The Shadow of the Wind

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Authors: Carlos Ruiz Zafón
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“Isn’t this what you wanted?”
    â€œNo.”
    Half an hour later, Bernarda arrived. She bore a funereal expression and a message from Miss Clara, who wished me many happy returns but unfortunately would be unable to attend my birthday dinner. Mr. Barceló had been obliged to leave town on business for a few days, and she’d had to change her music lesson with Maestro Neri. Bernarda had come because it was her afternoon off.
    â€œClara can’t come because she has a music lesson?” I asked, quite astounded.
    Bernarda looked down. She was almost in tears when she handed me a small parcel containing her present and kissed me on both cheeks.
    â€œIf you don’t like it, you can exchange it,” she said.
    I was left alone with my father, staring at the fine dinner service, the silver, and the candles that were quietly burning themselves out.
    â€œI’m sorry, Daniel,” said my father.
    I nodded in silence, shrugging my shoulders.
    â€œAren’t you even going to open your present?” he asked.
    My only response was the slam of the front door as I left the apartment. I rushed furiously down the stairs, my eyes brimming with tears of rage as I stepped outside. The street was freezing, desolate, suffused in an eerie blue radiance. I felt as if my heart had been flayed open. Everything around me trembled. I walked off aimlessly, paying scant attention to a stranger who was observing me from Puerta del Ángel. He wore a dark suit, right hand buried in the pocket of his jacket, eyes like wisps of light in the glow of his cigarette. Limping slightly, he began to follow me.
    I wandered through the streets for an hour or more, until I found myself at the base of the Columbus monument. Crossing over to the port, I sat on the stony steps that descended into the dark waters, next to the dock that sheltered the pleasure boats. Someone had chartered a night trip, and I could hear laughter and music wafting across from the procession of lights and reflections in the inner harbor. I remembered the days when my father would take me on that very same boat for a trip to the breakwater point. From there you could see the cemetery on the slopes of Montjuïc, the endless city of the dead. Sometimes I waved, thinking that my mother was still there and could see us going by. My father would also wave. It was years since we had boarded a pleasure boat, although I knew that sometimes he did the trip on his own.
    â€œA good night for remorse, Daniel,” came a voice from the shadows. “Cigarette?”
    I jumped up with a start. A hand was offering me a cigarette out of the dark.
    â€œWho are you?”
    The stranger moved forward until he was on the very edge of darkness, his face still concealed. A puff of blue smoke rose from his cigarette. I immediately recognized the black suit and the hand hidden in the jacket pocket. His eyes shone like glass beads.
    â€œA friend,” he said. “Or that’s what I aspire to be. A cigarette?”
    â€œI don’t smoke.”
    â€œGood for you. Unfortunately, I have nothing else to offer you, Daniel.”
    He had a rasping, wounded voice. He dragged his words out so that they sounded muffled and distant like the old 78s Barceló collected.
    â€œHow do you know my name?”
    â€œI know a lot about you. Your name is the least of it.”
    â€œWhat else do you know?”
    â€œI could embarrass you, but I don’t have the time or the inclination. Just say that I know you have something that interests me. And I’m ready to pay you good money for it.”
    â€œI’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
    â€œNo, I hardly think so. I tend to make other mistakes, but never when it comes to people. How much do you want for it?”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor The Shadow of the Wind. ”
    â€œWhat makes you think I have it?”
    â€œThat’s beyond discussion, Daniel. It’s

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