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

“A private matter. We came to visit a relative.”

“Sure, your fucking mother. Look here, you happen to have caught me on a good day, otherwise I’d be taking you to headquarters and giving you another session with the welding torch. Come on, be a good boy and tell your pal Inspector Fumero the truth about what the fuck you and your friend are doing here. Damn it, just cooperate a bit, and you’ll save me going over this smart little kid you’ve chosen as a sponsor.”

“You touch a single hair of his and I swear that—”

“You scare me to bits, really. I just shat in my pants.”

Fermín swallowed, as if to hold in all the courage that was seeping out of him. “Those wouldn’t be the same sailor-boy pants that your esteemed mother, the Illustrious Kitchen Maid, made you wear? That would be a shame; I’m told the outfit really suited you.”

Inspector Fumero’s face paled, and all expression left his eyes. “What did you say, motherfucker?”

“I was saying it looks like you’ve inherited the taste and the charm of Doña Yvonne Sotoceballos, a high-society lady….”

Fermín was not a heavy man, and the first punch was enough to knock him off his feet and into a puddle of water. He lay curled up in a ball as Fumero meted out a flurry of kicks to his stomach, kidneys, and face. I lost count after the fifth. Fermín lost his breath and then, a moment later, the ability to protect himself from the blows. The two policemen who were holding me down with iron hands were laughing dutifully.

“Don’t you get involved,” one of them whispered to me. “I don’t feel like breaking your arm.”

I tried in vain to wriggle out of his grip, and, as I struggled, I caught a glimpse of him. I recognized his face immediately. He was the man in the raincoat with the newspaper who was in the bar of Plaza de Sarriá a few days earlier, the same man who had followed us in the bus and laughed at Fermín’s jokes.

“Look, the one thing that really pisses me off is people who stir up the shit from the past!” Fumero cried out. “Things from the past have to be left alone, do you understand? And that goes for you and your dumb friend. Look and learn, kid. You’re next.”

The whole time I watched Inspector Fumero destroy Fermín with his kicks under the slanted light of the streetlamp, I was unable to utter a word. I remember the dull, terrible impact of the blows raining down mercilessly on my friend. They hurt me still. All I did was take refuge in the policemen’s convenient grasp, trembling and shedding silent tears of cowardice.

When Fumero tired of striking a dead weight, he opened up his raincoat, unzipped his fly, and began to urinate on Fermín. My friend didn’t move; he looked like a bundle of old clothes in a puddle. While Fumero discharged his generous, steamy cascade over Fermín, I still couldn’t speak. When he’d finished, the inspector zipped up his trousers and came over to me, sweaty-faced and panting. One of the police officers handed him a handkerchief, and he mopped his face and neck. He came closer, until his face was only a couple of inches from mine, and he fixed me with his stare.

“You weren’t worth that beating, kid. That’s the problem with your friend: he always backs the wrong side. Next time I’m going to fuck him up like I never have before, and I’m sure it’s going to be your fault.”

I thought he was going to hit me then, that my turn had come. For some reason I was glad. I wanted to believe that his blows would cure me of the shame I felt for not having raised a finger to help Fermín, when the only thing he was trying to do, as usual, was protect me.

But no blow came. All Fumero did was pat me on the cheek.

“It’s okay, boy. I don’t dirty my hands with cowards.”

The two policemen chuckled, more relaxed now that they knew the show was over. Their desire to leave the scene was obvious. They went off laughing in the dark.

By the time I went to his aid, Fermín was trying in vain to get up and find the teeth he’d lost in the dirty water of the puddle. His mouth, nose, ears, and eyelids were all bleeding. When he saw that I was unharmed, he attempted to smile and I thought he was going to die on the spot. I knelt beside him and held him in my arms. The first thought that crossed my mind was that he weighed less than Bea.

“Fermín, for God’s sake, we must get you to a hospital right away.”

He shook his head energetically. “Take me to her.”

“

To who, Fermín?”

“To Bernarda. If I’m going to go, I’d rather it was in her arms.”

·32·

THAT NIGHT I RETURNED TO PLAZA REAL, TO THE APARTMENT that I’d sworn years ago I would never set foot in again. A couple of regulars who had witnessed the beating from the door of the Xampañet Tavern offered to help me take Fermín to a taxi rank in Calle Princesa while a waiter called the number I had given him, to give warning of our arrival. The taxi ride seemed endless. Fermín had lost consciousness before we set off. I held him in my arms, clutching him against my chest and trying to warm him up. I could feel his tepid blood soaking my clothes. I whispered in his ear that we were nearly there, that he was going to be all right. My voice trembled. The driver shot me furtive looks through the mirror.

“Listen, I don’t want trouble, do you hear? If he dies, you get out.”

“Just floor it and shut up.”

By the time we reached Calle Fernando, Gustavo Barceló and Bernarda were waiting by the main door of the building, along with Dr. Soldevila. When she saw us covered in blood and dirt, Bernarda started to scream in panic. The doctor quickly took Fermín’s pulse and assured us that the patient was alive. Between the four of us, we managed to carry Fermín up the stairs and into Bernarda’s room, where a nurse, who had come along with the doctor, was getting everything ready. Once the patient was laid on the bed, the nurse began to undress him. Dr. Soldevila insisted that we all leave the room and let him get on with his work. He closed the door on us with a brief “He’ll live.”

In the corridor Bernarda sobbed inconsolably. She moaned that now that she’d found a good man, for the first time in her life, God came along and wrenched him away from her without mercy. Don Gustavo Barceló took her in his arms and led her to the kitchen, where he proceeded to ply her with brandy until the poor thing could hardly stand up. Once the maid’s words became unintelligible, the bookseller poured a glass for himself and downed it in one gulp.