“Do you know that you look a bit like Julián when he was young?” Father Fernando suddenly said to me.
Fermín’s eyes lit up. Here he goes, I thought. All our luck’s on this card.
“Very shrewd of you, Your Reverence,” proclaimed Fermín, feigning surprise. “Your uncanny insight has unmasked us without pity. You’ll end up a cardinal at least, or even a pope.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Isn’t it obvious and patent, Your Lordship?”
“Quite frankly, no.”
“Can we count on the secrecy of the confessional?”
“This is a garden, not a confessional.”
“It will be enough if you grant us your ecclesiastic discretion.”
“You have it.”
Fermín heaved a deep sigh and looked at me with a melancholy expression. “Daniel, we can’t go on lying to this saintly soldier of Christ.”
“Of course not…” I corroborated, completely lost.
Fermín went up to the priest and murmured in a confidential tone, “Father, we have most solid grounds to suspect that our friend Daniel here is none other than the secret son of the deceased Julián Carax. Hence our interest in reconstructing his past and recovering the memory of an illustrious person, whom the Fates tore away from the side of a poor child.”
Father Fernando fixed his astounded eyes on me. “Is this true?”
I nodded. Fermín patted my back, his face full of sorrow.
“Look at him, poor lad, searching for a lost father in the mist of memory. What could be sadder than this? Tell me, Your Most Saintly Grace.”
“Have you any proof to uphold your assertions?”
Fermín grabbed my chin and offered up my face as payment. “What further proof would the clergyman require than this little face, silent, irrefutable witness of the paternal fact in question?”
The priest seemed to hesitate.
“Will you help me, Father?” I implored cunningly. “Please…”
Father Fernando sighed uncomfortably. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it,” he said at last. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” said Fermín.
·25·
WE WENT INTO FATHER FERNANDO’S OFFICE, WHERE THE priest summoned up his memories, adopting the tone of a sermon. He sculpted his sentences neatly, measuring them out with a cadence that seemed to promise an ultimate moral that never emerged. Years of teaching had left him with that firm and didactic tone of someone used to being heard, but not certain of being listened to.
“If I remember correctly, Julián Carax started at San Gabriel’s in 1914. I got along with him right away, because we both belonged to the small group of pupils who did not come from wealthy families. They called us “The Starving Gang,” and each one of us had his own special story. I’d managed to get a scholarship place thanks to my father, who worked in the kitchens of this school for twenty-five years. Julián had been accepted thanks to the intercession of Mr. Aldaya, who was a customer of the Fortuny hat shop, owned by Julián’s father. Those were different times, of course, and during those days power was still concentrated within families and dynasties. That world has vanished—the last few remains were swept away with the fall of the Republic, for the better, I suppose. All that is left of it are the names on the letterheads of companies, banks, and faceless consortiums. Like all old cities, Barcelona is a sum of its ruins. The great glories so many people are proud of—palaces, factories, and monuments, the emblems with which we identify—are nothing more than relics of an extinguished civilization.”
Having reached this point, Father Fernando allowed for a solemn pause in which he seemed to be waiting for the congregation to answer with some empty Latin phrase or a response from the missal.
“Say amen, reverend Father. What great truth lies in those wise words,” offered Fermín to fill the awkward silence.
“You were telling us about my father’s first year at the school,” I put in gently.
Father Fernando nodded. “In those days he already called himself Carax, although his paternal surname was Fortuny. At first some of the boys teased him for that, and for being one of The Starving Gang, of course. They also laughed at me because I was the cook’s son. You know what kids are like. Deep down, God has filled them with goodness, but they repeat what they hear at home.”
“Little angels,” punctuated Fermín.
“What do you remember about my father?”
“Well, it’s such a long time ago…. Your father’s best friend at that time was not Jorge Aldaya but a boy called Miquel Moliner. Miquel’s family was almost as wealthy as the Aldayas, and I dare say he was the most extravagant pupil this school has ever seen. The headmaster thought he was possessed by the devil because he recited Marx in German during mass.”
“A clear sign of possession,” Fermín agreed.
“Miquel and Julián got on really well. Sometimes we three would get together during the lunch break and Julián would tell us stories. Other times he would tell us about his family and the Aldayas….”
The priest seemed to hesitate.
“Even after leaving school, Miquel and I stayed in touch for a time. Julián had already gone to Paris by then. I know that Miquel missed him. He often spoke about him, remembering secrets Julián had once confided in him. Later, when I entered the seminary, Miquel told me I’d gone over to the enemy. It was meant as a joke, but the fact is that we drifted apart.”
“Do you remember hearing that Miquel married someone called Nuria Monfort?”
“Miquel, married?”
“Do you find that odd?”
“I suppose I shouldn’t, but…I don’t know. The truth is that I haven’t heard from Miquel for years. Since before the war.”
“Did he ever mention the name of Nuria Monfort?”
“No, never. Nor did he say he was thinking of getting married or that he had a fiancée…. Listen, I’m not at all sure that I should be talking to you about this. These are personal things Julián and Miquel told me, with the understanding that they would remain between us.”
“And are you going to refuse a son the only possibility of discovering his father’s past?” asked Fermín.
Father Fernando was torn between doubt and, it seemed to me, the wish to remember, to recover those lost days. “I suppose so many years have gone by that it doesn’t matter anymore. I can still remember the day when Julián told us how he’d met the Aldayas and how, without realizing it, his life was forever changed….”
…In October 1914 an artifact that many took to be a pantheon on wheels stopped one afternoon in front of the Fortuny hat shop on Ronda de San Antonio. From it emerged the proud, majestic, and arrogant figure of Don Ricardo Aldaya, by then already one of the richest men not only in Barcelona but also in the whole of Spain. His textile empire took in citadels of industry and colonies of commerce along all the rivers of Catalonia. His right hand held the reins of banks and landed estates of half the province. His left hand, ever active, pulled at the strings of the provincial council, the city hall, various ministries, the bishopric, and the customs service at the port.
That afternoon the man with exuberant mustache, kingly sideburns, and uncovered head whom everybody feared, needed a hat. He entered the shop of Don Antoni Fortuny, and, after a quick glance at the premises, he looked askance at the hatter and his assistant, the young Julián, and said as follows: “I’ve been told that, despite appearances, the best hats of Barcelona come out of this shop. Autumn looks nasty, and I’m going to need six top hats, a dozen bowler hats, hunting caps, and something to wear for the Cortes in Madrid. Are you making a note of this, or do you expect me to repeat it all?” That was the beginning of a laborious and lucrative process during which father and son combined their efforts to get the order completed for Don Ricardo Aldaya.
Julián, who read the papers, was well aware of Aldaya’s position and told himself he could not fail his father now, at the most crucial a
nd decisive moment of his business. From the moment the magnate had set foot in his shop, the hatter levitated with joy. Aldaya had promised him that if he was satisfied, he would recommend his establishment to all his friends. That meant that the Fortuny hat shop, from being a dignified but modest enterprise, would attain the highest spheres, covering heads large and small of parliamentary members, mayors, cardinals, and ministers. That week seemed to fly by in a cloud of enchantment. Julián skipped school and spent up to eighteen or twenty hours a day working in the back-room workshop. His father, exhausted by enthusiasm, hugged him every now and then and even kissed him without thinking. He even went so far as to give his wife, Sophie, a dress and a pair of new shoes for the first time in fourteen years. The hatter was unrecognizable. One Sunday he forgot to go to church, and that same afternoon, brimming with pride, he put his arms around Julián and said, with tears in his eyes, “Grandfather would have been proud of us.”
One of the most complex processes of the now disappeared science of hatmaking, both technically and politically, was that of taking measurements. Don Ricardo Aldaya had a cranium that, according to Julián, bordered on the melon-shaped and was quite rugged. The hatter was aware of the difficulties as soon as he saw the great man’s head, and that same evening, when Julián said it reminded him of certain peaks in the mountains of Montserrat, Fortuny couldn’t help agreeing with him. “Father, with all due respect, you know that when it comes to taking measurements, I’m better at it than you, because you get nervous. Let me do it.” The hatter readily agreed, and the following day, when Aldaya arrived in his Mercedes-Benz, Julián welcomed him and took him to the workshop. When Aldaya realized that he was going to be measured by a boy of fourteen, he was furious. “But what is this? A child? Are you pulling my leg?” Julián, who was aware of his client’s social position but who wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by him, answered, “Sir, I don’t know about your leg, but there’s not much to pull up here. This crown looks like a bullring, and if we don’t hurry up and make you a set of hats, your head will soon be mistaken for a Barcelona street plan.” When he heard those words, Fortuny wanted the ground to swallow him up. Aldaya, undaunted, fixed his gaze on Julián. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he burst out laughing as he hadn’t done in years.
“This child of yours will go far, Fortunato,” declared Aldaya, who had not quite learned the hatter’s surname.
That is how they discovered that Don Ricardo Aldaya was fed up to his very back teeth with being feared and flattered by everyone, with having people throw themselves on the ground like doormats as he went by. He despised ass lickers, cowards, and anyone who showed any sort of weakness, be it physical, mental, or moral. When he came across a humble boy, barely an apprentice, who had the cheek and the spirit to laugh at him, Aldaya decided he’d hit on the ideal hat shop and immediately doubled his order. That week he gladly turned up every day for his appointment, so that Julián could take measurements and try on different models. Antoni Fortuny was amazed to see how the champion of Catalan society would fall about laughing at the jokes and stories told by that son who was for him a stranger, that boy he never spoke to and who for years had shown no sign of having any sense of humor. At the end of the week, Aldaya took the hatter aside, to a corner of the shop, and spoke to him confidentially.
“Let’s see, Fortunato, this son of yours has great talent, and you’ve got him stuck here, bored out of his mind, dusting the cobwebs in a two-bit shop.”
“This is a good business, Don Ricardo, and the boy shows a certain flair, even though he lacks backbone.”
“Nonsense. What school does he attend?”
“Well, he goes to the local school….”
“Nothing but a production line for workers. When one is young, talent—genius, if you like—must be cultivated, or it becomes twisted and consumes the person who possesses it. It needs direction. Support. Do you understand me, Fortunato?”
“You’re mistaken about my son. He’s nowhere near a genius. He can hardly pass his geography. His teachers tell me he’s a scatterbrain and has a very bad attitude, just like his mother. But at least here he’ll always have an honest job and—”
“Fortunato, you bore me. Today, without fail, I’ll go to San Gabriel’s School to see the admissions board, and I’ll let them know that they are to accept the entry of your son in the same class as my eldest child, Jorge. Anything less would be miserly of me.”
The hatter’s eyes were as big as saucers. San Gabriel’s School was the nursery for the cream of high society.
“But, Don Ricardo, I would be unable to finance—”
“No one is asking you to pay anything. I’ll take charge of the boy’s education. You, as his father, only have to agree.”
“But of course, certainly, but—”
“That’s decided, then. So long as Julián accepts, of course.”
“He’ll do what he’s told, naturally.”
At this point in the conversation, Julián stuck his head around the door of the back room with a hat mold in his hands.
“Don Ricardo, whenever you’re ready…”
“Tell me, Julián, what are you doing this afternoon?” Aldaya asked.
Julián looked alternatively at his father and at the tycoon.
“Well, helping my father here, in the shop.”
“Apart from that.”
“I was thinking of going to the library….”
“You like books, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you read Conrad?Heart of Darkness?”
“Three times.”
The hatter frowned, utterly lost. “And who is this Conrad, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Aldaya silenced him with a gesture that seemed made for a shareholders’ meeting.
“In my house I have a library with fourteen thousand books, Julián. When I was young, I read a lot, but now I no longer have the time. Come to think of it, I have three copies signed by Conrad himself. My son Jorge can’t even be dragged into the library. In the house the only person who thinks and reads is my daughter Penélope, so all those books are being wasted. Would you like to see them?”
Julián nodded, speechless. The hatter observed the scene with a sense of unease he couldn’t quite define. All those names were unknown to him. Novels, as everyone knew, were for women and for people who had nothing better to do.Heart of Darknesssounded to him like a mortal sin at least.
“Fortunato, your son is coming with me. I want to introduce him to my son Jorge. Don’t worry, we’ll bring him back to you later. Tell me, young man, have you ever been in a Mercedes-Benz?”
Julián presumed that was the name of the cumbersome, imperial-looking machine the industrialist used for getting around. He shook his head.
“Well, then, it’s about time. It’s like going to heaven, but without dying.”
Antoni Fortuny saw them leave in that exceedingly luxurious carriage, and when he searched his heart, all he found was sadness. That night, while he had dinner with Sophie (who was wearing her new dress and shoes and had almost no bruises or scars), he asked himself where he had gone wrong this time. Just when God was returning a son to him, Aldaya was taking him away.
“Take off that dress, woman, you look like a whore. And don’t let me see this wine on the table again. The watered-down sort is quite good enough for us. Greed will corrupt us all in the end.”
Julián had never crossed over to the other side of Avenida Diagonal. That line of groves, empty plots of land, and palaces awaiting the expansion of the city was a forbidden frontier. Hamlets, hills, and mysterious places of wealth and legend extended beyond it. As they passed through them, Aldaya talked to him about San Gabriel’s School, about new friends Julián had never set eyes on, about a future he had not thought possible.
“What do you aspire to, Julián? In life, I mean.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’d like to be a writer. A novelist.”
“Like Conrad, eh? Yo
u’re very young, of course. And tell me, doesn’t banking tempt you?”
“I don’t know, sir. The truth is that it hadn’t even entered my head. I’ve never seen more than three pesetas together. High finance is a mystery to me.”
Aldaya laughed. “There’s no mystery, Julián. The trick is not to put pesetas together in threes, but in three million. That way there’s no enigma, I can assure you. No Holy Trinity.”
That afternoon, as he drove up Avenida del Tibidabo, Julián thought he was entering the doors of paradise. Mansions that seemed like cathedrals flanked the way. Halfway along the avenue, the driver turned, and they went through the gates of one of them. Instantly an army of servants set about receiving the master. All Julián could see was a large, majestic house with three floors. It had never occurred to him that real people could live in places like this. He let himself be taken through the lobby, then he crossed a vaulted hall from where a marble staircase rose, framed by velvet curtains, and finally entered a large room whose walls were a tapestry of books, from floor to ceiling.
“What do you think?” asked Aldaya.
Julián was barely listening.
“Damián, tell Jorge to come down to the library immediately.”
The faceless and silent servants glided away at the slightest order from the master with the efficiency and submissiveness of a body of well-trained insects.
“You’re going to need a new wardrobe, Julián. There are a lot of morons out there who only go by appearances…. I’ll tell Jacinta to take care of that; you don’t have to worry about it. And it’s almost best if you don’t mention it to your father, in case it annoys him. Look, here comes Jorge. Jorge, I want you to meet a wonderful kid who is going to be your new classmate. Julián Fortu—”
“Julián Carax,” he corrected.
“Julián Carax,” repeated a satisfied Aldaya. “I like the sound of it. This is my son Jorge.”
Julián held out his hand, and Jorge Aldaya shook it. His touch was lukewarm, unenthusiastic, and his face had a pale, chiseled look that came from having grown up in that doll-like world. His clothes and shoes seemed to Julián like something out of a novel. His eyes gave off an air of bravado and arrogance, of disdain and sugary politeness. Julián smiled at him openly, reading insecurity, fear, and emptiness under that shell of vanity and complacency.