The Shadow of the Wind (Zafon) - All hail Fermin Romero de Torres

I have no problem admitting that having borrowed The Shadow of the Wind from the library, I was inclined to return it immediately – and rinse my hands of it with lashings of disinfectant – for the blurb on the back cover hinted at all that I abhor most in the literary world. Said the Guardian note on the back cover, “What makes this novel so irresistibly readiable is the emotional energy generate...” Excuse me? “Emotional energy”? Good grief...

Further horror was to follow some five lines further down, when I noted, by now aghast, that the last review on the back cover was posted by no less a publication of testosterone-fuelled sage judgement than Elle magazine. Chilling portents you will no doubt concur, but having pledged to begin the book I bit the bullet, held my breath and dived in.

It is not difficult to see from where such pointless gubbins as “emotional energy” arises, for the book is littered with Mills and Boon-esque romantic clenches and paternal embraces, all too reminiscent of the overly-sensitive types at University who would destroy a good al fresco barbecue by unsheathing a guitar and strumming some rancid ballad. Indeed, the very name of the book is enough to prompt a raised eyebrow of scepticism.

Mercifully however, such Elle-friendly fare is offset by some truly corking moments of written genius. In Fermín Romero de Torres the author senor Zafón has created one of the great literary characters of our time, a hilarious, irresistible, verbose tramp-cum-philosopher, whose pearls of wisdom on the fairer sex manage to coat the most sordid sentiments in gloriously ornate vernacular. A man who makes the crudest animal instincts seem like Wilde at his most flourishing, Fermín’s every line is an absolute gem. I for one would quite happily have dispensed with the principal storyline of The Shadow of the Wind, and simply gorged myself on 400 pages of exchanges between Fermín and the young chief protagonist, Daniel, who himself dealt a neat line in rapier-like, slightly exasperated ripostes.

To what extent Zafón himself deserves credit is actually unclear, for the translation into English is provided by Lucia Graves, and so rich is the language used that it is difficult to know how much has been added by a translator with a twinkle in her eye – or indeed, how much lost by the transition from the native tongue to a potentially more leaden English. Personally I doff my cap in both directions, but I do wish I knew Spanish sufficiently well to appreciate The Shadow of the Wind as intended by its maker.

The plot is enjoyable enough nonsense, a literary history that turns out to have its roots in reality, linked inextricably to a violent and occasionally murderous game of cat-and-mouse. Although beginning from a flimsy and fairly incredible initial few premises, it proceeds along at a pleasant pace - punctuated by quirky characters, a likeably bumbling rites-of-passage journey for the central character, a couple of attention-grabbing plot twists and, of course, carried by the interjections of the magnificent Fermín. Zafón makes full use of his 400 pages, fleshing out his plot and sub-plots, without ever getting bogged down in detail, and painting mid-twentieth century Barcelona without dwelling unnecessarily on aesthetics.

The pedants amongst us may quibble that there is not much beneath the surface – but when the surface is as ornately and sumptuously presented as by Zafón this proves an eminently bearable flaw. The Shadow of the Wind has enough about it to keep the reader satisfied.