The Prisoner of Heaven Read online

  A stranger often visited him. He smelled of tobacco and eau de cologne, two substances that were hard to come by in those days. He sat on a chair by his side, looking at him with impenetrable eyes. His hair was black as tar and his features sharp. When he noticed that the patient was awake, he smiled at him.

  ‘Are you God or the devil?’ the dying man once asked him.

  The stranger shrugged and thought about it.

  ‘A bit of both,’ he answered at last.

  ‘In principle, I’m an atheist,’ the patient informed him. ‘Although in fact I have a lot of faith.’

  ‘Like so many. Rest now, my friend. Heaven can wait. And hell is too small for you.’

  4

  Between visits from the strange gentleman with the jet-black hair, the convalescent would let himself be fed, washed and dressed in clean clothes that proved too big for him. When he was finally able to stand up and take a few steps on his own, they led him down to the edge of the sea where he bathed his feet and felt the Mediterranean light caressing his skin. One day he spent the entire morning watching a group of ragged children with dirty faces playing in the sand, and he thought perhaps he would like to live, at least a little longer. As time went by, memories and anger began rising to the surface, and with them both the wish to return to the city and the fear of doing so.

  Legs, arms, and other parts began to function more or less as he remembered. He recovered the rare pleasure of peeing into the wind with no burning sensations or shameful mishaps and told himself that a man who could urinate standing up and without help was a man in a fit state to face his responsibilities. That same night, in the early hours, he rose quietly and walked through the citadel’s narrow alleyways as far as the boundary marked by the railway tracks. On the other side stood the forest of chimneys and the cemetery’s skyline of angels and mausoleums. Further in the distance, in a tableau of lights that spread up the hillsides, lay Barcelona. He heard footsteps behind him and when he turned round he was met by the serene gaze of the man with the jet-black hair.

  ‘You’ve been reborn,’ he said.

  ‘Well, let’s hope this time around things turn out better. I’ve had a pretty bad time so far …’

  The man with the jet-black hair smiled.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Armando, the Gypsy.’

  Fermín shook his hand.

  ‘Fermín Romero de Torres, not a Gypsy, but still of relatively good coinage.’

  ‘Fermín, my friend: I get the impression that you’re considering going back to those people.’

  ‘You can’t make a leopard change its spots,’ Fermín proclaimed. ‘I’ve left a few things unfinished.’

  Armando nodded.

  ‘I understand. But not yet, dear friend,’ he said. ‘Have patience. Stay with us for a time.’

  The fear of what awaited him on his return and the generosity of those people kept him there until one Sunday morning, when he borrowed a newspaper some children had found in the bin of a refreshment stall on La Barceloneta beach. It was hard to tell how long the newspaper had been lying among the rubbish, but it was dated three months after the night of his escape. He combed the pages searching for a hint, a sign or some mention, but there was nothing. That afternoon, when he’d already made up his mind to return to Barcelona at nightfall, Armando approached Fermín and told him that one of his men had gone over to the pensión where he used to live.

  ‘Fermín, you’d better not go round there to fetch your things.’

  ‘How did you know my address?’

  Armando smiled, avoiding the question.

  ‘The police told them you’d died. A notice of your death appeared in the papers weeks ago. I didn’t say anything because I realise that to read about one’s own passing when one is convalescing doesn’t help.’

  ‘What did I die of?’

  ‘Natural causes. You fell down a ravine when you were trying to flee from the law.’

  ‘So, I’m dead?’

  ‘As dead as the polka.’

  Fermín weighed up the implications of his new status.

  ‘And what do I do now? Where do I go? I can’t stay here for ever, taking advantage of your kindness and putting you all in danger.’

  Armando sat down next to him and lit one of the cigarettes he himself rolled. It smelled of eucalyptus.

  ‘Fermín, you can do what you want, because you don’t exist. I’d almost suggest that you stay here, because you’re now one of us, people who have no name and are not documented anywhere. We’re ghosts. Invisible. But I know you must return and resolve whatever you’ve left behind out there. Unfortunately, once you leave this place I can’t offer you my protection.’

  ‘You’ve already done enough for me.’

  Armando patted Fermín’s shoulder and handed him a folded sheet of paper he carried in his pocket.

  ‘Leave the city for a while. Let a year go by and, when you return, begin here,’ he said, moving away.

  Fermín unfolded the sheet of paper and read:

  FERNANDO BRIANS

  LAWYER

  Calle de Caspe, 12

  Attic Floor, room 1

  Barcelona. Telephone 564375

  ‘How can I repay you for everything you’ve done for me?’

  ‘One day, when you’ve sorted out your business, come by and ask for me. We’ll go and see Carmen Amaya dance and you can tell me how you managed to escape from up there. I’m curious,’ said Armando.

  Fermín looked into those black eyes and nodded slowly.

  ‘What cell were you in, Armando?’

  ‘Cell thirteen.’

  ‘Were those crosses on the wall yours?’

  ‘Unlike you, Fermín, I am a believer, but I’ve lost my faith.’

  That afternoon nobody said goodbye to Fermín or tried to stop him leaving. He set off, one more invisible person, towards the streets of a Barcelona that smelled of electricity. In the distance the towers of the Sagrada Familia seemed stranded in a blanket of red clouds that threatened a storm of biblical proportions, and he went on walking. His feet took him to the bus depot on Calle Trafalgar. There was some money in the pockets of the coat Armando had given him, and he bought a ticket for the longest trip available. He spent the night on the bus, driving through deserted roads under the rain. The following day he did the same, until, after three days on trains, on foot and on midnight buses, he reached a place where the streets had no name and the houses had no number and where nothing or no one could remember him.

  He had a hundred jobs and no friends. He made money, which he spent. He read books that spoke of a world in which he no longer believed. He started to write a letter that he never knew how to end, battling with reminiscences and remorse. More than once he walked up to a bridge or a precipice and gazed calmly at the chasm below. At the last moment the memory of that promise would always return, and the look in the eyes of the Prisoner of Heaven. After a year, Fermín left the room he had rented above a café and, with no baggage other than a copy of City of the Damned he’d found in a flea market – possibly the only book of Martín’s that hadn’t been burned and which Fermín had read a dozen times – he walked two kilometres to the train station and bought the ticket that had been waiting for him all those months.

  ‘One way to Barcelona, please.’

  The ticket-office clerk issued the ticket and gave it to him with a disdainful look.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ he said. ‘With all those goddam Catalan dogs.’

  5

  Barcelona, 1941

  It was starting to get dark when Fermín stepped off the train in the Estación de Francia. A cloud of steam and soot belched out by the engine stole along the platform, masking the passengers’ feet as they descended after the long journey. Fermín joined the silent procession towards the exit, among people in threadbare clothes, dragging suitcases held together with straps, people aged well before their time carrying all their belongings in a bundle, children with empty eyes and em
ptier pockets.

  A pair of Civil Guards patrolled the entrance. Fermín saw how they followed the passengers with their eyes and stopped some of them at random to ask for documentation. He kept walking in a straight line towards one of them. When he was only about a dozen metres away, he noticed that the Civil Guard was watching him. In Martín’s novel, the book that had kept Fermín company all those months, one of the characters swore that the best way of disarming the authorities was to speak to them first before they addressed you. So before the officer was able to point him out, Fermín walked straight up to the man and said in a calm voice:

  ‘Good evening, chief. Would you be so kind as to tell me where I can find the Hotel Porvenir? I believe it’s in Plaza Palacio, but I hardly know the city.’

  The Civil Guard examined him silently, somewhat disconcerted. His colleague had moved closer, covering his right side.

  ‘You’ll have to ask someone when you get out,’ he said in a rather unfriendly tone.

  Fermín nodded politely.

  ‘That’s what I’ll do. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  He was about to continue walking towards the entrance hall when the other officer took hold of his arm.

  ‘Plaza Palacio is on the left as you go out. Opposite the Military Headquarters.’

  ‘Most obliged. Have a good evening.’

  The Civil Guard let go of him and Fermín walked away slowly, pacing himself, until he reached the entrance hall and then the street.

  A scarlet sky curved over Barcelona. The city looked dark, entwined with sharp, black silhouettes. A half-empty tram hauled itself along, shedding a flickering light on the cobblestones. Fermín waited for it to go by before crossing to the other side. As he stepped over the shining rails he gazed into the distance, where the sides of Paseo Colón seemed to converge and the hill and castle of Montjuïc loomed above the city. He looked down again and set off up Calle Comercio towards the Borne market. The streets were deserted and a cold breeze blew though the alleyways. He had nowhere to go.

  He remembered Martín telling him that years ago he’d lived in that area, in a large old house buried in the shadowy canyon of Calle Flassaders, next to the old Mauri chocolate factory. Fermín headed off in that direction but when he arrived he realised that the building in question had been shelled during the war. The authorities hadn’t bothered to remove the rubble, so the neighbours had piled it up out of the way, presumably to make room for them to walk along the street, which was narrower than the corridors of some homes in the smarter parts of town.

  Fermín looked around him. A dim glow of bulbs and candles drifted down from the balconies. He moved further into the ruins, jumping over debris, broken gargoyles and beams twisted into improbable knots, looking for a space among the wreckage. At last he lay down under a stone that still had number 30 engraved on it, David Martín’s former address. Covering himself with his coat and the old newspapers he wore under his clothes, he curled up into a ball, closed his eyes and tried to get to sleep.

  Half an hour went by and the chill was starting to seep into his bones. A humid wind licked the ruins, searching for holes and cracks. Fermín opened his eyes and stood up. He was trying to find a more sheltered place when he noticed a figure watching him from the street. Fermín froze. The figure took a few steps towards him.

  ‘Who goes there?’ asked the figure.

  The figure advanced a little further and the far-off light of a street lamp revealed the profile of a tall, well-built man dressed in black. Fermín noticed the collar: a priest. He raised both hands in a gesture of peace.

  ‘I was leaving, Father. Please, don’t call the police.’

  The priest looked him up and down. His eyes seemed harsh and he had the air of someone who had spent half his life lifting sacks in the port instead of chalices.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

  Fermín, who would have eaten any of those rough stones if someone had sprinkled a few drops of olive oil over them, shook his head.

  ‘I’ve just had dinner at the Siete Puertas and I’ve stuffed myself silly with lobster stew,’ he said.

  The priest gave him a hint of a smile. He turned round and started walking.

  ‘Come on,’ he ordered.

  6

  Father Valera lived on the top floor of a building at the end of Paseo del Borne, overlooking the market rooftops. Fermín quickly polished off three bowlfuls of thin soup and a few bits of stale bread, together with a glass of watered-down wine the priest placed in front of him, while he eyed him with curiosity.

  ‘Aren’t you having dinner, Father?’

  ‘I don’t usually eat dinner. You enjoy it. I see your hunger goes all the way back to 1936.’

  While Fermín slurped his soup with its garnish of bread, he let his eyes roam around the dining room. Next to him, a glass cabinet displayed a collection of plates and glasses, various figures of saints and what looked like a modest set of silver cutlery.

  ‘I’ve also read Les Misérables, so don’t even think of it,’ warned the priest.

  Fermín nodded, ashamed.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Fermín Romero de Torres, at your service, Monsignore.’

  ‘Are they after you, Fermín?’

  ‘Depends how you look at it. It’s a complicated matter.’

  ‘It’s none of my business if you don’t want to tell me. But with clothes like those you can’t wander around out there. You’ll end up in jail before you even reach Vía Layetana. They’re stopping a lot of people who have been lying low for a while. You must be very careful.’

  ‘As soon as I gain access to some monetary funds that I’ve had in deep storage, I thought I’d drop by El Dique Flotante and come out looking my usual dapper self.’

  ‘No doubt. But for the time being, humour me. Stand up a moment, will you?’

  Fermín put down the spoon and stood up. The priest examined him carefully.

  ‘Ramón was twice your size, but I think some of the clothes from when he was young would fit you.’

  ‘Ramón?’

  ‘My brother. He was killed down there, in the street, by the front door, in May 1938. They were looking for me, but he confronted them. He was a fine musician. He played in the municipal band. Principal trumpet.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Father.’

  The priest shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘More or less everyone has lost someone, whatever side they belong to.’

  ‘I don’t belong to any side,’ Fermín replied. ‘What’s more, I think flags are nothing but painted rags that represent rancid emotions. Just seeing someone wrapped up in one of them, spewing out hymns, badges and speeches, gives me the runs. I’ve always thought that anyone who needs to join a herd so badly must be a bit of a sheep himself.’

  ‘You must have a very hard time in this country.’

  ‘You have no idea. But I always tell myself that having direct access to serrano ham makes up for everything. And anyhow, it’s the same the world over.’

  ‘That’s true. Tell me, Fermín. How long since you last tasted real serrano ham?’

  ‘March sixth 1934. Los Caracoles on Calle Escudellers. Another life.’

  The priest smiled.

  ‘You can stay here for tonight, Fermín, but tomorrow you’ll have to find some other place. People talk. I can give you a bit of money for a pensión, but don’t forget they all ask for identity cards and register their lodgers’ names with the police.’

  ‘That goes without saying, Father. Tomorrow, before sunrise, I’ll vanish faster than goodwill. And I won’t accept a single céntimo from you. I’ve already taken enough advantage of your …’

  The priest put a hand up and shook his head.

  ‘Let’s see how some of Ramón’s things look on you,’ he said, rising from the table.

  Father Valera insisted on providing Fermín with a pair of slightly worn shoes, a modest but clean wool suit, a couple of changes of underwear and a few
personal toiletries which he put in a suitcase. A shining trumpet was displayed on one of the shelves, next to a number of photographs of two smiling, good-looking young men, in what looked like the annual fiestas of the Gracia district. One had to look closely to realise that one of them was Father Valera, who now looked thirty years older.

  ‘I have no hot water. And they don’t fill the tank till the morning, so either you wait, or you use the water jug.’

  While Fermín washed himself as best he could, Father Valera prepared a pot of coffee with some sort of chicory mixed with other substances that looked vaguely suspicious. There was no sugar but that cup of dirty water was warm and the company was pleasant.

  ‘Anyone would say we’re in Colombia, enjoying the finest selection of coffee beans,’ said Fermín.

  ‘You’re a peculiar fellow, Fermín. Can I ask you something personal?’

  ‘Will the secrecy of the confessional cover it?’

  ‘Let’s say it will.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Have you killed anyone? During the war, I mean.’

  ‘No,’ replied Fermín.

  ‘I have.’

  Fermín went rigid, his cup half empty. The priest lowered his eyes.

  ‘I’ve never told anyone.’

  ‘It remains bound by the secrecy of the confessional,’ Fermín assured him.

  The priest rubbed his eyes and sighed. Fermín wondered how long this man had lived there alone, harbouring that secret and the memory of his dead brother.

  ‘You must have had your reasons, Father.’

  The priest shook his head.

  ‘God has abandoned this country,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry then. As soon as he sees what’s brewing north of the Pyrenees, he’ll come back with his tail between his legs.’