The Shadow of the Wind (The Cemetery of Forgotten 1)

My father looked at me as if I’d stabbed him.

“And now you’re fourteen, and not only are you still a child, you’re a child who thinks he’s a man. Life is going to deal you a great many blows, Daniel. And very soon.”

In those days I wanted to believe that my father was hurt because I spent so much time with the Barcelós. The bookseller and his niece lived a life of luxury that my father could barely dream of. I thought he resented the fact that Don Gustavo’s maid behaved as if she were my mother, and was offended by my acceptance that someone could take on that role. Sometimes, while I was in the back room wrapping up parcels or preparing an order, I would hear a customer joking with my father.

“What you need is a good woman, Sempere. These days there are plenty of good-looking widows around, in the prime of their life, if you see what I mean. A young lady would sort out your life, my friend, and take twenty years off you. What a good pair of breasts can’t do…”

My father never responded to these insinuations, but I found them increasingly sensible. Once, at dinnertime, which had become a battleground of silences and stolen glances, I brought up the subject. I thought that if I were the one to suggest it, it would make things easier. My father was an attractive man, always clean and neat in appearance, and I knew for a fact that more than one lady in the neighborhood approved of him and would have welcomed more than reading suggestions from him.

“It’s been very easy for you to find a substitute for your mother,” he answered bitterly. “But for me there is no such person, and I have no interest at all in looking.”

As time went by, the hints from my father and from Bernarda, and even Barceló’s intimations, began to make an impression on me. Something inside me told me that I was entering a cul-de-sac, that I could not hope for Clara to see anything more in me than a boy ten years her junior. Every day it felt more difficult to be near her, to bear the touch of her hands, or to take her by the arm when we went out for a walk. There came a point when her mere proximity translated into an almost physical pain. Nobody was unaware of this fact, least of all Clara.

“Daniel, I think we need to talk,” she would say. “I don’t think I’ve behaved very well toward you—”

I never let her finish her sentences. I would leave the room with any old excuse and flee, unable to face the possibility that the fantasy world I had built around Clara might be dissolving. I could not know that my troubles had only just begun.

An Empty Plate

1950

·7·

ON MY SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY, ISPAWNED THE MOST ILL-FATED idea that had ever occurred to me. Without consulting anybody, I decided to host a birthday party and invite Barceló, Bernarda, and Clara. In my father’s estimation, the whole thing was a recipe for disaster.

“It’s my birthday,” I answered sharply. “I work for you all the other days of the year. For once, at least, you could try to please me.”

“Suit yourself.”

The preceding months had been the most bewildering in my strange friendship with Clara. I hardly ever read to her anymore. Clara would systematically avoid being left on her own with me. Whenever I called by her apartment, her uncle popped up, pretending to read a newspaper, or else Bernarda would materialize, bustling about in the background and casting sidelong glances. Other times the company would take the form of one or several of Clara’s friends. I called them the “Sisterly Brigade.” Always chaste and modest in appearance, they patrolled the area around Clara with a missal in one hand and a policeman’s eye, making it abundantly clear that I was in the way and that my presence embarrassed Clara and the entire world. Worst of all, however, was Neri, the music teacher, whose wretched symphony remained unfinished. He was a smooth talker, a rich kid from the snobby uptown district of San Gervasio, who, despite the Mozartian airs he affected, reminded me more of a tango singer, slick with brilliantine. The only talent I recognized in him was a badly concealed mean streak. He would suck up to Don Gustavo with no dignity or decorum, and he flirted with Bernarda in the kitchen, making her laugh with his silly gifts of sugared almonds and his fondness for bottom pinching. In short, I hated his guts. The dislike was mutual. Neri would turn up with his scores and his arrogant manner, regarding me as if I were some undesirable little cabin boy and making all sorts of objections to my presence.

“Don’t you have to go and do your homework, son?”

“And you, maestro, don’t you have a symphony to finish?”

In the end they would all get the better of me and I would depart, crestfallen and defeated, wishing I had Don Gustavo’s gift of the gab so that I could put the conceited so-and-so in his place.

ON MY BIRTHDAY MY FATHER WENT DOWN TO THE BAKERY ON THE corner and bought the finest cake he could find. He set the dinner table silently, bringing out the silver and the best dinner service. He lit a few candles and prepared a meal of what he thought were my favorite dishes. We didn’t exchange a word all afternoon. In the evening he went into his room, slipped into his best suit, and came out again holding a packet wrapped in shiny cellophane paper, which he placed on the coffee table in the dining room. My present. He sat at the table, poured himself a glass of white wine, and waited. The invitation specified dinner would be served at eight-thirty. At nine-thirty we were still waiting. My father glanced at me sadly. Inside, I was boiling with rage.

“You must be pleased with yourself,” I said. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“No.”

Half an hour later, Bernarda arrived. She bore a funereal expression and a message from Miss Clara, who wished me many happy returns but unfortunately would be unable to attend my birthday dinner. Mr. Barceló had been obliged to leave town on business for a few days, and she’d had to change her music lesson with Maestro Neri. Bernarda had come because it was her afternoon off.

“Clara can’t come because she has a music lesson?” I asked, quite astounded.

Bernarda looked down. She was almost in tears when she handed me a small parcel containing her present and kissed me on both cheeks.

“If you don’t like it, you can exchange it,” she said.

I was left alone with my father, staring at the fine dinner service, the silver, and the candles that were quietly burning themselves out.

“I’m sorry, Daniel,” said my father.

I nodded in silence, shrugging my shoulders.

“Aren’t you even going to open your present?” he asked.