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The Shadow of the Wind
1955
·1·
DAY WAS BREAKING WHEN I FINISHED READING NURIA MONFORT’S manuscript. That was my story. Our story. In Carax’s lost footsteps, I now recognized my own, irretrievable. I stood, devoured by anxiety, and began to pace up and down the room like a caged animal. All my reservations, my suspicions and fears, seemed insignificant; I was overwhelmed by exhaustion, remorse, and dread, but I felt incapable of remaining there, hiding from the trail left by my actions. I slung on my coat, thrust the folded manuscript into the inside pocket, and ran down the stairs. I stepped out of the front door: it had started to snow, and the sky was melting into slow tears of light that seemed to lie on my breath before fading away. I ran up to Plaza de Cataluña. It was almost deserted but in the center of the square stood the lonely figure of an old man with long white hair, clad in a wonderful gray overcoat. King of the dawn, he raised his eyes to heaven and tried in vain to catch the snowflakes with his gloves, laughing to himself. As I walked past him, he looked at me and smiled gravely. His eyes were the color of gold, like magic coins at the bottom of a fountain.
“Good luck,” I thought I heard him say.
I tried to cling to that blessing, and I quickened my step, praying that it would not be too late and that Bea, the Bea of my story, was still waiting for me.
My throat was burning with cold when, panting after the run, I reached the building where the Aguilars lived. The snow was beginning to settle. I had the good fortune of finding Don Saturno Molleda stationed at the entrance. Don Saturno was the caretaker of the building and (from what Bea had told me) a secret surrealist poet. He had come out to watch the spectacle of the snow, broom in hand, wrapped in at least three scarves and wearing commando boots.
“It’s God’s dandruff,” he said, marveling, offering the snow a preview of his unpublished verse.
“I’m going up to the Aguilars’ apartment,” I announced.
“We all know that the early bird catches the worm, but you’re trying to catch an elephant, young man.”
“It’s an emergency. They’re expecting me.”
“Ego te absolvo,” he recited, blessing me.
I ran up the stairs. As I ascended, I weighed up my options with some caution. If I was lucky, one of the maids would open the door, and I was ready to break through her blockade without bothering about the niceties. However, if the fates didn’t favor me, perhaps Bea’s father would open the door, given the hour. I wanted to think that in the intimacy of his home, he would not be armed, at least not before breakfast. I paused for a few moments to recover my breath before knocking and tried to conjure up words that never came. Little did it matter. I struck the door hard with the knocker three times. Fifteen seconds later I repeated the operation, and went on doing this, ignoring the cold sweat that covered my brow and the beating of my heart. When the door opened, I was still holding the knocker in my hand.
“What do you want?”
The eyes of my old friend Tomás, cold with anger, bored through me.
“I’ve come to see Bea. You can smash my face in if you feel like it, but I’m not leaving without speaking to her.”
Tomás observed me with a fixed stare. I wondered whether he was going to cleave me in two then and there. I swallowed hard.
“My sister isn’t here.”
“Tomás…”
“Bea’s gone.”
There was despondency and pain in his voice, which he was barely able to disguise as wrath.
“She’s gone? Where?”
“I was hoping you would know.”
“Me?”
Ignoring Tomás’s closed fists and the threatening expression on his face, I slipped into the apartment.
“Bea?” I shouted. “Bea, it’s me, Daniel….”
I stopped halfway along the corridor. The apartment threw back the echo of my voice. Neither Mr. Aguilar nor his wife nor the servants appeared in response to my yells.
“There’s no one here. I’ve told you,” said Tomás behind me. “Now get out and don’t come back. My father has sworn he’ll kill you, and I’m not going to be the one to stop him.”
“For God’s sake, Tomás. Tell me where your sister is.”
He looked at me as if he wasn’t sure whether to spit at me or ignore me.
