The Shadow of the Wind (6 page)

“You ought to go out with friends your own age, like Tomás Aguilar, whom you seem to have forgotten, though he's a splendid boy, and not with a woman who is old enough to be married.”

“What does it matter how old we each are if we're good friends?”

What hurt me most was the reference to Tomás, because it was true. I hadn't gone out with him for months, whereas before we had been inseparable. My father looked at me reprovingly.

“Daniel, you don't know anything about women, and this one is playing with you like a cat with a canary.”

“You're the one who doesn't know anything about women,” I would reply, offended. “And much less about Clara.”

Our conversations on the subject rarely went any further than an exchange of reproaches and wounded looks. When I was not at school or with Clara, I devoted my time to helping my father in the bookshop—tidying up the storeroom in the back of the shop, delivering orders, running errands, or even serving regular customers. My father complained that I didn't really put my mind or my heart into the work. I, in turn, replied that I spent my whole life working there and I couldn't see what he could possibly complain about. Many nights, when sleep eluded me, I'd lie awake remembering the intimacy, the small world we had shared during the years following my mother's death, the years of Victor Hugo's pen and the tin trains. I recalled them as years of peace and sadness, a world that was vanishing and that had begun to evaporate on the dawn when my father took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. Time played on the opposite team. One day my father discovered that I'd given Carax's book to Clara, and he rose in anger.

“You disappoint me, Daniel,” he said. “When I took you to that secret place, I told you that the book you chose was something special, that you were going to adopt it and had to be responsible for it.”

“I was ten at the time, Father, and that was a child's game.”

My father looked at me as if I'd stabbed him.

“And now you're fourteen, and not only are you still a child, you're a child who thinks he's a man. Life is going to deal you a great many blows, Daniel. And very soon.”

In those days I wanted to believe that my father was hurt because I spent so much time with the Barcelós. The bookseller and his niece lived a life of luxury that my father could barely dream of. I thought he resented the fact that Don Gustavo's maid behaved as if she were my mother, and was offended by my acceptance that someone could take on that role. Sometimes, while I was in the back room wrapping up parcels or preparing an order, I would hear a customer joking with my father.

“What you need is a good woman, Sempere. These days there are plenty of good-looking widows around, in the prime of their life, if you see what I mean. A young lady would sort out your life, my friend, and take twenty years off you. What a good pair of breasts can't do…”

My father never responded to these insinuations, but I found them increasingly sensible. Once, at dinnertime, which had become a battleground of silences and stolen glances, I brought up the subject. I thought that if I were the one to suggest it, it would make things easier. My father was an attractive man, always clean and neat in appearance, and I knew for a fact that more than one lady in the neighborhood approved of him and would have welcomed more than reading suggestions from him.

“It's been very easy for you to find a substitute for your mother,” he answered bitterly. “But for me there is no such person, and I have no interest at all in looking.”

As time went by, the hints from my father and from Bernarda, and even Barceló's intimations, began to make an impression on me. Something inside me told me that I was entering a cul-de-sac, that I could not hope for Clara to see anything more in me than a boy ten years her junior. Every day it felt more difficult to be near her, to bear the touch of her hands, or to take her by the arm when we went out for a walk. There came a point when her mere proximity translated into an almost physical pain. Nobody was unaware of this fact, least of all Clara.

“Daniel, I think we need to talk,” she would say. “I don't think I've behaved very well toward you—”

I never let her finish her sentences. I would leave the room with any old excuse and flee, unable to face the possibility that the fantasy world I had built around Clara might be dissolving. I could not know that my troubles had only just begun.

1950

O
N MY SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY,
I
SPAWNED THE MOST ILL-FATED
idea that had ever occurred to me. Without consulting anybody, I decided to host a birthday party and invite Barceló, Bernarda, and Clara. In my father's estimation, the whole thing was a recipe for disaster.

“It's my birthday,” I answered sharply. “I work for you all the other days of the year. For once, at least, you could try to please me.”

“Suit yourself.”

The preceding months had been the most bewildering in my strange friendship with Clara. I hardly ever read to her anymore. Clara would systematically avoid being left on her own with me. Whenever I called by her apartment, her uncle popped up, pretending to read a newspaper, or else Bernarda would materialize, bustling about in the background and casting sidelong glances. Other times the company would take the form of one or several of Clara's friends. I called them the “Sisterly Brigade.” Always chaste and modest in appearance, they patrolled the area around Clara with a missal in one hand and a policeman's eye, making it abundantly clear that I was in the way and that my presence embarrassed Clara and the entire world. Worst of all, however, was Neri, the music teacher, whose wretched symphony remained unfinished. He was a smooth talker, a rich kid from the snobby uptown district of San Gervasio, who, despite the Mozartian airs he affected, reminded me more of a tango singer, slick with brilliantine. The only talent I recognized in him was a badly concealed mean streak. He would suck up to Don Gustavo with no dignity or decorum, and he flirted with Bernarda in the kitchen, making her laugh with his silly gifts of sugared almonds and his fondness for bottom pinching. In short, I hated his guts. The dislike was mutual. Neri would turn up with his scores and his arrogant manner, regarding me as if I were some undesirable little cabin boy and making all sorts of objections to my presence.

“Don't you have to go and do your homework, son?”

“And you, maestro, don't you have a symphony to finish?”

In the end they would all get the better of me and I would depart, crestfallen and defeated, wishing I had Don Gustavo's gift of the gab so that I could put the conceited so-and-so in his place.

 

O
N MY BIRTHDAY MY FATHER WENT DOWN TO THE BAKERY ON THE
corner and bought the finest cake he could find. He set the dinner table silently, bringing out the silver and the best dinner service. He lit a few candles and prepared a meal of what he thought were my favorite dishes. We didn't exchange a word all afternoon. In the evening he went into his room, slipped into his best suit, and came out again holding a packet wrapped in shiny cellophane paper, which he placed on the coffee table in the dining room. My present. He sat at the table, poured himself a glass of white wine, and waited. The invitation specified dinner would be served at eight-thirty. At nine-thirty we were still waiting. My father glanced at me sadly. Inside, I was boiling with rage.

“You must be pleased with yourself,” I said. “Isn't this what you wanted?”

“No.”

Half an hour later, Bernarda arrived. She bore a funereal expression and a message from Miss Clara, who wished me many happy returns but unfortunately would be unable to attend my birthday dinner. Mr. Barceló had been obliged to leave town on business for a few days, and she'd had to change her music lesson with Maestro Neri. Bernarda had come because it was her afternoon off.

“Clara can't come because she has a music lesson?” I asked, quite astounded.

Bernarda looked down. She was almost in tears when she handed me a small parcel containing her present and kissed me on both cheeks.

“If you don't like it, you can exchange it,” she said.

I was left alone with my father, staring at the fine dinner service, the silver, and the candles that were quietly burning themselves out.

“I'm sorry, Daniel,” said my father.

I nodded in silence, shrugging my shoulders.

“Aren't you even going to open your present?” he asked.

My only response was the slam of the front door as I left the apartment. I rushed furiously down the stairs, my eyes brimming with tears of rage as I stepped outside. The street was freezing, desolate, suffused in an eerie blue radiance. I felt as if my heart had been flayed open. Everything around me trembled. I walked off aimlessly, paying scant attention to a stranger who was observing me from Puerta del Ángel. He wore a dark suit, right hand buried in the pocket of his jacket, eyes like wisps of light in the glow of his cigarette. Limping slightly, he began to follow me.

I wandered through the streets for an hour or more, until I found myself at the base of the Columbus monument. Crossing over to the port, I sat on the stony steps that descended into the dark waters, next to the dock that sheltered the pleasure boats. Someone had chartered a night trip, and I could hear laughter and music wafting across from the procession of lights and reflections in the inner harbor. I remembered the days when my father would take me on that very same boat for a trip to the breakwater point. From there you could see the cemetery on the slopes of Montjuïc, the endless city of the dead. Sometimes I waved, thinking that my mother was still there and could see us going by. My father would also wave. It was years since we had boarded a pleasure boat, although I knew that sometimes he did the trip on his own.

“A good night for remorse, Daniel,” came a voice from the shadows. “Cigarette?”

I jumped up with a start. A hand was offering me a cigarette out of the dark.

“Who are you?”

The stranger moved forward until he was on the very edge of darkness, his face still concealed. A puff of blue smoke rose from his cigarette. I immediately recognized the black suit and the hand hidden in the jacket pocket. His eyes shone like glass beads.

“A friend,” he said. “Or that's what I aspire to be. A cigarette?”

“I don't smoke.”

“Good for you. Unfortunately, I have nothing else to offer you, Daniel.”

He had a rasping, wounded voice. He dragged his words out so that they sounded muffled and distant like the old 78s Barceló collected.

“How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot about you. Your name is the least of it.”

“What else do you know?”

“I could embarrass you, but I don't have the time or the inclination. Just say that I know you have something that interests me. And I'm ready to pay you good money for it.”

“I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else.”

“No, I hardly think so. I tend to make other mistakes, but never when it comes to people. How much do you want for it?”

“For what?”

“For
The Shadow of the Wind.
”

“What makes you think I have it?”

“That's beyond discussion, Daniel. It's just a question of price. I've known you have it for a long time. People talk. I listen.”

“Well, you must have heard wrong. I don't have that book. And if I did, I wouldn't sell it.”

“Your integrity is admirable, especially in these days of sycophants and ass lickers, but you don't have to pretend with me. Say how much. A thousand duros? Money means nothing to me. You set the price.”

“I've already told you: it's not for sale, and I don't have it,” I replied. “You've made a mistake, you see.”

The stranger remained silent and motionless, enveloped in the blue smoke of a cigarette that never seemed to go out. I realized he didn't smell of tobacco, but of burned paper. Good paper, the sort used for books.

“Perhaps you're the one who's making a mistake now,” he suggested.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Probably.”

I gulped. Despite my bravado, the man frightened me out of my skin.

“May I ask why you are so interested?”

“That's my business.”

“Mine, too, if you are threatening me about a book I don't have.”

“I like you, Daniel. You've got guts, and you seem bright. A thousand duros? With that you could buy a huge amount of books. Good books, not that rubbish you guard with such zeal. Come on, a thousand duros and we'll remain friends.”

“You and I are not friends.”

“Yes we are, but you haven't yet realized it. I don't blame you, with so much on your mind. Your friend Clara, for instance. A woman like that…anyone could lose his senses.”

The mention of Clara's name froze the blood in my veins. “What do you know about Clara?”

“I daresay I know more than you, and that you'd do best to forget her, although I know you won't. I too have been sixteen….”

Suddenly a terrible certainty hit me. That man was the anonymous stranger who pestered Clara in the street. He was real. Clara had not lied. The man took a step forward. I moved back. I had never been so frightened in my life.

“Clara doesn't have the book; you should know that. Don't you ever dare touch her again.”

“I'm not in the least bit interested in your friend, Daniel, and one day you'll share my feeling. What I want is the book. And I'd rather obtain it by fair means, without harming anyone. Do you understand?”

Unable to come up with anything better, I decided to lie through my teeth. “Someone called Adrián Neri has it. A musician. You may have heard of him.”

“Doesn't ring a bell, and that's the worst thing one can say about a musician. Are you sure you haven't invented this Adrián Neri?”

“I wish I had.”

“In that case, since you seem to be so close, maybe you could persuade him to return it to you. These things are easily solved between friends. Or would you rather I asked Clara?”

I shook my head. “I'll speak to Neri, but I don't think he'll give it back to me. Perhaps he doesn't even have it anymore. Anyhow, what do you want the book for? Don't tell me it's to read it.”

“No. I know it by heart.”

“Are you a collector?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you have other books by Carax?”

“I've had them at some point. Julián Carax is my specialty, Daniel. I travel the world in search of his books.”

“And what do you do with them if you don't read them?”

The stranger made a stifled, desperate sound. It took me a while to realize that he was laughing.

“The only thing that should be done with them, Daniel,” he answered.

He pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. He took one and struck it. The flame showed his face for the first time. My blood froze. He had no nose, lips, or eyelids. His face was nothing but a mask of black scarred skin, consumed by fire. It was the same dead skin that Clara had touched.

“Burn them,” he whispered, his voice and his eyes poisoned by hate.

A gust of air blew out the match he held in his fingers, and his face was once again hidden in darkness.

“We'll meet again, Daniel. I never forget a face, and I don't think you will either,” he said calmly. “For your sake, and for the sake of your friend Clara, I hope you make the right decision. Sort this thing out with Mr. Neri—a rather pretentious name. I wouldn't trust him an inch.”

With that, the stranger turned around and walked off toward the docks, a shape melting into the shadows, cocooned in his hollow laughter.