The Shadow of the Wind Read Free

describe himself as the last romantic, and he was not above claiming that a remote line in his ancestry led directly to Lord Byron himself. As if to prove this connection, Barcelo fashioned his wardrobe in the style of a nineteenth-century dandy. His casual attire consisted of a cravat, white patent leather shoes, and a plain glass monocle that, according to malicious gossip, he did not remove even in the intimacy of the lavatory. Flights of fancy aside, the most significant relative in his lineage was his begetter, an industrialist who had become fabulously wealthy by questionable means at the end of the nineteenth century. According to my father, Gustavo Barcelo was, technically speaking, loaded, and his palatial bookshop was more of a passion than a business. He loved books unreservedly, and - although he denied this categorically - if someone stepped into his bookshop and fell in love with a tome he could not afford, Barcelo would lower its price, or even give it away, if he felt that the buyer was a serious reader and not an accidental browser. Barcelo also boasted an elephantine memory allied to a pedantry that matched his demeanour and the sonority of his voice. If anyone knew about odd books, it was he. That afternoon, after closing the shop, my father suggested that we stroll along to the Els Quatre Gats, a cafe on Calle Montsio, where Barcelo and his bibliophile knights of the round table gathered to discuss the finer points of decadent poets, dead languages, and neglected, moth-ridden masterpieces.
     
    Els Quatre Gats was just a five-minute walk from our house and one of my favourite haunts. My parents had met there in 1932, and I attributed my one-way ticket into this world in part to the old cafe's charms. Stone dragons guarded a lamplit facade. Inside, voices seemed to echo with shadows of other times. Accountants, dreamers, and would-be geniuses shared tables with the spectres of Pablo Picasso, Isaac Albeniz, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Salvador Dali. There any poor devil could pass for a historical figure for the price of a small coffee.
     
    'Sempere, old man,' proclaimed Barcelo when he saw my father come in. 'Hail the prodigal son. To what do we owe the honour?'
     
    'You owe the honour to my son, Daniel, Don Gustavo. He's just made a discovery.'
     
    'Well, then, pray come and sit down with us, for we must celebrate this ephemeral event,' he announced.
     
    'Ephemeral?' I whispered to my father.
     
    'Barcelo can only express himself in frilly words,' my father whispered back. 'Don't say anything, or he'll get carried away.'
     
    The lesser members of the coterie made room for us in their circle, and Barcelo, who enjoyed flaunting his generosity in public, insisted on treating us.
     
    'How old is the lad?' inquired Barcelo, inspecting me out of the corner of his eye.
     
    'Almost eleven,' I announced.
     
    Barcelo flashed a sly smile.
     
    'In other words, ten. Don't add on any years, you rascal. Life will see to that without your help.'
     
    A few of his chums grumbled in assent. Barcelo signalled to a 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