The Shadow of the Wind (The Cemetery of Forgotten Book 1) by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

Author:Carlos Ruiz Zafon [Zafon, Carlos Ruiz]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2005-01-25T05:00:00+00:00

I DIDN’T MANAGE TO GET TO SLEEP UNTIL DAWN CAST A HUNDRED TONES of dismal gray on my bedroom window. Fermín woke me up, throwing tiny pebbles at my window from the church square. I put on the first thing I found and ran down to open the door for him. Fermín was full of the insufferable enthusiasm of the early bird. We pushed up the grilles and hung up the OPEN sign.

“Look at those rings under your eyes, Daniel. They’re as big as a building site. May we assume the owl got the pussycat to go out to sea with him?”

When I returned to the back room, I put on my blue apron and handed him his, or rather threw it at him angrily. Fermín caught it in midflight, with a sly smile.

“The owl drowned, period. Happy?” I snapped.

“Intriguing metaphor. Have you been dusting off your Verlaine, young man?”

“I stick to prose on Monday mornings. What do you want me to tell you?”

“I leave that up to you. The number of estocadas or the laps of honor.”

“I’m not in the mood, Fermín.”

“O youth, flower of fools! Oh, well, don’t get irritated with me. I have fresh news concerning our investigation on your friend Julián Carax.”

“I’m all ears.”

He gave me one of his cloak-and-dagger looks, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, it turns out that yesterday, after leaving Bernarda back home with her virtue intact but a nice couple of well-placed bruises on her backside, I was assailed by a fit of insomnia—due to those evening erotic arousals—which gave me the pretext to walk down to one of the information centers of the Barcelona underworld—i.e., the tavern of Eliodoro Salfumán, aka ‘Coldprick,’ situated in a seedy but rather colorful establishment in Calle Sant Jeroni, pride of the Raval quarter.”

“The abridged version, Fermín, for goodness’ sake.”

“Coming. The fact is that once I was there, ingratiating myself with some of the usual crowd, old chums from troubled times of yore, I began to make inquiries about this Miquel Moliner, the husband of your Mata Hari Nuria Monfort and a supposed inmate at the local penitential hotels.”

“Supposed?”

“With a capital S. There are no slips at all ’twixt cup and lip in this case, if you see what I mean. I know from experience that when it comes to the census of the prison population, my informants in Coldprick’s tabernacle are much more accurate than the pencil pushers in the law courts, and I can guarantee, Daniel, my friend, that nobody has heard mention of the name Miquel Moliner as an inmate, visitor, or any other living soul in the prisons of Barcelona, for at least ten years.”

“Perhaps he’s serving in some other prison.”

“Yeah. Alcatraz, Sing Sing, or the Bastille. Daniel, that woman lied to you.”

“I suppose she did.”

“Don’t suppose; accept it.”

“So what now? Miquel Moliner is a dead end.”

“Or this Nuria is very crafty.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“At the moment we must explore other avenues. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to call on the good nanny in the story the priest foisted on us yesterday morning.

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