The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón Page A

Barceló, or Julián 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.
    â€œAt this rate we’ll have to hire another person to help us find the orders,” my father remarked. “What we’d really need is someone very special, half detective, half poet, someone who won’t charge much or be afraid to tackle the impossible.”
    â€œI think I have the right candidate,” I said.
    I found Fermín 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 trash can. 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.
    â€œGood God! Another dam!” I heard him cry. “These fascists will turn us all into a race of saints and frogs.”
    â€œGood morning,” I said quietly. “Do you remember me?”
    The beggar raised his head, and a wonderful smile suddenly lit up his face.
    â€œDo mine eyes deceive me? How are things with you, my friend? You’ll accept a swig of red wine, I hope?”
    â€œIt’s on me today,” I said. “Are you hungry?”
    â€œWell, 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, Fermín 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.
    â€œFumero?” I asked. That was the name of the soldier who had murdered Clara Barceló’s father in Montjuïc 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 in 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.
    â€œPlease come in. This is my father’s bookshop. I’d like to introduce you to him.”
    The beggar hunched himself up into 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.
    â€œDad, this is Fermín Romero de Torres.”
    â€œAt your service,” said the beggar, almost shaking.
    My father smiled at him calmly and stretched out his hand. The beggar didn’t dare take it, mortified by his appearance and the filth that covered his skin.
    â€œListen, 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.
    â€œWhy don’t you come up to our home and have a nice hot bath?” said my father. “Afterward, if that’s all right, we could walk down to Can Solé for lunch.”
    Fermín Romero de Torres mumbled something unintelligible. Still smiling, my father led him toward 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 underhanded tactics, we managed to remove his rags and get him into the bath. With nothing on, he looked like a wartime