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

A deadly silence came over us. Merceditas sobbed. Fermín tried to comfort her with a tender embrace, but she jumped to one side.

·19·

I MAGINE THE SCENE,”D ON A NACLETO CONCLUDED TO EVERYONE’S dismay.

The epilogue to the story did nothing to raise our hopes. Halfway through the morning, a gray police van had dumped Don Federico on his doorstep. He was covered in blood, his dress was in shreds, and he had lost his wig and his collection of fine costume jewelry. He had been urinated on, and his face was full of cuts and bruises. The baker’s son had discovered him huddled in the doorframe, shaking and crying like a baby.

“It’s not fair, no, sir,” argued Merceditas, positioned by the door of the bookshop, far from Fermín’s wandering hands. “Poor thing, he has a heart of gold, and he always minds his own business. So he likes dressing up as a Gypsy and singing in front of people? Who cares? People are evil.”

“Not evil,” Fermín objected. “Moronic, which isn’t quite the same thing. Evil presupposes a moral decision, intention, and some forethought. A moron or a lout, however, doesn’t stop to think or reason. He acts on instinct, like a stable animal, convinced that he’s doing good, that he’s always right, and sanctimoniously proud to go around fucking up, if you’ll excuse the French, anyone he perceives to be different from himself, be it because of skin color, creed, language, nationality, or, as in the case of Don Federico, his leisure habits. What the world needs is more thoroughly evil people and fewer borderline pigheads.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. What we need is a bit more Christian charity and less spitefulness. We’re a disgraceful lot,” Merceditas cut in. “Everybody goes to mass, but nobody pays attention to the words of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Merceditas, let’s not mention the missal industry. That’s part of the problem, not the solution.”

“There goes the atheist again. And what has the clergy done to you, may I ask?”

“Come on, don’t quarrel now,” interrupted my father. “And you, Fermín, go and see about Don Federico, find out whether he needs anything, whether he wants someone to go to the pharmacy for him or have something bought at the market.”

“Yes, Mr. Sempere. Right away. Oratory is my undoing, as you know.”

“Your undoing is the shamelessness and the irreverence you carry around with you,” said Merceditas. “Blasphemer. You ought to have your soul cleaned out with hydrochloric acid.”

“Look here, Merceditas, just because I know you’re a good person (though a bit narrow-minded and as ignorant as a brick), and because right now we’re facing a social emergency in the neighborhood, in the face of which one must prioritize one’s efforts, I will refrain from clarifying a few cardinal points for you—”

“Fermín!” cried my father.

Fermín closed his mouth and rushed out of the shop. Merceditas watched him with disapproval.

“That man is going to get you into trouble one of these days, mark my words. He’s an anarchist, a Mason, or a Jew at the very least. With that great big nose of his—”

“Pay no attention to him. He likes to be contradictory.”

Merceditas looked annoyed and shook her head. “Well, I’ll leave you now. Some of us have more than one job to do, and time is short. Good morning.”

We all nodded politely and watched her walk away, straight-backed, taking it out on the street with her high heels. My father drew a deep breath, as if wanting to inhale the peace that had just been recovered. Don Anacleto sagged next to him, having finally descended from his flights of rhetoric. His face was pale, and a sad autumnal look had flooded his eyes. “This country has gone to the dogs,” he said.

“Come now, Don Anacleto, cheer up. Things have always been like this, here and everywhere else. The trouble is, there are some low moments, and when those strike close to home, everything looks blacker. You’ll see how Don Federico overcomes this. He’s stronger than we all think.”

The teacher was mumbling under his breath. “It’s lik

e the tide, you see?” he said, beside himself. “The savagery, I mean. It goes away, and you feel safe, but it always returns, it always returns…and it chokes us. I see it every day at school. My God…Apes, that’s what we get in the classrooms. Darwin was a dreamer, I can assure you. No evolution or anything of the sort. For every one who can reason, I have to battle with nine orangutans.”

We could only nod meekly. Dr. Anacleto raised a hand to say good-bye and left, his head bowed. He appeared five years older than when he came in. My father sighed. We looked at each other briefly, not knowing what to say. I wondered whether I should tell him about Inspector Fumero’s visit to the bookshop. This has been a warning, I thought. A caution. Fumero had used poor Don Federico as a telegram.

“Is anything the matter, Daniel? You’re pale.”

I sighed and looked down. I started to tell him about the incident with Inspector Fumero the other afternoon and his threats. My father listened, containing the anger that the burning in his eyes betrayed.

“It’s my fault,” I said. “I should have said something….”

My father shook his head. “No. You couldn’t have known, Daniel.”

“But—”

“Don’t even think about it. And not a word to Fermín. God knows how he would react if he knew the man was after him again.”

“But we have to do something.”