“Don’t worry, Doña Encarna. He had some errand to do and must have got delayed. In any case, if you do see him before going to bed, I’ll be really grateful if you could ask him to call me. It’s Daniel Sempere, the neighbor of your friend Merceditas.”
“Sure, but I must warn you that I turn in for the night at half past eight.”
After that I phoned Barceló’s home, hoping that Fermín might have turned up there to empty Bernarda’s larder or carry her off into the ironing room. It hadn’t occurred to me that Clara might answer the phone.
“Daniel, what a surprise.”
You stole my line, I thought. Talking to her in a roundabout manner worthy of Don Anacleto, the high-school teacher, I let drop the reason for my call, but in a very casual manner, almost in passing.
“No, Fermín hasn’t come by all day. And Bernarda has been with me all afternoon, so I would know. We’ve been talking about you, you know.”
“What a boring conversation.”
“Bernarda says you look very handsome, quite grown up.”
“I take lots of vitamins.”
A long silence.
“Daniel, do you think we could become friends again someday? How many years will it take you to forgive me?”
“We are friends already, Clara, and I don’t have to forgive you for anything. You know that.”
“My uncle says you’re still investigating Julián Carax. Why don’t you come by some afternoon for tea and tell me the latest. I’ve also got things to tell you.”
“One of these days, I promise.”
“I’m getting married, Daniel.”
I stared at the receiver. I felt as if my feet were sinking into the ground or I had shrunk a few inches.
“Daniel, are you there?”
“Yes.”
“You’re surprised.”
I swallowed—my saliva had the consistency of concrete. “No. What surprises me is that you’re not yet married. You can’t have lacked for suitors. Who’s the lucky fellow?”
“You don’t know him. His name is Jacobo. He’s a friend of Uncle Gustavo. A director of the Bank of Spain. We met at an opera recital organized by my uncle. Jacobo is enthusiastic about opera. He’s a bit older than me, but we’re very good friends, and that’s what matters, don’t you think?”
My mouth was full of words of malice, but I bit my tongue. It tasted like poison. “Of course…So listen, congratulations.”
“You’ll never forgive me, will you, Daniel? For you I’ll always be the perfidious Clara Barceló.”
“To me you’ll always be Clara Barceló, period. And you know that as well as I do.”
There was another silence, of the kind in which gray hairs seem to creep up on you.
“What about you, Daniel? Fermín tells me you have a beautiful girlfriend.”
“I have to go, Clara, a client has just come in. I’ll call you one of these days, and we’ll arrange to meet for tea. Congratulations once again.”
I put down the phone and sighed.
My father returned from his visit to the client, looking dejected and not in the mood for conversation. He got dinner ready while I set the table, without even asking after Fermín or how the day had gone in the bookshop. We stared at our plates during the meal, hiding behind the chatter of the news on the radio. My father hardly ate. He just stirred the watery, tasteless soup with his spoon, as if he were looking for gold in the bottom.
“You haven’t touched your food,” I said.