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

became aware of my presence. Still panting, astounded, he stopped. Clara grabbed him, not understanding, rubbing her body against his, licking his neck.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” she moaned. “Why are you stopping?”
    Adrián 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.
    â€œI’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 onto the landing. Carax’s book slipped out of my hands. He picked it up and threw it furiously at my face.
    â€œIf 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 the 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.
    â€œHow 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.”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œI said the keys.”
    â€œPiss off,” I spit 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.
    â€œTell 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 with it, 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.
    â€œAre 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.
    â€œWait 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œGood, isn’t it?” The beggar smiled. “Go on, have another shot. This stuff can raise a person back from the dead.”
    â€œNo thanks. You have some,” I mumbled.
    The beggar had a long drink. I watched him closely. He looked like some gray government accountant who had been sleeping in the same suit for the last fifteen years. He stretched out his hand, and I shook it.
    â€œFermín Romero de Torres, currently unemployed. Pleased to meet