The Watcher in the Shadows by Carlos Ruiz Zafón Page A

himself with joy, the watchmaker was greedily counting his coins when he noticed his face in the mirror. He looked older, gaunt. He’d been working too hard. Having decided to take a few days off, he went to bed.
    ‘The following day, bright sunlight poured in through the window. Still feeling tired, Blöcklin walked over to the sink to wash his face. When he caught sight of his reflection once more, it sent a shiver down his spine. The night before, when he’d gone to bed, his face had been that of a forty-one-year-old: worn out, exhausted, but still young. Today he saw the image of a man closer to his sixtieth birthday. Terrified, he went out to the park to get some fresh air. When he returned to the shop he looked in the mirror again. An old man was staring back at him. He panicked. As he rushed out into the street he bumped into a neighbour who asked him whether he’d seen Blöcklin, the watchmaker. Hysterical, Hermann fled.
    ‘He spent that evening in the corner of a filthy tavern, surrounded by criminals and other shady characters. Anything rather than being alone. He could feel his skin shrinking by the minute. His bones felt brittle and he was finding it hard to breathe.
    ‘It was almost midnight when a stranger asked whether he could sit down next to him. Blöcklin stared at him. He was a good-looking young man of about twenty. His face did not seem familiar, but he recognised the lenses that covered the man’s eyes. Blöcklin’s heart missed a beat. Corelli . . .
    ‘Andreas Corelli sat down opposite him and pulled out the watch Blöcklin had created only a few days earlier. The watchmaker, in despair, asked what was happening to him. Why was he growing older with each passing second? Corelli showed him the watch, its hands turning slowly counter-clockwise. Corelli reminded Blöcklin of what he’d said, about putting his whole soul into the watch. That was why, with every minute that went by, his body and soul were progressively ageing.
    ‘Blind with terror, Blöcklin begged Corelli for help. He told him he would do anything he asked if it meant he would recover his youth and his soul. Corelli grinned and asked him whether he was sure of that. The watchmaker reiterated what he’d said: he’d do anything.
    ‘Corelli then said that he was prepared to give Blöcklin back the watch, and his soul along with it, in exchange for something which, in fact, was no use to the watchmaker: his shadow. Disconcerted, Blöcklin asked him whether this was the only price he had to pay, his shadow. Yes, said Corelli. So, again, Blöcklin accepted Corelli’s deal.
    ‘Corelli then pulled out a glass flask, removed the top and placed it on the table. In a split second, Blöcklin saw his shadow enter the flask like a whirlwind of vapour. Corelli closed the bottle and, taking his leave of Blöcklin, walked out into the night. As soon as he’d disappeared through the door of the tavern, the hands on the watch Blöcklin was holding began to turn clockwise.
    ‘When Blöcklin arrived home in the small hours, his face was once again that of a young man. The watchmaker heaved a sigh of relief. But another surprise awaited him. His cat, Salman, was nowhere to be seen. Blöcklin looked all over the house and when at last he found it, he was filled with horror. The animal was hanging by its neck from a cable attached to one of the workshop lights. The watchmaker’s table had been knocked over and his tools were scattered around the room. It looked as if a tornado had hit the place. But there was something else. Someone had scrawled an incomprehensible word on the wall: “ Nilkcolb ”.
    ‘The watchmaker studied the crude writing. It took him a moment to understand what the word meant. It was his own name, written backwards. Nilkcolb. Blöcklin. A voice whispered behind his back, and when Blöcklin turned around, he found he was standing face to face with a dark reflection of himself, a diabolical mirage bearing his own