Shadow of the wind Read Free Page B

as marble. I gulped. She was blind.
    'You don't know my niece, Clara, do you?' asked Barcelo.
    I could only shake my head, unable to take my eyes off the woman with the china doll's complexion and white eyes, the saddest eyes I had ever seen.
    'Actually, the expert on Julian Carax is Clara, which is why I brought her along,' said Barcelo. In fact I think I'll retire to another room, if you don't mind, to examine this tome while you get to know each other. Is that all right?'
    I looked at him aghast. The scoundrel gave me a little pat on the back and left with my book under his arm.
    'You've impressed him, you know,' said the voice behind me.
    I turned to discover the faint smile of the bookseller's niece. Her voice was pure crystal, transparent and so fragile I feared that her words would break if I interrupted them.
    'My uncle said he offered you a good sum of money for the Carax, but you refused it,' Clara added. 'You have earned his respect.'
    'All evidence to the contrary,' I sighed.
    I noticed that when she smiled, Clara leaned her head slightly to one side and her fingers played with a ring that looked like a wreath of sapphires.
    'How old are you?' she asked.
    'Almost eleven,' I replied. 'How old are you, Miss Clara?'
    Clara laughed at my cheeky innocence.
    'Almost twice your age, but even so, there's no need to call me Miss Clara.'
    'You seem younger, miss,' I remarked, hoping that this would prove a good way out of my indiscretion.
    'I'll trust you, then, because I don't know what I look like,' she answered. 'But if I seem younger to you, all the more reason to drop the "miss".'
    'Whatever you say, Miss Clara.'
    I observed her hands spread like wings on her lap, the suggestion of her fragile waist under the alpaca folds, the shape of her shoulders, the extreme paleness of her neck, the line of her lips, which I would have given my soul to stroke with the tip of my fingers. Never before had I had a chance to examine a woman so closely and with such precision, yet without the danger of meeting her eyes.
    'What are you looking at?' asked Clara, not without a pinch of malice.
    'Your uncle says you're an expert on Julian Carax, miss,' I improvised. My mouth felt dry.
    'My uncle would say anything if that bought him a few minutes alone with a book that fascinates him,' explained Clara. 'But you must be wondering how someone who is blind can be a book expert'
    'The thought had not crossed my mind.'
    'For someone who is almost eleven, you're not a bad liar. Be careful, or you'll end up like my uncle.'
    Fearful of making yet another faux pas, I decided to remain silent. I just sat gawking at her, imbibing her presence.
    'Here, come, get closer,' Clara said.
    'Pardon me?'
    'Come closer, don't be afraid. I won't bite you.'
    I left my chair and went over to where she was sitting. The bookseller's niece raised her right hand, trying to find me. Without quite knowing what to do, I, too, stretched out my hand towards her. She took it in her left hand and, without saying anything, offered me her right hand. Instinctively I understood what she was asking me to do, and guided her to my face. Her touch was both firm and delicate. Her fingers ran over my cheeks and cheekbones. I stood there motionless, hardly daring to breathe, while Clara read my features with her hands. While she did, she smiled to herself, and I noticed a slight movement of her lips, like a voiceless murmuring. I felt the brush of her hands on my forehead, on my hair and eyelids. She paused on my lips, following their shape with her forefinger and ring finger. Her fingers smelled of cinnamon. I swallowed, feeling my pulse race, and gave silent thanks that there were no eyewitnesses to my blushing, which could have set a cigar alight even a foot away.
    3
    That afternoon of mist and drizzle, Clara Barcelo stole my heart, my breath, and my sleep. In the haunted shade of the Ateneo, her hands wrote a curse on my skin that was to hound me for years. While I stared,