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Barceló chuckled and pocketed his wallet, reconsidering his adversary.
“Goodness, a scholar. Sempere, what do you feed the boy?”
The bookseller leaned toward me confidentially, and for a second I thought he betrayed a look of respect that had not been there a few moments earlier.
“We’ll make a deal,” he said. “Tomorrow, Sunday, in the afternoon, drop by the Ateneo library and ask for me. Bring your precious find with you so that I can examine it properly, and I’ll tell you what I know about Julián Carax. Quid pro quo.”
“Quid pro what?”
“Latin, young man. There’s no such thing as dead languages, only dormant minds. Paraphrasing, it means that you can’t get something for nothing, but since I like you, I’m going to do you a favor.”
The man’s oratory could kill flies in midair, but I suspected that if I wanted to find out anything about Julián Carax, I’d be well advised to stay on good terms with him. I proffered my most saintly smile in delight at his Latin outpourings.
“Remember, tomorrow, in the Ateneo,” pronounced the bookseller. “But bring the book, or there’s no deal.”
“Fine.”
Our conversation slowly merged into the murmuring of the other members of the coffee set. The discussion turned to some documents found in the basement of El Escorial that hinted at the possibility that Don Miguel de Cervantes had in fact been the nom de plume of a large, hairy lady of letters from Toledo. Barceló seemed distracted, not tempted to claim a share in the debate. He remained quiet, observing me from his fake monocle with a masked smile. Or perhaps he was only looking at the book I held in my hands.
·2·
THAT SUNDAY, CLOUDS SPILLED DOWN FROM THE SKY AND swamped the streets with a hot mist that made the thermometers on the walls perspire. Halfway through the afternoon, the temperature was already grazing the nineties as I set off toward Calle Canuda for my appointment with Barceló, carrying my book under my arm, beads of sweat on my forehead. The Ateneo was—and remains—one of the many places in Barcelona where the nineteenth century has not yet been served its eviction notice. A grand stone staircase led up from a palatial courtyard to a ghostly network of passageways and reading rooms. There, inventions such as the telephone, the wristwatch, and haste seemed futuristic anachronisms. The porter, or perhaps it was a statue in uniform, barely noticed my arrival. I glided up to the first floor, blessing the blades of a fan that swirled above the sleepy readers, melting like ice cubes over their books.
Don Gustavo’s profile was outlined against the windows of a gallery that overlooked the building’s interior garden. Despite the almost tropical atmosphere, he sported his customary foppish attire, his monocle shining in the dark like a coin at the bottom of a well. Next to him was a figure swathed in a white alpaca dress who looked to me like an angel.
When Barceló heard my footsteps, he half closed his eyes and signaled for me to come nearer. “Daniel, isn’t it?” asked the bookseller. “Did you bring the book?”
I nodded on both counts and accepted the chair Barceló offered me next to him and his mysterious companion. For a while the bookseller only smiled placidly, taking no notice of my presence. I soon abandoned all hope of being introduced to the lady in white, whoever she might be. Barceló behaved as if she wasn’t there and neither of us could see her. I cast a sidelong glance at her, afraid of meeting her eyes, which stared vacantly into the distance. The
skin on her face and arms was pale, almost translucent. Her features were sharp, sketched with firm strokes and framed by a black head of hair that shone like damp stone. I figured she must be, at most, twenty, but there was something about her manner that made me think she could be ageless. She seemed trapped in that state of perpetual youth reserved for mannequins in shop windows. I was trying to catch any sign of a pulse under her swan’s neck when I realized that Barceló was staring at me.
“So are you going to tell me where you found the book?” he asked.
“I would, but I promised my father I would keep the secret,” I explained.
“I see. Sempere and his mysteries,” said Barceló. “I think I can guess where. You’ve hit the jackpot, son. That’s what I call finding a needle in a field of lilies. May I have a look?”
I handed him the book, and Barceló took it with infinite care. “You’ve read it, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I envy you. I’ve always thought that the best time to read Carax is when one still has a young heart and a blank soul. Did you know this was the last novel he wrote?”
I shook my head.
“Do you know how many copies like this one there are in the market, Daniel?”
“Thousands, I suppose.”
“None,” Barceló specified. “Only yours. The rest were burned.”
“Burned?”
For an answer Barceló only smiled enigmatically while he leafed through the book, stroking the paper as if it were a rare silk. The lady in white turned slowly. Her lips formed a timid and trembling smile. Her eyes groped the void, pupils white as marble. I gulped. She was blind.
“You don’t know my niece Clara, do you?” asked Barceló.
I could only shake my head, unable to take my eyes off the woman with the china doll’s complexion and white eyes, the saddest eyes I have ever seen.
