“But he continued to publish Carax’s books, even though he was losing money,” I pointed out.
&nbs
p; “That’s right. Beats me. Cabestany wasn’t exactly a romantic. But I suppose everyone has his secrets…. Between 1928 and 1936, he published eight of Carax’s novels. Anyway, where Cabestany really made his money was in catechisms and a series of cheap sentimental novels starring a provincial heroine called Violeta LaFleur. Those sold like candy in kiosks. My guess, or anybody’s, is that he published Carax’s novels because it tickled his fancy, or just to contradict Darwin.”
“What happened to Mr. Cabestany?”
Isaac sighed, looking up. “Age—the price we all must pay. He got ill and had a few money problems. In 1936 his eldest son took over the firm, but he was the sort who can’t even read the size of his underpants. The business collapsed in less than a year. Fortunately, Cabestany never saw what his heirs did with the fruit of his life’s labors, or what the war did to his country. A stroke saw him off on All Souls’ Night, with a Cuban cigar in his lips and a twenty-five-year-old on his lap. What a way to go. The son was another breed altogether. Arrogant as only idiots can be. His first grand idea was to try to sell the entire stock of the company backlist, his father’s legacy, and turn it into pulp or something like that. A friend, another brat, with a house in Caldetas and an Italian sports car, had convinced him that photo romances andMein Kampf were going to sell like hotcakes, and, as a result, there would be a huge demand for paper.”
“Did he really do that?”
“He would have, but he ran out of time. Shortly after his taking over the firm, someone turned up at his office and made him a very generous offer. He wanted to buy the whole remaining stock of Julián Carax novels and was offering to pay three times their market value.”
“Say no more. To burn them,” I murmured.
Isaac smiled. He looked surprised. “Actually, yes. And here I was thinking you were a bit slow, what with so much asking and not knowing anything.”
“Who was that man?”
“Someone called Aubert or Coubert, I can’t quite remember.”
“Laín Coubert?”
“Does that sound familiar?”
“It’s the name of one of the characters inThe Shadowof the Wind, the last of Carax’s novels.”
Isaac frowned. “A fictional character?”
“In the novel Laín Coubert is the name used by the devil.”
“A bit theatrical, if you ask me. But whoever he was, at least he had a sense of humor,” Isaac reckoned.
With the memory of that night’s encounter still fresh in my mind, I could not see the humorous side of it, from any angle, but I saved my opinion for a more auspicious occasion.
“This person, Coubert, or whatever his name is—was his face burned, disfigured?”
Isaac looked at me with a smile that betrayed both enjoyment and concern. “I haven’t the foggiest. The person who told me all this never actually got to see him, and only knew because Cabestany’s son told his secretary the following day. He didn’t mention anything about burned faces. Are you sure you haven’t got this out of some radio show?”
I threw my head back, as if to make light of the subject. “How did the matter end? Did the publisher’s son sell the books to Coubert?” I asked.
“The senseless dunce tried to be too clever by half. He asked for more money than Coubert was proposing, and Coubert withdrew his offer. A few days later, shortly after midnight, Cabestany’s warehouse in Pueblo Nuevo burned down to its foundations. And for free.”
I sighed. “What happened to Carax’s books, then? Were they all destroyed?”
“Nearly all. Luckily, when Cabestany’s secretary heard about the offer, she had a premonition. On her own initiative, she went to the warehouse and took a copy of each of the Carax titles. She was the one who had corresponded with Carax, and over the years they had formed a friendship of sorts. Her name was Nuria, and I think she was the only person in the publishing house, and probably in all of Barcelona, who read Carax’s novels. Nuria has a fondness for lost causes. When she was little, she would take in small animals she picked up in the street. In time she went on to adopt failed authors, maybe because her father wanted to be one and never made it.”
“You seem to know her very well.”
Isaac wore his devilish smile. “More than she thinks I do. She’s my daughter.”
Silence and doubt gnawed at me. The more I heard of the story, the more confused I felt. “Apparently, Carax returned to Barcelona in 1936. Some say he died here. Did he have any relatives left here? Someone who might know about him?”
Isaac sighed. “Goodness only knows. Carax’s parents had been separated for some time, I believe. The mother had gone off to South America, where she remarried. I don’t think he was on speaking terms with his father since he moved to Paris.”
“Why was that?”
“I don’t know. People tend to complicate their own lives, as if living weren’t already complicated enough.”