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

My father shrugged his shoulders. The radio continued to bombard us with nonsense. My father got up and turned it off.

“What did the letter from the army say?” he finally asked.

“I have to join up in two months’ time.”

His face seemed to age ten years.

“Barceló says he’ll try to pull some strings so that I get transferred to the Military Government in Barcelona, after the training. I’ll even be able to come home to sleep,” I added.

My father replied with an anemic nod. I found it painful to hold his gaze, so I got up to clear the table. My father remained seated, his eyes lost and his hands clasped under his chin. I was about to wash up the dishes when I heard footsteps pounding on the stairs. Firm, hurried footsteps that struck the floor and spoke a terrible message. I looked up and exchanged glances with my father. The footsteps stopped on our landing. My father stood up, looking anxious. A second later we heard banging on the door and a furious booming voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

“Police! Open up!”

A thousand daggers stabbed at my mind. Another volley of banging made the door shake. My father went to the door and lifted the cover of the peephole.

“What do you want at this time of night?”

“Open the door or we’ll kick it down, Sempere. Don’t make me have to repeat this.”

I recognized the voice as Fumero’s, and an icy breath seemed to enter me. My father threw me a questioning look. I nodded. Suppressing a sigh, he opened the door. Fumero and his two henchmen were silhouetted against the yellowish light of the landing, ashen-faced puppets in gray raincoats.

“Where is he?” shouted Fumero, swiping my father aside and pushing his way into the dining room.

My father tried to stop him, but one of the policemen who was covering the inspector’s back grabbed him by the arm and pushed him against the wall, holding him with the coldness and efficiency of a man accustomed to the task. It was the same man who had followed me and Fermín, the sam

e one who had held me while Fumero beat up my friend outside the Hospice of Santa Lucía, the same one who had kept watch on me a couple of nights before. He gave me an empty, deadpan look. I went up to Fumero, displaying all the calm I was able to muster. The inspector’s eyes were bloodshot. A recent scratch ran down his left cheek, edged with dry blood.

“Where?”

“Where what?”

Fumero looked down suddenly and shook his head, mumbling to himself. When he raised his face, he had a wolfish grimace on his lips and a revolver in his hand. Without taking his eyes off mine, he banged the butt of his revolver against the vase of withered flowers on the table. The vase smashed into small fragments, spilling the water and the shriveled stalks over the tablecloth. Despite myself, I shivered. My father was shouting in the entrance hall, held firmly in the grip of the two policemen. I could barely decipher his words. All I could absorb was the icy pressure of the gun’s barrel sunk into my cheek, and the smell of gunpowder.

“Don’t fuck with me, you little shit, or your father will have to pick your brains off the floor. Do you hear?”

I nodded. I was shaking. Fumero pressed the barrel hard against my cheek. I could feel it cutting my skin, but I didn’t even dare blink.

“This is the last time I’ll ask you. Where is he?”

I saw myself reflected in the black pupils of the inspector’s eyes. They slowly contracted as he tightened the hammer with his thumb.

“Not here. I haven’t seen him since lunchtime. It’s the truth.”

Fumero stood still for almost half a minute, digging the gun into my face and smacking his lips.

“Lerma,” he ordered. “Have a look.”

One of the policemen hurried off to inspect the apartment. My father struggled in vain with the third officer.

“If you’ve lied to me and we find him in this house, I swear I’ll break both your father’s legs,” whispered Fumero.

“My father doesn’t know anything. Leave him alone.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t even know what he’s playing at. But as soon as I grab hold of your friend, the game’s over. No judges, no hospitals, no fucking nothing. This time I’ll see to it personally that he’s put out of circulation. And I’m going to enjoy doing it, believe me. I’m going to take my time. You can tell him if you see him. Because I’m going to find him even if I have to turn over every stone in the city. And you’re next on the list.”

The officer called Lerma reappeared in the dining room and gave a slight shake of the head. Fumero loosened the hammer and removed the revolver.

“Pity,” said Fumero.