Fermín was in the habit of saying that if Don Isaac Albéniz had been born black, jazz would have been invented in the village of Camprodón, near the Pyrenees. That glorious sound, he said, was one of the precious few true achievements of the twentieth century along with the pointed bras worn by his adored Kim Novak in some of the films we saw at the Fémina Cinema matinees. I wasn’t going to argue with that. I let the remainder of the morning drift by between the alchemy of the music and the perfume of books, savouring the satisfaction that comes from a simple task well done.
Fermín had taken the morning off to finalise preparations for his wedding with Bernarda, due to take place at the beginning of February, or so he said. The first time he’d brought up the subject, barely two weeks earlier, we’d all told him he was rushing into it and that too much haste would lead him nowhere fast. My father tried to persuade him to postpone the event for at least two or three months, arguing that weddings were always best in the summer when the weather was good. But Fermín had insisted on sticking to his date, alleging that, being a specimen weathered in the harsh, dry airs of the Extremadura hills, he was prone to break into profuse perspiration during the Mediterranean summer, a semi-tropical affair in his estimation, and didn’t deem it appropriate to celebrate his nuptials flashing sweat stains the size of pancakes under his armpits.
I was beginning to think that something odd must be happening to Fermín Romero de Torres – proud standard-bearer of civil resistance against the Holy Mother Church, banks and good manners in that pious 1950s Spain so given to religious services and propaganda newsreels – for him to display such urgency for tying the knot. In his pre-matrimonial zeal he’d even befriended Don Jacobo, the new parish priest at the church of Santa Ana, who was blessed with a relaxed ideology and the manners of a retired boxer. Fermín had infected him with his boundless passion for dominoes and together they staged epic matches at the Bar Admiral on Sundays after mass. Don Jacobo would laugh his head off when my friend asked him, between glasses of fine liqueurs, if he had it from a higher source that nuns actually had thighs, and if that were the case, were they as soft and nibbly as he’d been suspecting since adolescence?
‘You’ll manage to get that priest excommunicated,’ my father scolded him. ‘Nuns are not to be looked at, or touched.’
‘But the reverend is almost more of a rogue than I am,’ Fermín protested. ‘If it weren’t for the uniform …’
I was recalling that conversation and humming to the sound of Maestro Armstrong’s trumpet when I heard the soft tinkle of the doorbell and looked up, expecting to see my father returning from his secret mission, or Fermín ready to start the afternoon shift.
‘Good morning,’ came a deep, broken voice from the doorway.
3
Cast against the light from the street, the silhouette resembled a tree trunk lashed by the wind. The visitor sported a dark, old-fashioned suit and presented a grim figure as he leaned on his walking stick. He took one step forward, limping visibly. The light from the small lamp on the counter revealed a face lined by age and the unmistakable trace of misfortune. The man stared at me for a few moments, sizing me up unhurriedly. He had the cold eyes of a bird of prey, patient and calculating.
‘Are you Señor Sempere?’
‘I’m Daniel. Señor Sempere is my father, but he’s not in right now. Is there anything I can help you with?’
The visitor ignored my question and began to wander around the bookshop examining everything in detail with almost covetous interest. The limp affecting him suggested that the wounds concealed beneath those clothes must have been quite severe.
‘Souvenirs from the war,’ said the stranger, as if he’d read my thoughts.
I kept my eyes on him, following his inspection tour through the bookshop, suspecting where he was going to drop anchor. Just as I’d imagined, he stopped in front of the ebony and glass cabinet, a relic dating back to the shop’s origin in 1888 when Great-grandfather Sempere, then a young man recently arrived from his fortune-seeking adventures in the Americas, had borrowed some money to buy an old glove shop and turn it into a bookshop. That cabinet, crown jewel of the shop, was reserved for the most valuable items.
The visitor drew close enough to the cabinet for his breath to leave a trail on the glass. He pulled out a pair of spectacles, put them on and proceeded to study the contents. His expression made me think of a weasel examining freshly laid eggs in a chicken coop.
‘Beautiful piece,’ he murmured. ‘Looks pricey.’
‘A family heirloom. Its value is mostly sentimental,’ I replied, feeling uncomfortable at the assessments of that peculiar customer whose gaze seemed bent on costing even the air we were breathing.
After a while he put his spectacles away and spoke in a measured tone.
‘I understand that a gentleman, well known for his wit, works for you.’
When I didn’t reply immediately, he turned round and threw me a withering look.
‘As you can see, I’m on my own. Perhaps, sir, if you would kindly tell me what book you’re after, I could try to find you a copy, with pleasure.’
The stranger granted me a smile that was anything but friendly and then nodded.
‘I see you have a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo in that cabinet.’
He wasn’t the first customer to notice the book. I gave him the official sales patter we reserved for such occasions.
‘The gentleman has a very good eye. It’s a magnificent edition, numbered and with illustrations by Arthur Rackham. It belonged to the private library of an important collector in Madrid. A unique piece, and catalogued.’
The visitor listened without interest, focusing his attention on the consistency of the ebony shelves and making it clear that my words bored him.
‘All books look the same to me, but I like the blue on that cover,’ he replied in a scornful tone. ‘I’ll take it.’
Under other circumstances I would have jumped for joy at the thought of being able to sell what was probably the most expensive book in the entire shop, but the thought that it should end up in the hands of that character made my stomach turn. Something told me that if that volume left the bookshop, nobody would ever bother to read even the first paragraph.
‘It’s a very costly edition. If you like, sir, I can show you other editions of the same work in perfect condition and at much more reasonable prices.’
People with a meagre soul always try to make others feel small too, and the stranger, who could probably conceal his on the head of a pin, gave me his most disdainful look.