The Shadow of the Wind

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  Despite his aggressive looks, Tomás was a peaceful and good-hearted person whose appearance discouraged confrontations. He stammered quite a bit, especially when he spoke to anyone who wasn’t his mother, his sister, or me, which was hardly ever. He was fascinated by outlandish inventions and mechanical devices, and I soon discovered that he carried out autopsies on all manner of appliances, from gramophones to adding machines, in order to discover their secrets. When he wasn’t with me or working for his father, Tomás spent most of his time secluded in his room, devising incomprehensible contraptions. His intelligence was matched by his lack of practicality. His interest in the real world centered on details such as the synchronicity of traffic lights on Gran Vía, the mysteries of the illuminated fountains of Montjuïc, or the clockwork souls of the automatons at the Tibidabo amusement park.

  Every afternoon Tomás worked in his father’s office, and sometimes, on his way out, he’d stop by the bookshop. My father always showed an interest in his inventions and gave him manuals on mechanics or biographies of engineers like Eiffel and Edison, whom Tomás idolized. As the years went by, Tomás became very attached to my father and spent ages trying to invent an automatic system with which to file his bibliographic index cards, using parts of an old electric fan. He had been working on the project for four years now, but my father still showed great enthusiasm for its progress, because he didn’t want Tomás to lose heart.

  When I first introduced Tomás to Fermín, I was concerned about how Fermín was going to react to my friend.

  “You must be Daniel’s inventor friend. It’s a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. Fermín Romero de Torres, bibliographic adviser to the Sempere bookshop, at your service.”

  “Tomás Aguilar,” stammered my friend, smiling and shaking Fermín’s hand.

  “Watch out, my friend, for what you have here isn’t a hand, it’s a hydraulic press. I need violinist’s fingers for my work with the firm.”

  Tomás let go of his hand and apologized.

  “So tell me, where do you stand on Fermat’s theorem?” asked Fermín, rubbing his fingers.

  After that they became engrossed in an unintelligible discussion about arcane mathematics, which was Dutch to me. From that day on, Fermín always addressed him with the formalusted or called him “doctor,” and pretended not to notice the boy’s stammer. As a way of repaying Fermín for his infinite patience, Tomás brought him boxes of Swiss chocolates stamped with photographs of impossibly blue lakes, cows parading along Technicolor-green fields, and camera-ready cuckoo clocks.

  “Your friend Tomás is talented, but he lacks drive and could benefit from a more winning demeanor. It’s the only way to get anywhere,” Fermín said to me one day. “Alas, that’s the scientist’s mind for you. Just consider Albert Einstein. All those prodigious inventions, and the first one they find a practical application for is the atom bomb—without his permission. Tomás is going to have a hard time in academic circles with that boxer’s face of his. In this world the only opinion that holds court is prejudice.”

  Driven by a wish to save Tomás from a life of penury and misunderstanding, Fermín had decided that he needed to develop my friend’s latent conversational and social skills.

  “Like the good ape he is, man is a social animal, characterized by cronyism, nepotism, corruption, and gossip. That’s the intrinsic blueprint for our ‘ethical behavior,’” he argued. “It’s pure biology.”

  “Aren’t you exaggerating?”

  “Sometimes you’re so naïve, Daniel.”

  Tomás had inherited his tough looks from his father, a prosperous property manager with an office on Calle Pelayo, close to the sumptuous El Siglo department store. Mr. Aguilar belonged to that race of privileged minds who are always right. A man of deep convictions, he believed, among other things, that his son was both fainthearted and mentally deficient. To compensate for these shameful traits, he employed all sorts of private tutors in the hope of improving his firstborn. “I want you to treat my son as if he were an imbecile, do you understand?” I would often hear him say. The teachers tried everything, even pleading, but Tomás was in the habit of addressing them only in Latin, a language he spoke with papal fluency and in which he did not stammer. Sooner or later they all resigned in despair, fearing he might be possessed: he might be spouting demonic instructions in Aramaic at them, for all they knew. Mr. Aguilar’s only hope was that military service would make a man of him.

  Tomás had a sister, Beatriz. I owed our friendship to her, because if I hadn’t seen her that afternoon, long ago, holding on to her father’s hand, waiting for the classes to end, and hadn’t decided to make a joke in very bad taste at her expense, my friend would never have rained all those blows on me and I would never have had the courage to speak to him. Bea Aguilar was the very image of her mother and the apple of her father’s eye. Redheaded and exquisitely pale, she always wore very expensive dresses made of silk or pure wool. She had a mannequin’s waist and wandered around straight as a rod, playing the role of princess in her own fairy tale. Her eyes were a greeny blue, but she insisted on describing them as “emerald and sapphire.” Despite her many years as a pupil at the strict Catholic school of the Teresian mothers, or perhaps for that very reason, when her father wasn’t looking, Bea drank anise liqueur from a tall glass, wore nylon stockings from the elegant shop La Perla Gris, and dolled herself up like the screen goddesses who sent my friend Fermín into a trance. I couldn’t stand the sight of her, and she repaid my open hostility with languid looks of disdain and indifference. Bea had a boyfriend who was doing his military service as a lieutenant in Murcia, a slick-haired member of the Falangist Party called Pablo Cascos Buendía. He belonged to an aristocratic family who owned a number of shipyards on the Galicianrías and spent half his time on leave thanks to an uncle in the Military Government. Second Lieutenant Cascos Buendía wasted no opportunity to lecture people on the genetic and spiritual superiority of the Spanish people and the imminent decline of the Bolshevik empire.

  “Marx is dead,” he would say solemnly.

  “He died in 1883, to be precise,” I would answer.

  “Zip it, bonehead, or I’ll kick you all the way to the Rock of Gibraltar.”

  More than once I had caught Bea smiling to herself at the inanities that her boyfriend came out with. She would raise her eyes and watch me, with a look I couldn’t fathom. I would smile back with the feeble civility of enemies held together by an indefinite truce but would look away quickly. I would have died before admitting it, but in my heart of hearts, I was afraid of her.

  ·13·

  AT THE BEGINNING OF THAT YEAR, TOMÁS AND FERMÍN DECIDED to pool their respective brains on a new project that, they predicted, would get us both out of being drafted. Fermín, in particular, did not share Mr. Aguilar’s enthusiasm for the army experience.

  “The only use for military service is that it reveals the number of morons in the population,” he would remark. “And that can be discovered in the first two weeks; there’s no need for two years. Army, Marriage, the Church, and Banking: the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Yes, go on, laugh.”

  Fermín Romero de Torres’s anarchist-libertarian leanings were to be shaken one October afternoon when, in a twist of fate, we had a visit from an old friend. My father had gone to Argentona, to price a book collection, and would not be back until the evening. I was left in charge of the counter while Fermín insisted on climbing up a ladder like a tightrope walker to tidy up the books on the top shelf, just inches from the ceiling. Shortly before closing time, when the sun had already set, Bernarda’s profile appeared at the shop window. She was dressed in her Thursday clothes—Thursday was her day off—and she waved at me. My heart soared just to see her, and I signaled to her to come in.

  “My goodness, how you’ve grown!” she said from the entrance. “I would hardly have recognized you…why, you’re a man now!”

  She embraced me, shedding a few tears and touching my head, shoulders,
and face, as if to make sure I hadn’t broken anything during her absence.

  “You’re really missed in the house, Master Daniel,” she said, with downcast eyes.

  “I’ve missed you, too, Bernarda. Come on, give me a kiss.”

  She kissed me shyly, and I planted a couple of noisy kisses on each cheek. She laughed. In her eyes I could see she was waiting for me to ask her about Clara, but I had decided not to.

  “You’re looking very pretty today, and very elegant. How come you’ve decided to pay us a visit?”

  “The truth is, I’ve been wanting to come for a long time, but you know how things are, we’re all busy, and, for all his learning, Mr. Barceló is as demanding as a child. You just have to rise above it and get on with things. But what brings me here today is that, well, tomorrow is my niece’s birthday, the one from San Adrián, and I’d like to give her a present. I thought I could get her a good book, with a lot of writing and few pictures, but as I’m such a dimwit and don’t understand—”

  Before I could answer, a whole hardback set of the complete works of Blasco Ibáñez plummeted from on high, and the place shook with a ballistic roar. Bernarda and I looked up anxiously. Fermín was sliding down the ladder, like a trapeze artist, a secretive smile lighting up his face, his eyes filled with rapturous lust.

  “Bernarda, this is—”

  “Fermín Romero de Torres, bibliographic adviser for Sempere and Son, at your service, madam,” Fermín proclaimed, taking Bernarda’s hand and kissing it ceremoniously.

  “You must be confused, I’m no madam—”

  “Marquise, at the very least,” interrupted Fermín. “I should know. I have stepped out with the finest ladies on Avenida Pearson. Allow me the honor of accompanying you to our classics section for children and young adults, where I notice that by good fortune we have an anthology of the best of Emilio Salgari and his epic tale of Sandokan.”

  “Oh dear, I don’t know, I’m not sure about lives of saints. The girl’s father used to be very left wing, you know….”

  “Say no more, for here I have none other than Jules Verne’sThe Mysterious Island, a tale of high adventure and great educational content, because of all the science.”

  “If you think so…”

  I followed them quietly, noticing how Fermín was drooling over Bernarda and how she seemed overwhelmed by the attentions showered upon her by the little man with scruffy looks and the tongue of a barker. He was devouring her with his eyes as greedily as if she were a piece of chocolate.

  “What about you, Master Daniel? What do you think?”

  “Fermín Romero de Torres is the resident expert here. You can trust him.”

  “Well, then, I’ll take the one about the island, if you’d be kind enough to wrap it for me. What do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house,” I said.

  “No it isn’t, I won’t hear of it.”

  “If you’ll allow me, madam, it’s on me, Fermín Romero de Torres. You’d make me the happiest man in Barcelona.”

  Bernarda looked at us both. She was speechless.

  “Listen, I’m paying for what I buy, and this is a present I want to give my niece—”

  “Well, then, perhaps you’ll allow me, in exchange, to invite you to an afternoon tea,” Fermín quickly interjected, smoothing down his hair.

  “Go on, Bernarda,” I encouraged her. “You’ll enjoy yourself. Look, while I wrap this up, Fermín can go and get his jacket.”

  Fermín hurried off to the back room to comb his hair, splash on some cologne, and put on his jacket. I slipped him a few duros from the till.

  “Where shall I take her?” he whispered to me, as nervous as a child.

  “I’d take her to Els Quatre Gats,” I said. “I know for a fact that it’s a lucky place for romance.”

  I handed Bernarda the packet and winked at her.

  “What do I owe you then, Master Daniel?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know. The book didn’t have a price on it, and I have to ask my father,” I lied.

  I watched them leave arm in arm and disappear down Calle Santa Ana, hoping there was somebody on duty up in heaven who, for once, would grant the couple a lucky break. I hung the CLOSED notice in the shop window. I had just gone into the back room for a moment to look through my father’s order book when I heard the tinkle of the doorbell. I thought Fermín must have forgotten something, or perhaps my father was back from his day trip.

  “Hello?”

  A few seconds passed, and no answer came. I continued to leaf through the order book.

  I heard slow footsteps in the shop.

  “Fermín? Father?”

  No answer. I thought I heard a stifled laugh, and I shut the order book. Perhaps some client had ignored the CLOSED sign. I was about to go and serve whoever it was when I heard the sound of several books falling from the shelves. I swallowed. Grabbing hold of a letter opener, I slowly moved toward the door of the back room. I didn’t dare call out a second time. Soon I heard the steps again, walking away. The doorbell sounded, and I felt a draft of air from the street. I peered into the shop. There was no one there. I ran to the front door and double-locked it, then took a deep breath, feeling ridiculous and cowardly. I was returning to the back room when I noticed a piece of paper on the counter. As I got closer, I realized it was a photograph, an old studio picture of the sort that were printed on thick cardboard. The edges were burned, and the smoky image seemed to have charcoal finger marks over it. I examined it under the lamp. The photograph showed a young couple smiling at the camera. He didn’t look much older than seventeen or eighteen, with light-colored hair and delicate, aristocratic features. She may have been a bit younger than him, one or two years at the most. She had pale skin and a finely chiseled face framed by short black hair. She looked intoxicated with happiness. The man had his arm around her waist, and she seemed to be whispering something to him in a teasing way. The image conveyed a warmth that drew a smile from me, as if I had recognized two old friends in those strangers. Behind them I could make out an ornate shop window, full of old-fashioned hats. I concentrated on the couple. From their clothes I could guess that the picture was at least twenty-five or thirty years old. It was an image full of light and hope, rich with the promise that exists only in the eyes of the young. Fire had destroyed almost all of the area surrounding the photograph, but one could still discern a stern face behind the old-style counter, a suggestion of a ghostly figure behind the letters engraved on the glass.

  SONS OF ANTONIO FORTUNY

  Established in 1888

  The night I returned to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, Isaac had told me that Carax used his mother’s surname, not his father’s, which was Fortuny. Carax’s father had a hat shop on Ronda de San Antonio. I looked again at the portrait of that couple and knew for sure that the young man was Julián Carax, smiling at me from the past, unable to see the flames that were closing in on him.

  City of Shadows

  1954

  ·14·

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING FERMÍN CAME TO WORK BORNE ON the wings of Cupid, smiling and whistling boleros. In any other circumstances, I would have inquired about his outing with Bernarda, but that day I was not in the mood for his poetic outbursts. My father had arranged to have an order of books delivered to Professor Javier Velázquez at eleven o’clock in his study at the university. The very mention of the professor made Fermín wince, so I offered to take the books myself.

  “That sorry specimen is both pedantic and corrupt. A fascist buttock polisher,” Fermín declared, raising his fist and striking the pose he reserved for his avenging moods. “With the pitiful excuse of his professorship and final exams, he would even have it off with Gertrude Stein, given the chance.”

  “Calm down, Fermín. Velázquez pays well, always in advance, and besides, he recommends us to everyone,” my father said.

  “That’s money stained with the blood of innocent virgins,” Fermín protested. “For the life o
f God, I hereby swear that I have never lain with an underage woman, and not for lack of inclination or opportunities. Bear in mind that what you see today is but a shadow of my former self, but there was a time when I cut as dashing a figure as they come. Yet even then, just to be on the safe side, or if I sensed that a girl might be overly flighty, I would not proceed without seeing some form of identification or, failing that, a written paternal authorization. One has to maintain certain moral standards.”

  My father rolled his eyes. “It’s pointless to argue with you, Fermín.”

  “Well, if I’m right, I’m right.”

  Sensing a debate brewing, I picked up the parcel, which I had prepared the night before—a couple of Rilkes and an apocryphal essay attributed to a disciple of Darwin claiming Spaniards came from a more evolved simian ancestor than their French neighbors. As the door closed behind me, Fermín and my father were deep in argument about ethics.

  It was a magnificent day; the skies were electric blue, and a crystal breeze carried the cool scent of autumn and the sea. I will always prefer Barcelona in October. It is when the spirit of the city seems to stroll most proudly through the streets, and you feel all the wiser after drinking water from the old fountain of Canaletas—which, at this time of year only, doesn’t taste of chlorine. I was walking along briskly, dodging bootblacks, pen pushers returning from their midmorning coffee, lottery vendors, and a whole ballet of street sweepers who seemed to be polishing the streets with paintbrushes, unhurriedly and with a pointillist’s strokes. Barcelona was already beginning to fill up with cars in those days, and when I reached the traffic lights at the crossing with Calle Balmes, I noticed a brigade of gray office clerks in gray raincoats staring as hungrily at a bloodred Studebaker sedan as they would ogle a music-hall siren in a negligee. I went on up Balmes toward Gran Vía, negotiating traffic lights, cars, and even motorcycles with sidecars. In a shop window, I saw a Philips poster announcing the arrival of a new messiah, the TV set. Some predicted that this peculiar contraption was going to change our lives forever and turn us all into creatures of the future, like the Americans. Fermín Romero de Torres, always up to date on state-of-art technology, had already prophesied a grimmer outcome.