carved wooden box, edged with gold rivets. Even before opening it, I was smiling. The sound of the clasp when it unlocked was exquisite, like the ticking of a watch. Inside, the case was lined with dark blue velvet. Victor Hugo's fabulous Montblanc Meisterstuck rested in the centre. It was a dazzling sight. I took it and gazed at it by the light of the balcony. The gold clip of the pen top had an inscription.
Daniel Sempere, 1950
I stared at my father, dumbfounded. I don't think I had ever seen him look as happy as he seemed to me at that moment. Without saying anything, he got up from his armchair and held me tight. I felt a lump in my throat and, lost for words, fell utterly silent.
TRUE TO CHARACTER 1951-1953
11
That year autumn blanketed Barcelona with fallen leaves that rippled through the streets like silvery scales. The distant memory of the night of my sixteenth birthday had put a damper on my spirits, or perhaps life had decided to grant me a sabbatical from my melodramatic woes so that I could begin to grow up. I was surprised at how little I thought about Clara Barcelo, or Julian Carax, or that faceless cipher who smelled of burned paper and claimed to be a character straight out of a book. By November, I had observed a month of sobriety, a month without going anywhere near Plaza Real to beg a glimpse of Clara through the window. The merit, I must confess, was not altogether mine. Business in the bookshop was picking up, and my father and I had more on our hands than we could juggle.
'At this rate we'll have to hire another person to help us find the orders,' my father remarked. 'What we really need is someone very special, half detective, half poet, someone who won't charge much or be afraid to tackle the impossible.'
'I think I have the right candidate,' I said.
I found Fermin Romero de Torres in his usual lodgings below the arches of Calle Fernando. The beggar was putting together the front page of the Monday paper from bits he had rescued from a waste bin. The lead story went on about the greatness of national public works as yet more proof of the glorious progress of the dictatorship's policies.
'Good God! Another dam!' I heard him cry. 'These fascists will turn us all into a race of saints and frogs.'
'Good morning,' I said quietly. 'Do you remember me?'
The beggar raised his head, and a wonderful smile suddenly lit up his face.
'Do mine eyes deceive me? How are things with you, my friend? You'll accept a swig of red wine, I hope?'
'It's on me today,' I said. 'Are you hungry?'
'Well, I wouldn't say no to a good plate of seafood, but I'll eat anything that's thrown at me.'
On our way to the bookshop, Fermin Romero de Torres filled me in on all manner of escapades he had devised during the last weeks to avoid the Security Services, and in particular one Inspector Fumero, his nemesis, with whom he appeared to have a running battle.
'Fumero?' I asked. That was the name of the soldier who had murdered Clara Barcelo's father in Montjuic Castle at the outbreak of the war.
The little man nodded fearfully, turning pale. He looked famished and dirty, and he stank from months of living on the streets. The poor fellow had no idea where I was taking him, and I noticed a certain apprehension, a growing anxiety that he tried to disguise with incessant chatter. When we arrived at the shop, he gave me a troubled look.
'Please come in. This is my father's bookshop. I'd like to introduce you to him.'
The beggar hunched himself up, a bundle of grime and nerves. 'No, no, I wouldn't hear of it. I don't look presentable, and this is a classy establishment. I would embarrass you. . . .'
My father put his head around the door, glanced at the beggar, and then looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
'Dad, this is Fermin Romero de Torres.'
'At your service,' said the beggar, almost shaking.
My father smiled at him calmly
Daniel Sempere, 1950
I stared at my father, dumbfounded. I don't think I had ever seen him look as happy as he seemed to me at that moment. Without saying anything, he got up from his armchair and held me tight. I felt a lump in my throat and, lost for words, fell utterly silent.
TRUE TO CHARACTER 1951-1953
11
That year autumn blanketed Barcelona with fallen leaves that rippled through the streets like silvery scales. The distant memory of the night of my sixteenth birthday had put a damper on my spirits, or perhaps life had decided to grant me a sabbatical from my melodramatic woes so that I could begin to grow up. I was surprised at how little I thought about Clara Barcelo, or Julian Carax, or that faceless cipher who smelled of burned paper and claimed to be a character straight out of a book. By November, I had observed a month of sobriety, a month without going anywhere near Plaza Real to beg a glimpse of Clara through the window. The merit, I must confess, was not altogether mine. Business in the bookshop was picking up, and my father and I had more on our hands than we could juggle.
'At this rate we'll have to hire another person to help us find the orders,' my father remarked. 'What we really need is someone very special, half detective, half poet, someone who won't charge much or be afraid to tackle the impossible.'
'I think I have the right candidate,' I said.
I found Fermin Romero de Torres in his usual lodgings below the arches of Calle Fernando. The beggar was putting together the front page of the Monday paper from bits he had rescued from a waste bin. The lead story went on about the greatness of national public works as yet more proof of the glorious progress of the dictatorship's policies.
'Good God! Another dam!' I heard him cry. 'These fascists will turn us all into a race of saints and frogs.'
'Good morning,' I said quietly. 'Do you remember me?'
The beggar raised his head, and a wonderful smile suddenly lit up his face.
'Do mine eyes deceive me? How are things with you, my friend? You'll accept a swig of red wine, I hope?'
'It's on me today,' I said. 'Are you hungry?'
'Well, I wouldn't say no to a good plate of seafood, but I'll eat anything that's thrown at me.'
On our way to the bookshop, Fermin Romero de Torres filled me in on all manner of escapades he had devised during the last weeks to avoid the Security Services, and in particular one Inspector Fumero, his nemesis, with whom he appeared to have a running battle.
'Fumero?' I asked. That was the name of the soldier who had murdered Clara Barcelo's father in Montjuic Castle at the outbreak of the war.
The little man nodded fearfully, turning pale. He looked famished and dirty, and he stank from months of living on the streets. The poor fellow had no idea where I was taking him, and I noticed a certain apprehension, a growing anxiety that he tried to disguise with incessant chatter. When we arrived at the shop, he gave me a troubled look.
'Please come in. This is my father's bookshop. I'd like to introduce you to him.'
The beggar hunched himself up, a bundle of grime and nerves. 'No, no, I wouldn't hear of it. I don't look presentable, and this is a classy establishment. I would embarrass you. . . .'
My father put his head around the door, glanced at the beggar, and then looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
'Dad, this is Fermin Romero de Torres.'
'At your service,' said the beggar, almost shaking.
My father smiled at him calmly
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