The Shadow of the Wind (36 page)

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 think it is? You know I have to go out to visit a client in San Cugat and you leave me here alone.”

“What about Fermín? 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 raincoat and hat, and went out of the door without saying good-bye. Knowing him, I guessed his anger would evaporate before he reached the train station. What I found odd was Fermín'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 rushing out and lead him to the heart of the mystery, my faith in that strategy had crumbled away. I imagined that if Nuria Monfort did go down to the street, Fermín must have ended up following her to the pharmacist's or the baker's. A grand 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 for 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 a 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 honor 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 defense of the spiritual bulwark of the West. I hoped that at least Fermín would be able to see the funny side of it and make us laugh a bit with his rhymed 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 mile-long number. I had 5, 184, 000 seconds left of freedom. Perhaps Don Federico, who according to my father could build a Volkswagen, could make me a clock with disc 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 Fermín, returning after having finally persuaded himself that our efforts as detectives were no 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 Barceló. 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 miter. “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 Fermín? Is he around?”

“Missing in action.”

“While applying his talents to the Carax case, I imagine.”

“Body and soul. The last time I saw him, he was wearing a cassock 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?”

The bookseller smiled at me meekly. His usual haughty expression was nowhere to be seen. Instead he looked serious and concerned.

“This morning I met Don Manuel Gutiérrez Fonseca. He's fifty-nine, a bachelor, and has been a city employee at the municipal morgue of Barcelona since 1924. Thirty years' service in the threshold of darkness. His words, not mine. Don Manuel is a gentleman of the old school—courteous, pleasant, and obliging. For the last fifteen years, he's been living on Calle Ceniza, in a rented room he shares with a dozen parakeets that have learned how to hum the funeral march. He has a season ticket at the Liceo. He likes Verdi and Donizetti. He told me that in his job the important thing is to follow the rules. The rules make provisions for everything, especially on occasions when one doesn't know what to do. Fifteen years ago Don Manuel opened a canvas bag brought in by the police, and in it he found his best childhood friend. The rest of the body came in a separate bag. Don Manuel, holding back his feelings, followed the rules.”

“Would you like a coffee, Don Gustavo? You're looking a bit pale.”

“Please.”

I went in search of the thermos and poured him a cup with eight lumps of sugar. He gulped it down.

“Better?”

“Getting there. Well, then, the fact is that Don Manuel was on duty the day they brought the body of Julián Carax to the autopsy department, in September of 1936. Of course, Don Manuel couldn't remember the name, but a look through the archives and a hundred-peseta donation toward his retirement fund refreshed his memory remarkably. Do you follow me?”

I nodded, almost in a trance.

“Don Manuel remembers all the details of that day because, as he told me, it was one of the few times when he skipped the rules. The police claimed that the body had been found in an alleyway of the Raval quarter, shortly before dawn. The body reached the morgue by midmorning. On it were only a book and a passport, which identified him as Julián Fortuny Carax, born in Barcelona in 1900. The passport had been stamped at the border post of La Junquera, showing that Carax had come into the country a month earlier. The cause of death was, apparently, a bullet wound. Don Manuel isn't a doctor, but over the years he had learned what to look for. In his opinion the gunshot, just above the heart, had been delivered at point-blank range. Thanks to the passport, they were able to locate Mr. Fortuny, Carax's father, who came to the morgue that very evening to identify the body.”

“Up to here it all tallies with what Nuria Monfort said.”

Barceló nodded. “That's right. What Nuria Monfort didn't tell you is that he—my friend Don Manuel—sensing that the police did not seem very interested in the case, and having realized that the book found in the pocket of the corpse bore the name of the deceased, decided to act on his own initiative and called the publishing house that very afternoon, while they awaited the arrival of Mr. Fortuny, to inform them about what had happened.”

“Nuria Monfort told me that the employee at the morgue phoned the publishers three days later, when the body had already been buried in a common grave.”

“According to Don Manuel, he called on the same day as the body was delivered to the morgue. He tells me he spoke to a young woman who said she was grateful to him for having called. Don Manuel remembers that he was slightly shocked by the attitude of the young lady. In his own words: ‘It sounded as if she already knew.'”

“What about Mr. Fortuny? Is it true that he refused to identify his son?”

“That's what intrigued me most of all. Don Manuel tells me that at the end of the afternoon, a little man arrived, trembling, escorted by two policemen. It was Mr. Fortuny. According to Don Manuel, that is the one thing that one never gets used to, the moment when those closest to the loved one come to identify the body. He says it's a situation he wouldn't wish on anyone. Worst of all, he says, is when the deceased is a young person and it's the parents, or a young spouse, who have to identify him. Don Manuel remembers Mr. Fortuny well. He says that when he arrived at the morgue, he could scarcely stand, that he cried like a child, and that the two policemen had to hold him up by his arms. He kept on moaning: ‘What have they done to my son? What have they done to my son?'”

“Did he get to see the body?”

“Don Manuel told me that he was on the point of asking the police officers whether they might skip the procedure. It's the only time it occurred to him to question the rules. The corpse was in a bad state. The victim had probably been dead for over twenty-four hours when the body reached the morgue, and not since dawn that day, as the police claimed. Manuel was afraid that when that little old man saw it, he would break down. Mr. Fortuny kept on repeating that it couldn't be, that his Julián couldn't be dead…. Then Don Manuel removed the shroud that covered the body, and the two policemen asked Mr. Fortuny formally whether that was his son, Julián.”

“And?”

“Mr. Fortuny was dumbfounded. He stared at the body for almost a minute. Then he turned on his heels and left.”

“He left?”

“In a hurry.”

“What about the police? Didn't they stop him? Wasn't he there to identify the body?”

Barceló smiled roguishly. “In theory. But Don Manuel remembers there was someone else in the room, a third policeman, who had come in quietly while the other two were preparing Mr. Fortuny. He was watching the scene without saying a word, leaning against the wall, with a cigarette in his mouth. Don Manuel remembers him because when he told him that the regulations strictly forbade smoking in the morgue, one of the officers signaled to him to be quiet. According to Don Manuel, as soon as Mr. Fortuny had left, the third policeman went up to the body, glanced at it, and spit on its face. Then he kept the passport and gave orders for the body to be sent to Montjuïc, to be buried in a common grave at daybreak.”

“It doesn't make sense.”

“That's what Don Manuel thought. Especially as none of it tallied with the rules. ‘But we don't know who this man is,' he said. The two other policemen didn't say anything. Don Manuel rebuked them angrily: ‘Or do you know only too well? Because it is quite clear to us all that he's been dead for at least a day.' Don Manuel was obviously referring to the regulations and was no fool. According to him, when the third policeman heard his protests, he went up to him, looked straight into his eyes, and asked him whether he'd care to join the deceased on his last voyage. Don Manuel was terrified. That man had the eyes of a lunatic, and Don Manuel didn't doubt for one moment that he meant what he said. He mumbled that he was only trying to comply with the regulations, that nobody knew who that man was, and that, consequently, he couldn't be buried yet. ‘This man is whoever I say he is,' answered the policeman. Then he picked up the register form and signed it, closing the case. Don Manuel says he'll never forget that signature, because during the war years, and for a long time afterward, he would come across it on dozens of death certificates for bodies that arrived from goodness knows where—bodies that nobody managed to identify….”

“Inspector Francisco Javier Fumero…”

“The pride and glory of Central Police Headquarters. Do you realize what this means, Daniel?”

“That we've been lashing out blindly from the very beginning.”

Barceló took his hat and stick and walked over to the door, tut-tutting under his breath. “No, it means the lashings are about to start.”

I
SPENT THE AFTERNOON KEEPING WATCH OVER THE GRIM LETTER
announcing my draft, hoping for signs of life from Fermín. Half an hour after our closing time, Fermín's whereabouts remained unknown. I picked up the telephone and called the
pensión
on Calle Joaquín Costa. Doña Encarna answered, her voice thick with alcohol. She said she hadn't seen Fermín since that morning.

“If he's not back within the next half hour, he'll have to have his supper cold. This isn't the Ritz, you know. I hope nothing's happened to him?”

“Don't worry, Doña Encarna. He had some errand to do and must have got delayed. In any case, if you do see him before going to bed, I'll be really grateful if you could ask him to call me. It's Daniel Sempere, the neighbor of your friend Merceditas.”

“Sure, but I must warn you that I turn in for the night at half past eight.”

After that I phoned Barceló's home, hoping that Fermín might have turned up there to empty Bernarda's larder or carry her off into the ironing room. It hadn't occurred to me that Clara might answer the phone.

“Daniel, what a surprise.”

You stole my line, I thought. Talking to her in a roundabout manner worthy of Don Anacleto, the high-school teacher, I let drop the reason for my call, but in a very casual manner, almost in passing.

“No, Fermín hasn't come by all day. And Bernarda has been with me all afternoon, so I would know. We've been talking about you, you know.”

“What a boring conversation.”

“Bernarda says you look very handsome, quite grown up.”

“I take lots of vitamins.”

A long silence.

“Daniel, do you think we could become friends again someday? How many years will it take you to forgive me?”

“We are friends already, Clara, and I don't have to forgive you for anything. You know that.”

“My uncle says you're still investigating Julián Carax. Why don't you come by some afternoon for tea and tell me the latest. I've also got things to tell you.”

“One of these days, I promise.”

“I'm getting married, Daniel.”

I stared at the receiver. I felt as if my feet were sinking into the ground or I had shrunk a few inches.

“Daniel, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“You're surprised.”

I swallowed—my saliva had the consistency of concrete. “No. What surprises me is that you're not yet married. You can't have lacked for suitors. Who's the lucky fellow?”

“You don't know him. His name is Jacobo. He's a friend of Uncle Gustavo. A director of the Bank of Spain. We met at an opera recital organized by my uncle. Jacobo is enthusiastic about opera. He's a bit older than me, but we're very good friends, and that's what matters, don't you think?”

My mouth was full of words of malice, but I bit my tongue. It tasted like poison. “Of course…So listen, congratulations.”

“You'll never forgive me, will you, Daniel? For you I'll always be the perfidious Clara Barceló.”

“To me you'll always be Clara Barceló, period. And you know that as well as I do.”

There was another silence, of the kind in which gray hairs seem to creep up on you.

“What about you, Daniel? Fermín tells me you have a beautiful girlfriend.”

“I have to go, Clara, a client has just come in. I'll call you one of these days, and we'll arrange to meet for tea. Congratulations once again.”

I put down the phone and sighed.

My father returned from his visit to the client, looking dejected and not in the mood for conversation. He got dinner ready while I set the table, without even asking after Fermín or how the day had gone in the bookshop. We stared at our plates during the meal, hiding behind the chatter of the news on the radio. My father hardly ate. He just stirred the watery, tasteless soup with his spoon, as if he were looking for gold in the bottom.

“You haven't touched your food,” I said.

My father shrugged his shoulders. The radio continued to bombard us with nonsense. My father got up and turned it off.

“What did the letter from the army say?” he finally asked.

“I have to join up in two months' time.”

His face seemed to age ten years.

“Barceló says he'll try to pull some strings so that I get transferred to the Military Government in Barcelona, after the training. I'll even be able to come home to sleep,” I added.

My father replied with an anemic nod. I found it painful to hold his gaze, so I got up to clear the table. My father remained seated, his eyes lost and his hands clasped under his chin. I was about to wash up the dishes when I heard footsteps pounding on the stairs. Firm, hurried footsteps that struck the floor and spoke a terrible message. I looked up and exchanged glances with my father. The footsteps stopped on our landing. My father stood up, looking anxious. A second later we heard banging on the door and a furious booming voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

“Police! Open up!”

A thousand daggers stabbed at my mind. Another volley of banging made the door shake. My father went to the door and lifted the cover of the peephole.

“What do you want at this time of night?”

“Open the door or we'll kick it down, Sempere. Don't make me have to repeat this.”

I recognized the voice as Fumero's, and an icy breath seemed to enter me. My father threw me a questioning look. I nodded. Suppressing a sigh, he opened the door. Fumero and his two henchmen were silhouetted against the yellowish light of the landing, ashen-faced puppets in gray raincoats.

“Where is he?” shouted Fumero, swiping my father aside and pushing his way into the dining room.

My father tried to stop him, but one of the policemen who was covering the inspector's back grabbed him by the arm and pushed him against the wall, holding him with the coldness and efficiency of a man accustomed to the task. It was the same man who had followed me and Fermín, the same one who had held me while Fumero beat up my friend outside the Hospice of Santa Lucía, the same one who had kept watch on me a couple of nights before. He gave me an empty, deadpan look. I went up to Fumero, displaying all the calm I was able to muster. The inspector's eyes were bloodshot. A recent scratch ran down his left cheek, edged with dry blood.

“Where?”

“Where what?”

Fumero looked down suddenly and shook his head, mumbling to himself. When he raised his face, he had a wolfish grimace on his lips and a revolver in his hand. Without taking his eyes off mine, he banged the butt of his revolver against the vase of withered flowers on the table. The vase smashed into small fragments, spilling the water and the shriveled stalks over the tablecloth. Despite myself, I shivered. My father was shouting in the entrance hall, held firmly in the grip of the two policemen. I could barely decipher his words. All I could absorb was the icy pressure of the gun's barrel sunk into my cheek, and the smell of gunpowder.

“Don't fuck with me, you little shit, or your father will have to pick your brains off the floor. Do you hear?”

I nodded. I was shaking. Fumero pressed the barrel hard against my cheek. I could feel it cutting my skin, but I didn't even dare blink.

“This is the last time I'll ask you. Where is he?”

I saw myself reflected in the black pupils of the inspector's eyes. They slowly contracted as he tightened the hammer with his thumb.

“Not here. I haven't seen him since lunchtime. It's the truth.”

Fumero stood still for almost half a minute, digging the gun into my face and smacking his lips.

“Lerma,” he ordered. “Have a look.”

One of the policemen hurried off to inspect the apartment. My father struggled in vain with the third officer.

“If you've lied to me and we find him in this house, I swear I'll break both your father's legs,” whispered Fumero.

“My father doesn't know anything. Leave him alone.”

“You're the one who doesn't even know what he's playing at. But as soon as I grab hold of your friend, the game's over. No judges, no hospitals, no fucking nothing. This time I'll see to it personally that he's put out of circulation. And I'm going to enjoy doing it, believe me. I'm going to take my time. You can tell him if you see him. Because I'm going to find him even if I have to turn over every stone in the city. And you're next on the list.”

The officer called Lerma reappeared in the dining room and gave a slight shake of the head. Fumero loosened the hammer and removed the revolver.

“Pity,” said Fumero.

“What has he done? Why are you looking for him?”

Fumero turned his back on me and went up to the two policemen, who, at a signal from him, let go of my father.

“You're going to remember this,” spit my father.

Fumero's eyes rested on his. Instinctively, my father took a step back. I feared that Inspector Fumero's visit had only just begun, but suddenly the man shook his head, laughing under his breath, and left the apartment. Lerma followed him. The third policeman, my perpetual sentinel, paused for a moment in the doorway. He looked silently at me, as if he wanted to say something.

“Palacios!” yelled Fumero, his voice fading into the echo of the stairwell.

Palacios lowered his eyes and disappeared around the door. I went out to the landing. I could see blades of light emerging from the half-open doors of the neighbors, their frightened faces peeping out into the dark. The three shadowy shapes of the policemen vanished down the stairs, and the angry sound of their footsteps receded like a poisoned tide, leaving behind it a residue of fear.

It was about midnight when we heard more bangs on the door, this time weaker, almost fearful. My father, who was dabbing iodine on the bruise left on my cheek by Fumero's gun, suddenly froze. Our eyes met. There were three more knocks.

For a moment I thought it was Fermín, who had perhaps witnessed the whole incident hidden in some dark corner of the staircase.

“Who's there?” asked my father.

“Don Anacleto, Mr. Sempere.”

My father gave out a sigh. We opened the door to find the teacher, looking paler than ever.

“Don Anacleto, what's the matter? Are you all right?” my father asked, letting him in.

The teacher was holding a folded newspaper. He handed it to us with a horrified look. The paper was still warm, the ink still damp.

“It's tomorrow's edition,” murmured Don Anacleto. “Page six.”

What first caught my eye were the two photographs under the heading. The first was a picture of Fermín, with a fuller figure and more hair, perhaps fifteen or twenty years younger. The second showed the face of a woman with her eyes closed and skin like marble. It took me a few seconds to recognize her, because I'd got used to seeing her in the half-light.

TRAMP MURDERS WOMAN

IN BROAD DAYLIGHT

BARCELONA/PRESS AGENCY