The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón Page B

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 color and consistency of smoked ham, and shoved them in the trash can. When I returned to the bathroom, my father was shaving Fermín 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 Fermín Romero de Torres was on overdrive.
    â€œBelieve me, Mr. 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 the 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.”
    â€œCome on, boss, put these clothes on, if you don’t mind; your erudition is beyond any doubt,” I said, coming to my father’s rescue.
    When Fermín 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 about ten sizes too big. My father removed his belt and handed it to me to put around him.
    â€œYou look very dashing,” said my father. “Doesn’t he, Daniel?
    â€œAnyone might mistake you for a film star.”
    â€œCome off it. I’m not what I used to be. I lost my Herculean muscles in prison, and since then…”
    â€œWell, I think you look like Charles Boyer, at least in build,” objected my father. “Which reminds me: I wanted to propose something to you.”
    â€œFor you, Mr. Sempere, I would kill, if I had to. Just say the name, and I’ll get rid of the guy before he knows what’s hit him.”
    â€œIt won’t come to that. What I wanted to offer you was a job in the bookshop. It consists of looking for rare books for our clients. It’s almost like literary archaeology, and it would be just as important for you to know the classics as the basic black-market techniques. I can’t pay you much at present, but you can eat at our table and, until we find you a good pensión, you can stay here with us, in the apartment, if that’s all right with you.”
    The beggar looked at both of us, dumbfounded.
    â€œWhat do you say?” asked my father. “Will you join the