Free The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

where it faced the square. The conservatory opened before me, dense and impassable. I penetrated its jungle of leaves and branches. For a moment it occurred to me that if the faceless stranger had managed to sneak into the apartment, this was where he would probably choose to wait for me. I almost thought I could perceive the smell of burned paper he left in the air around him, but then I realized that what I had detected was only tobacco. A burst of panic needled me. Nobody in the household smoked, and Barcelo's unlit pipe was purely ornamental.
     
    When I reached the music room, the glow from a flash of lightning revealed spirals of smoke that drifted in the air like garlands of vapour. Next to the gallery, the piano keyboard displayed its endless grin. I crossed the music room and went over to the library door. It was closed. I opened it and was welcomed by the brightness emanating from the glass-covered balcony that encircled Barcelo's personal library. The walls, lined with packed bookshelves, formed an oval in whose centre stood a reading table and two plush armchairs. I knew that Clara kept Carax's book in a glass cabinet by the arch of the balcony. I crept up to it. My plan, or my lack of it, was to lay my hands on the book, get it out of there, give it to that lunatic and lose sight of him forever. Nobody would notice the book's absence, except me.
     
    Julian Carax's book was waiting for me, as it always did, its spine just visible at the end of a shelf. I took it in my hands and pressed it against my chest, as if embracing an old friend I was about to betray. Judas, I thought to myself. I decided to leave the place without making Clara aware of my presence. I would take the book and disappear from Clara Barcelo's life forever. Quietly, I stepped out of the library. The door of her bedroom was just visible at the end of the corridor. I pictured her lying on her bed, asleep. I imagined my fingers stroking her neck, exploring a body I had .conjured up from my fantasies. I turned around, ready to throw away six years of daydreaming, but something halted my step before I reached the music room. A voice whistling behind me, behind a door. A deep voice that whispered and laughed. In Clara's room. I walked slowly up to the door. I put my fingers on the doorknob. They trembled. I had arrived too late. I swallowed hard and opened the door.

 
    9
     
    Clara's naked body lay stretched out on white sheets that shone like washed silk. Maestro Neri's hands slid over her lips, her neck and her breasts. Her white eyes looked up to the ceiling, her eyelids flickering as the music teacher charged at her, entering her body between pale and trembling thighs. The same hands that had read my face six years earlier in the gloom of the Ateneo now clutched the maestro's buttocks that were glistening with sweat, digging her nails into them and guiding him towards her with desperate, animal desire. I couldn't breathe. I must have stayed there, paralysed, watching them for almost half a minute, until Neri's eyes, disbelieving at first, then aflame with anger, became aware of my presence. Still panting, astounded, he stopped. Clara grabbed him, not understanding, rubbing her body against his, licking his neck.
     
    'What's the matter?' she moaned. 'Why are you stopping?' Adrian Neri's eyes burned with rage. 'Nothing,' he murmured. 'I'll be right back.'
     
    Neri stood up and threw himself at me, clenching his fists. I didn't even see him coming. I couldn't take my eyes off Clara, wrapped in sweat, breathless, her ribs visible under her skin and her breasts quivering. The music teacher grabbed me by the neck and dragged me out of the bedroom. My feet were barely touching the floor, and however hard I tried, I was unable to escape Neri's grip as he carried me like a bundle through the conservatory.
     
    'I'm going to break your neck, you wretch,' he muttered.
     
    He hauled me toward the front door, opened it, and flung me with all his might