Don Federico was the neighborhood watchmaker, an occasional customer at the bookshop, and probably the most polite and courteous man in the whole of the Northern Hemisphere. His reputation as a craftsman preceded him from the Ribera quarter to the Ninot Market. Another reputation haunted him as well, this one of a less salubrious nature, related to his erotic leanings toward muscular young men from the more virile ranks of the proletariat, and to a certain penchant for dressing up like the music-hall star Estrellita Castro.
“What if Don Federico is no good at fancy-pen stuff?” I asked, unaware that to less innocent ears, the phrase might have had a salacious echo.
My father arched an eyebrow, fearing perhaps that some foul rumors might have sullied my innocence.
“Don Federico is very knowledgeable about all things German and could make a Volkswagen if he put his mind to it. Besides, I’d like to find out whether fountain pens existed in Victor Hugo’s day. There are a lot of con artists about.”
My father’s zeal for historical fact checking left me cold. I believed obstinately in the pen’s illustrious past, even though I didn’t think it was such a bad idea for Don Federico to make me a substitute. There would be time enough to reach the heights of Victor Hugo. To my consolation, and true to my father’s predictions, the Montblanc pen remained for years in that shop window, which we visited religiously every Saturday morning.
“It’s still there,” I would say, astounded.
“It’s waiting for you,” my father would say. “It knows that one day it will be yours and that you’ll write a masterpiece with it.”
“I want to write a letter. To Mommy. So that she doesn’t feel lonely.”
My father regarded me. “Your mother isn’t lonely, Daniel. She’s with God. And with us, even if we can’t see her.”
This very same theory had been formulated for me in school by Father Vicente, a veteran Jesuit, expert at expounding on all the mysteries of the universe—from the gramophone to a toothache—quoting the Gospel According to Matthew. Yet on my father’s lips, the words sounded hollow.
“And what does God want her for?”
“I don’t know. If one day we see Him, we’ll ask Him.”
Eventually I discarded the idea of the celestial letter and concluded that, while I was at it, I might as well begin with the masterpiece—that would be more practical. In the absence of the pen, my father lent me a Staedler pencil, a number two, with which I scribbled in a notebook. Unsurprisingly, my story told of an extraordinary fountain pen, remarkably similar to the one in the shop, though enchanted. To be more precise, the pen was possessed by the tortured soul of its previous owner, a novelist who had died of hunger and cold. When the pen fell into the hands of an apprentice, it insisted on reproducing on paper the author’s last work, which he had not been able to finish in his lifetime. I don’t remember where I got that idea from, but I never again had another one like it. My attempts to re-create the novel on the pages of my notebook turned out to be disastrous. My syntax was plagued by an anemic creativity, and my metaphorical flights reminded me of the advertisements for fizzy footbaths that I used to read in tram stops. I blamed the pencil and longed for the pen, which was bound to turn me into a master writer.
My father followed my tortuous progress with a mixture of pride and concern.
“How’s your story going, Daniel?”
“I don’t know. I suppose if I had the pen, everything would be different.”
My father told me that sort of reasoning could only have occurred to a budding author. “Just keep going, and before you’ve finished your first work, I’ll buy it for you.”
“Do you promise?”
He always answered with a smile. Luckily for my father, my literary dreams soon dwindled and were minced into mere oratory. What contributed to this was the discovery of mechanical toys and all sorts of tin gadgets you could find in the bric-a-brac stalls of the Encantes Market at prices that were better suited to our finances. Childhood devotions make unfaithful and fickle lovers, and soon I had eyes only for Meccanos and windup boats. I stopped asking my father to take me to see Victor Hugo’s pen, and he didn’t mention it again. That world seemed to have vanished, but for a long time the image I had of my father, which I still preserve today, was that of a thin man wearing an old suit that was too large for him and a secondhand hat he had bought on Calle Condal for seven pesetas, a man who could not afford to buy his son a wretched pen that was useless but seemed to mean everything to him.
When I returned from Clara and the Ateneo that night, my father was waiting for me in the dining room, wearing his usual expression of defeat and anxiety.
“I was beginning to think you’d got lost somewhere,” he said. “Tomás Aguilar phoned. He said you’d arranged to meet. Did you forget?”
“It’s Barceló. When he starts talking there’s no stopping him,” I replied, nodding as I spoke. “I didn’t know how to shake him off.”
“He’s a good man, but he does go on. You must be hungry. Merceditas brought down some of the soup she made for her mother. That girl is an angel.”
We sat down at the table to savor Merceditas’s offering. She was the daughter of the lady on the third floor, and everyone had her down to become a nun and a saint, although more than once I’d seen her with an able-handed sailor who sometimes walked her back to the door. She always drowned him with kisses.
“You look pensive tonight,” said my father, trying to make conversation.
“It must be this humidity, it dilates the brain. That’s what Barceló says.”
“It must be something else. Is anything worrying you, Daniel?”
“No. Just thinking.”
“What about?”
“The war.”
My father nodded gloomily and quietly sipped his soup. He was a very private person, and, although he lived in the past, he hardly ever mentioned it. I had grown up convinced that the slow procession of the postwar years, a world of stillness, poverty, and hidden resentment, was as natural as tap water, that the mute sadness that seeped from the walls of the wounded city was the real face of its soul. One of the pitfalls of childhood is that one doesn’t have to understand something to feel it. By the time the mind is able to comprehend what has happened, the wounds of the heart are already too deep. That evening in early summer, as I walked back through the somber, treacherous twilight of Barcelona, I could not blot out Clara’s story about her father’s disappearance. In my world death was like a nameless and incomprehensible hand, a door-to-door salesman who took away mothers, beggars, or ninety-year-old neighbors, like a hellish lottery. But I couldn’t absorb the idea that death could actually walk by my side, with a human face and a heart that was poisoned with hatred, that death could be dressed in a uniform or a raincoat, queue up at a cinema, laugh in bars, or take his children out for a walk to Ciudadela Park in the morning, and then, in the afternoon, make someone disappear in the dungeons of Montjuïc Castle or in a common grave with no name or ceremony. Going over all this in my mind, it occurred to me that perhaps the papier-mâché world that I accepted as real was only a stage setting. Much like the arrival of Spanish trains, in those stolen years you never knew when the end of childhood was due.
We shared the soup, a broth made from leftovers with bits of bread in it, surrounded by the sticky droning of radio soaps that filtered out through open windows into the church square.
“So tell me. How did things go with Gustavo today?”
“I met his niece, Clara.”
“The blind girl? I hear she’s a real beauty.”
“I don’t know. I don’t notice things like that.”
“You’d better not.”
“I told them I might go by their house tomorrow, after school, to read to her for a while—as she’s so lonely. If you’ll let me.”
My father looked at me askance, as if he were wondering whether he was growing old prematurely or whether I was growing up too quickly. I decided to change the subject,
and the only one I could find was the one that was consuming me.
“Is it true that during the war people were taken to Montjuïc Castle and were never seen again?”
My father finished his spoonful of soup unperturbed and looked closely at me, his brief smile slipping away from his lips.
“Who told you that? Barceló?”
“No. Tomás Aguilar. He sometimes tells stories at school.”
My father nodded slowly.
“When there’s a war, things happen that are very hard to explain, Daniel. Often even I don’t know what they really mean. Sometimes it’s best to leave things alone.”
He sighed and sipped his soup with no appetite. I watched him without saying a word.
“Before your mother died, she made me promise that I would never talk to you about the war, that I wouldn’t let you remember any of what happened.”
I didn’t know how to answer. My father half closed his eyes, as if he were searching for something in the air—looks, silences, or perhaps my mother, to corroborate what he had just said.
“Sometimes I think I’ve been wrong to listen to her. I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t matter, Dad….”
“No, it does matter, Daniel. Nothing is ever the same after a war. And yes, it’s true that lots of people who went into that castle never came out.”
Our eyes met briefly. After a while my father got up and took refuge in his bedroom. I cleared the plates, placed them in the small marble kitchen sink, and washed them up. When I returned to the sitting room, I turned off the light and sat in my father’s old armchair. The breeze from the street made the curtains flutter. I was not sleepy, nor did I feel like trying to sleep. I went over to the balcony and looked out far enough to see the hazy glow shed by the streetlamps in Puerta del Ángel. A motionless figure stood out in a patch of shadow on the cobbled street. The flickering amber glow of a cigarette was reflected in his eyes. He wore dark clothes, with one hand buried in the pocket of his jacket, the other holding the cigarette that wove a web of blue smoke around his profile. He observed me silently, his face obscured by the street lighting behind him. He remained there for almost a minute smoking nonchalantly, his eyes fixed on mine. Then, when the cathedral bells struck midnight, the figure gave a faint nod of the head, followed, I sensed, by a smile that I could not see. I wanted to return the greeting but was paralyzed. The figure turned, and I saw the man walking away, with a slight limp. Any other night I would barely have noticed the presence of that stranger, but as soon as I’d lost sight of him in the mist, I felt a cold sweat on my forehead and found it hard to breathe. I had read an identical description of that scene inThe Shadowof the Wind. In the story the protagonist would go out onto the balcony every night at midnight and discover that a stranger was watching him from the shadows, smoking nonchalantly. The stranger’s face was always veiled by darkness, and only his eyes could be guessed at in the night, burning like hot coals. The stranger would remain there, his right hand buried in the pocket of his black jacket, and then he would go away, limping. In the scene I had just witnessed, that stranger could have been any person of the night, a figure with no face and no name. In Carax’s novel, that figure was the devil.
·6·
A DEEP, DREAMLESS SLEEP AND THE PROSPECT OF SEEING CLARA again that afternoon persuaded me that the vision had been pure coincidence. Perhaps that unexpected and feverish outbreak of imagination was just a side effect of the growth spurt I’d been waiting for, an event that all the women in the building said would turn me into a man, if not of stature, at least of a certain height. At seven on the dot, dressed in my Sunday best and smelling strongly of the Varón Dandy eau de cologne I had borrowed from my father, I turned up at the house of Gustavo Barceló ready to make my début as personal reader and living-room pest. The bookseller and his niece shared a palatial apartment in Plaza Real. A uniformed maid, wearing a white cap and the expressionless look of a soldier, opened the door for me with theatrical servility.
“You must be Master Daniel,” she said. “I’m Bernarda, at your service.”
Bernarda affected a ceremonial tone that could not conceal a Cáceres accent thick enough to spread on toast. With pomp and solemnity, she led me through the Barceló residence. The apartment, which was on the first floor, circled the building and formed a ring of galleries, sitting rooms, and passageways that to me, used as I was to our modest family home on Calle Santa Ana, seemed like a miniature of the Escorial palace. It was obvious that, as well as books, incunabula, and all manner of arcane bibliography, Don Gustavo also collected statues, paintings, and altarpieces, not to mention abundant fauna and flora. I followed Bernarda through a gallery that was full to overflowing with foliage and tropical species. A golden, dusky light filtered through the glass panes of the gallery and the languid tones from a piano hovered in the air. Bernarda fought her way through the jungle brandishing her docker’s arms as if they were machetes. I followed her closely, examining the surroundings and noticing the presence of half a dozen cats and a couple of cockatoos (of a violent color and encyclopedic size) which, the maid explained, Barceló had christened Ortega and Gasset, respectively. Clara was waiting for me in a sitting room on the other side of this forest, overlooking the square. Draped in a diaphanous turquoise-blue cotton dress, the object of my confused desire was playing the piano beneath the weak light that came through the rose window. Clara played badly, with no sense of rhythm and mistaking half the notes, but to me her serenade was liquid heaven. I saw her sitting up straight at the keyboard, with a half smile and her head tilted to one side, and she seemed like a celestial vision. I was about to clear my throat to indicate my presence, but the whiff of cologne betrayed me. Clara suddenly stopped her playing, and an embarrassed smile lit up her face.
“For a moment I thought you were my uncle,” she said. “He has forbidden me to play Mompou, because he says that what I do with him is a sacrilege.”
The only Mompou I knew was a gaunt priest with a tendency to flatulence who taught us physics and chemistry at school. The association of ideas seemed to me both grotesque and downright improbable.
“Well, I think you play beautifully.”
“No I don’t. My uncle is a real music enthusiast, and he’s even hired a music teacher to mend my ways—a young composer who shows a lot of promise called Adrián Neri. He’s studied in Paris and Vienna. You’ve got to meet him. He’s writing a symphony that is going to have its premiere with the Barcelona City Orchestra—his uncle sits on the management board. He’s a genius.”
“The uncle or the nephew?”
“Don’t be wicked, Daniel. I’m sure you’ll really fall for Adrián.”
More likely he’ll fall on me like a grand piano plummeting down from the seventh floor, I thought.
“Would you like a snack?” Clara offered. “Bernarda makes the most breathtaking cinnamon sponge cakes.”
We took our afternoon snack like royalty, wolfing down everything the maid put before us. I had no idea about the protocol for this unfamiliar occasion and was not sure how to behave. Clara, who always seemed to know what I was thinking, suggested that I read fromThe Shadowof the Wind whenever I liked and that, while we were at it, I might as well start at the beginning. And so, trying to sound like one of those pompous voices on Radio Nacional that recited patriotic vignettes after the midday Angelus, I threw myself into revisiting the text of the novel. My voice, rather stiff at first, slowly became more relaxed, and soon I forgot myself and was submerged once more in the narrative, discovering cadences and turns of phrase that flowed like musical motifs, riddles made of timbre and pauses I had not noticed during my first reading. New details, strands of images, and fantasy appeared between the lines and new shapes revealed themselves, as in the structure of a building looked at from different angles. I read for about an hour, getting through five chapters, until my throat felt dry and half a dozen clocks chimed throughout the apartment, reminding me that it was getting late. I closed the
book and observed that Clara was smiling at me calmly.
“It reminds me a bit ofThe Red House, ” she said. “But this story seems less somber.”
“Don’t you believe it,” I said. “This is just the beginning. Later on, things get complicated.”
“You have to go, don’t you?” Clara asked.
“I’m afraid so. It’s not that I want to, but…”
“If you have nothing else to do, you could come back tomorrow,” she suggested. “But I don’t want to take advantage of you….”
“Six o’clock?” I offered. “That way we’ll have more time.”
That meeting in the music room of the Plaza Real apartment was the first of many more throughout the summer of 1945 and the years to follow. Soon my visits to the Barcelós became almost daily, except for Tuesdays and Thursdays, when Clara had music lessons with Adrián Neri. I spent long hours there, and in time I memorized every room, every passageway, and every plant in Don Gustavo’s forest.The Shadowof the Wind lasted us about a fortnight, but we had no trouble in finding successors with which to fill our reading hours. Barceló owned a fabulous library, and, for want of more Julián Carax titles, we ambled through dozens of minor classics and major bagatelles. Some afternoons we barely read, and spent our time just talking or even going out for a walk around the square or as far as the cathedral. Clara loved to sit and listen to the murmuring of people in the cloister and guess at the echoes of footsteps in the stone alleyways. She would ask me to describe the façades, the people, the cars, the shops, the lampposts and shop windows that we passed on our way. Often she would take my arm and I would guide her through our own private Barcelona, one that only she and I could see. We always ended up in a dairy shop on Calle Petritxol, sharing a bowl of whipped cream or a cup of hot chocolate with sponge fingers. Sometimes people would look at us askance, and more than one know-it-all waiter referred to her as “your older sister,” but I paid no attention to their taunts and insinuations. Other times, I don’t know whether out of malice or morbidity, Clara confided in me, telling me far-fetched secrets that I was not sure how to take. One of her favorite topics concerned a stranger, a person who sometimes came up to her when she was alone on the street and spoke to her in a hoarse voice. This mysterious person, who never mentioned his name, asked her questions about Don Gustavo and even about me. Once he had stroked her throat. Such stories tormented me mercilessly. Another time Clara told me she had begged the supposed stranger to let her read his face with her hands. He did not reply, which she took as a yes. When she raised her hands to his face, he stopped her suddenly, but she still managed to feel what she thought was leather.