Free The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón Page A

onto the landing. Carax's book slipped out of my hands. He picked it up and threw it furiously at my face.
     
    'If I ever see you around here again, or if I find out that you've gone up to Clara in the street, I swear I'll give you such a beating you'll end up in hospital - and I don't give a shit how young you are,' he said in a cold voice. 'Understood?'
     
    I got up with difficulty. In the struggle Neri had torn my jacket and my pride.
     
    'How did you get in?'
     
    I didn't answer. Neri sighed, shaking his head. 'Come on,' he barked barely containing his fury. 'Give me the keys.'
     
    'What keys?'
     
    He punched me so hard I collapsed. When I got up, there was blood in my mouth and a ringing in my left ear that bored through my head like a policeman's whistle. I touched my face and felt the cut on my lips burning under my fingers. A bloodstained signet ring shone on the music teacher's finger.
     
    'I said the keys.'
     
    'Piss off,' I spat out.
     
    I didn't see the next blow coming. I just felt as if a jackhammer had torn my stomach out. I folded up like a broken puppet, unable to breathe, staggering back against the wall. Neri grabbed me by my hair and rummaged in my pockets until he found the keys. I slid down to the floor, holding my stomach, whimpering with agony and anger.
     
    'Tell Clara that—'
     
    He slammed the door in my face, leaving me in complete darkness. I groped around for the book. I found it and slid down the stairs, leaning against the walls, panting. I went outside spitting blood and gasping for breath. The biting cold and the wind tightened around my soaking clothes. The cut on my face was stinging.
     
    'Are you all right?' asked a voice in the shadow.
     
    It was the beggar I had refused to help a short time before. Feeling ashamed, I nodded, avoiding his eyes. I started to walk away.
     
    'Wait a minute, at least until the rain eases off,' the beggar suggested.
     
    He took me by the arm and led me to a corner under the arches where he kept a bundle of possessions and a bag with old, dirty clothes.
     
    'I have a bit of wine. It's not too bad. Drink a little. It will help you warm up. And disinfect that
     
    I took a swig from the bottle he offered me. It tasted of diesel oil laced with vinegar, but its heat calmed my stomach and my nerves. A few drops sprinkled over my wound, and I saw stars in the blackest night of my life.
     
    'Good, eh?' The beggar smiled. 'Go on, have another shot. This stuff can raise a person back from the dead.'
     
    'No thanks. You have some,' I mumbled.
     
    The beggar had a long drink. I watched him closely. He looked like some grey government accountant who had been sleeping in the same suit for the last fifteen years. He stretched out his hand, and I shook it.
     
    'Fermin Romero de Torres, currently unemployed. Pleased to meet you.'
     
    'Daniel Sempere, complete idiot. The pleasure is all mine.'
     
    'Don't sell yourself short. On nights like this, everything looks worse than it is. You'd never guess it, but I'm a born optimist. I have no doubt at all that the present regime's days are numbered. All intelligence points towards the Americans invading us any day now and setting Franco up with a peanut stand down in Melilla. Then my position, my reputation, and my lost honour will be restored.'
     
    'What did you work at?'
     
    'Secret service. High espionage,' said Fermin Romero de Torres. 'Suffice it to say that I was President Macia's man in Havana.'
     
    I nodded. Another madman. At night Barcelona gathered them in by the handful. And idiots like me, too.
     
    'Listen, that cut doesn't look good. Someone's given you quite a tanning, eh?'
     
    I touched my mouth with my fingers. It was still bleeding.
     
    'Woman trouble?' he asked. 'You could have saved yourself the effort. Women in this country - and I've seen a bit of the world - are a sanctimonious, frigid lot. Believe me. I remember a little mullato girl I left behind in Cuba. No comparison, eh? No