The Shadow of the Wind (34 page)

O
NLY SOMEONE WHO HAS BARELY A WEEK LEFT TO LIVE COULD
waste his time the way I wasted mine during those days. All I did was watch over the telephone and gnaw at my soul, so much a prisoner of my own blindness that I wasn't even capable of guessing what destiny was already taking for granted. On Monday at noon, I went over to the Literature Faculty in Plaza Universidad, hoping to see Bea. I knew she wouldn't be amused if I turned up there and we were seen together, but facing her anger was preferable to continuing with my uncertainty.

I asked in the office for Professor Velázquez's lecture room and decided to wait for the students to come out. I waited for about twenty minutes, until the doors opened and I saw the arrogant, well-groomed countenance of Professor Velázquez, as usual surrounded by his small group of female admirers. Five minutes later there was still no sign of Bea. I decided to walk up to the door of the lecture room and take a look. A trio of girls were huddled together like a Sunday-school group, chatting and exchanging either lecture notes or secrets. The one who seemed like the leader of the congregation noticed my presence and interrupted her monologue to fire me an inquisitive look.

“I'm sorry. I'm looking for Beatriz Aguilar. Do you know whether she comes to this class?”

The girls traded venomous glances.

“Are you her fiancé?” one of them asked. “The officer?”

I smiled blankly, and they took this to mean agreement. Only the third girl smiled back at me, shyly, averting her eyes. The other two were more forward, almost defiant.

“I imagined you different,” said the one who seemed to be the head commando.

“Where's the uniform?” asked the second in command, observing me with suspicion.

“I'm on leave. Do you know whether she's already left?”

“Beatriz didn't come to class today,” the chief informed me.

“Oh, didn't she?”

“No,” confirmed the suspicious lieutenant. “If you're her fiancé, you should know.”

“I'm her fiancé, not a Civil Guard.”

“Come on, let's go, this guy's a twit,” the chief said.

They both walked past me, eyeing me sideways with disdain. The third one lagged behind. She stopped for a moment before leaving and, making quite sure the others didn't see her, whispered in my ear, “Beatriz didn't come on Friday either.”

“Do you know why?”

“You're not her fiancé, are you?”

“No. Only a friend.”

“I think she's ill.”

“Ill?”

“That's what one of the girls who phoned her said. Now I must go.”

Before I was able to thank her for her help, the girl went off to join the other two, who were waiting for her with withering looks at the far end of the cloister.

 

“D
ANIEL, SOMETHING MUST HAVE HAPPENED.
A
GREAT-AUNT HAS DIED,
or a parrot has got the mumps, or she's caught a cold from so much going around without enough clothes to cover her bum—goodness knows what. Contrary to what you firmly believe, the earth does not revolve around the desires of your crotch. Other factors influence the evolution of mankind.”

“You think I'm not aware of that? You don't seem to know me, Fermín.”

“My dear, if God had wished to give me wider hips, I might even have given birth to you: that's how well I know you. Pay attention to me. Throw off those thoughts and get some fresh air. Waiting is the rust of the soul.”

“So I seem absurd to you.”

“No. You seem fretful. I know that at your age these things look like the end of the world, but everything has a limit. Tonight you and I are going on a binge in a club on Calle Platería, which is apparently all the rage. I hear there are some new Scandinavian girls straight from Ciudad Real that are real knockouts. It's on me.”

“And what will Bernarda say?”

“The girls are for you. I'll be waiting in the hall, reading a magazine and looking at the nice bundles of stuff from afar, because I'm a convert to monogamy, if not
in mentis,
at least de facto.”

“I'm very grateful, Fermín, but—”

“A young boy of eighteen who refuses such an offer is not in his right mind. Something must be done immediately. Here.”

He searched in his pockets and handed me some coins. I wondered whether that was the enormous sum with which he was going to finance the visit to the sumptuous seraglio of Iberian nymphs.

“With this we won't even get a ‘Good evening,' Fermín.”

“You're one of those people who fall off a tree and never quite reach the ground. Do you really think that I'm going to take you to a whorehouse and bring you back, covered with gonorrhea, to your dear father, who is the saintliest man I have ever met? I told you about the chicks to see whether you'd react, appealing to the only part of your person that seems to be in working order. This is for you to go to the telephone on the corner and call your beloved with a bit of privacy.”

“Bea told me quite clearly not to phone her.”

“She also told you she'd call you on Friday. It's already Monday. It's up to you. It is one thing to believe in women, and another to believe what they say.”

Convinced by his arguments, I slipped out of the bookshop, walked over to the public telephone on the street corner, and dialed the Aguilars' number. At the fifth ring, someone lifted the telephone on the other end and listened in silence, without answering. Five eternal seconds went by.

“Bea?” I murmured. “Is that you?”

The voice that answered struck my stomach like a hammer.

“You son of a bitch, I swear I'm going to beat your brains out.”

It was the steely tone of pure, contained anger. Icy and serene. That is what scared me most. I could picture Mr. Aguilar holding the telephone in the entrance hall of his apartment, the same one I had often used to call my father and tell him I would be late because I'd spent the afternoon with Tomás. I stayed where I was, listening to the breathing of Bea's father, dumb, wondering whether he'd recognized my voice.

“I see you don't even have the balls to talk, you swine. Any little shit is capable of doing what you've done, but a man would at least have the guts to show his face. I would die of shame if I thought that a seventeen-year-old girl was ballsier than me—because she hasn't revealed your name and she's not going to. I know her. And since you don't have the courage to show your face for Beatriz's sake, she's going to have to pay for what you've done.”

When I hung up, my hands were shaking. I wasn't conscious of what I'd done until I left the booth and dragged my feet back toward the bookshop. I hadn't stopped to consider that my call would only make things worse for Bea. My only concern had been to remain anonymous and hide my face, disowning those whom I professed to love and whom I only used. I had done this already when Inspector Fumero had beaten up Fermín. I had done it again when I'd abandoned Bea to her fate. I would do it again as soon as circumstances provided me with another opportunity. I stayed out on the street for ten minutes, trying to calm down before returning to the bookshop. Perhaps I should call again and tell Mr. Aguilar that yes, it was me. That I was crazy about his daughter, end of story. If he then felt like coming by in his general's uniform and beating me up, he had every right to do so.

I was on my way back when I noticed that somebody was watching me from a doorway on the other side of the street. At first I thought it was Don Federico, the watchmaker, but a quick glance was enough to make me realize this was a taller, more solid-looking individual. I stopped to return his gaze, and, to my surprise, he nodded, as if he wished to greet me and prove that he didn't mind at all that I'd noticed his presence. The light from one of the streetlamps fell on his face. His features seemed familiar. He took a step forward, buttoning his raincoat to his neck; he smiled at me and walked away toward the Ramblas, mingling with other passersby. Then I recognized him: the police officer who had held me down while Inspector Fumero attacked Fermín.

When I entered the bookshop, Fermín looked at me inquisitively.

“What's that face for?”

“Fermín, I think we have a problem.”

That same evening we put into action the plan we had conceived with Don Gustavo Barceló.

“The first thing is to make sure that you are right and we're under police surveillance. We'll walk over to Els Quatre Gats, casually, to see whether that guy is still out there, lying in wait. But not a word of all this to your father, or he'll end up with a kidney stone.”

“And what do I tell him? He's suspicious enough as it is.”

“Tell him you're going out to buy sunflower seeds or something.”

“And why do we need to go to Els Quatre Gats, precisely?”

“Because there they serve the best ham sandwiches in a three-mile radius, and we have to talk somewhere. Don't be a wet blanket—do as I say, Daniel.”

Welcoming any activity that would distract me from my thoughts, I obeyed meekly, and a couple of minutes later was on my way out into the street, having assured my father that I'd be back in time for dinner. Fermín was waiting for me on the corner. As soon as I joined him, he raised his eyebrows to indicate that I should start walking.

“We've got the rattlesnake about twenty yards behind us. Don't turn your head.”

“Is it the same one?”

“I don't think so, unless he's shrunk with this wet weather. This one looks like a novice. He's carrying a sports page that's six days old. Fumero must be recruiting apprentices from the charity hospice.”

When we got to Els Quatre Gats, our plainclothes policeman sat at a table a few yards from ours and pretended to reread last week's football-league report. Every twenty seconds he would throw us a furtive glance.

“Poor thing, look how he's sweating,” said Fermín, shaking his head. “You seem rather distant, Daniel. Did you speak to the girl or didn't you?”

“Her father answered the phone.”

“And you had a friendly and civil conversation?”

“It was more like a monologue.”

“I see. Must I therefore infer that you don't address him as
papá
yet?”

“He told me verbatim that he was going to beat my brains out.”

“Surely that was a rhetorical flourish.”

At that moment the waiter's frame hovered over us. Fermín asked for enough food to feed a regiment, rubbing his hands with anticipation.

“And you don't want anything, Daniel?”

I shook my head. When the waiter returned with two trays full of tapas, sandwiches, and various glasses of beer, Fermín handed him a handsome sum and told him to keep the change.

“Listen, boss,” he added. “Do you see that guy sitting at the table by the window—the one dressed like Jiminy Cricket with his head buried in his newspaper, as if it were a cone?”

The waiter nodded with an air of complicity.

“Could you please go and tell him that there's an urgent message from Inspector Fumero? He must go immediately to the Boquería Market to buy twenty duros' worth of boiled chickpeas and take them without delay to Police Headquarters (in a taxi if necessary)—or he must prepare to present his balls to him on a plate. Would you like me to repeat it?”

“That won't be necessary, sir. Twenty duros' worth of chickpeas or his balls on a plate.”

Fermín handed him another coin. “God bless you.”

The waiter nodded respectfully and set off toward our pursuer's table to deliver the message. When the watchman heard the instructions, his face dropped. He remained at the table for another fifteen seconds, torn, and then galloped off into the street. Fermín didn't bat an eyelid. In other circumstances I would have enjoyed the episode, but that night I was unable to get Bea out of my mind.

“Daniel, come down from the clouds, we have work to discuss. Tomorrow, without delay, you must go and visit Nuria Monfort, as we said.”

“And when I'm there, what do I say to her?”

“You'll find some topic of conversation. The plan is to follow Mr. Barceló's very sensible suggestion. You make her aware that you know she lied to you knowingly about Carax, that her so-called husband Miquel Moliner is not in prison as she pretends, that you've discovered that she is the evil hand responsible for collecting the mail from the old Fortuny-Carax family apartment, using a PO box in the name of a nonexistent solicitors' firm…. You tell her whatever is necessary to light a fire under her feet. All in a melodramatic tone and with a biblical expression. Then, just for the effect, you leave her to stew for a while in her own juices of unease.”

“And in the meantime…”

“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, Fermín.”

“O ye of little faith! Come on, what has this girl's father said to you 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 this lunatic say to you?”

I answered without thinking. “The truth.”

“The truth according to Saint 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 say you're about to put on a hair shirt. 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?”

Fermín 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.”