Translated by Lucia Graves 9 страница

With the help of the Gospels, the hatter made an effort to kindle some affection for the child with deep eyes who loved making a joke of everything and inventing shadows where there were none. Despite his efforts, Antoni Fortuny was unable to feel as if little Julian were his flesh and blood, nor did he recognize any aspect of himself in him. The boy, for his part, did not seem very interested either in hats or in the teachings of the catechism. During the Christmas season he would amuse himself by changing the positions of the small figures in the Nativity scene and devising plots in which Baby Jesus had been kidnapped by the three magi from the East who had wicked intentions. He soon became obsessed with drawing angels with wolf's teeth and inventing stories about hooded spirits that came out of walls and ate people's ideas while they slept. In time the hatter lost all hope of being able to set this boy on the right path. The child was not a Fortuny and never would be. Julian maintained that he was bored in school and came home with his notebooks full of drawings of monstrous beings, winged serpents, and buildings that were alive, walked, and devoured the unsuspecting. By then it was quite clear that fantasy and invention interested him far more than the daily reality around him. Of all the disappointments amassed during his lifetime, none hurt Antoni Fortuny more than that son whom the devil had sent to mock him.

At the age of ten, Julian announced that he wanted to be a painter, like Velazquez. He dreamed of embarking on canvases that the great master had been unable to paint during his life because, Julian argued, he'd been obliged to paint so many time-consuming portraits of mentally retarded royals. To make matters worse, Sophie, perhaps to relieve her loneliness and remember her father, decided to give him piano lessons. Julian, who loved music, art, and all matters that were not considered practical in the world of men, soon learned the rudiments of harmony and concluded that he preferred to invent his own compositions rather than follow the music-book scores. At that time Antoni Fortuny still suspected that part of the boy's mental deficiencies were due to his diet, which was far too influenced by his mother's French cooking. It was a well-known fact that the richness of buttery foods led to moral ruin and confusion of the intellect. He forbade Sophie to cook with butter ever again. The results were not entirely as he had anticipated.

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?'

'Don't worry. I'll be as quiet as the Sphinx.'

'I'm very grateful. Now, go on, off with you, and have a good time.'

I said goodbye with a military salute and watched him leave looking as debonair as a cock on his way to the henhouse.

He couldn't have been gone for more than five minutes when I heard the tinkle of the doorbell and lifted my head from the columns of numbers and crossings-out. A man had just come in, hidden behind a grey raincoat and a felt hat. He sported a pencil moustache and had glassy blue eyes. He smiled like a salesman, a forced smile. I was sorry Fermin was not there, because he was an expert at seeing off travellers selling camphor and other such rubbish whenever they slipped into the bookshop. The visitor offered me his greasy grin, casually picking up a book from a pile that stood by the entrance waiting to be sorted and priced. Everything about him communicated disdain for all he saw. You're not even going to sell me a 'good afternoon', I thought.

'A lot of words, eh?' he said.

'It's a book; they usually have quite a few words. Anything I can do for you, sir?'

The man put the book back on the pile, nodding indifferently and ignoring my question. ‘I say reading is for people who have a lot of time and nothing to do. Like women. Those of us who have to work don't have time for make-believe. We're too busy earning a living. Don't you agree?'

'It's an opinion. Were you looking for anything in particular?'

'It's not an opinion. It's a fact. That's what's wrong with this country: people don't want to work. There're a lot of layabouts around. Don't you agree?'

'I don't know, sir. Perhaps. Here, as you can see, we only sell books.'

The man came up to the counter, his eyes darting around the shop, settling occasionally on mine. His appearance and manner seemed vaguely familiar, though I couldn't say why. Something about him reminded me of one of those figures from old-fashioned playing cards or the sort used by fortune-tellers, a print straight from the pages of an incunabulum: his presence was both funereal and incandescent, like a curse dressed in its Sunday best.

'If you'll tell me what I can do for you

'It's really me who was coming to do you a service. Are you the owner of this establishment?'

'No. The owner is my father.'

'And the name is?'

'My name or my father's?'

The man proffered a sarcastic smile. A giggler, I thought.

'I take it that the sign saying Sempere and Son applies to both of you, then?'

'That's very perceptive of you. May I ask the reason for your visit, if you are not interested in a book?'

'The reason for my visit, a courtesy call if you like, is to warn you. It has come to my attention that you're doing business with undesirable characters, in particular inverts and criminals.'

I stared at him in astonishment. 'Excuse me?'

The man fixed me with his eyes. 'I'm talking about queers and thieves. Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about.'

'I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea, nor am I remotely interested in listening to you any longer.'

The man nodded in an unfriendly and truculent manner. 'You'll just have to endure me, then. I suppose you're aware of citizen Federico Flavia's activities.'

'Don Federico is the local watchmaker, an excellent person. I very much doubt that he's a criminal.'

‘I was talking about queers. I have proof that this old queen frequents your shop, I imagine to buy little romantic novels and pornography.'

'And may I ask you what business this is of yours?'

His answer was to pull out his wallet and place it open on the counter. I recognized a grimy police ID with his picture on it, looking a bit younger. I read up to where it said 'Chief Inspector Francisco Javier Fumero'.

'Speak to me with respect, boy, or you and your father will be in deep trouble for selling communist rubbish. Do you hear?'

I wanted to reply, but the words had frozen on my lips.

'Still, this queer isn't what brought me here today. Sooner or later he'll end up in the police station, like all the rest of his persuasion, and I'll make sure he's given a lesson. What worries me is that, according to my information, you're employing a common thief, an undesirable of the worst sort.'

'I don't know who you're talking about, Inspector.'

Fumero gave his servile, sticky giggle.

'God only knows what name he's using now. Years ago he called himself Wilfredo Camagiiey, the Mambo King, and said he was an expert in voodoo, dance teacher to the Bourbon royal heir and Mata Hari's lover. Other times, he takes the names of ambassadors, variety artists, or bullfighters. We've lost count by now.'

'I'm afraid I'm unable to help you. I don't know anyone called Wilfredo Camagiiey.'

'I'm sure you don't, but you know who I'm referring to, don't you?'

'No.'

Fumero laughed again, that forced, affected laugh that seemed to sum him up like the blurb on a book jacket. 'You like to make things difficult, don't you? Look, I've come here as a friend, to warn you that whoever takes on someone as undesirable as this one ends up with his fingers scorched, yet you're treating me like a liar.'

'Not at all. I appreciate your visit and your warning, but I can assure you that there hasn't—'

'Don't give me that crap, because if I damn well feel like it, I'll beat the shit out of you and lock you up in the slammer, is that clear? But today I'm in a good mood, so I'm going to leave you with just a warning. It's up to you to choose your company. If you like queers and thieves, you must be a bit of both yourself. Things have to be clear where I'm concerned. Either you're with me or you're against me. That's life. That simple. So what's it going to be?'

I didn't say anything. Fumero nodded, letting go another giggle.

'Very good, Senor Sempere. It's your call. Not a very good beginning for us. If you want problems, you'll get them. Life isn't like a novel, you know. In life you have to take sides. And it's clear which side you've chosen. The side taken by idiots, the losing side.'

'I'm going to ask you to leave, please.'

He walked off toward the door, followed by his sibylline laugh. 'We'll meet again. And tell your friend that Inspector Fumero is keeping an eye on him and sends him his best regards.'

The call from the inspector and the echo of his words ruined my afternoon. After a quarter of an hour of running to and fro behind the counter, my stomach tightening into a knot, I decided to close the bookshop before the usual time and go out for a walk. I wandered about aimlessly, unable to rid my mind of the insinuations and threats made by that sinister thug. I wondered whether I should alert my father and Fermin about the visit, but I imagined that would have been precisely Fumero's intention: to sow doubt, anguish, fear and uncertainty among us. I decided not to play his game. On the other hand, his suggestions about Fermin's past alarmed me. I felt ashamed of myself on discovering that, for a moment, I had given credit to the policeman's words. In the end, after much consideration, I decided to banish the entire episode to the back of my mind.

On my way home, I passed the watchmaker's shop. Don Federico greeted me from behind the counter, beckoning me to come in. The watchmaker was an affable, cheerful character who never forgot anyone's birthday, the sort of person you could always go to with a dilemma, knowing that he would find a solution. I couldn't help shivering at the thought that he was on Inspector Fumero's blacklist, and wondered whether I should warn him, although I could not imagine how, without getting caught up in matters that were none of my business. Feeling more confused than ever, I went into his shop and smiled at him.

'How are you, Daniel? What's that face for?'

'Bad day,' I said. 'How's everything, Don Federico?'

'Smooth as silk. They don't make watches like they used to anymore, so I've got plenty of work. If things go on like this, I'm going to have to hire an assistant. Your friend, the inventor, would he be interested? He must be good at this sort of thing.'

It didn't take much to imagine what Tomas's reactionary father would think of his son accepting a job in the establishment of the neighbourhood's official fairy queen. 'I'll let him know.'

'By the way, Daniel, I've got the alarm clock your father brought round two weeks ago. I don't know what he did to it, but he'd be better off buying a new one than having it fixed.'

I remembered that sometimes, on suffocating summer nights, my father would sleep out on the balcony.

'It probably fell onto the street,' I said.

'That explains it. Ask him to let me know what to do about it. I can get a Radiant for him at a very good price. Look, take this one with you if you like, and let him try it out. If he likes it, he can pay for it later. If not, just bring it back.'

'Thank you very much, Don Federico.'

The watchmaker began to wrap up the monstrosity in question.

'The latest technology,' he said with pleasure. 'By the way, I loved the book Fermin sold me the other day. It was by this fellow Graham Greene. That Fermin was a tremendous hire.'

I nodded. 'Yes, he's worth twice his weight in gold.'

'I've noticed he never wears a watch. Tell him to come by the shop and we'll sort something out.'

'I will. Thank you, Don Federico.'

When he handed me the alarm clock, the watchmaker observed me closely and arched his eyebrows. 'Are you sure there's nothing the matter, Daniel? Just a bad day?'

I nodded again and smiled. 'There's nothing the matter, Don Federico. Take care.'

'You too, Daniel.'

When I got home, I found my father asleep on the sofa, the newspaper on his chest. I left the alarm clock on the table with a note saying 'Don Federico says dump the old one' and slipped quietly into my room. I lay down on my bed in the dark and fell asleep thinking about the inspector, Fermin, and the watchmaker. When I woke up again, it was already two o'clock in the morning. I peered into the corridor and saw that my father had retired to his bedroom with the new alarm clock. The apartment was full of shadows, and the world seemed a gloomier and more sinister place than it had been only the night before. I realized that, in fact, I had never quite believed that Inspector Fumero existed. I went into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of cold milk, and wondered whether Fermin would be all right in his pension.

On my way back to the room, I tried to banish the image of the policeman from my mind. I tried to get back to sleep but realized that it was impossible. I turned on the light and decided to examine the envelope addressed to Julian Carax that I had stolen from Dona Aurora that morning and which was still in the pocket of my jacket. I placed it on my desk, under the beam of the reading lamp. It was a parchment like envelope, with yellowing serrated borders and clayish to the touch. The postmark, just a shadow, said '18 October 1919'. The wax seal had come unstuck, probably thanks to Dona Aurora's good offices. In its place was a reddish stain, like a trace of lipstick that kissed the fold of the envelope on which the return address was written.

Penelope Aldaya Avenida del Tibidabo, 32, Barcelona

I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, an ochre-coloured sheet neatly folded in two. The handwriting, in blue ink, glided nervously across the page, paling slowly until it regained intensity every few words. Everything on that page spoke of another time: the strokes that depended on the ink-pot, the words scratched on the thick paper by the tip of the nib, the rugged feel of the paper. I spread the letter out on the desk and read it, breathless.

Dear Julian:

This morning I found out through Jorge that you did in fact leave Barcelona to go in pursuit of your dreams. I always feared that those dreams would never allow you to be mine, or anyone else's. I would have liked to see you one last time, to be able to look into your eyes and tell you things that I don't know how to say in a letter. Nothing came out the way we had planned. I know you too well, and I know you won't write to me, that you won't even send me your address, that you will want to be another person. I know you will hate me for not having been there as I had promised. That you will think I failed you. That I didn't have the courage.

I have imagined you so many times, alone on that train, convinced that I had betrayed you. Many times I tried to find you through Miquel, but he told me that you didn't want to have anything more to do with me. What lies did they tell you, Julian? What did they say about me? Why did you believe them?

Now I know I have already lost you. I have lost everything. Even so, I can't let you go forever and allow you to forget me without letting you know that I don't bear you any grudge, that I knew it from the start, I knew that I was going to lose you and that you would never see in me what I see in you. I want you to know that I loved you from the very first day and that I still love you, now more than ever, even if you don't want me to.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04