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

“No. Not to me. Write books. Not letters. Write them for me, for Penélope.”

Julián nodded, realizing only then how much he was going to miss his friend.

“And keep your dreams,” said Miquel. “You never know when you might need them.”

“Always,” murmured Julián, but the roar of the train had already stolen his words.

“The night her mother caught them in my bedroom, Penélope told me what had happened. The following day Mrs. Aldaya called me and asked me what I knew about Julián. I said I didn’t know anything, except that he was a nice boy, a friend of Jorge’s…. She ordered me to keep Penélope in her room until she was given permission to come out. Don Ricardo was away in Madrid and didn’t come back until early on Friday. As soon as he arrived, Mrs. Aldaya told him what she’d witnessed. I was there. Don Ricardo jumped up from his armchair and slapped his wife so hard she fell on the floor. Then, shouting like a madman, he told her to repeat what she had just said. Mrs. Aldaya was terrified. We had never seen Mr. Aldaya like that. Never. He looked as if he were possessed by all the devils in hell. Seething with anger, he went up to Penélope’s bedroom and pulled her out of her bed, dragging her by the hair. I tried to stop him, but he kicked me aside. That same evening he called the family doctor and had him examine Penélope. When the doctor had finished, he spoke to Mr. Aldaya. They locked Penélope up in her room, and Mrs. Aldaya told me to collect my things.

“They didn’t let me see Penélope. I never said good-bye to her. Don Ricardo threatened to report me to the police if I told anyone what had happened. That very night they threw me out, with nowhere to go, after eighteen years of uninterrupted service in the house. Two days later, in a pensión on Calle Muntaner, I had a visit from Miquel Moliner, who told me that Julián had gone to Paris. He wanted me to tell him what had happened, why Penélope hadn’t come as arranged to the station. For weeks I returned to the house, begging for a chance to see her, but I wasn’t even allowed to cross the gates. I would position myself on the opposite corner every day for days on end, hoping to see them come out. I never saw her. She didn’t come out of the house. Later on, Mr. Aldaya called the police and, with the help of his high-powered friends, managed to get me committed to the lunatic asylum in Horta, claiming that nobody knew me, that I was some demented woman who harassed his family and children. I spent two years there, caged like an animal. The first thing I did when I got out was

go to the house on Avenida del Tibidabo to see Penélope.

“Did you manage to see her?” Fermín asked.

“The house was locked and up for sale. Nobody lived there. I was told the Aldayas had gone to Argentina. I wrote to the address I was given. The letters were returned to me unopened….”

“What happened to Penélope? Do you know?”

Jacinta shook her head, in a state of near collapse. “I never saw her again.”

The old woman moaned and began to weep uncontrollably. Fermín held her in his arms and rocked her. Jacinta Coronado had shrunk to the size of a little girl, and next to her Fermín looked like a giant. I had questions burning in my head, but my friend signaled to me that the interview was over. I saw him gazing about him at that dirty, cold hovel where Jacinta Coronado was spending her last days.

“Come on, Daniel. We’re leaving. You go first.”

I did what I was told. As I walked away, I turned for a moment and saw Fermín kneel down by the old lady and kiss her on the forehead. She gave him a toothless smile.

“Tell me, Jacinta,” I heard Fermín saying. “You like Sugus candies, don’t you?”

ON OUR CIRCUITOUS PATH BACK TO THE EXIT, WE PASSED THE REAL undertaker and his two cadaverous assistants carrying a cheap pine coffin, rope, and what looked suspiciously like a recycled shroud. The committee gave off a sinister smell of formaldehyde and cheap eau de cologne. The men’s bloodless skin framed gaunt, canine smiles. Fermín pointed to the cell where the body of the deceased awaited and proceeded to bless the trio, who nodded respectfully and made the sign of the cross.

“Go in peace,” mumbled Fermín, dragging me toward the exit, where a nun holding an oil lamp saw us off with a harsh, condemnatory look.

Once we were out of the building, the grim canyon of stone and shadow that was Calle Moncada seemed to me a valley of hope and glory. Fermín breathed deeply, with relief, and I knew I wasn’t the only one to be rejoicing at having left that place behind. Jacinta’s story weighed on our consciences more than we would have wished to admit.

“Listen, Daniel. What would you say to some ham croquettes and a couple of glasses of sparkling wine here in the Xampañet, just to take away the bad taste left in our mouths?”

“I wouldn’t say no, quite frankly.”

“Didn’t you arrange to meet up with the girl today?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Ah, you devil…you’re playing hard to get, eh? We’re learning fast….”

We hadn’t taken ten steps toward the noisy tavern, just a few doors down the street, when three silhouettes materialized out of the shadows and intercepted us. Two positioned themselves behind us, so close I could feel their breath on the nape of my neck. The third, smaller but much more menacing, blocked our way. It was him. He wore the usual raincoat, and his oily smile oozed irrepressible glee.

“Why, who have we here? If it’s not my old friend, the man of the thousand faces!” cried Inspector Fumero.

It seemed to me I could hear all Fermín’s bones shudder with terror at the apparition. My loquacious friend could manage only a stifled groan. The two thugs, who I guessed were two agents from the Crime Squad, grabbed us by the scruff of our necks and held our right wrists, ready to twist our arms at the slightest hint of a movement.

“I see from your look of surprise that you thought I’d lost track of you long ago, eh? Surely you didn’t think a piece of shit like you was going to be able to crawl out of the gutter and pass for a decent citizen. You might be stupid, but not that stupid. Besides, I’m told you’re poking your nose—and it’s quite a nose—in a whole pile of things that are none of your business. That’s a bad sign…. What is it with you and those little nuns? Are you having it off with one of them? How much do they charge these days?”

“I respect other people’s asses, Inspector, especially if they are cloistered. Perhaps if you became inclined to do the same, you would save yourself a hefty bill in penicillin and improve the number and ease of your bowel movements.”

Fumero let out a little laugh streaked with anger.

“That’s right. Balls of steel. It’s what I say. If all crooks were like you, my work would be a party. Tell me, what are you calling yourself these days, you little son of a bitch? Gary Cooper? Come on, tell me what you’re up to, sticking that big nose of yours in the Hospice of Santa Lucía, and I might let you go with just a warning. Come, spell it out. What brings you two here?”