attend my birthday dinner. Senor Barcelo had been obliged to leave town on business for a few days, and she'd had to change her music lesson with Maestro Neri. Bernarda had come because it was her afternoon off.
'Clara can't come because she has a music lesson?' I asked, astounded.
Bernarda looked down. She was almost in tears when she handed me a small parcel containing her present and kissed me on both cheeks.
'If you don't like it, you can exchange it,' she said.
I was left alone with my father, staring at the fine crockery, the silver, and the candles that were quietly burning themselves out.
'I'm sorry, Daniel,' said my father.
I nodded in silence, shrugging my shoulders.
'Aren't you even going to open your present?' he asked.
My only response was to slam the front door as I left the apartment. I rushed furiously down the stairs, my eyes brimming with tears of rage as I stepped outside. The street was freezing, desolate, suffused in an eerie blue radiance. I felt as if my heart had been flayed open. Everything around me trembled. I walked off aimlessly, paying scant attention to a stranger who was observing me from Puerta del Angel. He wore a dark suit, right hand buried in the pocket of his jacket, eyes like wisps of light in the glow of his cigarette. Limping slightly, he began to follow me.
I wandered through the streets for an hour or more, until I found myself at the base of the Columbus monument. Crossing over to the port, I sat on the stony steps that descended into the dark waters next to the dock that sheltered the pleasure boats. Someone had chartered a night trip, and I could hear laughter and music wafting across from the procession of lights and reflections in the inner harbour. I remembered the days when my father would take me on that very same boat for a trip to the breakwater point. From there, you could see the cemetery on the slopes of Montjuic, the endless city of the dead. Sometimes I waved, thinking that my mother was still there and could see us going by. My father would also wave. It was years since we had boarded a pleasure boat, although I knew that sometimes he did the trip on his own.
'A good night for remorse, Daniel,' came a voice from the shadows. 'Cigarette?'
I jumped up with a start. A hand was offering me a cigarette.
'Who are you?'
The stranger moved forward until he was on the very edge of the darkness, his face still concealed. A puff of blue smoke rose from his cigarette. I immediately recognized the black suit and the hand hidden in the jacket pocket. His eyes shone like glass beads.
'A friend,' he said. 'Or that's what I aspire to be. A cigarette?'
'I don't smoke.'
'Good for you. Unfortunately, I have nothing else to offer you, Daniel'
He had a rasping, wounded voice. He seemed to drag his words out and they sounded muffled and distant like the old 78s Barcelo collected.
'How do you know my name?'
'I know a lot about you. Your name is the least of it.'
'What else do you know?'
'I could embarrass you, but I don't have the time or the inclination. Just say that I know you have something that interests me. And I'm ready to pay you good money for it.'
'I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else.'
'No, I hardly think so. I tend to make other mistakes, but never when it comes to people. How much do you want for it?'
'For what?'
'For The Shadow of the Wind.'
'What makes you think I have it?'
'That's beyond discussion, Daniel. It's just a question of price. I've known you had it for a long time. People talk. I listen.'
'Well, you must have heard wrong. I don't have that book. And if I did, I wouldn't sell it.'
'Your integrity is admirable, especially in these days of sycophants and toadies, but you don't have to pretend with me. Say how much. A thousand duros? Money means nothing to me. You set the price.'
'I've already told you: it's not for sale, and I don't have it,' I replied. 'You've made a mistake, you see.'
The stranger remained silent and
'Clara can't come because she has a music lesson?' I asked, astounded.
Bernarda looked down. She was almost in tears when she handed me a small parcel containing her present and kissed me on both cheeks.
'If you don't like it, you can exchange it,' she said.
I was left alone with my father, staring at the fine crockery, the silver, and the candles that were quietly burning themselves out.
'I'm sorry, Daniel,' said my father.
I nodded in silence, shrugging my shoulders.
'Aren't you even going to open your present?' he asked.
My only response was to slam the front door as I left the apartment. I rushed furiously down the stairs, my eyes brimming with tears of rage as I stepped outside. The street was freezing, desolate, suffused in an eerie blue radiance. I felt as if my heart had been flayed open. Everything around me trembled. I walked off aimlessly, paying scant attention to a stranger who was observing me from Puerta del Angel. He wore a dark suit, right hand buried in the pocket of his jacket, eyes like wisps of light in the glow of his cigarette. Limping slightly, he began to follow me.
I wandered through the streets for an hour or more, until I found myself at the base of the Columbus monument. Crossing over to the port, I sat on the stony steps that descended into the dark waters next to the dock that sheltered the pleasure boats. Someone had chartered a night trip, and I could hear laughter and music wafting across from the procession of lights and reflections in the inner harbour. I remembered the days when my father would take me on that very same boat for a trip to the breakwater point. From there, you could see the cemetery on the slopes of Montjuic, the endless city of the dead. Sometimes I waved, thinking that my mother was still there and could see us going by. My father would also wave. It was years since we had boarded a pleasure boat, although I knew that sometimes he did the trip on his own.
'A good night for remorse, Daniel,' came a voice from the shadows. 'Cigarette?'
I jumped up with a start. A hand was offering me a cigarette.
'Who are you?'
The stranger moved forward until he was on the very edge of the darkness, his face still concealed. A puff of blue smoke rose from his cigarette. I immediately recognized the black suit and the hand hidden in the jacket pocket. His eyes shone like glass beads.
'A friend,' he said. 'Or that's what I aspire to be. A cigarette?'
'I don't smoke.'
'Good for you. Unfortunately, I have nothing else to offer you, Daniel'
He had a rasping, wounded voice. He seemed to drag his words out and they sounded muffled and distant like the old 78s Barcelo collected.
'How do you know my name?'
'I know a lot about you. Your name is the least of it.'
'What else do you know?'
'I could embarrass you, but I don't have the time or the inclination. Just say that I know you have something that interests me. And I'm ready to pay you good money for it.'
'I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else.'
'No, I hardly think so. I tend to make other mistakes, but never when it comes to people. How much do you want for it?'
'For what?'
'For The Shadow of the Wind.'
'What makes you think I have it?'
'That's beyond discussion, Daniel. It's just a question of price. I've known you had it for a long time. People talk. I listen.'
'Well, you must have heard wrong. I don't have that book. And if I did, I wouldn't sell it.'
'Your integrity is admirable, especially in these days of sycophants and toadies, but you don't have to pretend with me. Say how much. A thousand duros? Money means nothing to me. You set the price.'
'I've already told you: it's not for sale, and I don't have it,' I replied. 'You've made a mistake, you see.'
The stranger remained silent and
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