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

“Don Federico is the neighborhood’s watchmaker, an excellent person. I very much doubt that he’s a criminal.”

“I was talking about pansies. I have proof that this old queen frequents your shop, I imagine to buy little romantic novels and pornography.”

“And may I ask you what business this is of yours?”

His answer was to pull out his wallet and place it open on the counter. I recognized a grimy police ID with his picture on it, looking a bit younger. I read up to where it said “Chief Inspector Francisco Javier Fumero.”

“Speak to me with respect, boy, or I’ll raise hell, and you and your father will be in deep trouble for selling communist rubbish. Do you hear?”

I wanted to reply, but the words had frozen on my lips.

“Still, this pansy isn’t what brought me here today. Sooner or later he’ll end up in the police station, like all the rest of his persuasion, and I’ll make sure he’s given a lesson. What worries me is that, according to my information, you’re employing a common thief, an undesirable individual of the worst sort.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Inspector.”

Fumero gave his servile, sticky giggle.

“God only knows what name he’s using now. Years ago he called himself Wilfredo Camagüey, the Mambo King, and said he was an expert in voodoo, dance teacher to the Bourbon royal heir, and Mata Hari’s lover. Other times he takes the names of ambassadors, variety artists, or bullfighters. We’ve lost count by now.”

“I’m afraid I’m unable to help you. I don’t know anyone called Wilfredo Camagüey.”

“I’m sure you don’t, but you know whom I’m referring to, don’t you?”

“No.”

Fumero laughed again, that forced, affected laugh that seemed to sum him up like the blurb on a book jacket. “You like to make things difficult, don’t you? Look, I’ve come here as a friend, to warn you that whoever takes on someone as undesirable as this ends up with his fingers scorched, and you’re treating me like a liar.”

“Not at all. I appreciate your visit and your warning, but I can assure you that there hasn’t—”

“Don’t give me that crap, because if I damn well feel like it, I’ll beat the shit out of you and lock you up i

n the cooler, is that clear? But today I’m in a good mood, so I’m going to leave you with just a warning. It’s up to you to choose your company. If you like pansies and thieves, you must be a bit of both yourself. Things have to be clear where I’m concerned. Either you’re with me or you’re against me. That’s life. That simple. So what is it going to be?”

I didn’t say anything. Fumero nodded, letting go another giggle.

“Very good, Mr. Sempere. It’s your call. Not a very good beginning for us. If you want problems, you’ll get them. Life isn’t like novels, you know. In life you have to take sides. And it’s clear which side you’ve chosen. The side taken by idiots, the losing side.”

“I’m going to ask you to leave, please.”

He walked off toward the door, followed by his sibylline laugh. “We’ll meet again. And tell your friend that Inspector Fumero is keeping an eye on him and sends him his best regards.”

The call from the inspector and the echo of his words ruined my afternoon. After a quarter of an hour of running to and fro behind the counter, my stomach tightening into a knot, I decided to close the bookshop before the usual time and go out for a walk. I wandered about aimlessly, unable to rid my mind of the insinuations and threats made by that sinister thug. I wondered whether I should alert my father and Fermín about the visit, but I imagined that would have been precisely Fumero’s intention: to sow doubt, anguish, fear, and uncertainty among us. I decided not to play his game. On the other hand, his suggestions about Fermín’s past alarmed me. I felt ashamed of myself on discovering that for a moment I had given credit to the policeman’s words. In the end, after much consideration, I decided to banish the entire episode to the back of my mind.

On my way home, I passed the watchmaker’s shop. Don Federico greeted me from behind the counter, beckoning me to come in. The watchmaker was an affable, cheerful character who never forgot anyone’s birthday, the sort of person you could always go to with a dilemma, knowing that he would find a solution. I couldn’t help shivering at the thought that he was on Inspector Fumero’s blacklist, and wondered whether I should warn him, although I could not imagine how, without getting caught up in matters that were none of my business. Feeling more confused than ever, I went into his shop and smiled at him.

“How are you, Daniel? What’s that face for?”

“Bad day,” I said. “How’s everything, Don Federico?”

“Smooth as silk. They don’t make watches like they used to anymore, so I’ve got plenty of work. If things go on like this, I’m going to have to hire an assistant. Your friend the inventor, would he be interested? He must be good at this sort of thing.”

It didn’t take much to imagine what Tomás’s reactionary father would think of his son accepting a job in the establishment of the neighborhood’s official fairy queen. “I’ll let him know.”

“By the way, Daniel, I’ve got the alarm clock your father brought around two weeks ago. I don’t know what he did to it, but he’d be better off buying a new one than having it fixed.”

I remembered that sometimes, on suffocating summer nights, my father would sleep out on the balcony.

“It probably fell onto the street,” I said.