“Television, my dear Daniel, is the Antichrist, and I can assure you that after only three or four generations, people will no longer even know how to fart on their own and humans will return to living in caves, to medieval savagery, and to the general state of imbecility that slugs overcame back in the Pleistocene era. Our world will not die as a result of the bomb, as the papers say, it will die of laughter, of banality, of making a joke of everything, and a lousy joke at that.”
Professor Velázquez’s office was on the second floor of the Literature Faculty, in Plaza Universidad, at the end of a gallery paved with hypnotic chessboard tiling and awash in powdery light that spilled down onto the southern cloister. I found the professor at the door of a lecture room, pretending to be listening to a female student while considering her spectacular figure. She wore a dark red suit that drew attention to her waistline and revealed classically proportioned calves covered in fine nylon stockings. Professor Velázquez enjoyed a reputation as a Don Juan, and there were those who considered that the sentimental education of a respectable young lady was never complete without a proverbial weekend in some small hotel on the Sitges promenade, reciting Alexandrines tête-à-tête with the distinguished academic.
My commercial instincts advised me against interrupting his conversation, so I decided to kill time by conjuring up an X ray of the pupil. Perhaps the brisk walk had raised my spirits, or perhaps it was just my age, not to mention the fact that I spent more time among muses that were trapped in the pages of old books than in the company of girls of flesh and bone—who always seemed to me beings of a far lower order than Clara Barceló. Whatever the reason, as I cataloged each and every detail of her enticing and exquisitely clad anatomy—which I could see only from the back, but which in my mind I had already visualized in its full glory—I felt a vaguely wolfish shiver run down my spine.
“Why, here’s Daniel,” cried Professor Velázquez. “Thank goodness it’s you, not that madman who came last time, the one with the bullfighter’s name. He seemed drunk to me, or else eminently certifiable. He had the nerve to ask me whether I knew the etymology of the word ‘prick,’ in a sarcastic tone that was quite out of place.”
“It’s just that the doctor has him under some really strong medication. Something to do with his liver.”
“No doubt because he’s smashed all day,” said Velázquez. “If I were you, I’d call the police. I bet you he has a file. And God, how his feet stank—there are lots of shitty leftists on the loose who haven’t seen a bathtub since the Republic fell.”
I was about to come up with some other plausible excuse for Fermín when the student who had been talking to Professor Velázquez turned around, and it was as if the world had stopped spinning. She smiled at me, and my ears went up in flames.
“Hello, Daniel,” said Beatriz Aguilar.
I nodded at her, tongue-tied. I realized I’d been drooling over my best friend’s sister, Bea. The one woman I was completely terrified of.
“Oh, so you know each other?” asked Velázquez, intrigued.
“Daniel is an old friend of the family,” Bea explained. “And the only one who ever had the courage to tell me to my face that I’m stuck up and vain.”
Velázquez looked at me with astonishment.
“That was years ago,” I explained. “And I didn’t mean it.”
“Well, I’m still waiting for an apology.”
Velázquez laughed heartily and took the parcel from my hands.
“I think I’m in the way here,” he said, opening it. “Ah, wonderful. Listen, Daniel, tell your father I’m looking for a book calledMoorslayer: Early Reminiscences of the Generalissimo in the Moroccan War by Francisco Franco Bahamonde, with a prologue and notes by Pemán.”
“Consider it done. We’ll let you know in a couple of weeks.”
“I take your word for it, and now I’ll be off. Thirty-two blank minds await me.”
Professor Velázquez winked at me and disappeared into the lecture room. I didn’t know where to look.
“Listen Bea, about that insult, I promise I—”
“I was only teasing you, Daniel. I know that was kid stuff, and besides, Tomás gave you a good enough beating.”
“It still hurts.”
Bea’s smile looked like a peace offering, or at least an offer of a truce.
“Besides, you were right, I’m a bit stuck up and sometimes a little vain,” she said. “You don’t like me much, do you, Daniel?”
The question took me completely by surprise. Disarmed, I realized how easily you can lose all animosity toward someone you’ve deemed your enemy as soon as that person stops behaving as such.
“No, that’s not true.”
“Tomás says it’s not that you don’t like me, it’s that you can’t stand my father and you make me pay for it, because you don’t dare face up to him. I don’t blame you. No one dares cross my father.”
I felt the blood drain from my cheeks, but after a few seconds I found myself smiling and nodding. “Anyone would say Tomás knows me better than I do myself.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. My brother knows us all inside out, only he never says anything. But if he ever decides to open his mouth, the whole world will collapse. He’s very fond of you, you know.”
I raised my shoulders and looked down.
“He’s always talking about you, and about your father and the bookshop, and this friend you have working with you. Tomás says he’s a genius waiting to be discovered. Sometimes it’s as if he considers you his real family, instead of the one he has at home.”
My eyes met hers: hard, frank, fearless. I did not know what to say, so I just smiled. I felt she was ensnaring me with her honesty, and I looked down at the courtyard.
“I didn’t know you studied here.”
“It’s my first year.”
“Literature?”
“My father thinks science is not for the weaker sex.”
“Of course. Too many numbers.”
“I don’t care, because what I like is reading. Besides, you meet interesting people here.”
“Like Professor Velázquez?”
Bea gave me a wry smile. “I might be in my first year, but I know enough to see them coming, Daniel. Especially men of his sort.”
I wondered what sort I was.
“Besides, Professor Velázquez is a good friend of my father’s. They both belong to the Society for the Protection and Promotion of Spanish Operetta.”
I tried to look impressed. “A noble calling. And how’s your boyfriend, Lieutenant Cascos Buendía?”
Her smile left her. “Pablo will be here on leave in three weeks.”
“You must be happy.”
“Very. He’s a great guy, though I can imagine what you must think of him.”
I doubt it, I thought. Bea watched me, looking slightly tense. I was about to change the subject, but my tongue got ahead of me.
“Tomás says you’re getting married and you’re going off to live in El Ferrol.”
She nodded without blinking. “As soon as Pablo finishes his military service.”
“You must be feeling impatient,” I said, sensing a spiteful note in my voice, an insolent tone that came from God knows where.
“I don’t mind, really. His family has properties out there, a couple of shipyards, and Pablo is going to be in charge of one of them. He has a great talent for leadership.”
“It shows.”
Bea forced a smile. “Besides, I’ve seen quite enough of Barcelona, after all these years….” Her eyes looked tired and sad.
“I hear El Ferrol is a fascinating place. Full of life. And the seafood is supposed to be fabulous, especially the spider crabs.”
Bea sighed, shaking her head. She looked as if she wanted to cry with anger but was too proud. Instead she laughed calmly.
“After ten years you still enjoy insulting me, don’t you, Daniel? Go on, then, don’t hold back. It’s my fault for thinking that perhaps we coul
d be friends, or pretend to be, but I suppose I’m not as good as my brother. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.”
She turned around and started walking down the corridor that led to the library. I saw her move away along the black and white tiles, her shadow cutting through the curtains of light that fell from the gallery windows.
“Bea, wait.”
I cursed myself and ran after her. I stopped her halfway down the corridor, grabbing her by the arm. She threw me a burning look.
“I’m sorry. But you’re wrong: it’s not your fault, it’s mine. I’m the one who isn’t as good as your brother. And if I’ve insulted you, it’s because I’m jealous of that idiot boyfriend of yours and because I’m angry to think that someone like you would follow him to El Ferrol. It might as well be the Congo.”
“Daniel…”
“You’re wrong about me, because we can be friends if you let me try, now that you know how worthless I am. And you’re wrong about Barcelona, too, because you may think you’ve seen everything, but I can guarantee that’s not true. If you’ll allow me, I can prove it to you.”
I saw a smile light up and a slow, silent tear fall down her cheek.
“You’d better be right,” she said. “Because if you’re not, I’ll tell my brother, and he’ll pull your head off like a stopper.”
I held out my hand to her. “That sounds fair. Friends?”
She offered me hers.
“What time do you finish your classes on Friday?” I asked.
She hesitated for a moment. “At five.”
“I’ll be waiting for you in the cloister at five o’clock sharp. And before dark I’ll prove to you that there’s something in Barcelona you haven’t seen yet, and that you can’t go off to El Ferrol with that idiot whom I don’t believe you love, because if you go, the memory of this city will pursue you and you’ll die of sadness.”
“You seem very sure of yourself, Daniel.”
I, who was never even sure what the time was, nodded with the conviction of the ignorant. I stood there watching her walk away down that endless corridor until her silhouette blended with the darkness. I asked myself what on earth I had done.
·15·
THE FORTUNY HAT SHOP, OR WHAT WAS LEFT OF IT, LANGUISHED AT the foot of a narrow, miserable-looking building blackened by soot on Ronda de San Antonio next to Plaza de Goya. One could still read the letters engraved on the filthy window, and a sign in the shape of a bowler hat still hung above the shop front, promising designs made to measure and the latest novelties from Paris. The door was secured with a padlock that had seen at least a decade of undisturbed service. I pressed my forehead against the glass pane, trying to peek into the murky interior.
“If you’ve come about the rental, you’re late,” spit a voice behind my back. “The administrator has already left.”
The woman who was speaking to me must have been about sixty and wore the national costume of all pious widows. A couple of rollers stuck out under the pink scarf that covered her hair, and her padded slippers matched her flesh-colored knee-highs. I assumed she was the caretaker of the building.
“Is the shop for rent?”
“Isn’t that why you’ve come?”
“Not really, but you never know, I might be interested.”
The caretaker frowned, debating whether to grant me the benefit of the doubt. I slipped on my trademark angelic smile.
“How long has the shop been closed?”
“For a good twelve years, since the old man died.”
“Mr. Fortuny? Did you know him?”
“I’ve been here for forty-eight years, young man.”
“So perhaps you also knew Mr. Fortuny’s son.”
“Julián? Well, of course.”
I took the burned photograph out of my pocket and showed it to her. “Do you think you’d be able to tell me whether the young man in the photograph is Julián Carax?”
The caretaker looked at me rather suspiciously. She took the photograph and stared at it.
“Do you recognize him?”
“Carax was his mother’s maiden name,” the caretaker explained in a disapproving tone. “This is Julián, yes. I remember him being very fair, but here, in the photograph, his hair looks darker.”
“Could you tell me who the girl is?”
“And who is asking?”
“I’m sorry, my name is Daniel Sempere. I’m trying to find out about Mr. Carax, about Julián.”
“Julián went to Paris, ’round about 1918 or 1919. His father wanted to shove him in the army, you see. I think the mother took him with her so that he could escape from all that, poor kid. Mr. Fortuny was left alone, in the attic apartment.”
“Do you know when Julián returned to Barcelona?”
The caretaker looked at me but didn’t speak for a while.
“Don’t you know? Julián died that same year in Paris.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said Julián passed away. In Paris. Soon after he got there. He would have done better joining the army.”
“May I ask you how you know that?”
“How do you think? Because his father told me.”
I nodded slowly. “I see. Did he say what he died of?”
“Quite frankly, the old man never gave me any details. Once, not long after Julián left, a letter arrived for him, and when I mentioned it to his father, he told me his son had died and if anything else came for him, I should throw it away. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Mr. Fortuny lied to you. Julián didn’t die in 1919.”
“Say that again?”
“Julián lived in Paris until at least 1935, and then he returned to Barcelona.”
The caretaker’s face lit up. “So Julián is here, in Barcelona? Where?”
I nodded again, hoping that by doing so she would be encouraged to tell me more.
“Holy Mary…what wonderful news. Well, if he’s still alive, that is. He was such a sweet child, a bit strange and given to daydreaming, that’s true, but there was something about him that won you over. He wouldn’t have been much good as a soldier, you could tell that a mile off. My Isabelita really liked him. Imagine, for a time I even thought they’d end up getting married. Kid stuff…May I see that photograph again?”
I handed the photo back to her. The caretaker gazed at it as if it were a lucky charm, a return ticket to her youth. “It’s strange, you know, it’s as if he were here right now…and that mean old bastard saying he was dead. I must say, I wonder why God sends some people into this world. And what happened to Julián in Paris? I’m sure he got rich. I always thought Julián would be wealthy one day.”
“Not exactly. He became a writer.”
“He wrote stories?”
“Something like that.”
“For the radio? Oh, how lovely. Well, it doesn’t surprise me, you know. As a child he used to tell stories to the kids in the neighborhood. In the summer sometimes my Isabelita and her cousins would go up to the roof terrace at night and listen to him. They said he never told the same story twice. But it’s true that they were all about dead people and ghosts. As I say, he was a bit of an odd child. Although, with a father like that, the odd thing was that he wasn’t completely nuts. I’m not surprised that his wife left him in the end, because he really was nasty. Listen: I never meddle in people’s affairs, everything’s fine by me, but that man wasn’t a good person. In a block of apartments, nothing’s secret in the end. He beat her, you know? You always heard screams coming from their apartment, and more than once the police had to come around. I can understand that sometimes a husband has to beat his wife to get her to respect him, I’m not saying they shouldn’t; there’s a lot of tarts about, and young girls are not brought up the way they used to be. But this one, well, he liked to beat her for the hell of it, if you see what I mean. The only friend that poor woman had was a young girl, Viçenteta, who lived in four-two. Sometimes the poor woman would take shelter in Viçenteta’s apartment,
to get away from her husband’s beatings. And she told her things….”
“What sort of things?”
The caretaker took on a confidential manner, raising an eyebrow and glancing sideways right and left. “Like the kid wasn’t the hatter’s.”
“Julián? Do you mean to say Julián wasn’t Mr. Fortuny’s son?”
“That’s what the Frenchwoman told Viçenteta, I don’t know whether out of spite or heaven knows why. The girl told me years later, when they didn’t live here anymore.”
“So who was Julián’s real father?”
“The Frenchwoman never said. Perhaps she didn’t even know. You know what foreigners are like.”
“And do you think that’s why her husband beat her?”
“Goodness knows. Three times they had to take her to the hospital, do you hear? Three times. And the swine had the nerve to tell everyone that she was the one to blame, that she was a drunk and was always falling about the house from drinking so much. But I don’t believe that. He quarreled with all the neighbors. Once he even went to the police to report my late husband, God rest his soul, for stealing from his shop. As far as he was concerned, anyone from the south was a layabout and a thief, the pig.”
“Did you say you recognized the girl who is next to Julián in the photograph?”
The caretaker concentrated on the image once again. “Never seen her before. Very pretty.”
“From the picture it looks like they were a couple,” I suggested, trying to jog her memory.
She handed it back to me, shaking her head. “I don’t know anything about photographs. As far as I know, Julián never had a girlfriend, but I imagine that if he did, he wouldn’t have told me. It was hard enough to find out that my Isabelita had got involved with that fellow…. You young people never say anything. And us old folks don’t know how to stop talking.”