The Shadow of the Wind (17 page)

At twelve Julian began to lose his feverish interest in painting and in Velazquez, but the hatter's initial hopes did not last long. Julian was abandoning his canvas dreams for a far more pernicious vice. He had discovered the library in Calle del Carmen and devoted any time he was allowed off from the hat shop to visiting the sanctuary of books and devouring volumes of fiction, poetry, and history. The day before his thirteenth birthday, he announced that he wanted to be someone called Robert Louis Stevenson, evidently a foreigner. The hatter remarked that with luck he'd become a quarry worker. At that point he became convinced that his son was nothing hut an idiot.

At night Antoni Fortuny often writhed in his bed with anger and frustration, unable to get any sleep. At the bottom of his heart, he loved that child, he told himself. And although she didn't deserve it, he also loved the slut who had betrayed him from the very first day. He loved her with all his soul, but in his own way, which was the correct way. All he asked God was to show him how the three of them could be happy, preferably also in his own way. He begged the Lord to send him a signal, a whisper, a crumb of His presence. God, in His infinite wisdom, and perhaps overwhelmed by the avalanche of requests from so many tormented souls, did not answer. While Antoni Fortuny was engulfed by remorse and suspicion, on the other side of the wall, Sophie slowly faded away, her life shipwrecked on a sea of disappointment, isolation, and guilt. She did not love the man she served, but she felt she belonged to him, and the possibility of leaving him and taking his son with her to some other place seemed inconceivable. She remembered Julian's real father with bitterness, and eventually grew to hate him and everything he stood for. In her desperation she began to shout back at Antoni Fortuny. Insults and sharp recriminations flew round the apartment like knives, stabbing anyone who dared get in their way, usually Julian. Later the hatter never remembered exactly why he had beaten his wife. He remembered only the anger and the shame. He would then swear to himself that this would never happen again, that, if necessary, he would give himself up to the authorities and get himself locked up in prison.

Antoni Fortuny was sure that, with God's help, he would end up being a better man than his own father. But sooner or later, his fists would once more meet Sophie's tender flesh, and in time Fortuny felt that if he could not possess her as a husband, he would do so as a tyrant. In this manner, secretly, the Fortuny family let the years go by, silencing their hearts and their souls to the point where, from so much keeping quiet, they forgot the words with which to express their real feelings and the family became strangers living under the same roof like so many other families in the vast city.

It was past two-thirty when I returned to the bookshop. As I walked in, Fermin gave me a sarcastic look from the top of a ladder, where he was polishing up a collection of the Episodios Nacionales by the famous Don Benito.

'Who is this I see before me? We thought you must have set off to the New World by now, Daniel'

'I got delayed on the way. Where's my father?'

'Since you didn't turn up, he went off to deliver the rest of the orders. He asked me to tell you that this afternoon he is going to Tiana to value a private library belonging to a widow. Your father's a wolf in sheep's clothing. He said not to wait for him to close the shop.'

'Was he annoyed?'

Fermin shook his head, coming down the stepladder with feline nimbleness.

'Not at all. Your father is a saint. Besides, he was very happy to see you're dating a young lady.'

'What?'

Fermin winked at me and smacked his lips.

'Oh, you little devil, you were hiding your light under a bushel! And what a girl, eh? Good enough to stop traffic. And such class. You can tell she's been to good schools, although she has fire in her eyes. ... If Bernarda hadn't stolen my heart, and I haven't told you all about our outing yet - there were sparks coming out of those eyes, I tell you, sparks, it was like a bonfire on Midsummer's Night—'

'Fermin,' I interrupted. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

'About your fiancee.'

'I don't have a fiancee, Fermin.'

'Well, these days you young people call them anything, sugar pie, or—'

'Fermin, will you please rewind? What are you talking about?'

Fermin Romero de Torres looked at me disconcertedly.

'Let me see. This afternoon, about an hour or an hour and a half ago, a gorgeous young lady came by and asked for you. Your father and yours truly were on the premises, and I can assure you, without a shadow of doubt, that the girl was no apparition. I could even describe her smell. Lavender, only sweeter. Like a little sugar bun just out of the oven.'

'Did little sugar bun say she was my fiancee, by any chance?'

'Well, not in so many words, but she gave a sort of quick smile, if you see what I mean, and said that she would see you on Friday afternoon. All we did was put two and two together.'

'Bea . . .' I mumbled.

'Ergo, she exists,' said Fermin with relief.

'Yes, but she's not my girlfriend.'

'Well, I don't know what you're waiting for, then.'

'She's Tomas Aguilar's sister.'

'Your friend the inventor?'

I nodded.

'All the more reason. Even if she were the pope's niece, she's a bombshell. If I were you, I'd be on the ready.'

'Bea already has a fiance. A lieutenant doing his military service.'

Fermin sighed with irritation. 'Ah, the army, blight and refuge for the basest simian instincts. All the better, because this way you can cheat on him without feeling guilty.'

'You're delirious, Fermin. Bea's getting married when the lieutenant finishes his service.'

Fermin gave me a sneaky smile. 'Funny you should say that, because I have a feeling she's not. I don't think this pumpkin is going to be tying the knot anytime soon.'

'What do you know?'

'About women and other worldly matters, considerably more than you. As Freud tells us, women want the opposite of what they think or say they want, which, when you consider it, is not so bad, because men, as is more than evident, respond, contrariwise, to the dictates of their genital and digestive organs.'

'Stop lecturing me, Fermin, I can see where this is heading. If you have anything to say, just say it.'

'Right, then, in a nutshell: this one hasn't a single bone of obedient-little-wife material in her heavenly body.'

'Hasn't she? Then what kind of bone does your expertise detect?'

Fermin came closer, adopting a confidential tone. 'The passionate kind,' he said, raising his eyebrows with an air of mystery. 'And you can be sure I mean that as a compliment.'

As usual, Fermin was right. Feeling defeated, I decided that attack was the best form of defence. 'Speaking of passion, tell me about Bernarda. Was there or was there not a kiss?'

'Don't insult me, Daniel. Let me remind you that you are talking to a professional in the art of seduction, and this business of kissing is for amateurs and little old men in slippers. Real women are won over bit by bit. It's all a question of psychology, like a good faena in the bullring.'

'In other words, she gave you the brush-off.'

'The woman is yet to be born who is capable of giving Fermin Romero de Torres the brush-off. The trouble is that man, going back to Freud - and excuse the metaphor - heats up like a light bulb: red hot in the twinkling of an eye and cold again in a flash. The female, on the other hand - and this is pure science - heats up like an iron, slowly, over a low heat, like a tasty stew. But then, once she has heated up, there's no stopping her. Like the steel furnaces in Vizcaya.'

I weighed up Fermin's thermodynamic theories. 'Is that what you're doing with Bernarda? Heating up the iron?'

Fermin winked at me. 'That woman is a volcano on the point of eruption, with a libido of igneous magma yet the heart of an angel,' he said, licking his lips. 'If I had to establish a true parallel, she reminds me of my succulent mulatto girl in Havana, who was very devout and always worshipped her saints. But since, deep down, I'm an old-fashioned gent who doesn't like to take advantage of women, I contented myself with a chaste kiss on the cheek. I'm not in a hurry, you see? All good things must wait. There are yokels out there who think that if they touch a woman's behind and she doesn't complain, they've hooked her. Amateurs. The female heart is a labyrinth of subtleties, too challenging for the uncouth mind of the male racketeer. If you really want to possess a woman, you must think like her, and the first thing to do is to win over her soul. The rest, that sweet, soft wrapping which steals away your senses and your virtue, is a bonus.'

I clapped solemnly at this discourse. 'You're a poet, Fermin.'

'No, I'm with Ortega and I'm a pragmatist. Poetry lies, in its adorable wicked way, and what I say is truer than a slice of bread and tomato. That's just what the master said: show me a Don Juan and I'll show you a loser in disguise. What I aim for is permanence, durability. Bear witness that I will make Bernarda, if not an honest woman, because that she already is, at least a happy one.'

I smiled as I nodded. His enthusiasm was contagious, and his diction beyond improvement. 'Take good care of her, Fermin. Do it for me. Bernarda has a heart of gold, and she has already suffered too many disappointments.'

'Do you think I can't see that? It's written all over her, like a stamp from the society of war widows. Trust me: I wrote the book on taking no shit from everybody and his mother. I'm going to make this woman blissfully happy even if it's the last thing I ever do in this world.'

'Do I have your word?'

He stretched out his hand with the composure of a Knight Templar. I shook it.

'Yes, the word of Fermin Romero de Torres.'

Business in the shop was slow that afternoon, with barely a couple of browsers. In view of the situation, I suggested Fermin take the rest of the day off.

'Go on, go and find Bernarda and take her to the cinema or go window shopping with her in Calle Puertaferrissa, walking arm in arm, she loves that.'

Fermin did not hesitate to take me up on my offer and rushed off to smarten himself up in the back room, where he always kept a change of clothes and all kinds of eau de colognes and ointments in a toilet bag that would have been the envy of Veronica Lake. When he emerged, he looked like a film star, only five stone lighter. He wore a suit that had belonged to my father and a felt hat that was a couple of sizes too large, a problem he solved by placing balls of newspaper under the crown.

'By the way, Fermin. Before you go ... I wanted to ask you a favour.'

'Say no more. You give the order. I'm already on to it.'

'I'm going to ask you to keep this between us, OK? Not a word to my father.'

He beamed. 'Ah, you rascal Something to do with that girl, eh?'

'No. This is a matter of high intrigue. Your department.'

'Well, I also know a lot about girls. I'm telling you this because if you ever have a technical query, you know who to ask. Privacy assured. I'm like a doctor when it comes to such matters. No need to be prudish.'

'I'll bear that in mind. Right now what I would like to know is who owns a PO box in the main post office on Via Layetana. Number 2321. And, if possible, who collects the mail that goes there. Do you think you'll be able to lend me a hand?'

Fermin wrote down the number with a ballpoint on his instep, under his sock.

'Piece of cake. All official institutions find me irresistible. Give me a few days and I'll have a full report ready for you.'

'We agreed not to say a word of this to my father?'