Shadow of the wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón Page A

able to avoid filling in the guest form required by the police, thus removing Fermin Romero de Torres from under the nose of Inspector Fumero and his henchmen. Sometimes I thought about the terrible scars that covered his body and felt tempted to ask him about them, fearing that perhaps Inspector Fumero might have something to do with them. But there was a look in the eyes of that poor man that made me think it was better not to bring up the subject. Perhaps he would tell us one day, when he felt the time was right. Every morning, at seven on the dot, Fermin waited for us by the shop door with a smile on his face, neatly turned out and ready to work an unbroken twelve-hour shift, or even longer. He had discovered a passion for chocolate and Swiss rolls - which did not lessen his enthusiasm for the great names of Greek tragedy - and this meant he had put on a little weight, which was welcome. He shaved like a young swell, combed his hair back with brilliantine, and was growing a pencil moustache to look fashionable. Thirty days after emerging from our bathtub, the ex-beggar was unrecognizable. But despite his spectacular change, where Fermin Romero de Torres had really left us open-mouthed was on the battlefield. His sleuthlike instincts, which I had attributed to delirious fantasies, proved surgically precise. He could solve the strangest requests in a matter of days, even hours. Was there no title he didn't know, no stratagem for obtaining it at a good price that didn't occur to him? He could talk his way into the private libraries of duchesses on Avenida Pearson and horse-riding dilettantes, always adopting fictitious identities, and would depart with the said books as gifts or bought for a pittance.
    The transformation from beggar into model citizen seemed miraculous, like one of those stories that priests from poor parishes love to tell to illustrate the Lord's infinite mercy - stories that invariably sound too good to be true, like the ads for hair-restorer lotions that were plastered over the trams.
    Three and a half months after Fermin started work in the bookshop, the telephone in the apartment on Calle Santa Ana woke us up one Sunday at two o'clock in the morning. It was Fermin's landlady. In a voice choked with anxiety, she explained that Senor Romero de Torres had locked himself in his room and was shouting like a madman, banging on the walls and swearing that if anyone dared come in, he would slit his own throat with a broken bottle.
    'Don't call the police, please. We'll be right there.'
    Rushing out, we made our way towards Calle Joaquin Costa. It was a cold night, with an icy wind and tar-black skies. We hurried past the two ancient hospices - Casa de la Misericordia and Casa de Piedad -ignoring the looks and words that came from dark doorways smelling of charcoal. Soon we reached the corner of Calle Ferlandina. Joaquin Costa lay there, a gap in the rows of blackened beehives, blending into the darkness of the Raval quarter. The landlady's eldest son was waiting for us downstairs.
    'Have you called the police?' asked my father.
    'Not yet,' answered the son.
    We ran upstairs. The pension was on the second floor, the staircase a spiral of grime scarcely visible in the ochre light shed by naked bulbs that hung limply from a bare wire. Dona Encarna, the ladylady, the widow of a Civil Guard corporal, met us at the door wrapped in a light blue dressing gown, crowned with a matching set of curlers.
    'Look here, Senor Sempere, this is a decent house. I have more offers than I can take, and I don't need to put up with this kind of thing,' she said as she guided us through a dark corridor that reeked of ammonia and damp.
    'I understand,' mumbled my father.
    Fermin Romero de Torres's screams could be heard tearing at the walls at the end of the corridor. Several drawn and frightened faces peeped around half-open doors - boarding-house faces fed on watery soup.
    'And the rest of you, off to sleep, for fuck's sake! This