The bookseller smiled at me meekly. His usual haughty expression was nowhere to be seen. Instead he looked serious and concerned.
'This morning I met Don Manuel Gutierrez Fonseca. He's fifty-nine, a bachelor, and has been a city employee at the Barcelona municipal morgue since 1924. Thirty years' service on the threshold of darkness. His words, not mine. Don Manuel is a gentleman of the old school -courteous, pleasant, and obliging. For the last fifteen years, he's been living in Calle Ceniza, in a rented room that he shares with a dozen parakeets that have learned how to hum the funeral march. He has a season ticket at the Liceo. He likes Verdi and Donizetti. He told me that in his job the important thing is to follow the rules. The rules make provisions for everything, especially for occasions when one doesn't know what to do. Fifteen years ago Don Manuel opened a canvas bag brought in by the police, and in it he found his childhood best friend. The rest of the body came in a separate bag. Don Manuel, holding back his feelings, followed the rules.'
'Would you like a coffee, Don Gustavo? You're looking a bit pale.'
'Please.'
I went in search of the Thermos flask and poured him a cup with eight lumps of sugar. He gulped it down.
'Better?'
'Getting there. As I was saying, the fact is that Don Manuel was on duty the day they brought the body of Julian Carax to the autopsy department, in September 1936. Of course, Don Manuel couldn't remember the name, but a look through the archives and a hundred-peseta donation towards his retirement fund refreshed his memory remarkably. Do you follow me?'
I nodded, almost in a trance.
'Don Manuel remembers all the details of that day because, as he told me, it was one of the few times when he bent the rules. The police claimed that the body had been found in an alleyway of the Raval quarter, shortly before dawn. The body reached the morgue by midmorning. The only items on it were a book and a passport, which identified the man as Julian Fortuny Carax, born in Barcelona in 1900.
The passport had been stamped at the border post of La Junquera, showing that Carax had come into the country a month earlier. The cause of death was, apparently, a bullet wound. Don Manuel isn't a doctor, but over the years he has learned what to look for. In his opinion the gunshot, just above the heart, had been delivered at point-blank range. Thanks to the passport, they were able to locate Senor Fortuny, Carax's father, who came to the morgue that very evening to identify the body.'
'Up to here it all tallies with what Nuria Monfort said.'
Barcelo nodded. 'That's right. What Nuria Monfort didn't tell you is that he - my friend Don Manuel - sensing that the police did not seem very interested in the case, and having realized that the book found in the pocket of the corpse bore the name of the deceased, decided to act on his own initiative and called the publishing house that very afternoon, while they awaited the arrival of Fortuny.'
'Nuria Monfort told me that the employee at the morgue phoned the publishers three days later, when the body had already been buried in a common grave.'
'According to Don Manuel, he called the same day as the body was delivered to the morgue. He tells me he spoke to a young woman, who said she was grateful to him for having called. Don Manuel remembers that he was slightly shocked by the attitude of the young lady. In his own words: "It sounded as if she already knew.'"
'What about Senor Fortuny? Is it true that he refused to identify his son?'
'That's what intrigued me most of all. Don Manuel tells me that at the end of the afternoon, a little man arrived, trembling, escorted by two policemen. It was Senor Fortuny. According to Don Manuel, that is the one thing you never get used to, the moment when those closest to the loved one come to identify the body. He says it's a situation he wouldn't wish on anyone. Worst of all, he says, is when the deceased is a young person and it's the parents, or a young spouse, who have to identify the body. Don Manuel remembers Senor Fortuny well. He says that when he arrived at the morgue, he could scarcely stand, that he cried like a child, and that the two policemen had to hold him up by his arms. He kept moaning: "What have they done to my son? What have they done to my son?"'
'Did he get to see the body?'
'Don Manuel told me that he was on the point of asking the police officers whether they might skip the normal procedure. It's the only time it occurred to him to question the rules. The corpse was in a bad state. It had probably been dead for over twenty-four hours when it reached the morgue, and not since dawn that day, as the police claimed. Manuel was afraid that when that little old man saw it, he would break down. Senor Fortuny kept on repeating that it couldn't be, that his Julian couldn't be dead. . . . Then Don Manuel removed the shroud that covered the body, and the two policemen asked Fortuny formally whether this was his son, Julian.'
'And?'
'Senor Fortuny was dumbfounded. He stared at the body for almost a minute. Then he turned on his heels and left.'
'He left?'
'In a hurry.'
'What about the police? Didn't they stop him? Wasn't he supposed to be there to identify the body?'
Barcelo smiled roguishly. 'In theory. But Don Manuel remembers there was someone else in the room, a third policeman who had come in quietly while the other two were preparing Senor Fortuny. He was watching the scene without saying a word, leaning against the wall, with a cigarette in his mouth. Don Manuel remembers him because when he told him that the regulations strictly forbade smoking in the morgue, one of the officers signalled to him to be quiet. According to Don Manuel, as soon as Senor Fortuny had left, the third policeman went up to the body, glanced at it, and spat on its face. Then he kept the passport and gave orders for the body to be sent to Montjuic, to be buried in a common grave at daybreak.'
'It doesn't make sense.'
'That's what Don Manuel thought. Especially as none of it tallied with the rules. "But we don't know who this man is," he said. The two other policemen didn't reply. Don Manuel rebuked them angrily: "Or do you know only too well? Because it is quite clear to us all that he's been dead for at least a day." Don Manuel was obviously referring to the regulations and was no fool. According to him, when the third policeman heard his protests, he went up to him, looked him straight in the eye, and asked him whether he'd care to join the deceased on his last voyage. Don Manuel was terrified. The man had the eyes of a lunatic, and Don Manuel didn't doubt for one moment that he meant what he said. He mumbled that he was only trying to comply with the regulations, that nobody knew who the man was, and that, consequently, he couldn't be buried yet. "This man is whoever I say he is," answered the policeman. Then he picked up the registration form and signed it, closing the case. Don Manuel says he'll never forget that signature, because during the war years, and for a long time afterwards, he would come across it on dozens of death certificates for bodies that arrived from goodness knows where - bodies that nobody managed to identify. . . .'
'Inspector Francisco Javier Fumero 'The pride and glory of Central Police Headquarters. Do you realize what this means, Daniel?'
'That we've been lashing out blindly from the very beginning.'
Barcelo took his hat and stick and walked over to the door, tut-tutting under his breath. 'No, it means the lashings are about to start now.'
40.
I spent the afternoon surveying the grim letter announcing my draft, hoping for signs of life from Fermin. Half an hour after our closing time, Fermin's whereabouts remained unknown. I picked up the telephone and called the pension in Calle Joaquin Costa. Dona Encarna answered, her voice thick with alcohol. She said she hadn't seen Fermin since that morning.
'If he's not back within the next half hour, he'll have to have his supper cold. This isn't the Ritz, you know. I hope nothing's happened to him.'
'Don't worry, Dona Encarna. He had some errand to do and must have been delayed. In any case, if you do see him before going to bed, I'd be very grateful if you could ask him to call me. It's Daniel Sempere, your friend Merceditas's neighbour.'
'Of course, but I must warn you that I turn in for the night at half past eight.'
After that I phoned Barcelo's home, hoping that Fermin 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 schoolteacher, I let drop the reason for my call, but in a very casual manner, almost in passing.
'No, Fermin hasn't come by all day. And Bernarda has been with me all afternoon, so I would know. Actually, we've been talking about you.'
'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 be friends again some day? How many years will it take you to forgive me?'
'We are friends already, Clara, and I don't need to forgive you for anything. You know that.'
'My uncle says you're still investigating Julian 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 mouth felt like concrete. 'No. What surprises me is that you're not already married. You can't have lacked suitors. Who's the lucky man?'
'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 older than me, but we're very good friends, and that's what matters, don't you think?'
My mouth was full of malice, so 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 Barcelo.'
'To me you'll always be Clara Barcelo, period. And you know that as well as I do.'
There was another silence, the kind in which grey hairs seem to creep up on you.
'What about you, Daniel? Fermin tells me you have a beautiful girlfriend.'
'I've got to go, Clara, a client has just come in. I'll call you one of these days, and we'll 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 Fermin 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.
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 asked finally.
'I have to join up in two month's time.'
His face seemed to age by ten years.
'Barcelo says he'll try to pull some strings so that I can be transferred to the Military Government in Barcelona, after the initial training. I'll even be able to come home to sleep,' I added.
My father replied with an anaemic 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 up the stairs. Firm, hurried footsteps that spoke a terrible warning. 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 walked up to the doorway 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 myself.'
I recognized the voice as Fumero's, and my heart turned to ice. 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 grey 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 Fermin and myself, the same one who had held me while Fumero beat up my friend outside the Hospice of Santa Lucia, the same one who had kept watch on me a couple of nights before. He shot me an empty, deadpan look. I went up to Fumero, displaying all the calm I could 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 shrivelled stalks over the tablecloth. Despite myself, I shivered. My father was shouting from 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 up your brains off the floor. Do you hear me?'
I nodded. I was shaking. Fumero pressed the barrel hard against my cheek. I could feel it cutting into 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. 'Take a look around.'
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 know what he's playing at. But as soon as I get hold of your friend, the game's over. No judges, no hospitals, no fucking nothing. This time I'll personally see to it 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 his head. Fumero loosened his grip on the hammer and removed the revolver.
'Pity,' said Fumero.
'What has he done? Why are you looking for him?'
Fumero turned his back on me and went up to the policemen, who, at his signal, let go of my father.
'You're going to remember this,' spat my father.
Fumero's eyes rested on his. Instinctively, my father took a step back. I feared that Inspector Fumero's visit had only just begun, but suddenly the man shook his head, laughing under his breath, and left the apartment. Lerma followed him. The third policeman, my sentinel, paused for a moment in the doorway. He looked silently at me, as if he wanted to say something.
'Palacios!' yelled Fumero, his voice fading into the echo of the stairwell.
Palacios lowered his eyes and disappeared round the door. I went out to the landing. I could see blades of light emerging from the half-open doors of the neighbours, their frightened faces peeping out in the dark. The three shadowy shapes of the policemen vanished down the stairs, and the angry sound of their footsteps receded like a poisoned tide, leaving behind it a residue of fear.