“She was an old friend of Julián Carax. I went to see her to ask her what she remembered about Carax. That’s all. She was the daughter of Isaac, the keeper. It was he who gave me her address.”
“Did Fermín know her?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“How can you doubt him and believe these fabrications? All Fermín knew about that woman was what I told him.”
“And is that why he was following her?”
“Yes.”
“Because you’d asked him to.”
I didn’t answer. My father heaved a sigh.
“You don’t understand, Dad.”
“You can be sure of that. I don’t understand you, or Fermín, or—”
“Dad, from what we know of Fermín, what it says there is impossible.”
“And what do we know about Fermín, eh? To begin with, it turns out that we didn’t even know his real name.”
“You’re mistaken about him.”
“No, Daniel. You’re the one who’s mistaken, in many things. Who asks you to go digging up other people’s lives?”
“I’m free to speak to whomever I want.”
“I suppose you also feel free from the consequences.”
“Are you insinuating that I’m responsible for this woman’s death?”
“This woman, as you call her, had a first name and a last name, and you knew her.”
“There’s no need to remind me,” I answered with tears in my eyes.
My father looked at me sadly, shaking his head. “Oh, God, I don’t even want to think how poor Isaac must be feeling.”
“It’s not my fault that she’s dead,” I said in a tiny voice, thinking that perhaps if I repeated those words often enough, I would end up believing them.
My father retired to the back room, still shaking his head.
“You must know what you’re responsible for and what you’re not, Daniel. Sometimes I no longer know who you are.”
I grabbed my raincoat and escaped into the street and the rain, where nobody would know me.
I GAVE MYSELF UP TO THE FREEZING RAIN, GOING NOWHERE IN particular. I walked with my eyes downcast, dragging with me the image of Nuria Monfort, lifeless, stretched out on a cold marble slab, her body riddled with stab wounds. I passed a crossing with Calle Fontanella and didn’t stop to look at the traffic lights. It was only when a strong gust of wind hit my face that I turned to see a wall of metal and light hurtling toward me at full speed. At the last moment, a p
asserby behind me pulled me back and moved me out of the bus’s path. I gazed at the metal behemoth that shimmered only an inch or two from my face, what could have been certain death zooming by, a tenth of a second away. By the time I realized what had happened, the person who had saved my life was walking away over the pedestrian crossing, just a silhouette in a gray raincoat. I remained rooted to the spot, breathless. Through the curtain of rain, I noticed that my savior had stopped on the other side of the street and was watching me under the downpour. It was the third policeman, Palacios. A thick wall of traffic slid by between us, and when I looked again, Officer Palacios was no longer there.
I set off toward Bea’s house, incapable of waiting any longer. I needed to recall what little good there was in me, what she had given me. I rushed up the stairs and stopped outside the door of the Aguilars’ apartment, almost out of breath. I held the door knocker and gave three loud knocks. While I waited, I gathered my courage and became aware of my appearance: soaked to the skin. I pushed the hair back from my forehead and told myself that the dice had been cast. If Mr. Aguilar was to turn up ready to break my legs and smash my face, the sooner the better. I knocked again and after a while heard footsteps approaching. The peephole opened a fraction. A dark, suspicious eye stared at me.
“Who’s there?”
I recognized the voice of Cecilia, one of the maids who worked for the Aguilar family.