The Shadow of the Wind (47 page)

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

'What's that face for?'

'Fermin, I think we have a problem.'

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

'The first thing is to make sure that you are right about us being under police surveillance. We'll walk over to Els Quatre Gats, casually, to see whether that man is still out there, lying in wait. But not a word of 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 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. Fermin 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 all 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 Fermin, 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 of a monologue.'

'I see. Must I therefore infer that you can't address him as papa 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. Fermin 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, Fermin handed him a handsome sum and told him to keep the change.

'Listen, boss,' he added. 'Do you see that man sitting at the table by the window - the one dressed like Jimmy 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 Boqueria 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.'

Fermin handed him another coin. 'God bless you.'

The waiter nodded respectfully and set off towards our pursuer's table to deliver the message. When he heard the instructions, the watchman's face dropped. He remained at the table for another fifteen seconds, torn, and then galloped off into the street. Fermin 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 planned.'

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

'You'll think of something. The plan is to follow Senor Barcelo's very sensible suggestion. Make her aware that you know that she lied to you 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 solicitor's firm . . . You tell her whatever is necessary to light a fire under her feet. Then, just for effect, you leave her to stew for a while in her own juices.'

'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, Fermin.'

'O ye of little faith! Come on, what did this girl's father say 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 the lunatic say?'

I answered without thinking. 'The truth.'

'The truth according to St 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 think 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?'

Fermin 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.'

Fermin poured himself a glass of beer and swigged it down in one gulp.

'Amen,' he said to himself. 'What I can tell you about Fumero is common knowledge. The first time I heard him mentioned, the future inspector was a gunman working for the anarchist syndicate, the FAI. He had earned himself quite a reputation, because he had no fear and no scruples. All he needed was someone's name, and he'd finish him off in the street with a shot to the face, in broad daylight. Such talents are greatly valued in times of unrest. The things he didn't have were loyalty or beliefs. He didn't give a damn what cause he was serving, as long as the cause would help him climb the ladder. There are plenty of scum like him in the world, but few of them have Fumero's talent. From the anarchists he went on to serve the communists, and from there to the fascists was only a step. He spied and sold information from one faction to another, and he took money from all of them. I'd had my eye on him for a long time. I was working for the government of the Generalitat at the time. Sometimes I was mistaken for the ugly brother of President Companys, which would fill me with pride.'

'What did you do?'

'A bit of everything. In today's radio soaps, it would be called espionage, but in wartime everyone is a spy. Part of my job was to keep an eye on types like Fumero, as they're the most dangerous. They're like vipers, with no creed and no conscience. In a war they appear everywhere. In times of peace, they put on their masks. But they're still there. Thousands of them. The fact is that sooner or later I discovered what his game was. Rather later than sooner, I'd say. Barcelona fell in a matter of days, and now the boot was on the other foot. I became a persecuted criminal, and my superiors were forced to hide like rats. Naturally, Fumero was already in charge of the "cleanup" operation. The purge was carried out openly, with shootings in the streets, or in Montjuic Castle. I was arrested in the port while attempting to obtain passage to France on a Greek cargo ship for some of my superiors. I was taken to Montjuic and held for two days in a pitch-dark cell, with no water or ventilation. The next light I saw was the flame of a welding torch. Fumero and a man who only spoke German had me hung upside down by my feet. The German first got rid of my clothes by burning them with the torch. It seemed to me that he was well practised. When I was left stark naked with all the hairs on my body singed, Fumero told me that if I didn't tell him where my superiors were hiding, the fun would begin in earnest. I'm not a brave man, Daniel. I never have been, but what little courage I possessed I used to tell him to go screw himself. At a sign from Fumero, the German injected something into my thigh and waited a few minutes. Then, while Fumero smoked and watched me, smiling, he began to roast me thoroughly with the welding torch. You've seen the marks. . . .'

I nodded. Fermin spoke in a calm tone, with no emotion.

'These marks are the least important. The worst scars remain inside. I withstood the torch for an hour, or perhaps it was just one minute. I don't know. But I ended up giving them the first names, surnames, and even the shirt sizes of all my superiors and even of those who were not. They abandoned me in an alleyway in Pueblo Seco, naked and with my skin burned. A good woman took me into her home and looked after me for two months.

The communists had shot her husband and her two sons dead on her doorstep. She didn't know why. When I was able to get up and go out to the street, I learned that all my superiors had been arrested and executed just hours after I had informed on them.'

'Fermin, if you don't want to tell me all this . . .'

'No, no. I'd rather you heard it and knew who you're dealing with. When I returned to my home, I was told it had been expropriated by the government, with all my possessions. Without knowing it, I had become a beggar. I tried to get work. I was rejected. The only thing I could get was a bottle of cheap wine for a few centimos. It's a slow poison that burns your guts like acid, but I hoped that sooner or later it would work. I told myself I would return to Cuba one day, to my mulatto girl. I was arrested when I tried to board a freighter going to Havana. I've forgotten how long I spent in prison. After the first year, you begin to lose everything, even your mind. When I came out, I began to live on the streets, where you found me an eternity later. There were many others like me, colleagues from prison or parole. The lucky ones had somebody they could count on outside, somebody or something they could go back to. The rest of us joined the army of the dispossessed. Once you're given a card for that club, you never stop being a member. Most of us only came out at night, when the world wasn't looking. I met many others like me. Rarely did I see them again. Life in the streets is short. People look at you in disgust, even the ones who give you alms, but that is nothing compared to the revulsion you feel for yourself. It's like being trapped in a walking corpse, a corpse that's hungry, stinks, and refuses to die. Every now and then, Fumero and his men would arrest me and accuse me of some absurd theft, or of pestering girls on their way out of a convent school. Another month in La Modelo prison, more beatings, and out onto the streets again. I never understood the point of those farces. Apparently the police thought it convenient to have a census of suspects at their disposal, which they could resort to whenever necessary. In one of my meetings with Fumero, who by now was quite the respectable figure, I asked him why he hadn't killed me, as he'd killed the others. He laughed and told me there were worse things than death. He never killed an informer, he said. He let him rot alive.'

'Fermin, you're not an informer. Anyone in your place would have done the same. You're my best friend.'

'I don't deserve your friendship, Daniel. You and your father saved my life, and my life belongs to you both. Whatever I can do for you, I will. The day you got me off the streets, Fermin Romero de Torres was born again.'

'That's not your real name, is it?'

Fermin shook his head. 'I saw that one on a poster at the Arenas bullring. The other is buried. The man who used to live within these bones died, Daniel. Sometimes he comes back, in nightmares. But you've shown me how to be another man, and you've given me a reason for living once more: my Bernarda.'

'Fermin . . .'

'Don't say anything, Daniel. Just forgive me, if you can.'