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“She might take a day or two. But I don’t think she’s capable of keeping such a secret from her husband. What about the escape plan? Is it still on?”
“More than ever.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Because I really believe that now there’s no turning back.”
The week stretched out interminably. Julián went to school every day with uncertainty hard on his heels. He passed the time merely pretending to be there, barely able to exchange glances with Miquel Moliner, who was beginning to be just as worried as him, or more so. Jorge Aldaya said nothing. He was as polite as ever. Jacinta had not turned up again to collect Jorge from school. Don Ricardo’s chauffeur came every afternoon. Julián felt like dying, wishing that whatever was going to happen did happen, so that the time of waiting would come to an end. On Thursday afternoon, after classes, Julián began to think that luck was on his side. Mrs. Aldaya had not said anything, perhaps out of shame, stupidity, or for any of the reasons Miquel suspected. It mattered little. All that mattered was that she kept the secret until Sunday. That night, for the first time in a number of days, he was able to sleep.
On Friday morning, when he went to class, Father Romanones was waiting for him by the gate.
“Julián, I have to speak to you.”
“What is it, Father?”
“I always knew this day would come, and I must confess I’m happy to be the one who will break the news to you.”
“What news, Father?”
Julián Carax was no longer a pupil at San Gabriel’s. His presence in the precinct, the classrooms, and even the gardens was strictly forbidden. His school items, textbooks, and all other belongings were now school property.
“The technical term is ‘immediate and total expulsion,’” Father Romanones summed up.
“May I ask the reason?”
“I can think of a dozen, but I’m sure you’ll know how to choose the most appropriate one. Good day, Carax. And good luck in your life. You’re going to need it.”
Some thirty yards away, in the fountain courtyard, a group of pupils was watching him. Some were laughing, waving good-bye. Others looked at him with pity and bewilderment. Only one smiled sadly: his friend Miquel Moliner, who simply nodded and silently mouthed some words that Julián thought he could read in the air: “See you on Sunday.”
When he got back to the apartment on Ronda de San Antonio, Julián noticed Don Ricardo’s Mercedes-Benz parked outside the hat shop. He stopped on the corner and waited. After a while Don Ricardo came out of his father’s shop and got into the car. Julián hid in a doorway until the car had set off toward Plaza Universidad. Only then did he rush up the stairs to his home. His mother, Sophie, was waiting there, in floods of tears.
“What have you done, Julián?” she murmured without anger.
“Forgive me, Mother….”
Sophie held her son close to her. She had lost weight and had aged, as if between them all they had stolen her life and her youth. I more than anyone, thought Julián.
“Listen to me carefully, Julián. Your father and Don Ricardo Aldaya have got everything set up to send you to the army in a few days’ time. Aldaya has influences…. You have to go, Julián. You have to go where neither of them can find you….”
Julián thought he saw a shadow in his mother’s eyes that seemed to take hold of her.
“Is there anything else, Mother? Something you haven’t told me?”
Sophie gazed at him with trembling lips. “You must go. We must both go away from here forever.”
Julián held her tight and whispered in her ear, “Don’t worry about me, Mother. Don’t you worry.”
Julián spent the Saturday shut up in his room, among his books and his drawing pads. The hatter had gone down to the shop just after dawn and didn’t return until the early hours. He doesn’t have the courage to tell me to my face, thought Julián. That night, his eyes blurred with tears, Julián said farewell to the years he had spent in that dark, cold room, lost amid dreams that he now knew would never come true. Sunday, at daybreak, armed with only a bag containing a few clothes and books, he kissed Sophie’s forehead, as she lay curled under blankets in the dining room, and left. The streets seemed enveloped in a blue haze. Flashes of copper sparkled on the flat roofs of the old town. He walked slowly, saying good-bye to every door, to every street corner, wondering whether the illusions of time would turn out to be true and in days to come he would be able to remember only the good things, forget the solitude that had so often hounded him in those streets.
The Estación de Francia was deserted; the platforms, reflecting the burning light of dawn, curved off into the mist like glistening sabers. Julián sat on a bench under the vaulted ceiling and took out his book. He let the hours go by lost in the magic of words, shedding his skin and his name, feeling like another person. He allowed himself to be carried away by the dreams of shadowy characters, the only refuge left for him. By then he knew that Penélope wouldn’t come. He knew he would board that train with no other company than his memories. When, just before noon, Miquel Moliner arrived in the station and gave him his ticket and all the money he had been able to gather, the two friends embraced without a word. Julián had never seen Miquel Moliner cry. Clocks were everywhere, counting the minutes that flew by.
“There’s still time,” Miquel murmured with his eyes fixed on the station entrance.
At five past one, the stationmaster gave the last call for passengers traveling to Paris. The train had already started to slide along the platform when Julián turned around to say good-bye to his friend. Miquel Moliner stood there watching him, his hands sunk in his pockets.
“Write,” he said.
“I’ll write to you as soon as I get there,” answered Julián.
