and stretched out his hand. The beggar didn't dare take it, mortified by his appearance and the filth that covered his skin.
'Listen, I think it's best if I go away and leave you,' he stammered.
My father took him gently by the arm. 'Not at all, my son has told me you're going to have lunch with us.'
The beggar looked at us amazed, terrified.
'Why don't you come up to our home and have a nice hot bath?' said my father. 'Afterwards, if that's all right, we could walk down to Can Sole for lunch.'
Fermin Romero de Torres mumbled something unintelligible. Still smiling, my father led him towards the front door and practically had to drag him up the stairs to the apartment while I closed the shop. By dint of honeyed words and underhand tactics, we managed to remove his rags and get him into the bath. With nothing on, he looked like a wartime photograph and trembled like a plucked chicken. Deep marks showed on his wrists and ankles, and his trunk and back were covered with terrible scars that were painful to see. My father and I exchanged horrified looks but made no comment.
The beggar allowed himself to be washed like a child, frightened and shivering. While I searched for clean clothes, I could hear my father's voice talking to him without pause. I found him a suit that my father no longer wore, an old shirt, and some underwear. From the pile of clothes the beggar had taken off, not even the shoes could be rescued. I chose a pair that my father seldom put on because they were too small for him. Then I wrapped the rags in newspaper, including a pair of trousers that were the colour and consistency of smoked ham, and shoved them in the bin. When I returned to the bathroom, my father was shaving Fermin in the bathtub. Pale and smelling of soap, he looked twenty years younger. From what I could see, the two had already struck up a friendship. It may have been the effects of the bath salts, but Fermin Romero de Torres was on overdrive.
'Believe me, Senor Sempere, if fate hadn't led me into the world of international intrigue, what I would have gone for, what was closest to my heart, was Humanities. As a child I felt the call of poetry and wanted to be a Sophocles or a Virgil, because tragedy and dead languages give me goose pimples. But my father, God rest his soul, was a pigheaded man without much vision. He'd always wanted one of his children to join the Civil Guard, and none of my seven sisters would have qualified for that, despite the facial-hair problem that characterized all the women on my mother's side of the family. On his deathbed my father made me swear that if I didn't succeed in wearing the Civil Guard's three-cornered hat, at least I would become a civil servant and abandon all my literary ambitions. I'm rather old-fashioned, and I believe that a father, however dim-witted, should be obeyed, if you see what I mean. Even so, don't imagine that I set aside all intellectual pursuits during my years of adventure. I've read a great deal, and can recite some of the best fragments of La Divina Commedia from memory.'
'Come on, chief, put these clothes on; your erudition is beyond any doubt,' I said, coming to my father's rescue.
When Fermin Romero de Torres came out of the bath, sparkling clean, his eyes beamed with gratitude. My father wrapped him up in a towel, and the beggar laughed from the sheer pleasure of feeling clean fabric brushing his skin. I helped him into his change of clothes, which proved to be about ten sizes too big. My father removed his belt and handed it to me to put around him.
'You look very dashing,' said my father. 'Doesn't he, Daniel?'
'Anyone might mistake you for a film star.'
'Come off it. I'm not what I used to be. I lost my Herculean muscles in prison, and since then . . .'
'Well, I think you look like Charles Boyer, at least in build,' objected my father. 'Which reminds me: I wanted to propose something to you.'
'For you, Senor
'Listen, I think it's best if I go away and leave you,' he stammered.
My father took him gently by the arm. 'Not at all, my son has told me you're going to have lunch with us.'
The beggar looked at us amazed, terrified.
'Why don't you come up to our home and have a nice hot bath?' said my father. 'Afterwards, if that's all right, we could walk down to Can Sole for lunch.'
Fermin Romero de Torres mumbled something unintelligible. Still smiling, my father led him towards the front door and practically had to drag him up the stairs to the apartment while I closed the shop. By dint of honeyed words and underhand tactics, we managed to remove his rags and get him into the bath. With nothing on, he looked like a wartime photograph and trembled like a plucked chicken. Deep marks showed on his wrists and ankles, and his trunk and back were covered with terrible scars that were painful to see. My father and I exchanged horrified looks but made no comment.
The beggar allowed himself to be washed like a child, frightened and shivering. While I searched for clean clothes, I could hear my father's voice talking to him without pause. I found him a suit that my father no longer wore, an old shirt, and some underwear. From the pile of clothes the beggar had taken off, not even the shoes could be rescued. I chose a pair that my father seldom put on because they were too small for him. Then I wrapped the rags in newspaper, including a pair of trousers that were the colour and consistency of smoked ham, and shoved them in the bin. When I returned to the bathroom, my father was shaving Fermin in the bathtub. Pale and smelling of soap, he looked twenty years younger. From what I could see, the two had already struck up a friendship. It may have been the effects of the bath salts, but Fermin Romero de Torres was on overdrive.
'Believe me, Senor Sempere, if fate hadn't led me into the world of international intrigue, what I would have gone for, what was closest to my heart, was Humanities. As a child I felt the call of poetry and wanted to be a Sophocles or a Virgil, because tragedy and dead languages give me goose pimples. But my father, God rest his soul, was a pigheaded man without much vision. He'd always wanted one of his children to join the Civil Guard, and none of my seven sisters would have qualified for that, despite the facial-hair problem that characterized all the women on my mother's side of the family. On his deathbed my father made me swear that if I didn't succeed in wearing the Civil Guard's three-cornered hat, at least I would become a civil servant and abandon all my literary ambitions. I'm rather old-fashioned, and I believe that a father, however dim-witted, should be obeyed, if you see what I mean. Even so, don't imagine that I set aside all intellectual pursuits during my years of adventure. I've read a great deal, and can recite some of the best fragments of La Divina Commedia from memory.'
'Come on, chief, put these clothes on; your erudition is beyond any doubt,' I said, coming to my father's rescue.
When Fermin Romero de Torres came out of the bath, sparkling clean, his eyes beamed with gratitude. My father wrapped him up in a towel, and the beggar laughed from the sheer pleasure of feeling clean fabric brushing his skin. I helped him into his change of clothes, which proved to be about ten sizes too big. My father removed his belt and handed it to me to put around him.
'You look very dashing,' said my father. 'Doesn't he, Daniel?'
'Anyone might mistake you for a film star.'
'Come off it. I'm not what I used to be. I lost my Herculean muscles in prison, and since then . . .'
'Well, I think you look like Charles Boyer, at least in build,' objected my father. 'Which reminds me: I wanted to propose something to you.'
'For you, Senor
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