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“Fascist propaganda,” the taxi driver explained, more devout than ever. “The comrade pees like a bull. The Volga might envy such a flow.”
This high-level political debate accompanied us as we made our way along Vía Augusta toward the hills. Day was breaking, and a fresh breeze gave the sky an intense blue. When we reached Calle Ganduxer, the driver turned right, and we began the slow ascent toward Paseo de la Bonanova.
San Gabriel’s School, its redbrick façade dotted with dagger-shaped windows, stood in the middle of a grove, at the top of a narrow, winding street that led up from the boulevard. The whole structure was crowned by arches and towers, and peered over a group of plane trees like a Gothic cathedral. We got out of the taxi and entered a leafy garden strewn with fountains that were adorned with mold-covered angels. Here and there cobbled paths meandered among the trees. On our way to the main door, Fermín gave me the background on the institution.
“Even though it may look to you like Rasputin’s mausoleum, San Gabriel’s School was, in its day, one of the most prestigious and exclusive institutions in Barcelona. During the Republic it went downhill because the nouveaux riches of the time, the new industrialists and bankers to whose children it had for years refused access because their surnames smelled too new, decided to create their own schools, where they would be treated with due reverence and where they, in turn, could refuse access to the sons of others. Money is like any other virus: once it has rotted the soul of the person who houses it, it sets off in search of new blood. In this world a surname is less lasting than a sugared almond. In its heyday—say, between 1880 and 1930, more or less—San Gabriel’s School took in the flower of old, established families with bulging wallets. The Aldayas and company came to this sinister establishment as boarders, to fraternize with their equals, go to mass, and learn their history in order to be able to repeat it ad nauseam.”
“But Julián Carax wasn’t precisely one of them,” I observed.
“Sometimes these illustrious institutions offer a scholarship or two for the sons of the gardener or the shoeshine man, just to show their magnanimity and Christian charity,” Fermín proffered. “The most efficient way of rendering the poor harmless is to teach them to want to imitate the rich. That is the poison with which capitalism blinds the—”
“Please don’t get carried away with social doctrine, Fermín. If one of these priests hears you, they’ll kick us out of here.” I realized that a couple of padres were watching us with a mixture of curiosity and concern from the top of the steps that led up to the front door of the school. I wondered whether they’d heard any of our conversation.
One of them moved forward with a courteous smile, his hands crossed over his chest like a bishop. He must have been in his early fifties, and his build and sparse hair lent him the air of a bird of prey. He had a penetrating gaze and gave off an aroma of fresh eau de cologne and mothballs.
“Good morning. I’m Father Fernando Ramos,” he announced. “How can I help you?”
Fermín held out his hand. The priest examined it briefly before shaking it, shielded by his icy smile.
“Fermín Romero de Torres, bibliographic adviser to Sempere and Son. It is an enormous pleasure to greet Your Most Devout Excellency. Here, at my side, my collaborator and friend, Daniel, a young man of promise and much-recognized Christian qualities.”
Father Fernando observed us without blinking. I
wanted the earth to swallow me.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Romero de Torres,” he replied amicably. “May I ask what brings such a formidable duo to our humble institution?”
I decided to intervene before Fermín made some other outrageous comment and we had to make a quick exit. “Father Fernando, we’re trying to locate two alumni from San Gabriel’s School: Jorge Aldaya and Julián Carax.”
Father Fernando pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. “Julián died over fifteen years ago, and Aldaya went off to Argentina,” he said dryly.
“Did you know them?” asked Fermín.
The priest’s sharp gaze rested on each of us before he answered. “We were classmates. May I ask what your interest is in this matter?”
I was wondering how to answer the question, but Fermín beat me to it. “You see, it so happens that we have in our possession a number of articles that belong or belonged—for on this particular the legal interpretation leads to confusion—to the two persons in question.”
“And what is the nature of these articles, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I beg Your Grace to accept our silence, for God knows there are abundant reasons of conscience and secrecy that have nothing to do with the unquestioning faith Your Excellency merits, as does the order which you represent with such measure of gallantry and piety,” Fermín spewed out at great speed.
Father Fernando appeared to be almost in shock. I decided to take up the conversation again before Fermín had time to get his breath back.
“The articles Mr. Romero de Torres is referring to are of a personal nature, mementos and objects of purely sentimental value. What we would like to ask you, Father, if this isn’t too much trouble, is to tell us what you remember about Julián and Aldaya from your days as schoolboys.”
Father Fernando was still looking at us suspiciously. It became obvious to me that the explanations we’d given him were not enough to justify our interest and earn us his collaboration. I threw a look of desperation at Fermín, begging him to find some cunning argument with which to win over the priest.
“Do you know that you look a bit like Julián when he was young?” Father Fernando suddenly said to me.
Fermín’s eyes lit up. Here he goes, I thought. All our luck’s on this card.
“Very shrewd of you, Your Reverence,” proclaimed Fermín, feigning surprise. “Your uncanny insight has unmasked us without pity. You’ll end up a cardinal at least, or even a pope.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Isn’t it obvious and patent, Your Lordship?”
“Quite frankly, no.”
