The Prisoner of Heaven Read online

The priest kept quiet for a long time. They finished off the ersatz coffee and Fermín, to cheer up the poor priest, who seemed to look gloomier with every passing minute, poured himself a second cup.

  ‘Do you really like it?’

  Fermín nodded.

  ‘Would you like me to hear your confession?’ the priest suddenly asked him. ‘I’m not joking now.’

  ‘Don’t be offended, Father, but I don’t really believe in that sort of thing …’

  ‘But perhaps God believes in you.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You don’t have to believe in God to confess. It’s something between you and your conscience. What is there to lose?’

  During the next couple of hours Fermín told Father Valera everything he’d kept to himself since he fled from the castle over a year ago. The priest listened to him attentively, nodding every now and then. At last, when Fermín felt he had said it all and the stone slab that had been suffocating him for months without him realising had been lifted, Father Valera pulled out a flask of liqueur from a drawer and, without asking, poured what was left of it into a glass and handed it to Fermín.

  ‘I was hoping for absolution, Father, not a reward of a swig of cognac.’

  ‘It comes to the same thing. Besides, I’m no longer in a position to forgive or to judge anyone, Fermín. But I think you needed to get all that off your chest. What are you going to do now?’

  Fermín shrugged.

  ‘If I’ve returned, and I’m risking my neck by doing so, it’s because of the promise I made to Martín. I must find the lawyer and then Señora Isabella and that boy, Daniel, and protect them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll think of something. Any suggestions?’

  ‘But you don’t even know them. They’re just strangers that a man you met in prison told you about …’

  ‘I know. When you put it that way it sounds crazy, doesn’t it?’

  The priest was looking at him as if he could see through his words.

  ‘Might it not be that you’ve seen so much misery and so much evil among men that you want to do something good, even if it’s madness?’

  ‘And why not?’

  Valera smiled. The priest took the glass with the untouched drink from Fermín’s hands and knocked it back.

  ‘I knew God believed in you.’

  7

  The following day, Fermín tiptoed out of the flat so as not to disturb Father Valera, who had fallen asleep on the sofa with a book of poems by Machado in his hand and was snoring like a fighting bull. Before leaving he kissed him on the forehead and left the silverware – which the priest had wrapped in a napkin and slipped into his suitcase – on the dining-room table. Then he set off down the stairs with clean clothes and a clean conscience, determined to stay alive, at least for a few more days.

  That day the sun was strong and a fresh breeze swept over the city. The sky looked bright and steely, casting long shadows as people walked by. Fermín spent the morning strolling through streets he remembered, stopping in front of shop windows and sitting on benches to watch pretty girls go by – and they all looked pretty to him. Around noon he walked over to a café at the entrance to Calle Escudellers, near the Los Caracoles restaurant of such happy memories. The café itself was notorious among those with fearless and undemanding palates for offering the cheapest sandwiches in town. The trick, said experts, was not to ask about the ingredients.

  Sporting his smart new clothes and an armour of newspapers packed beneath them to lend him some bulk, a hint of muscles and low-cost warmth, Fermín sat at the bar, checked the list of delicacies within reach of modest pockets and began negotiating with the waiter.

  ‘I have a question, young man. In today’s special, peasant’s bread with mortadella and cold cuts from Cornellá, does the bread come with fresh tomato?’

  ‘Just arrived from our market garden in El Prat, behind the sulphuric acid plants.’

  ‘A premium bouquet. And tell me, my good man, does this establishment extend credit to suitable individuals?’

  The waiter lost his cheerful expression and withdrew behind the bar, hanging his rag over his shoulder with a hostile gesture.

  ‘Not even to God almighty.’

  ‘I see. And would you consider making an exception in the case of a decorated disabled war hero?’

  ‘Scram or we’ll call the police.’

  In light of the stringent policies being enforced, Fermín beat a hasty retreat, searching for a quiet corner where he could reconsider his plans. He’d just settled on the steps of the building next door when a young girl, who couldn’t have been a day older than seventeen but already possessed the curves of a budding starlet, walked past him and fell flat on her face.

  Fermín stood up to help her and had only just taken hold of her arm when he heard a voice that made the words from the hostile waiter who had sent him on his way sound like heavenly music.

  ‘Look here, you goddam slut, don’t give me this crap or I’ll slice your face up and dump you in the street, which is already filled with unemployed cut-up whores.’

  The author of such a notable speech turned out to be a sallow-skinned pimp with a questionable eye for fashion. Despite the fact that the man was twice Fermín’s size, and was holding what appeared to be a sharp object, or at least a fairly pointy one, Fermín, who was beginning to be fed up to his back teeth with bullies, stood between the girl and her aggressor.

  ‘And who the fuck are you, you loser? Go on, beat it before I cut your face up.’

  Fermín felt the girl grip his arms in fear. She smelled of a particular mixture of sweet cinnamon and refried calamari. A quick glance was enough for Fermín to realise that the situation was unlikely to be resolved through diplomacy, so he decided to move into action. After a lightning assessment of his opponent he concluded that the grand total of his body mass was mainly flab, and that when it came to actual muscle, or grey matter, he was not packing a lethal punch.

  ‘Don’t talk to me in that way, even less to the young lady.’

  The pimp looked at him in astonishment, as if he hadn’t taken in the words. A second later, the individual, who was expecting anything from this wimp except a fight, got the surprise of his life when a suitcase slammed into his soft parts and sent him to the ground clutching his privates. This was followed by four or five knocks in strategic places inflicted with the leather corners of the case that left him, at least for a short while, notably lacking in any mood to fight back.

  A group of passers-by who had witnessed the incident began to applaud and, when Fermín turned to check whether the girl was all right, he was welcomed by her adoring look, laced with undying gratitude and tenderness.

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

  The girl stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

  ‘I’m Rociíto.’

  The specimen at his feet was gasping and struggling to get up. Before the balance of the contest stopped favouring him, Fermín decided to distance himself from the scene of the confrontation.

  ‘We’d better make haste and shove off,’ he announced. ‘Now we’ve lost the initiative, the battle will go against us …’

  Rociíto took his arm and guided him through the twisted web of narrow streets that led to Plaza Real. Once they were in the sunlight and in the open, Fermín stopped for a second to recover his breath. Rociíto noticed that Fermín was becoming increasingly pale. He looked unwell. She guessed that the emotions induced by the skirmish, or perhaps plain old hunger, had caused a drop in her brave champion’s blood pressure. She walked him to the terrace of the Hostal Dos Mundos, where Fermín collapsed into one of the chairs.

  Rociíto, who might have been seventeen but had a clinical eye that many an experienced doctor would have coveted, proceeded to ask for a selection of tapas with which to revive him. When Fermín saw the feast arriving, he was alarmed.

  ‘Rociíto, I don’t have a céntimo on me …’

/>   ‘It’s on me,’ she cut in proudly. ‘Gotta take care of my man and keep ’im well nourished.’

  Rociíto kept stuffing him with small chorizos, bread and spicy potatoes, all washed down with a monumental pitcher of beer. Fermín slowly revived and recovered his lively colouring to the girl’s visible satisfaction.

  ‘For dessert, if you like, I can serve you up a house special that will knock you sideways,’ offered the young woman, licking her lips.

  ‘Listen, kid, shouldn’t you be at school right now, with the nuns?’

  Rociíto laughed at his joke.

  ‘You rogue, you’ve sure got a mouth!’

  As the feast went on, Fermín realised that, if it depended on the girl, he had before him a promising career as a procurer. But matters of greater importance claimed his attention.

  ‘How old are you, Rociíto?’

  ‘Eighteen and a half, Señorito Fermín.’

  ‘You look older.’

  ‘It’s me tits. Got them when I was thirteen. A joy to look at, aren’t they, even though I shouldn’t say so.’

  Fermín, who hadn’t laid eyes on such a conspiracy of curves since his longed-for days in Havana, tried to recover his common sense.

  ‘Rociíto,’ he began, ‘I can’t take care of you …’

  ‘I know, Señorito Fermín. Don’t think me stupid. I know you’re not the sort of man to live off a woman. I might be young, but I know how to see ’em coming …’

  ‘You must tell me where I can send you a proper refund for this handsome banquet. Right now you catch me at a rather delicate financial moment …’

  Rociíto shook her head.

  ‘I’ve a room here, in the hostal. I share it with Lali, but she’s out all day because she works the merchant ships … Why don’t you come up, señorito, and I’ll give you a massage?’

  ‘Rociíto …’

  ‘It’s on the house …’

  Fermín gazed at her with a touch of melancholy.

  ‘You have sad eyes, Señorito Fermín. Let little Rociíto cheer you up, even if it’s just for a while. What harm can there be in that?’

  Fermín looked down in embarrassment.

  ‘How long is it since you’ve been with a real woman?’

  ‘I can’t even remember.’

  Rociíto offered him a hand and, pulling him behind her, took him up to a tiny room with just enough space for a ramshackle bed and a sink. A small balcony looked out on the square. The girl drew the curtain and in a flash removed the floral-print dress she was wearing next to her bare skin. Fermín gazed at that miracle of nature and let himself be embraced by a heart almost as old as his own.

  ‘We don’t need to do anything, if you don’t want, all right?’

  Rociíto laid him down on the bed and stretched out next to him. She held him tight and stroked his head.

  ‘Shhh, shhh,’ she whispered.

  With his face buried in that eighteen-year-old bosom, Fermín burst into tears.

  When evening fell and Rociíto had to begin her shift, Fermín pulled out the piece of paper Armando had given him a year ago, with the address of Brians, the lawyer, and decided to pay him a visit. Rociíto insisted on lending him some loose change, enough to take a tram or two and have a coffee. She made him swear, time and time again, that he would come back to see her, even if it was just to take her to the cinema or to mass: she had a particular devotion for Our Lady of Carmen and she loved ceremonies, especially if there was singing involved. Rociíto went down the stairs with him and when they said goodbye she gave him a kiss on the lips and a nip on the bum.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ she said as she watched him leave under the arches of the square.

  As Fermín crossed Plaza de Cataluña, a ribbon of clouds was beginning to swirl in the sky. The flocks of pigeons that usually flew over the square had taken shelter in the trees and waited impatiently. People could smell the electricity in the air as they hurried towards the entrances of the metro. An unpleasant wind had started to blow, dragging a tide of dry leaves along the ground. Fermín quickened his pace and by the time he reached Calle Caspe, the rain was bucketing down.

  8

  Brians was a young man with the air of a bohemian student who looked as if he survived on salty crackers and coffee, which is what his office smelled of. That, and dusty paper. The lawyer’s workplace was a small, cramped room at the end of a dark corridor, perched on the attic floor of the same building that housed the great Tivoli Theatre. Fermín found him still there at eight-thirty in the evening. He opened the door in his shirtsleeves and acknowledged his visitor with a nod and sigh.

  ‘Fermín, I suppose. Martín spoke to me about you. I was beginning to wonder when you’d be coming by.’

  ‘I’ve been away for a while.’

  ‘Of course. Come in, please.’

  Fermín followed him into the cubicle.

  ‘What a night, eh?’ said the lawyer. He sounded nervous.

  ‘It’s only water.’

  Fermín looked around him and noticed only one chair. Brians offered it to him and sat on a pile of volumes on criminal and civil law.

  ‘I’m still waiting for the furniture.’

  Fermín could see there wasn’t even room for a pencil sharpener in that place, but thought it best not to open his mouth. On the table was a plate with a grilled-meat sandwich and a beer. A paper napkin informed him that the sumptuous dinner came from the café on the ground floor.

  ‘I was about to eat. I’ll be happy to share it with you.’

  ‘No, no, go ahead, you young ones need to grow and besides, I’ve had my dinner.’

  ‘Can’t I offer you anything? Coffee?’

  ‘If you have a Sugus …’

  Brians rummaged in a drawer that held just about everything except Sugus sweets.

  ‘A liquorice lozenge?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Then, if you don’t mind …’

  Brians gave the sandwich a hearty bite, munching with gusto. Fermín wondered which of them looked more famished. Next to the desk, the door to an adjoining room stood ajar. Fermín caught a glimpse of an unmade folding bed, a coat stand with crumpled shirts and a pile of books.

  ‘Do you live here?’ asked Fermín.

  Clearly the lawyer Isabella had been able to afford for Martín was not a high flyer. Brians followed Fermín’s eyes and gave him a modest smile.

  ‘This is, temporarily, my office and my home, yes,’ Brians replied, leaning over to close his bedroom door.

  ‘You must think I don’t look much like a lawyer. You’re not the only one. So does my father.’

  ‘Pay no attention. My father was always fond of telling us we were nothing but a useless lot of imbeciles who would end up lifting rocks at a quarry, if we were lucky. And look at me now, as cool as they come. Succeeding in life when your family believes in you and supports you, what’s the merit in that?’

  Brians nodded reluctantly.

  ‘If you look at it that way … Truth be told, I only established myself on my own a short time ago. Before that I used to work for a well-known lawyer’s practice just round the corner, on Paseo de Gracia. But we fell out over a number of things. It hasn’t been easy since then.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Valls?’

  Brians nodded, finishing off his beer in three gulps.

  ‘From the moment I accepted Señor Martín’s case, Valls didn’t stop until he’d got almost all my clients to leave me and I was laid off. The few who followed me are the ones who don’t have a céntimo and can’t pay my fees.’

  ‘And Señora Isabella?’

  A shadow fell over the lawyer’s face. He left the beer glass on the desk and looked hesitantly at Fermín.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Isabella Sempere is dead.’

  9

  The storm pounded over the city. Fermín held a cup of coffee in his hands while Brians, standing by the open window, watched the rain
lash the roofs of the Ensanche district and recounted Isabella’s last days.

  ‘She fell ill suddenly, without any explanation. If you’d known her … Isabella was young, full of life. She had an iron constitution and had survived the hardships of war. It all happened overnight. The night you managed to escape from the castle, Isabella came home late. When her husband found her, she was kneeling down in the bathroom, sweating and with palpitations. She said she wasn’t feeling well. They called the doctor, but before he arrived she started having convulsions and throwing up blood. The doctor said it was food poisoning and told her to follow a strict diet for a few days, but by the morning she was worse. Señor Sempere wrapped her up in blankets and a neighbour who was a taxi driver drove them to the Hospital del Mar. She’d broken out in dark blotches, like ulcers, and her hair was coming out in handfuls. In the hospital they waited a couple of hours but in the end the doctors refused to see her because someone in the waiting room, a patient who hadn’t been seen yet, said he knew Sempere and accused him of being a communist or some such nonsense. I suppose he did it to jump the queue. A nurse gave them a syrup which, she said, would help Isabella clean out her stomach, but Isabella couldn’t swallow anything. Sempere didn’t know what to do. He took her home and started to call one doctor after another. Nobody knew what was wrong with her. A medical assistant who was a regular customer at the bookshop knew someone who worked at the Hospital Clínico. Sempere took Isabella there.’

  ‘In the Clínico Sempere was told it might be cholera and he must take her home, because there was an outbreak and the hospital was overflowing. A number of people in the area had already died. Every day Isabella was worse. She was delirious. Her husband did everything he could. He moved heaven and earth, but after a few days she was so weak he couldn’t even take her to the hospital. She died a week after falling ill, in the flat on Calle Santa Ana, above the bookshop …’

  A long silence reigned between them, punctuated only by the splattering rain and the echo of thunder moving away as the wind abated.

  ‘It wasn’t until a month later that I heard she’d been seen one night in the Café de la Ópera, opposite the Liceo. She was sitting with Mauricio Valls. Ignoring my advice, Isabella had threatened him with exposing his plan to use Martín to rewrite some crap of his with which he expected to become famous and be showered with medals. I went there to find out more. The waiter remembered that Valls had arrived before her in a car and that he’d asked for two camomile teas and honey.’