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

And now, for five points, and with a little help from the Lord, can you tell us, Bartolomé, how does the Evil One disguise his appearance in front of the wise men of the Tabernacle, in the parable of the archangel and the gourd, in the Book of Joshua? a) as a young goat, b) as a jug vendor, or c) as an acrobat with a monkey?

Riding on the wave of applause from the audience in the studios of Radio Nacional, I planted myself in front of Nuria Monfort’s door and pressed the bell for a few seconds. I listened to the echo spread through the apartment and heaved a sigh of relief. I was about to leave when I heard footsteps coming up to the door. The peephole lit up like a tear of light. I smiled. As the key turned in the lock, I breathed deeply.

·38·

DANIEL.”

The blue smoke of her cigarette coiled around her face. Her lips shone with dark lipstick; they were moist and left marks that looked like bloodstains on the filter she held between her index and ring fingers. There are people you remember and people you dream of. For me, Nuria Monfort was like a mirage: you don’t question its veracity, you simply follow it until it vanishes or until it destroys you. I followed her to the narrow, shadowy room where she had her desk, her books, and that collection of lined-up pencils, like an accident of symmetry.

“I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

She sat on the chair by her desk, crossing her legs and leaning backward. I tore my eyes away from her throat and concentrated on a damp spot on the wall. I went up to the window and had a quick glance around the square. No sign of Fermín. I could hear Nuria Monfort breathing behind my back, could feel her eyes brushing my neck. I spoke without taking my eyes off the window.

“A few days ago, a good friend of mine discovered that the property administrator responsible for the old Fortuny-Carax apartment had been sending his correspondence to a PO box in the name of a firm of solicitors, which, apparently, doesn’t exist. This same friend discovered that the person who for years has been collecting the mail to this PO box has been using your name, Señora Monfort—”

“Shut up.”

I turned around and saw her retreating into the shadows.

“You judge me without knowing me,” she said.

“Then help me to get to know you.”

“Have you told anyone about this? Who else knows what you’ve said to me?”

“More people than you’d think. The police have been following me for a long time.”

“Fumero?”

I nodded. It seemed to me that her hands were trembling.

“You don’t know what you’ve done, Daniel.”

“You tell me,” I answered with a harshness I didn’t feel.

“You think that because you chance upon a book you have a right to enter the lives of people you don’t know and meddle in things you cannot understand and don’t belong to you.”

“They belong to me now, whether I like it or not.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I was in the house of the Aldayas. I know that Jorge Aldaya hides there. I know he was the person who murdered Carax.” I didn’t know I believed these words until I heard myself saying them.

She looked at me for a long time, choosing her words carefully. “Does Fumero know this?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’d better know. Did Fumero follow you to that house?”

The anger in her eyes burned me. I had made my entrance playing the role of accuser and judge, but with every minute that passed, I felt more like the culprit.

“I don’t think so. Did you know? Did you know that it was Aldaya who killed Julián and that he’s hiding in that house? Why didn’t you tell me?”

She smiled bitterly. “You don’t understand anything, do you?”

“I understand that you lied in order to defend the man who murdered the person you call your friend, that you’ve been covering up this crime for years, protecting a man whose only aim is to erase any traces of the existence of Julián Carax, who burns his books. I understand that you lied to me about your husband, who is not in prison and clearly isn’t here either. That’s what I understand.”