waiter of such remarkable decreptitude that he looked as if he should be declared a national landmark.
'A cognac for my friend Sempere, from the good bottle, and a cinnamon milkshake for the young one - he's a growing boy. And bring us some bits of ham, but spare us the delicacies you brought us earlier, eh? If we fancy rubber, we'll call for Pirelli tyres.'
The waiter nodded and left, dragging his feet.
'I hate to bring up the subject,' Barcelo said, 'but how can there be jobs? In this country nobody ever retires, not even after they're dead. Just look at El Cid. I tell you, we're a hopeless case.'
He sucked on his cold pipe, eyes already scanning the book in my hands. Despite his pretentious facade and his verbosity, Barcelo could smell good prey the way a wolf scents blood.
'Let me see,' he said, feigning disinterest. 'What have we here?'
I glanced at my father. He nodded approvingly. Without further ado, I handed Barcelo the book. The bookseller greeted it with expert hands. His pianist's fingers quickly explored its texture, consistency, and condition. He located the page with the publication and printer's notices and studied it with Holmesian flair. The rest of us watched in silence, as if awaiting a miracle, or permission to breathe again.
'Carax. Interesting,' he murmured in an inscrutable tone.
I held out my hand to recover the book. Barcelo arched his eyebrows but gave it back with an icy smile.
'Where did you find it, young man?'
'It's a secret,' I answered, knowing that my father would be smiling to himself. Barcelo frowned and looked at my father. 'Sempere, my dearest old friend, because it's you and because of the high esteem I hold you in and in honour of the long and profound friendship that unites us like brothers, let's call it at forty duros, end of story.'
'You'll have to discuss that with my son,' my father pointed out. 'The book is his.'
Barcelo granted me a wolfish smile. 'What do you say, laddie? Forty duros isn't bad for a first sale. . . . Sempere, this boy of yours will make a name for himself in the business.'
The choir cheered his remark. Barcelo gave me a triumphant look and pulled out his leather wallet. He ceremoniously counted out two hundred pesetas, which in those days was quite a fortune, and handed them to me. But I just shook my head. Barcelo scowled.
'Dear boy, greed is most certainly an ugly, not to say mortal, sin. Be sensible. Call me crazy, but I'll raise that to sixty duros, and you can open a retirement fund. At your age you must start thinking of the future.'
I shook my head again. Barcelo shot a poisonous look at my father through his monocle.
'Don't look at me,' said my father. 'I'm only here as an escort.'
Barcelo sighed and peered at me closely.
'Let's see, junior. What is it you want?'
'What I want is to know who Julian Carax is and where I can find other books he's written.'
Barcelo chuckled and pocketed his wallet, reconsidering his adversary.
'Goodness, a scholar. Sempere, what do you feed the boy on?'
The bookseller leaned towards me confidentially, and for a second I thought he betrayed a look of respect that had not been there a few moments earlier.
'We'll make a deal,' he said. 'Tomorrow, Sunday, in the afternoon, drop by the Ateneo library and ask for me. Bring your precious find with you so that I can examine it properly, and I'll tell you what I know about Julian Carax. Quid pro quo.'
'Quid pro what?'
'Latin, young man. There's no such thing as a dead language, only dormant minds. Paraphrasing, it means that you can't get something for nothing, but since I like you, I'm going to do you a favour.'
The man's oratory could kill flies in midair, but I suspected that if I wanted to find out anything about Julian Carax, I'd be well advised to stay on good terms with him. I proffered my most saintly smile in delight at his Latin outpourings.
'Remember, tomorrow, in the Ateneo,' pronounced the bookseller. 'But bring the book, or there's no
'A cognac for my friend Sempere, from the good bottle, and a cinnamon milkshake for the young one - he's a growing boy. And bring us some bits of ham, but spare us the delicacies you brought us earlier, eh? If we fancy rubber, we'll call for Pirelli tyres.'
The waiter nodded and left, dragging his feet.
'I hate to bring up the subject,' Barcelo said, 'but how can there be jobs? In this country nobody ever retires, not even after they're dead. Just look at El Cid. I tell you, we're a hopeless case.'
He sucked on his cold pipe, eyes already scanning the book in my hands. Despite his pretentious facade and his verbosity, Barcelo could smell good prey the way a wolf scents blood.
'Let me see,' he said, feigning disinterest. 'What have we here?'
I glanced at my father. He nodded approvingly. Without further ado, I handed Barcelo the book. The bookseller greeted it with expert hands. His pianist's fingers quickly explored its texture, consistency, and condition. He located the page with the publication and printer's notices and studied it with Holmesian flair. The rest of us watched in silence, as if awaiting a miracle, or permission to breathe again.
'Carax. Interesting,' he murmured in an inscrutable tone.
I held out my hand to recover the book. Barcelo arched his eyebrows but gave it back with an icy smile.
'Where did you find it, young man?'
'It's a secret,' I answered, knowing that my father would be smiling to himself. Barcelo frowned and looked at my father. 'Sempere, my dearest old friend, because it's you and because of the high esteem I hold you in and in honour of the long and profound friendship that unites us like brothers, let's call it at forty duros, end of story.'
'You'll have to discuss that with my son,' my father pointed out. 'The book is his.'
Barcelo granted me a wolfish smile. 'What do you say, laddie? Forty duros isn't bad for a first sale. . . . Sempere, this boy of yours will make a name for himself in the business.'
The choir cheered his remark. Barcelo gave me a triumphant look and pulled out his leather wallet. He ceremoniously counted out two hundred pesetas, which in those days was quite a fortune, and handed them to me. But I just shook my head. Barcelo scowled.
'Dear boy, greed is most certainly an ugly, not to say mortal, sin. Be sensible. Call me crazy, but I'll raise that to sixty duros, and you can open a retirement fund. At your age you must start thinking of the future.'
I shook my head again. Barcelo shot a poisonous look at my father through his monocle.
'Don't look at me,' said my father. 'I'm only here as an escort.'
Barcelo sighed and peered at me closely.
'Let's see, junior. What is it you want?'
'What I want is to know who Julian Carax is and where I can find other books he's written.'
Barcelo chuckled and pocketed his wallet, reconsidering his adversary.
'Goodness, a scholar. Sempere, what do you feed the boy on?'
The bookseller leaned towards me confidentially, and for a second I thought he betrayed a look of respect that had not been there a few moments earlier.
'We'll make a deal,' he said. 'Tomorrow, Sunday, in the afternoon, drop by the Ateneo library and ask for me. Bring your precious find with you so that I can examine it properly, and I'll tell you what I know about Julian Carax. Quid pro quo.'
'Quid pro what?'
'Latin, young man. There's no such thing as a dead language, only dormant minds. Paraphrasing, it means that you can't get something for nothing, but since I like you, I'm going to do you a favour.'
The man's oratory could kill flies in midair, but I suspected that if I wanted to find out anything about Julian Carax, I'd be well advised to stay on good terms with him. I proffered my most saintly smile in delight at his Latin outpourings.
'Remember, tomorrow, in the Ateneo,' pronounced the bookseller. 'But bring the book, or there's no
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