AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You seem very sure of yourself, Daniel.”
I, who was never even sure what the time was, nodded with the conviction of the ignorant. I stood there watching her walk away down that endless corridor until her silhouette blended with the darkness. I asked myself what on earth I had done.
·15·
THE FORTUNY HAT SHOP, OR WHAT WAS LEFT OF IT, LANGUISHED AT the foot of a narrow, miserable-looking building blackened by soot on Ronda de San Antonio next to Plaza de Goya. One could still read the letters engraved on the filthy window, and a sign in the shape of a bowler hat still hung above the shop front, promising designs made to measure and the latest novelties from Paris. The door was secured with a padlock that had seen at least a decade of undisturbed service. I pressed my forehead against the glass pane, trying to peek into the murky interior.
“If you’ve come about the rental, you’re late,” spit a voice behind my back. “The administrator has already left.”
The woman who was speaking to me must have been about sixty and wore the national costume of all pious widows. A couple of rollers stuck out under the pink scarf that covered her hair, and her padded slippers matched her flesh-colored knee-highs. I assumed she was the caretaker of the building.
“Is the shop for rent?”
“Isn’t that why you’ve come?”
“Not really, but you never know, I might be interested.”
The caretaker frowned, debating whether to grant me the benefit of the doubt. I slipped on my trademark angelic smile.
“How long has the shop been closed?”
“For a good twelve years, since the old man died.”
“Mr. Fortuny? Did you know him?”
“I’ve been here for forty-eight years, young man.”
“So perhaps you also knew Mr. Fortuny’s son.”
“Julián? Well, of course.”
I took the burned photograph out of my pocket and showed it to her. “Do you think you’d be able to tell me whether the young man in the photograph is Julián Carax?”
The caretaker looked at me rather suspiciously. She took the photograph and stared at it.
“Do you recognize him?”
“Carax was his mother’s maiden name,” the caretaker explained in a disapproving tone. “This is Julián, yes. I remember him being very fair, but here, in the photograph, his hair looks darker.”
“Could you tell me who the girl is?”
“And who is asking?”
“I’m sorry, my name is Daniel Sempere. I’m trying to find out about Mr. Carax, about Julián.”
“Julián went to Paris, ’round about 1918 or 1919. His father wanted to shove him in the army, you see. I think the mother took him with her so that he could escape from all that, poor kid. Mr. Fortuny was left alone, in the attic apartment.”
“Do you know when Julián returned to Barcelona?”
The caretaker looked at me but didn’t speak for a while.
“Don’t you know? Julián died that same year in Paris.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said Julián passed away. In Paris. Soon after he got there. He would have done better joining the army.”
“May I ask you how you know that?”
