Free Shadow of the wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón Page A

was a nod at the right moment and someone who appeared to be listening. The beggar was about to recount the details of a bizarre plan for kidnapping Franco's wife when I saw that the rain had abated and the storm seemed to be slowly moving away towards the north.
    'It's getting late,' I mumbled, standing up.
    Fermin Romero de Torres nodded with a sad look and helped me get up, pretending to dust down my drenched clothes.
    'Some other day, then,' he said in a resigned tone. 'I'm afraid talking is my undoing. Once I start .. . Listen, this business about the kidnapping, it must go no further, understand?'
    'Don't worry. I'm as silent as the grave. And thanks for the wine.'
    I set off towards the Ramblas. I stopped by the entrance to the square and turned to look at the Barcelos apartment. The windows were still in darkness, weeping with rain. I wanted to hate Clara but was unable to. To truly hate is an art one learns with time.
    I swore to myself that I would never see her again, that I wouldn't mention her name or remember the time I had wasted by her side. For some strange reason, I felt at peace. The anger that had driven me out of my home had gone. I was afraid it would return, and with renewed vigour, the following day. I was afraid that jealousy and shame would slowly consume me once all the pieces of my memory of that night fell into place. But dawn was still a few hours away, and there was one more thing I had to do before I could return home with a clean conscience.
    Calle Arco del Teatro was there waiting for me. A stream of black water converged in the centre of the narrow street and made its way, like a funeral procession, toward the heart of the Raval quarter. I recognized the old wooden door and the baroque facade to which my father had brought me that morning at dawn, six years before. I went up the steps and took shelter from the rain under the arched doorway. It reeked of urine and rotten wood. More than ever, the Cemetery of Forgotten Books smelled of death. I didn't recall that the door knocker was shaped as a demon's face. I took it by its horns and knocked three times. The cavernous echo dispersed within the building. After a while I knocked again, six knocks this time, each one louder than before, until my fist hurt. A few more minutes went by, and I began to fear that perhaps there was no longer anyone there. I crouched down against the door and took the Carax from the inside of my jacket. I opened it and reread that first sentence that had entranced me years before.
    That summer it rained every day, and although many said it was God's wrath because the villagers had opened a casino next to the church, I knew it was my fault, and mine alone, for I had learned to lie and my lips still retained the last words spoken by my mother on her deathbed: 'I never loved the man I married but another who, I was told, had been killed in the war; look for him and tell him my last thoughts were for him, for he is your real father.'
    I smiled, remembering that first night of feverish reading six years earlier. I closed the book and was about to knock one last time, but before my fingers touched the knocker, the large door opened far enough to reveal the profile of the keeper. He was carrying an oil lamp.
    'Good evening,' I mumbled. 'Isaac, isn't it?'
    The keeper observed me without blinking. The glow from the oil lamp sculpted his angular features in amber and scarlet hues, conferring on him a striking likeness to the little demon on the door knocker.
    'You're Sempere junior,' he muttered wearily.
    'Your memory is excellent.'
    'And your sense of timing is lousy. Do you know what time it is?'
    His sharp eyes had already detected the book under my jacket. Isaac stared at me questioningly. I took the book out and showed it to him.
    'Carax,' he said. 'I'd say there are at most ten people in this town who know of him, or who have read this book.'
    'Well, one of them is intent on setting fire to it. I can't think of a better