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

Nuria Monfort shook her head slowly. “Go away, Daniel. Leave this house and don’t return. You’ve done enough.”

I walked away toward the door, leaving her in the dining room. I stopp

ed halfway and looked back. Nuria Monfort was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, all concern for appearances gone.

I CROSSED THE SQUARE WITH DOWNCAST EYES. I CARRIED WITH ME THE pain I had received from the lips of that woman, a pain I felt I deserved, though I didn’t understand why. “You don’t know what you’ve done, Daniel.” All I wanted was to get away from that place. As I walked past the church, I didn’t at first notice the presence of a gaunt, large-nosed priest standing at the entrance holding a missal and a rosary. He blessed me unhurriedly as I passed.

·39·

I WALKED INTO THE BOOKSHOP ALMOST FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATE. When my father saw me, he frowned disapprovingly and looked at the clock.

“What time do you think it is? You know I have to go out to visit a client in San Cugat and you leave me here alone.”

“What about Fermín? Isn’t he back yet?”

My father shook his head with that haste that seemed to take over when he was in a bad mood. “By the way, there’s a letter for you. I’ve left it next to the till.”

“Dad, I’m sorry but—”

He waved my excuses aside, threw on raincoat and hat, and went out of the door without saying good-bye. Knowing him, I guessed his anger would evaporate before he reached the train station. What I found odd was Fermín’s absence. Since I’d seen him dressed up as a vaudeville priest in Plaza de San Felipe Neri, waiting for Nuria Monfort to come rushing out and lead him to the heart of the mystery, my faith in that strategy had crumbled away. I imagined that if Nuria Monfort did go down to the street, Fermín must have ended up following her to the pharmacist’s or the baker’s. A grand plan! I went over to the till to have a look at the letter my father had mentioned. The envelope was white and rectangular, like a tombstone, and in the place of a crucifix it bore a return address that managed to crush what little spirit I had left for that day.

Military Government of Barcelona

Recruitment Office

“Hallelujah,” I mumbled.

I knew the contents of the letter without having to open it, but even so I did, just to wallow in my misery. The letter was concise: two paragraphs of that prose, poised somewhere between a strident proclamation and the aria from an operetta, that characterizes all military correspondence. It was announced to me that in two months’ time I, Daniel Sempere, would have the honor and pride of fulfilling the most sacred and edifying duty that could befall an Iberian male: to serve the Motherland and wear the uniform of the national crusade for the defense of the spiritual bulwark of the West. I hoped that at least Fermín would be able to see the funny side of it and make us laugh a bit with his rhymed version of The Fall of the Judeo-Masonic Conspiracy. Two months. Eight weeks. Sixty days. I could always divide up the time into seconds and get a mile-long number. I had 5, 184, 000 seconds left of freedom. Perhaps Don Federico, who according to my father could build a Volkswagen, could make me a clock with disc brakes. Perhaps someone could explain to me how I was going to manage not to lose Bea forever. When I heard the tinkle of the doorbell, I thought it would be Fermín, returning after having finally persuaded himself that our efforts as detectives were no more than a bad joke.

“Well, if it’s not the crown prince himself watching over his castle—and so he should be, even if his face is as long as a cat’s tail. Cheer up, Little Boy Blue,” said Gustavo Barceló. He sported a camel-hair coat and his customary ivory walking stick, which he didn’t need and which he brandished like a cardinal’s miter. “Isn’t your father in, Daniel?”

“I’m sorry, Don Gustavo. He went out to visit a customer, and I don’t suppose he’ll be back until—”

“Perfect. Because it’s not your father I’ve come to see, and it’s better if he doesn’t hear what I have to tell you.”

He winked at me, pulling off his gloves and looking around the shop.

“Where’s our colleague Fermín? Is he around?”

“Missing in action.”

“While applying his talents to the Carax case, I imagine.”

“Body and soul. The last time I saw him, he was wearing a cassock and was offering the benediction urbi et orbi.”

“I see…. It’s my fault for egging you on. I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth.”

“You seem rather worried. Has anything happened?”

“Not exactly. Or yes, in a way.”

“What did you want to tell me, Don Gustavo?”

The bookseller smiled at me meekly. His usual haughty expression was nowhere to be seen. Instead he looked serious and concerned.

“This morning I met Don Manuel Gutiérrez Fonseca. He’s fifty-nine, a bachelor, and has been a city employee at the municipal morgue of Barcelona since 1924. Thirty years’ service in the threshold of darkness. His words, not mine. Don Manuel is a gentleman of the old school—courteous, pleasant, and obliging. For the last fifteen years, he’s been living on Calle Ceniza, in a rented room he shares with a dozen parakeets that have learned how to hum the funeral march. He has a season ticket at the Liceo. He likes Verdi and Donizetti. He told me that in his job the important thing is to follow the rules. The rules make provisions for everything, especially on occasions when one doesn’t know what to do. Fifteen years ago Don Manuel opened a canvas bag brought in by the police, and in it he found his best childhood friend. The rest of the body came in a separate bag. Don Manuel, holding back his feelings, followed the rules.”

“Would you like a coffee, Don Gustavo? You’re looking a bit pale.”