The bitter smile left my lips.
“I’ve wanted to tell you for years, but I thought it wouldn’t do you any good. You’re going to think I didn’t tell you out of cowardice, but I swear, I swear on anything you hold sacred, that—”
“That what?” I cut in.
Vidal sighed.
“The night your father died—”
“The night he was murdered,” I corrected him icily.
“It was a mistake. Your father’s death was a mistake.”
I looked at him, confused.
“Those men were not out to get him. They made a mistake.”
I recalled the look in the three gunmen’s eyes, in the fog the smell of gunpowder and the sight of my father’s dark blood pouring through my hands.
“The person they wanted to kill was me,” said Vidal almost inaudibly. “An old partner of my father’s discovered that his wife and I …”
I closed my eyes and listened to the morbid laughter rising up inside me. My father had been riddled with bullets because of one of the great Pedro Vidal’s bits of skirt.
“Please say something,” Vidal pleaded.
I opened my eyes.
“What is the second thing you were going to tell me?”
I’d never seen Vidal look so frightened. It suited him.
“I’ve asked Cristina to marry me.”
A long silence.
“She said yes.”
Vidal looked down. One of the waiters came over with the starters. He left them on the table wishing us a bon appétit. Vidal did not dare look at me again. The starters were getting cold. After a while I took the copy of The Steps of Heaven and left.
…
That afternoon, after leaving La Maison Dorée, I found myself making my way down the Ramblas, carrying the copy of The Steps of Heaven. As I drew closer to the corner of Calle del Carmen my hands began to shake. I stopped by the window of the Bagués jewelry shop, pretending to be looking at some gold lockets in the shape of fairies and flowers, dotted with rubies. The ornate façade of El Indio was just a few meters away; anyone would have thought it was a grand bazaar full of wonders and extraordinary objects, not just a shop selling fabrics and linen. I approached the store slowly and stepped into the entrance hall that led to the main door. I knew that she wouldn’t recognize me, that I might not recognize her, but even so I stood there for about five minutes before daring to go in. When I did, my heart was beating hard and my hands were sweating.
The walls were lined with shelves full of large fabric rolls of all types. Shop assistants armed with tape measures and special scissors tied to their belts spread the beautiful textiles on the tables and displayed them as if they were precious jewels to well-bred ladies who were there with their maids and seamstresses.
“Can I help you, sir?”
The words came from a heavily built man with a high-pitched voice, dressed in a flannel suit that looked as if it was about to burst at the seams and fill the shop with floating shreds of cloth. He observed me with a condescending air and a smile midway between forced and hostile.
“No,” I mumbled.
Then I saw her. My mother was coming down a stepladder holding a handful of remnants. She wore a white blouse and I recognized her instantly. Her figure had grown a little fuller and her face, less well chiseled than it used to be, had that slightly defeated expression that comes with routine and disappointment. The shop assistant was annoyed and kept talking to me, but I hardly heard his voice. I only saw her drawing closer, then walking past me. She looked at me for a second, and when she saw that I was watching her, she smiled meekly, the way one smiles at a customer or at one’s boss, and then continued with her work. I had such a lump in my throat that I almost wasn’t able to open my mouth to silence the shop assistant and I hurried off toward the exit, my eyes full of tears. Once I was outside I crossed the street and went into a café. I sat at a table by the window from which I could see the door of El Indio, and I waited.
Almost an hour and a half had gone by when I saw the shop assistant who had tried to serve me come out and lower the entrance shutter. Soon afterwards the lights started to go out and some of the staff emerged. I got up and went outside. A boy of about ten was sitting by the entrance to the next-door building, looking at me. I beckoned him to come closer and when he did, I showed him a coin. He gave me a huge smile—I noticed he was missing a number of teeth.
“See this packet? I want you to give it to a lady who is about to come out right now. Tell her that a gentleman asked you to give it to her, but don’t tell her it was me. Understood?”