

'You've never told me how you came across Fumero,' I said.

'Would you like to hear a story with a moral?'

'Only if you want to tell it.'

Fermin poured himself a gla.s.s of beer and swigged it down in one gulp.

'Amen,' he said to himself. 'What I can tell you about Fumero is common knowledge. The first time I heard him mentioned, the future inspector was a gunman working for the anarchist syndicate, the FAI. He had earned himself quite a reputation, because he had no fear and no scruples. All he needed was someone's name, and he'd finish him off in the street with a shot to the face, in broad daylight. Such talents are greatly valued in times of unrest. The things he didn't have were loyalty or beliefs. He didn't give a d.a.m.n what cause he was serving, as long as the cause would help him climb the ladder. There are plenty of sc.u.m like him in the world, but few of them have Fumero's talent. From the anarchists he went on to serve the communists, and from there to the fascists was only a step. He spied and sold information from one faction to another, and he took money from all of them. I'd had my eye on him for a long time. I was working for the government of the Generalitat at the time. Sometimes I was mistaken for the ugly brother of President Companys, which would fill me with pride.'

'What did you do?'

'A bit of everything. In today's radio soaps, it would be called espionage, but in wartime everyone is a spy. Part of my job was to keep an eye on types like Fumero, as they're the most dangerous. They're like vipers, with no creed and no conscience. In a war they appear everywhere. In times of peace, they put on their masks. But they're still there. Thousands of them. The fact is that sooner or later I discovered what his game was. Rather later than sooner, I'd say. Barcelona fell in a matter of days, and now the boot was on the other foot. I became a persecuted criminal, and my superiors were forced to hide like rats. Naturally, Fumero was already in charge of the "cleanup" operation. The purge was carried out openly, with shootings in the streets, or in Montjuic Castle. I was arrested in the port while attempting to obtain pa.s.sage to France on a Greek cargo s.h.i.+p for some of my superiors. I was taken to Montjuic and held for two days in a pitch-dark cell, with no water or ventilation. The next light I saw was the flame of a welding torch. Fumero and a man who only spoke German had me hung upside down by my feet. The German first got rid of my clothes by burning them with the torch. It seemed to me that he was well practised. When I was left stark naked with all the hairs on my body singed, Fumero told me that if I didn't tell him where my superiors were hiding, the fun would begin in earnest. I'm not a brave man, Daniel. I never have been, but what little courage I possessed I used to tell him to go screw himself. At a sign from Fumero, the German injected something into my thigh and waited a few minutes. Then, while Fumero smoked and watched me, smiling, he began to roast me thoroughly with the welding torch. You've seen the marks. . . .'

I nodded. Fermin spoke in a calm tone, with no emotion.

'These marks are the least important. The worst scars remain inside. I withstood the torch for an hour, or perhaps it was just one minute. I don't know. But I ended up giving them the first names, surnames, and even the s.h.i.+rt sizes of all my superiors and even of those who were not. They abandoned me in an alleyway in Pueblo Seco, naked and with my skin burned. A good woman took me into her home and looked after me for two months.

The communists had shot her husband and her two sons dead on her doorstep. She didn't know why. When I was able to get up and go out to the street, I learned that all my superiors had been arrested and executed just hours after I had informed on them.'

'Fermin, if you don't want to tell me all this . . .'

'No, no. I'd rather you heard it and knew who you're dealing with. When I returned to my home, I was told it had been expropriated by the government, with all my possessions. Without knowing it, I had become a beggar. I tried to get work. I was rejected. The only thing I could get was a bottle of cheap wine for a few centimos. It's a slow poison that burns your guts like acid, but I hoped that sooner or later it would work. I told myself I would return to Cuba one day, to my mulatto girl. I was arrested when I tried to board a freighter going to Havana. I've forgotten how long I spent in prison. After the first year, you begin to lose everything, even your mind. When I came out, I began to live on the streets, where you found me an eternity later. There were many others like me, colleagues from prison or parole. The lucky ones had somebody they could count on outside, somebody or something they could go back to. The rest of us joined the army of the dispossessed. Once you're given a card for that club, you never stop being a member. Most of us only came out at night, when the world wasn't looking. I met many others like me. Rarely did I see them again. Life in the streets is short. People look at you in disgust, even the ones who give you alms, but that is nothing compared to the revulsion you feel for yourself. It's like being trapped in a walking corpse, a corpse that's hungry, stinks, and refuses to die. Every now and then, Fumero and his men would arrest me and accuse me of some absurd theft, or of pestering girls on their way out of a convent school. Another month in La Modelo prison, more beatings, and out onto the streets again. I never understood the point of those farces. Apparently the police thought it convenient to have a census of suspects at their disposal, which they could resort to whenever necessary. In one of my meetings with Fumero, who by now was quite the respectable figure, I asked him why he hadn't killed me, as he'd killed the others. He laughed and told me there were worse things than death. He never killed an informer, he said. He let him rot alive.'

'Fermin, you're not an informer. Anyone in your place would have done the same. You're my best friend.'

'I don't deserve your friends.h.i.+p, Daniel. You and your father saved my life, and my life belongs to you both. Whatever I can do for you, I will. The day you got me off the streets, Fermin Romero de Torres was born again.'

'That's not your real name, is it?'

Fermin shook his head. 'I saw that one on a poster at the Arenas bullring. The other is buried. The man who used to live within these bones died, Daniel. Sometimes he comes back, in nightmares. But you've shown me how to be another man, and you've given me a reason for living once more: my Bernarda.'

'Fermin . . .'

'Don't say anything, Daniel. Just forgive me, if you can.'

I embraced him without a word and let him cry. People were giving us strange looks, and I returned their looks with venom. After a while they decided to ignore us. Later, while I walked with Fermin to his pension, my friend recovered his voice.

'What I've told you today ... I beg you not to tell Bernarda.. .'

'I won't tell Bernarda, or anyone else. Not one word, Fermin.'

We said farewell with a handshake.

37.

I couldn't sleep at all that night. I lay on my bed with the light on, staring at my smart Montblanc pen, which hadn't written anything for years - it was fast becoming the best pair of gloves ever given to someone with no hands. More than once I felt tempted to go over to the Aguilars' apartment and, for want of a better outcome, give myself up. But after much meditation, I decided that bursting into Bea's home in the early hours of the morning was not going to improve matters. By daybreak, exhausted and confused, I had concluded that the best thing to do was let the water flow; in time the river would carry the bad blood away.

The morning inched by with little activity in the bookshop, and I took advantage of the circ.u.mstance to doze, standing up, with what my father described as the grace and balance of a flamingo. At lunchtime, as arranged with Fermin the night before, I pretended I was going out for a walk, while Fermin claimed he had an appointment at the outpatients' department to have a few st.i.tches removed. As far as I could tell, my father swallowed both lies whole. The idea of systematically lying to my father was beginning to unnerve me, and I said as much to Fermin halfway through the morning, while my father was out on an errand.

'Daniel, the father-son relations.h.i.+p is based on thousands of little white lies. Presents from the Three Kings, the tooth fairy, meritocracy, and many others. This is just one more. Don't feel guilty.'

When the time came, I lied again and made my way to the home of Nuria Monfort, whose touch and smell remained indelible in my memory. The cobblestones of Plaza de San Felipe Neri had been taken over by a flock of pigeons, but otherwise the square was deserted. I crossed the paving under the watchful eye of dozens of pigeons and looked around in vain for Fermin, disguised as heaven knows what - he had refused to reveal his plan. I went into the building and saw that the name of Miquel Moliner was still on the letterbox; I wondered whether that would be the first flaw I was going to point out in Nuria Monfort's story. As I went up the stairs in the dark, I almost hoped she wouldn't be at home. n.o.body can feel more compa.s.sion for a fibber than another one. When I reached the fourth-floor landing, I stopped to gather my courage and devise some excuse with which to justify my visit. The neighbour's radio was still thundering at the other end of the landing, this time broadcasting a game show on which contestants tested their knowledge of religious lore. It went by the name With a Little Help from the Lord, and reputedly held the whole of Spain spellbound every Tuesday at noon.

And now, for five points, and with a little help from the Lord, can you tell us, Bartolome, how does the Evil One disguise his appearance in front of the wise men of the Tabernacle, in the parable of the archangel and the gourd, in the Book of Joshua? a) as a young goat, b) as a jug vendor, or c) as an acrobat with a monkey?

Riding on the wave of applause from the audience in the studios of Radio Nacional, I planted myself in front of Nuria Monfort's door and pressed the bell for a few seconds. I listened to the echo spread through the apartment and heaved a sigh of relief. I was about to leave when I heard footsteps coming to the door. The peephole lit up like a tear of light. I smiled. As the key turned in the lock, I breathed deeply.

38.

'Daniel'

The blue smoke of her cigarette coiled around her face. Her lips shone with dark lipstick; they were moist and left marks like bloodstains on the filter she held between her index and ring fingers. There are people you remember and people you dream of. For me, Nuria Montfort was like a mirage: you don't question its veracity, you simply follow it until it vanishes or until it destroys you. I followed her through to the narrow, shadowy room that contained her desk, her books, and that collection of lined-up pencils, like an accident of symmetry.

'I thought I wouldn't see you again.'

'I'm sorry to disappoint you.'

She sat on the chair by her desk, crossing her legs and leaning backwards. I tore my eyes away from her throat and concentrated on a damp spot on the wall. I went up to the window and had a quick glance around the square. No sign of Fermin. I could hear Nuria Monfort breathing behind my back, could feel her eyes brus.h.i.+ng my neck. I spoke without taking my eyes off the window.

'A few days ago, a good friend of mine discovered that the property manager responsible for the old Fortuny-Carax apartment had been sending his correspondence to a PO box in the name of a firm of solicitors which, apparently, doesn't exist. This same friend discovered that the person who for years has been collecting the mail to this PO box has been using your name, Senora Monfort-'

'Shut up.'

I turned around and saw her retreating into the shadows.

'You judge me without knowing me,' she said.

'Then help me to get to know you.'

'Have you told anyone about this? Who else knows what you've just said to me?'

'More people than you'd think. The police have been following me for a long time.'

'Fumero?'

I nodded. It seemed to me that her hands were trembling.

'You don't know what you've done, Daniel'

'Then tell me,' I answered with a harshness I didn't feel.

'You think that because you chance upon a book you have a right to enter the lives of people you don't know and meddle in things you cannot understand and that don't belong to you.'

'They belong to me now, whether I like it or not.'

'You don't know what you're saying.'

'I was in the Aldayas' house. I know that Jorge Aldaya is hiding there. I know he was the person who murdered Carax.' I didn't know that I believed these words until I heard myself saying them.

She looked at me for a long time, choosing her words carefully. 'Does Fumero know this?'

'I don't know.'

'You'd better know. Did Fumero follow you to that house?'

The anger in her eyes burned me. I had made my entrance playing the role of accuser and judge, but with every minute that pa.s.sed, I felt more like the culprit.

'I don't think so. Did you know? Did you know that it was Aldaya who killed Julian and that he's hiding in that house? Why didn't you tell me?'

She smiled bitterly. 'You don't understand anything, do you?'

'I understand that you lied in order to defend the man who murdered the person you call your friend, that you've been covering up his crime for years, protecting a man whose only aim is to erase any trace of the existence of Julian Carax, who burns his books. I also understand that you lied to me about your husband, that he's not in prison and clearly isn't here either. That's what I understand.'

Nuria Monfort shook her head slowly. 'Go away, Daniel. Leave this house now and don't return. You've done enough.'

I walked away towards the door, leaving her in the dining room. I stopped halfway and looked back. Nuria Monfort was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, all concern for appearances gone.

I crossed the square with downcast eyes. I carried with me the pain I had received from the lips of that woman, a pain I now felt I deserved, though I didn't understand why. 'You don't know what you've done, Daniel.' All I wanted was to get away from that place. As I walked past the church, I didn't at first notice the presence of a gaunt, large-nosed priest standing at the entrance holding a missal and a rosary. He blessed me unhurriedly as I pa.s.sed by.

39.

I walked into the bookshop almost forty-five minutes late. When my father saw me, he frowned disapprovingly and looked at the clock.

'What time do you call this? You know I have to go out to visit a client in San Cugat and yet you left me here alone.'

'What about Fermin? Isn't he back yet?'

My father shook his head with that haste that seemed to take over when he was in a bad mood. 'By the way, there's a letter for you. I've left it next to the till.'

'Dad, I'm sorry but-'

He waved my excuses aside, threw on a raincoat and hat, and went out of the door without saying goodbye. Knowing him, I guessed his anger would evaporate before he reached the train station. What I found odd was Fermin's absence. Since I'd seen him dressed up as a vaudeville priest in Plaza de San Felipe Neri, waiting for Nuria Monfort to come rus.h.i.+ng out and lead him to the heart of the mystery, my faith in our strategy had crumbled away. I imagined that if Nuria Monfort did go out, Fermin probably ended up following her to the chemist's or the baker's. What a great plan! I went over to the till to have a look at the letter my father had mentioned. The envelope was white and rectangular, like a tombstone, and in the place of a crucifix it bore a return address that managed to crush what little spirit I had left in me that day.

MILITARY GOVERNMENT OF BARCELONA RECRUITMENT OFFICE.

'Hallelujah,' I mumbled.

I knew the contents of the letter without having to open it, but even so I did, just to wallow in my misery. The letter was concise: two paragraphs of that prose, poised somewhere between strident proclamation and the aria from an operetta, that characterizes all military correspondence. It was announced to me that in two months' time I, Daniel Sempere, would have the honour and pride of fulfilling the most sacred and edifying duty that could befall an Iberian male: to serve the Motherland and wear the uniform of the national crusade for the defence of the spiritual bulwark of the West. I hoped that at least Fermin would be able to see the funny side of it and make us laugh a bit with his rhyming version of The Fall of the Judeo-Masonic Conspiracy. Two months. Eight weeks. Sixty days. I could always divide up the time into seconds and get a number a mile long. I had 5,184,000 seconds left of freedom. Perhaps Don Federico, who according to my father could even build a Volkswagen, could make me a clock with brakes. Perhaps someone could explain to me how I was going to manage not to lose Bea forever. When I heard the tinkle of the doorbell, I thought it would be Fermin, returning after having finally persuaded himself that our efforts as detectives were nothing more than a bad joke.

'Well, if it's not the crown prince himself watching over his castle -and so he should be, even if his face is as long as a cat's tail. Cheer up, Little Boy Blue,' said Gustavo Barcelo. He sported a camel-hair coat and his customary ivory walking stick, which he didn't need and which he brandished like a cardinal's mitre. 'Isn't your father in, Daniel?'

'I'm sorry, Don Gustavo. He went out to visit a customer, and I don't suppose he'll be back until-'

'Perfect. Because it's not your father I've come to see, and it's better if he doesn't hear what I have to tell you.'

He winked at me, pulling off his gloves and looking around the shop.

'Where's our colleague Fermin? Is he around?'

'Missing in action.'

'Applying his talents to the Carax case, I imagine?'

'Body and soul. The last time I saw him, he was wearing a ca.s.sock and was offering the benediction urbi et orbi'

'I see. . . . It's my fault for egging you on. I wish I hadn't opened my mouth.'

'You seem rather worried. Has anything happened?'

'Not exactly. Or yes, in a way.'

'What did you want to tell me, Don Gustavo?'