The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel Page 3

  ‘There’s no need to clean the books so thoroughly, Fermín,’ I would say. ‘I’ve heard that very soon only noir will be fashionable.’ I was alluding to the way the press was beginning to describe the new novels of crime and punishment that only trickled in occasionally and then in tame translations.

  Far from smiling kindly at my poor jokes, Fermín would grab any opportunity to embark on one of his tirades in support of doom and gloom.

  ‘The entire future looks noir anyway,’ he would declare. ‘If there’s going to be a flavour in vogue in this age of butchery, it will be the stink of falsehood and crime disguised in a thousand euphemisms.’

  Here we go, I thought. The Book of Revelation according to St Fermín Romero de Torres.

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, Fermín. You should get more sun and fresh air. The other day I read in the paper that vitamin D increases our faith in fellow humans.’

  ‘Well, I also read in the paper that imported cigarettes make you taller and that banks around the world are deeply committed to eradicating poverty and disease on the planet in less than ten years,’ he replied. ‘So there you go.’

  When Fermín embraced organised pessimism the best option was not to argue with him.

  ‘Do you know, Daniel? Sometimes I think that Darwin made a mistake and that in fact man is descended from the pig, because eight out of every ten members of the human race are swine, and as crooked as a hog’s tail.’

  ‘Fermín, I prefer it when you go for the humanist and positive view of things, like the other day when you said that deep down nobody is bad, only frightened.’

  ‘It must have been low blood sugar doing the talking. What rubbish.’

  These days, the cheerful Fermín I liked to remember seemed to have beaten a retreat and been replaced by a man consumed by anxieties and stormy moods he did not wish to share. Sometimes, when he thought nobody could see him, he would shrink into a corner, anguish gnawing at his insides. He’d lost some weight, and considering that he was as thin as a rake at the best of times and his body seemed mostly composed of cartilage and attitude, his appearance was becoming worrisome. I’d mentioned it to him once or twice, but he denied there was any problem and dodged the issue with Byzantine excuses.

  ‘It’s nothing, Daniel. It’s just that I now follow the football league and every time Barça loses my blood pressure plummets. All I need is a bite of Manchego cheese and I’m as strong as an ox again.’

  ‘Really? But you haven’t been to a football match in your life.’

  ‘That’s what you think. When I was a kid everybody told me I had the legs to be a dancer or a football player.’

  ‘Well, to me you look like a complete wreck, legs and all. Either you’re ill or you’re just not looking after yourself.’

  For an answer he’d show me a couple of biceps the size of sugar almonds and grin as if he were a door-to-door toothpaste seller.

  ‘Feel that! Tempered steel, like the Cid’s sword.’

  My father attributed Fermín’s low form to nerves about the wedding and everything that came with it, from having to fraternise with the clergy to finding the right restaurant or café for the wedding banquet, but I suspected that his melancholy had much deeper roots. I was debating whether to tell Fermín what had happened that morning and show him the book or wait for a better moment, when he dragged himself through the door with a look on his face that would have won top honours at a wake. When he saw me he smiled faintly and offered a military salute.

  ‘Good to see you, Fermín. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come in today.’

  ‘I’d rather be dead than idle. I was held up by Don Federico, the watchmaker. When I walked past his shop he filled me in on some gossip about the fact that someone had seen Señor Sempere walking down Calle Puertaferrisa this morning, looking very dapper and en route to an unknown destination. Don Federico and that hare-brained Merceditas wanted to know whether perhaps he’d taken a mistress – apparently, these days it gives you a certain credibility among the shopkeepers in the district and if the damsel is a cabaret singer, all the more so.’

  ‘And what did you reply?’

  ‘That your father, as an exemplary widower, has reverted to a state of primal virginity, which has baffled the scientific community but earned him a fast-track application for sainthood at the archbishop’s office. I don’t discuss Señor Sempere’s private life with friends or foes because it’s nobody’s business but his own. And whoever comes to me with such rubbish will get from me no more than a slap in the face and that’s that.’

  ‘You’re a gentleman of the old school, Fermín.’

  ‘The one who is of the old school is your father, Daniel. Between you and me, and this mustn’t go beyond these four walls, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if your father let down his hair every now and then. Ever since we started crossing this financial desert he has spent his entire time walled up in the storeroom with that Egyptian Book of the Dead.’

  ‘It’s the accounts book,’ I corrected him.

  ‘Whatever. In fact, for days now I’ve been thinking we should take him along to El Molino music hall and then out on the town. Even if our hero is as boring as a paella made of cabbage on that front, I’m sure a head-on collision with an elastic and decidedly buxom lass would shake up the marrow in his bones,’ said Fermín.

  ‘Look who’s talking. The life and soul of the party. To be honest, you’re the one I’m worried about,’ I protested. ‘For days you’ve been looking like a cockroach stuffed in a raincoat.’

  ‘Since you mention it, that’s an adroit comparison, if I may say so. For the cockroach may not have the swaggering good looks required by the frivolous norms of this daft society we’ve had the dubious fortune to live in, but both the underrated arthropod and yours truly are characterised by an unmatched instinct for survival, an overwhelming appetite and a leonine libido that won’t relent even under extreme radiation levels.’

  ‘It’s impossible to argue with you, Fermín.’

  ‘That’s because of my natural flair for high dialectics, always ready to strike back at the slightest hint of inanity, dear friend. But your father is a tender, delicate flower and I think the time has come to take action before he turns into a complete fossil.’

  ‘Take what action, Fermín?’ my father’s voice cut in behind us. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to set up a tea party with Rociíto.’

  We turned round like two schoolboys caught in the act. My father, looking most unlike a tender flower, was watching us severely from the door.

  8

  ‘And how on earth do you know about Rociíto?’ mumbled Fermín in astonishment.

  After savouring the fright he’d given us, my father smiled kindly and gave us a wink.

  ‘I might be turning into a fossil, but my hearing is still pretty good. My hearing and my thinking. That’s why I’ve decided that something had to be done to revitalise our business,’ he announced. ‘The cabaret outing can wait.’

  Only then did we notice that my father was carrying two hefty bags and a large box wrapped in brown paper and tied with thick string.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve just robbed the local bank,’ I said.

  ‘I try to avoid banks as much as possible: as Fermín says, they’re the ones who usually rob us. I’ve been to the Santa Lucía market.’

  Fermín and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

  ‘Aren’t you going to help me? This weighs a ton.’

  We proceeded to unload the contents of the bags onto the counter while my father unwrapped the box. The bags were packed with small objects, each one protected with more brown paper. Fermín unwrapped one of them and stared at it, perplexed.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m inclined to say it’s an adult sumpter at a scale of one to one hundred,’ Fermín suggested.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Namely, a donkey or an ass, the delightful hoofed quadruped that with winning charm and zest peo
ples this uniquely Spanish landscape of ours. Only this is a miniature version, like the model trains they sell in Casa Palau,’ Fermín explained.

  ‘It’s a clay donkey, a figure for the crib,’ my father explained.

  ‘What crib?’

  My father opened the cardboard box and pulled out the enormous manger with lights he’d just bought and which, I guessed, he was planning to place in the shop window as a Christmas advertising gimmick. Meanwhile Fermín had already unwrapped a number of oxen, pigs, ducks, as well as three wise old kings riding camels, some palm trees, a St Joseph and a Virgin Mary.

  ‘Succumbing to the tyranny of National-Catholic propaganda and its surreptitious indoctrination techniques through a display of Yuletide figures and tall stories does not sound to me like a solution,’ Fermín declared.

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Fermín,’ my father interjected. ‘This is a lovely tradition and people like to see nativity scenes during the Christmas season. The bookshop needed some of that colourful, happy spark that Christmas requires. Have a look at all the shops in the area and you’ll see how, by comparison, we look like an undertaker’s parlour. Go on, help me and we’ll set it up in the shop window. And move to the second row all those books on physics and the history of Western philosophy, Fermín. They scare the seasonal customer away.’

  ‘The end is near,’ mumbled Fermín.

  Between the three of us we managed to position the manger and set the little figures in place. Fermín collaborated unwillingly, frowning and searching for any excuse to express his objection.

  ‘Señor Sempere, with all due respect, may I bring to your attention that this Baby Jesus is thrice the size of his putative father and hardly fits in the cradle?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. They’d sold out of all the smaller ones.’

  ‘Well, I think that next to the Virgin Mary he looks like one of those Japanese fighters with a weight management problem, greased-back hair and swirly underpants tied up like a loincloth over their nether regions.’

  ‘Sumo wrestlers, they’re called,’ I said.

  ‘The very ones,’ Fermín agreed.

  My father sighed, shaking his head.

  ‘Besides, look at those eyes. You’d think he was possessed.’

  ‘Come on, Fermín, shut up and switch on the crib lights,’ my father ordered, handing him the plug.

  By performing one of his balancing acts Fermín managed to slip under the table that held the manger and reach the socket at one end of the counter.

  ‘And there was light,’ my father pronounced, gazing enthusiastically at the shining new Sempere & Sons nativity scene.

  ‘Adapt or perish!’ he added, pleased with himself.

  ‘Perish,’ mumbled Fermín under his breath.

  Not a minute had passed after the official lighting-up when a lady, with three children in tow, stopped by the shop window to admire the crib and, after a moment’s hesitation, ventured into the shop.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘Do you have any storybooks about the lives of the saints?’

  ‘Of course,’ said my father. ‘Allow me to show you the much recommended collection Little Jesus light of my life, which I’m sure the children will love. Profusely illustrated and with a foreword by our beloved archbishop. Doesn’t get any better.’

  ‘Sounds lovely. The fact is, it’s so hard to find books with a positive message these days, the sort that make you feel really good about yourself, instead of pushing all that violence and depravity so in vogue today.’

  Fermín rolled his eyes. He was about to open his mouth when I stopped him and dragged him away from the customer.

  ‘I know what you mean, madam,’ my father agreed, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, and implying with his expression that I should keep Fermín bound and gagged because we weren’t going to lose that sale for anything in the world.

  I pushed Fermín into the back room and made sure the curtain was drawn so that my father could tackle the situation unhindered.

  ‘Fermín, I don’t know what’s up with you. I realise you’re not convinced by all this business of nativity scenes, and I respect that, but if an Infant Jesus the size of a steamroller and four clay piglets lift my father’s spirits and on top of that pull customers into the bookshop, I’m going to ask you to set the existentialist pulpit aside and look as if you’re part of the choir, at least during business hours.’

  Fermín sighed and nodded, looking abashed.

  ‘Of course, Daniel,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I’d be prepared to walk the road to Santiago dressed up as the tooth fairy if that were to please your father and save the bookshop.’

  ‘All you need to do is tell him you think the crib idea is a good one, and play along with him.’

  Fermín nodded.

  ‘Consider it done. I’ll apologise to Señor Sempere later for overstepping the mark and as an act of contrition I’ll contribute a little nativity figurine to prove that even large department stores can’t beat me at Christmas spirit. I have a friend who had to go underground who makes those lovely traditional squatting figurines – the “crappers” – in the image of Franco, so realistic they give you goose pimples.’

  ‘A lambkin or a King Balthazar will do.’

  ‘Your wish is my command, Daniel. Now, if you don’t object, I’ll go and do something useful and start opening the boxes from the widow Recasen’s lot. They’ve been here for a week gathering dust.’

  ‘Shall I help you?’

  ‘Don’t worry. You get on with your stuff.’

  I watched him make his way to the stockroom at the far end and put on his blue work overalls.

  ‘Fermín,’ I began.

  He turned round obligingly. I paused for a moment.

  ‘Something happened today that I need to tell you about.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Actually, I’m not quite sure how to explain this. Someone came in and asked after you.’

  ‘Was she pretty?’ asked Fermín, trying to look jolly but unable to hide a flicker of anxiety in his eyes.

  ‘It was a gentleman. In pretty bad shape and rather odd looking, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Did he leave a name?’ asked Fermín.

  I shook my head.

  ‘No. But he left this for you.’

  Fermín frowned. I handed him the book the stranger had bought a couple of hours before. Fermín took it and stared at the cover without understanding.

  ‘But isn’t this the Dumas we had in the glass cabinet at three hundred and fifty?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Open it at the first page.’

  Fermín did as I asked. When he read the dedication he suddenly went pale and gulped. He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked at me without saying a word, seeming to have aged five years in as many seconds.

  ‘When he left the shop I followed him,’ I said. ‘For the past week he’s been living in a seedy establishment where they rent rooms by the hour, on Calle Hospital, opposite the Hotel Europa, and from what I’ve been able to find out, he uses a false name – yours, in fact: Fermín Romero de Torres. I’ve discovered, through one of the scribes in La Virreina, that he had a letter copied out in which he referred to a large amount of money. Does any of this ring a bell?’

  Fermín seemed to be curling up, as if every word I spoke were a blow raining down on him.

  ‘Daniel, it’s very important that you don’t follow this individual or speak to him again. Don’t do anything. Keep well away from him. He’s very dangerous.’

  ‘Who is this man, Fermín?’

  Fermín closed the book and hid it behind a pile of boxes on one of the shelves. He took a quick look in the direction of the shop and once he was sure my father was still busy with the customer and couldn’t hear us, he drew closer to me and spoke in a very low voice.

  ‘Please don’t tell your father or anyone else about this.’

  ‘Fermín …’

  ‘Do me this favour. For the sake
of our friendship.’

  ‘But, Fermín …’

  ‘Please, Daniel. Not here. Trust me.’

  I agreed reluctantly and showed him the one-thousand-peseta note the stranger had paid me with. I didn’t have to explain where it had come from.

  ‘That money is cursed, Daniel. Give it to the Sisters of Charity or to some beggar in the street. Or, better still, burn it.’

  Without another word he proceeded to remove his overalls and slip on his frayed raincoat and his beret. On that matchstick head of his the beret looked like one of Dali’s melting clocks.

  ‘Are you leaving already?’

  ‘Tell your father something unexpected has cropped up. Will you?’

  ‘Of course, but …’

  ‘I can’t explain this to you now, Daniel.’

  He clutched his stomach with one hand as if his insides had got tied in a knot.

  ‘Fermín, if you tell me about it I might be able to help …’

  Fermín paused for a moment, but then shook his head and walked out into the hallway. I followed him as far as the main door and saw him set off in the rain, just a little man with the entire world on his shoulders, while the night, blacker than ever, stole down over Barcelona.

  9

  It is a scientifically acknowledged fact that any infant a few months old has an unerring instinct for sensing the exact moment in the early hours when his parents have managed to nod off, so he can raise the tone of his cries, thereby ensuring they don’t get more than thirty minutes’ sleep at a time.

  That night, like almost all others, little Julián awoke around three in the morning and didn’t hesitate to announce the fact at the top of his lungs. I opened my eyes and turned over. Next to me, Bea, gleaming in the half-light, slowly stirred, revealing the outline of her body under the sheets, and mumbled something. I resisted my natural impulse to kiss her on the neck and relieve her of that overlong, reinforced nightgown that my father-in-law, probably on purpose, had given her on her birthday. Try as I might, I couldn’t get it to disappear in the laundry.