The man proffered a sarcastic smile. A giggler, I thought.
'I take it that the sign saying Sempere and Son applies to both of you, then?'
'That's very perceptive of you. May I ask the reason for your visit, if you are not interested in a book?'
'The reason for my visit, a courtesy call if you like, is to warn you. It has come to my attention that you're doing business with undesirable characters, in particular inverts and criminals.'
I stared at him in astonishment. 'Excuse me?'
The man fixed me with his eyes. 'I'm talking about queers and thieves. Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about.'
'I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea, nor am I remotely interested in listening to you any longer.'
The man nodded in an unfriendly and truculent manner. 'You'll just have to endure me, then. I suppose you're aware of citizen Federico Flavia's activities.'
'Don Federico is the local watchmaker, an excellent person. I very much doubt that he's a criminal.'
'I was talking about queers. I have proof that this old queen frequents your shop, I imagine to buy little romantic novels and pornography.'
'And may I ask you what business this is of yours?'
His answer was to pull out his wallet and place it open on the counter. I recognized a grimy police ID with his picture on it, looking a bit younger. I read up to where it said 'Chief Inspector Francisco Javier Fumero'.
'Speak to me with respect, boy, or you and your father will be in deep trouble for selling communist rubbish. Do you hear?'
I wanted to reply, but the words had frozen on my lips.
'Still, this queer isn't what brought me here today. Sooner or later he'll end up in the police station, like all the rest of his persuasion, and I'll make sure he's given a lesson. What worries me is that, according to my information, you're employing a common thief, an undesirable of the worst sort.'
'I don't know who you're talking about, Inspector.'
Fumero gave his servile, sticky giggle.
'God only knows what name he's using now. Years ago he called himself Wilfredo Camagiiey, the Mambo King, and said he was an expert in voodoo, dance teacher to the Bourbon royal heir and Mata Hari's lover. Other times, he takes the names of ambassadors, variety artists, or bullfighters. We've lost count by now.'
'I'm afraid I'm unable to help you. I don't know anyone called Wilfredo Camagiiey.'
'I'm sure you don't, but you know who I'm referring to, don't you?'
'No.'
Fumero laughed again, that forced, affected laugh that seemed to sum him up like the blurb on a book jacket. 'You like to make things difficult, don't you? Look, I've come here as a friend, to warn you that whoever takes on someone as undesirable as this one ends up with his fingers scorched, yet you're treating me like a liar.'
'Not at all. I appreciate your visit and your warning, but I can assure you that there hasn't-'
'Don't give me that crap, because if I damn well feel like it, I'll beat the shit out of you and lock you up in the slammer, is that clear? But today I'm in a good mood, so I'm going to leave you with just a warning. It's up to you to choose your company. If you like queers and thieves, you must be a bit of both yourself. Things have to be clear where I'm concerned. Either you're with me or you're against me. That's life. That simple. So what's it going to be?'
I didn't say anything. Fumero nodded, letting go another giggle.
'Very good, Senor Sempere. It's your call. Not a very good beginning for us. If you want problems, you'll get them. Life isn't like a novel, you know. In life you have to take sides. And it's clear which side you've chosen. The side taken by idiots, the losing side.'
'I'm going to ask you to leave, please.'
He walked off toward the door, followed by his sibylline laugh. 'We'll meet again. And tell your friend that Inspector Fumero is keeping an eye on him and sends him his best regards.'
The call from the inspector and the echo of his words ruined my afternoon. After a quarter of an hour of running to and fro behind the counter, my stomach tightening into a knot, I decided to close the bookshop before the usual time and go out for a walk. I wandered about aimlessly, unable to rid my mind of the insinuations and threats made by that sinister thug. I wondered whether I should alert my father and Fermin about the visit, but I imagined that would have been precisely Fumero's intention: to sow doubt, anguish, fear and uncertainty among us. I decided not to play his game. On the other hand, his suggestions about Fermin's past alarmed me. I felt ashamed of myself on discovering that, for a moment, I had given credit to the policeman's words. In the end, after much consideration, I decided to banish the entire episode to the back of my mind.
On my way home, I passed the watchmaker's shop. Don Federico greeted me from behind the counter, beckoning me to come in. The watchmaker was an affable, cheerful character who never forgot anyone's birthday, the sort of person you could always go to with a dilemma, knowing that he would find a solution. I couldn't help shivering at the thought that he was on Inspector Fumero's blacklist, and wondered whether I should warn him, although I could not imagine how, without getting caught up in matters that were none of my business. Feeling more confused than ever, I went into his shop and smiled at him.
'How are you, Daniel? What's that face for?'
'Bad day,' I said. 'How's everything, Don Federico?'
'Smooth as silk. They don't make watches like they used to anymore, so I've got plenty of work. If things go on like this, I'm going to have to hire an assistant. Your friend, the inventor, would he be interested? He must be good at this sort of thing.'
It didn't take much to imagine what Tomas's reactionary father would think of his son accepting a job in the establishment of the neighbourhood's official fairy queen. 'I'll let him know.'
'By the way, Daniel, I've got the alarm clock your father brought round two weeks ago. I don't know what he did to it, but he'd be better off buying a new one than having it fixed.'
I remembered that sometimes, on suffocating summer nights, my father would sleep out on the balcony.
'It probably fell onto the street,' I said.
'That explains it. Ask him to let me know what to do about it. I can get a Radiant for him at a very good price. Look, take this one with you if you like, and let him try it out. If he likes it, he can pay for it later. If not, just bring it back.'
'Thank you very much, Don Federico.'
The watchmaker began to wrap up the monstrosity in question.
'The latest technology,' he said with pleasure. 'By the way, I loved the book Fermin sold me the other day. It was by this fellow Graham Greene. That Fermin was a tremendous hire.'
I nodded. 'Yes, he's worth twice his weight in gold.'
'I've noticed he never wears a watch. Tell him to come by the shop and we'll sort something out.'
'I will. Thank you, Don Federico.'
When he handed me the alarm clock, the watchmaker observed me closely and arched his eyebrows. 'Are you sure there's nothing the matter, Daniel? Just a bad day?'
I nodded again and smiled. 'There's nothing the matter, Don Federico. Take care.'
'You too, Daniel.'
When I got home, I found my father asleep on the sofa, the newspaper on his chest. I left the alarm clock on the table with a note saying 'Don Federico says dump the old one' and slipped quietly into my room. I lay down on my bed in the dark and fell asleep thinking about the inspector, Fermin, and the watchmaker. When I woke up again, it was already two o'clock in the morning. I peered into the corridor and saw that my father had retired to his bedroom with the new alarm clock. The apartment was full of shadows, and the world seemed a gloomier and more sinister place than it had been only the night before. I realized that, in fact, I had never quite believed that Inspector Fumero existed. I went into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of cold milk, and wondered whether Fermin would be all right in his pension.
On my way back to the room, I tried to banish the image of the policeman from my mind. I tried to get back to sleep but realized that it was impossible. I turned on the light and decided to examine the envelope addressed to Julian Carax that I had stolen from Dona Aurora that morning and which was still in the pocket of my jacket. I placed it on my desk, under the beam of the reading lamp. It was a parchment like envelope, with yellowing serrated borders and clayish to the touch. The postmark, just a shadow, said '18 October 1919'. The wax seal had come unstuck, probably thanks to Dona Aurora's good offices. In its place was a reddish stain, like a trace of lipstick that kissed the fold of the envelope on which the return address was written.
Penelope Aldaya Avenida del Tibidabo, 32, Barcelona I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, an ochre-coloured sheet neatly folded in two. The handwriting, in blue ink, glided nervously across the page, paling slowly until it regained intensity every few words. Everything on that page spoke of another time: the strokes that depended on the ink-pot, the words scratched on the thick paper by the tip of the nib, the rugged feel of the paper. I spread the letter out on the desk and read it, breathless.
Dear Julian: This morning I found out through Jorge that you did in fact leave Barcelona to go in pursuit of your dreams. I always feared that those dreams would never allow you to be mine, or anyone else's. I would have liked to see you one last time, to be able to look into your eyes and tell you things that I don't know how to say in a letter. Nothing came out the way we had planned. I know you too well, and I know you won't write to me, that you won't even send me your address, that you will want to be another person. I know you will hate me for not having been there as I had promised. That you will think I failed you. That I didn't have the courage. I have imagined you so many times, alone on that train, convinced that I had betrayed you. Many times I tried to find you through Miquel, but he told me that you didn't want to have anything more to do with me. What lies did they tell you, Julian? What did they say about me? Why did you believe them? Now I know I have already lost you. I have lost everything. Even so, I can't let you go forever and allow you to forget me without letting you know that I don't bear you any grudge, that I knew it from the start, I knew that I was going to lose you and that you would never see in me what I see in you. I want you to know that I loved you from the very first day and that I still love you, now more than ever, even if you don't want me to. I am writing to you in secret, without anyone knowing. Jorge has sworn that if he sees you again, he'll kill you. I'm not allowed to go out of the house anymore, I can't even look out of the window. I don't think they'll ever forgive me. Someone I trust has promised to post this letter to you. I won't mention the name so as not to compromise the person in question. I don't know whether my words will reach you. But if they do, and should you decide to return to fetch me here, I know you will find the way to do it. As I write, I imagine you in that train, full of dreams and with your soul broken by betrayal, fleeing from us all and from yourself. There are so many things I cannot tell you, Julian. Things we never knew and it's better you should never know. All I wish is for you to be happy, Julian, that everything you aspire to achieve may come true and that, although you may forget me in the course of time, one day you may finally understand how much I loved you. Always, Penelope
17.
The words of Penelope Aldaya, which I read and reread that night until I knew them by heart, brushed aside all the bitterness Inspector Fumero's visit had left in me. At dawn, after spending the night wide awake, engrossed in that letter and the voice I sensed behind the words, I left the house. I dressed quietly and left a note for my father on the hall cabinet saying I had a few errands to run and would be back in the bookshop by nine-thirty. When I stepped out of the main door the puddles left in the street by the night's drizzle reflected the bluish shadows of early morning. I buttoned up my jacket and set off briskly toward Plaza de Cataluna. The stairs up from the subway station gave off a swirl of warm air. At the ticket office of the Ferrocarriles Catalanes, I bought a third-class fare to Tibidabo station. I made the journey in a carriage full of office workers, maids and day labourers carrying sandwiches the size of bricks wrapped in newspaper. Taking refuge in the darkness of the tunnels, I rested my head against the window, while the train journeyed through the bowels of the city to the foot of Mount Tibidabo, which presides over Barcelona. When I re-emerged into the streets, it seemed as if I were discovering another place. Dawn was breaking, and a purple blade of light cut through the clouds, spraying its hue over the fronts of mansions and the stately homes that bordered Avenida del Tibidabo. A blue tram was crawling lazily uphill in the mist. I ran after it and managed to clamber onto the back platform, as the conductor looked on disapprovingly. The wooden carriage was almost empty. Two friars and a lady in mourning with ashen skin swayed, half asleep, to the rocking of the carriage.
'I'm only going as far as number thirty-two,' I told the conductor, offering him my best smile.
'I don't care if you're going to Cape Horn,' he replied with indifference. 'Even Christ's soldiers here have paid for their tickets. Either you fork out or you walk out. And I'm not charging you for the rhyme.'
Clad in sandals and the austere brown sackcloth cloaks of the Franciscan order, the friars nodded, showing their two pink tickets to prove the conductor's point.
'I'll get off, then,' I said. 'Because I haven't any small change.'
'As you wish. But wait for the next stop. I don't want any accidents on my shift.'
The tram climbed almost at walking pace, hugging the shade of the trees and peeping over the walls and gardens of castle like mansions that I imagined filled with statues, fountains, stables, and secret chapels. I looked out from one side of the platform and noticed the White Friar villa silhouetted between the trees. As the train approached the corner with Calle Roman Macaya, it slowed down until it almost came to a halt. The driver rang his bell and the conductor threw me a sharp look. 'Go on, smartie. Off you get, number thirty-two is just there.'
I got off and heard the clattering of the blue tram as it disappeared into the mist. The Aldaya residence was on the opposite side of the street, guarded by a large wrought-iron gate woven with ivy and dead leaves. Set into the iron bars, barely visible, was a small door that was firmly locked. Above the gate, knotted into the shape of black iron snakes, was the number 32. I tried to peer into the property from there but could only make out the angles and arches of a dark tower. A trail of rust bled from the keyhole in the door. I knelt down and tried to get a better view of the courtyard from that position. All I could see was a tangle of weeds and the outline of what seemed to be a fountain or a pond from which an outstretched hand emerged, pointing up to the sky. It took me a few moments to realize that it was a stone hand and that there were other limbs and shapes I could not quite make out submerged in the fountain. Further away, veiled by the weeds, I caught sight of a marble staircase, broken and covered in rubble and fallen leaves. The glory and fortune of the Aldayas had faded a long time ago. The place was a graveyard.
I walked back a few steps and then turned the corner to have a look at the south wing of the house. From here you could get a better view of one of the mansion's towers. At that moment I noticed a human figure at the edge of my vision, an emaciated man in blue overalls, who brandished a large broom with which he was attacking the dead leaves on the pavement. He regarded me with some suspicion, and I imagined he must be the caretaker of one of the neighbouring properties. I smiled as only someone who has spent many hours behind a counter can do.
'Good morning,' I intoned cordially. 'Do you know whether the Aldayas' house has been closed for long?'
He stared at me as if I had inquired about the sex of angels. The little man touched his chin with yellowed fingers that betrayed a weakness for cheap unfiltered Celtas cigarettes. I regretted not having a packet on me with which to win him over. I rummaged in the pocket of my jacket to see what offering I could come up with.
'At least twenty or twenty-five years, and let's hope it continues that way,' said the caretaker in that flat, resigned tone of people who have been beaten into servility.
'Have you been here long?'
The man nodded. 'Yours truly has been employed here with the Miravells since 1920.'
'You wouldn't have any idea what happened to the Aldaya family, would you?'
'Well, as you know, they lost everything at the time of the Republic,' he said. 'He who makes trouble . . . What little I know I've heard at the Miravells' - they used to be friends of the Aldayas. I think the eldest son, Jorge, went abroad, to Argentina. It seems they had factories there. Very rich people. They always fall on their feet. You wouldn't have a cigarette, by any chance?'
'I'm sorry, but I can offer you a Sugus sweet - it's a known fact that they have as much nicotine in them as a Montecristo cigar, and bucket loads of vitamins.'
The caretaker frowned in disbelief, but he accepted. I offered him the lemon Sugus sweet Fermin had given me an eternity ago, which I'd found in my pocket, hidden in a fold of the lining. I hoped it would not be rancid.
'It's good,' ruled the caretaker, sucking at the rubbery sweet.
'You're chewing the pride of the national sweet industry. The Generalissimo swallows them by the handful, like sugared almonds. Tell me, did you ever hear any mention of the Aldayas' daughter, Penelope?'
The caretaker leaned on his broom, in the manner of Rodin's Thinker.
'I think you must be mistaken. The Aldayas didn't have any daughters. They were all boys.'
'Are you sure? I know that a young girl called Penelope Aldaya lived in this house around the year 1919. She was probably Jorge's sister.'
'That might be, but as I said, I've only been here since 1920.'
'What about the property? Who owns it now?'
'As far as I know, it's still for sale, though they were talking about knocking it down to build a school. That's the best thing they could do, frankly. Tear it down to its foundations.'
'What makes you say that?'
The caretaker gave me a guarded look. When he smiled, I noticed he was missing at least four upper teeth. 'Those people, the Aldayas. They were a shady lot, if you listen to what people say.'
'I'm afraid I don't. What do people say about them?'
'You know. The noises and all that. Personally, I don't believe in that kind of thing, don't get me wrong, but they say that more than one person has soiled his pants in there.'
'Don't tell me the house is haunted,' I said, suppressing a smile.
'You can laugh. But where there's smoke 'Have you seen anything?'
'Not exactly, no. But I've heard.'
'Heard? What?'
'Well, one night, years ago, when I accompanied Master Joanet. Only because he insisted, you know? I didn't want to have anything to do with that place. ... As I was saying, I heard something strange there. A sort of sobbing.'
The caretaker produced his own version of the noise to which he was referring. It sounded like someone with consumption humming a litany of folk songs.
'It must have been the wind,' I suggested.
'It must have, but I was scared shitless. Hey, you wouldn't have another one of those sweets, would you?'
'How about a throat lozenge? They tone you up after a sweet.'
'Come on, then,' agreed the caretaker, putting out his hand to collect it.
I gave him the whole box. The strong taste of liquorice seemed to loosen his tongue. He began the extraordinary tale of the Aldaya mansion.
'Between you and me, it's some story. Once, Joanet, Senor Miravell's son, a huge guy, twice your size (he's in the national handball team, that should give you some idea) . . . Anyhow, some friends of young Joanet had heard stories about the Aldaya house, and they roped him in. And he roped me in, asking me to go with him - all that bragging, and he didn't dare go on his own. Rich kids, what do you expect? He was determined to go in there at night, to show off in front of his girlfriend, and he nearly pissed himself. I mean, now you're looking at it in the daylight, but at night the place looks quite different. Anyway, Joanet says he went up to the second floor (I refused to go in, of course - it can't be legal, even if the house had been abandoned for at least ten years), and he says there was something there. He thought he heard a sort of voice in one of the rooms, but when he tried to go in, the door shut in his face. What do you think of that?'
'I think it was a draught,' I said.
'Or something else,' the caretaker pointed out, lowering his voice. 'The other day it was on the radio: the universe is full of mysteries. Imagine, they think they've found the Holy Shroud, the real one, bang in downtown Toledo. It had been sewn to a cinema screen, to hide it from the Muslims. Apparently they wanted to use it so they could say Jesus Christ was a black man. What do you make of that?'
'I'm speechless.'