The Shadow of the Wind (24 page)

21

Dusk fell almost surreptitiously, with a cold breeze and a mantle of purple light that slid between the gaps in the streets. I quickened my pace, and twenty minutes later the front of the university emerged like an ochre ship anchored in the night. In his lodge the porter of the Literature department perused the words of the nation's most influential by-lines in the afternoon edition of the sports pages. There seemed to be hardly any students left in the premises. The echo of my footsteps followed me through the corridors and galleries that led to the cloister, where the glow of two yellowish lights barely disturbed the shadows. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps Bea had tricked me, that she'd arranged to meet me there at that untimely hour as some sort of revenge. The leaves on the orange trees in the cloister shimmered like silver tears, and the sound of the fountain echoed through the arches. I looked carefully around the courtyard, contemplating disappointment or maybe a certain cowardly sense of relief. There she was, sitting on one of the benches, her silhouette outlined against the fountain, her eyes looking up towards the vaults of the cloister. I stopped at the entrance to gaze at her, and for a moment I was reminded of Nuria Monfort daydreaming on her bench in the square. I noticed she didn't have her folder or her books with her, and I suspected she hadn't had any classes that afternoon. Perhaps she'd come here just to meet me. I swallowed hard and walked into the cloister. The sound of my footsteps gave me away and Bea looked up, with a smile of surprise, as if my presence there were just a coincidence.

'I thought you weren't coming,' said Bea.

'That's just what I thought,' I replied.

She remained seated, upright, her knees tight together and her hands on her lap. I asked myself how I could feel so detached from her and at the same time read every little detail of her lips.

'I've come because I want to prove to you that you were wrong about what you said the other day, Daniel. I'm going to marry Pablo, and I don't care what you show me tonight. I'm going to El Ferrol as soon as he's finished his military service.'

I looked at her as if I'd just had the rug pulled out from under my feet. I realized I'd spent two days walking on air, and now my whole world was collapsing.

'And there I was, thinking you'd come because you felt like seeing me.' I managed a weak smile.

I noticed her blushing self-consciously.

'I was only joking,' I lied. 'What I was serious about was my promise to show you a face of the city that you don't yet know. At least that will give you cause to remember me, or Barcelona, whenever you go.'

There was a touch of sadness in Bea's smile, and she avoided my eyes. 'I nearly went to the cinema, you know. So as not to see you today,' she said.

'Why?'

Bea looked at me but said nothing. She shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyes as if she were trying to catch words that were escaping from her.

'Because I was afraid that perhaps you were right,' she said at last.

I sighed. We were shielded by the evening light and that despondent silence that brings strangers together, and I felt brave enough to say anything that came into my head, even though it might be for the last time.

'Do you love him, or don't you?'

A smile came and went. 'It's none of your business.'

'That's true,' I said. 'It's only your business.'

She gave me a cold look. 'And what does it matter to you?'

'It's none of your business,' I said.

She didn't smile. Her lips trembled. 'People who know me know I'm very fond of Pablo. My family and—'

'But I'm almost a stranger,' I interrupted. 'And I would like to hear it from you.'

'Hear what?'

'That you really love him. That you're not marrying him to get away from home, to put distance between yourself and Barcelona and your family, to go somewhere where they can't hurt you. That you're leaving and not running away.'

Her eyes shone with angry tears. 'You have no right to say that to me, Daniel. You don't know me.'

'Tell me I'm mistaken and I'll leave. Do you love him?'

We looked at one another for a long while, without saying a word.

'I don't know,' she murmured at last. 'I don't know.'

'Someone once said that the moment you stop to think about whether you love someone, you've already stopped loving that person forever,' I said.

Bea looked for the irony in my expression. 'Who said that?'

'Someone called Julian Carax.'

'A friend of yours?'

I caught myself nodding. 'Sort of.'

'You're going to have to introduce him to me.'

'Tonight, if you like.'

We left the university under a bruised sky and wandered aimlessly, just getting used to walking side by side. We took shelter in the only subject we had in common, her brother, Tomas. Bea spoke about him as if he were a virtual stranger, someone she loved but barely knew. She avoided my eyes and smiled nervously. I felt that she regretted what she had said to me in the university cloister, that the words still hurt and were still gnawing at her.

'Listen, what I said to you before,' she said suddenly, 'you won't mention a word to Tomas, will you?'

'Of course not. I won't tell anyone.'

She laughed nervously. 'I don't know what came over me. Don't be offended, but sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger than someone you know. Why is that?'

I shrugged. 'Probably because a stranger sees us the way we are, not as they wish us to be.'

'Is that also from your friend Carax?'

'No, I just made it up to impress you.'

'And how do you see me?'

'As a mystery.'

'That's the strangest compliment anyone has ever paid me.'

'It's not a compliment. It's a threat.'

'What do you mean?'

'Mysteries must be solved, one must find out what they hide.'

'You might be disappointed when you see what's inside.'

'I might be surprised. And you, too.'

'Tomas never told me you had so much cheek.'

'That's because what little I have, I've reserved entirely for you.'

'Why?'

Because I'm afraid of you, I thought.

We sought refuge in a small cafe next to the Poliorama Theatre. Withdrawing to a table by the window, we asked for some serrano ham sandwiches and a couple of white coffees, to warm up. Soon thereafter the manager, a scrawny fellow with the face of an imp, came up to the table with an attentive expression.

'Did you folks ask for the 'am sandwiches?'

We nodded.

'Sorry to 'ave to announce, on behalf of the management 'ere, that there's not a scrap of 'am left. I can offer black, white, or mixed butifarra, meatballs, or chistorra. Top of the line, extra fresh. I also 'ave pickled sardines, if you folks can't consume meat products for reasons of religious conscience. It being Friday. . .'

'I'll be fine with a white coffee, really,' said Bea.

I was starving. 'What if you bring two servings of spicy potatoes and some bread, too?'

'Right away, sir. And please, pardon the shortness of supplies. Usually I tend to 'ave everything, even Bolshevik caviar. But s'after-noon, it being the European Cup semi-final, we've had a lot of customers. Great game.'

The manager walked away ceremoniously. Bea watched him with amusement.

'Where's that accent from? Jaen?'

'Much closer: Santa Coloma de Gramanet,' I specified. 'You don't often take the subway, do you?'

'My father says the subway is full of riffraff and that if you're on your own, the Gypsies feel you up.'

I was about to say something but decided to keep my mouth shut. Bea laughed. As soon as the coffees and the food arrived, I fell on it all with no pretence at refinement. Bea didn't eat anything. With her hands spread around the steaming cup, she watched me with half a smile, caught somewhere between curiosity and amazement.

'So what is it you're going to show me today?'

'A number of things. In fact, what I'm going to show you is part of a story. Didn't you tell me the other day that what you like to do is read?'

Bea nodded, arching her eyebrows.

'Well, this is a story about books.'

'About books?'

'About accursed books, about the man who wrote them, about a character who broke out of the pages of a novel so that he could burn it, about a betrayal and a lost friendship. It's a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind.'

'You sound like the jacket blurb of a Victorian novel, Daniel.' 'That's probably because I work in a bookshop and I've seen too many. But this is a true story. As real as the fact that this bread they served us is at least three days old. And, like all true stories, it begins and ends in a cemetery, although not the sort of cemetery you imagine.' She smiled the way children smile when they've been promised a riddle or a magic trick. 'I'm all ears.'

I gulped down the last of my coffee and looked at her for a few moments without saying anything. I thought about how much I wanted to lose myself in those evasive eyes. I thought about the loneliness that would take hold of me that night when I said goodbye to her, once I had run out of tricks or stories to make her stay with me any longer. I thought about how little I had to offer her and how much I wanted from her.

'I can hear your brains clanking, Daniel. What are you planning?' I began my story with that distant dawn when I awoke and could not remember my mother's face, and I didn't stop until I paused to recall the world of shadows I had sensed that very morning in the home of Nuria Monfort. Bea listened quietly, making no judgment, drawing no conclusions. I told her about my first visit to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books and about the night I spent reading The Shadow of the Wind. I told her about my meeting with the faceless man and about the letter signed by Penelope Aldaya that I always carried with me without knowing why. I spoke about how I had never kissed Clara Barcelo, or anyone, and of how my hands had trembled when I felt the touch of Nuria Monfort's lips on my skin, only a few hours before. I told her how, until that moment, I had not understood that this was a story about lonely people, about absence and loss, and that that was why I had taken refuge in it until it became confused with my own life, like someone who has escaped into the pages of a novel because those whom he needs to love seem nothing more than ghosts inhabiting the mind of a stranger.

'Don't say anything,' whispered Bea. 'Just take me to that place.' It was pitch dark when we stopped by the front door of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, in the gloom of Calle Arco del Teatro. I lifted the devil-head knocker and knocked three times. While we waited, sheltering under the arch of the entrance, the cold wind smelled of charcoal. I met Bea's eyes, so close to mine. She was smiling. Soon we heard light footsteps approaching the door, and then the tired voice of the keeper.

'Who's there?' asked Isaac.

'It's Daniel Sempere, Isaac'

I thought I could hear him swearing under his breath. There followed the thousand squeaks and groans from the intricate system of locks. Finally the door yielded an inch or two, revealing the vulturine face of Isaac Monfort lit by candlelight. When he saw me, the keeper sighed and rolled his eyes.