The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel Page 5

‘Not only is this specimen a disgusting piece of excrement, he’s also as cloying as they come. This “kissing other lips” line should be enough to get him jailed for life.’

  I put the letter away and looked down at the floor.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re suspicious of Señora Bea?’ asked Fermín in disbelief.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You liar.’

  I stood up and began to pace around the basement.

  ‘And what would you do if you found a letter like that one in Bernarda’s pocket?’

  Fermín took his time to consider the matter.

  ‘What I would do is trust the mother of my child.’

  ‘Trust her?’

  Fermín nodded.

  ‘Don’t take it badly, Daniel, but you have the basic problem of all men who marry a real looker. Señora Bea, who is and always will be a saint as far as I’m concerned, is, in the popular parlance, such a tasty dish you’d want to lick the plate clean. As a result, it’s only to be expected that dedicated sleazy types, full-time losers, poolside gigolos and all the half-arsed posers in town should go after her. With or without a husband and child: the simian stuck in a suit we all too kindly call Homo sapiens doesn’t give a damn about that. You may not have noticed, but I’d bet my silk undies that your saintly wife attracts more flies than a pot of honey in a barn. That cretin is just like one of those scavenger birds, throwing stones to see if he hits something. Trust me, a woman with her head and petticoat both firmly in place can see that type coming from afar.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Do you really think that if Doña Beatriz wanted to cheat on you she’d have to wait for a slobbering halfwit to sweet-talk her into it with his reheated boleros? I wouldn’t wonder that at least ten suitors put in an appearance every time she goes out, showing off her good looks and her baby. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Quite frankly, I’m not sure whether all this is much comfort.’

  ‘Look, what you need to do is put that letter back in the coat pocket where you found it and forget all about it. And don’t even think of mentioning the matter to your wife.’

  ‘Is that what you would do?’

  ‘What I’d do is go and find that numbskull and land him such a glorious kick in the balls they’d have to surgically remove them from the back of his neck and all he’d want to do then is join a Carthusian monastery. But that’s me.’

  I felt the anguish spreading inside me like a drop of oil on clear water.

  ‘I’m not sure you’ve helped me much, Fermín.’

  He shrugged his shoulders, picked up the box, and vanished up the stairs.

  We spent the rest of the morning working in the bookshop. After mulling over the business of the letter in my head for a couple of hours, I came to the conclusion that Fermín was right. What I couldn’t quite work out was whether he was right about trusting her and keeping quiet, or about going out to get that moron and give him a genital makeover. The calendar on the counter said 20 December. I had a month to decide.

  The day’s business picked up little by little, with modest but steady sales. Fermín didn’t miss a single chance to praise my father for the glorious crib and for his brilliant idea of buying that Baby Jesus reminiscent of a Basque weightlifter.

  ‘Seeing such dazzling salesmanship on display I’ll leave the floor to the master and retire to the back room to sort out the collection the widow left with us the other day.’

  I took the opportunity to follow Fermín and draw the curtain behind us. Fermín looked at me, slightly alarmed, but I gave him a friendly smile.

  ‘I’ll help you if you like.’

  ‘As you wish, Daniel.’

  For a few minutes we began to unpack the boxes of books and classify them in piles by genre, condition and size. Fermín didn’t open his lips and avoided my eyes.

  ‘Fermín …’

  ‘I’ve already told you not to worry about that business of the letter. Your wife is not a trollop, and if she ever wants to dump you – and pray heaven that will never happen – she’ll tell you face to face without the need for soap-opera shenanigans.’

  ‘Got the message, Fermín. But that’s not it.’

  Fermín looked up, distressed, knowing what was coming.

  ‘I’ve been thinking that today, after we close, we could go out, grab a bite and have some man-talk, you know, just you and me,’ I began. ‘To talk about our stuff. About yesterday’s visitor. And about whatever it is that’s worrying you, which I have an inkling might be connected.’

  Fermín left the book he was cleaning on the table. He gazed at me in dismay and sighed.

  ‘I’m in a real mess, Daniel,’ he mumbled at last. ‘A mess I don’t know how to get out of.’

  I put my hand on his shoulder. Under the overalls all I could feel was skin and bone.

  ‘Then let me help you. Two heads are always better than one.’

  He seemed at a loss.

  ‘Surely we’ve got out of worse situations, you and I,’ I insisted.

  He smiled sadly, not too convinced by my forecast.

  ‘You’re a good friend, Daniel.’

  Not half as good as he deserved, I thought.

  12

  Back then Fermín still lived in the same old pensión on Calle Joaquín Costa, where I had it on good authority that the rest of the lodgers, in secret collaboration with Rociíto and her sisters-in-arms, were preparing a stag night for him that would go down in history. Fermín was already waiting for me by the front door when I went by to pick him up just after nine.

  ‘To be honest, I’m not that hungry,’ he announced when he saw me.

  ‘Pity, because I thought we could go down to Can Lluís,’ I proposed. ‘They’re serving chickpea stew and baby lamb chops tonight …’

  ‘Well, let’s not make hasty decisions here,’ Fermín reconsidered. ‘A good repast is like a lass in bloom: not to appreciate it is the business of fools.’

  With that pearl from the eminent Don Fermín Romero de Torres’s stockpile of aphorisms, we ambled down towards what was one of my friend’s favourite restaurants in the whole of Barcelona and much of the known world. Can Lluís was located at 49 Calle de la Cera, on the threshold of the Raval quarter. Behind its modest appearance Can Lluís conveyed an intimate atmosphere steeped in the mysteries of old Barcelona, offering exquisite food and impeccable service at prices that even Fermín, or I, could afford. On weekdays, it attracted a bohemian community, in which people from the theatre, literary types and other creatures high and low rubbed shoulders and toasted each other.

  When we walked in we spied one of the bookshop’s regular customers, Professor Alburquerque, a fine reviewer and local savant who taught at the arts faculty and made Can Lluís his second home. He was enjoying dinner at the bar and leafing through a newspaper.

  ‘Long time no see, Professor,’ I said as I walked past him. ‘You must pay us a visit some time and replenish your stock. A man can’t live on obituaries from La Vanguardia.’

  ‘I wish I could. It’s those damned dissertations. Having to read the inane babble written by the spoiled rich kids who come through university these days is beginning to give me bouts of dyslexia.’

  At that point, one of the waiters served him his pudding, a plump crème caramel wobbling under a surge of burned sugar tears and smelling of the finest vanilla.

  ‘Your lordship will get over it after a couple of spoonfuls of this marvel,’ said Fermín. ‘Goodness me: it jiggles just like the formidable bust of Doña Margarita Xirgu.’

  The learned professor gazed at his pudding in the light of those considerations and agreed, spellbound. We left the wise man enjoying the sugary charms of the famous stage diva and took shelter at a corner table at the back of the dining room, where we were soon served a sumptuous meal. Fermín devoured it with the appetite of a retreating army.

  ‘I thought you weren’t hungry,’ I let drop.

 
‘Hard muscle burns a lot of calories,’ Fermín explained, mopping his plate with the last piece of bread in the basket, although I thought it was just his anxiety doing all the eating.

  Pere, the waiter who was serving us, came over to see how everything was going and when he saw Fermín’s ravaged plate, he handed him the dessert menu.

  ‘A little dessert to finish off the job, maestro?’

  ‘Come to think of it, I wouldn’t say no to a couple of those home-made crème caramels I saw earlier, if possible with a bright red cherry on top of each one,’ said Fermín.

  Pere assented. He told us that when the owner heard how Fermín had expounded on the consistency and the metaphorical attractions of that recipe, he’d decided to rechristen the crème caramels ‘margaritas’.

  ‘I’m fine with an espresso,’ I said.

  ‘The boss says coffee and dessert are on the house,’ said Pere.

  We raised our wine glasses in the direction of the owner, who was standing behind the bar chatting with Professor Alburquerque.

  ‘Good people,’ mumbled Fermín. ‘Sometimes one forgets that not everyone in this world is a bastard.’

  I was surprised at the bitterness of his tone.

  ‘Why do you say that, Fermín?’

  My friend shrugged his shoulders. Shortly after, the crème caramels arrived, swaying temptingly, topped with shiny cherries.

  ‘May I remind you that in a few weeks’ time you’re getting married and your margarita days will be over?’ I joked.

  ‘Poor me,’ said Fermín. ‘I’m afraid I’m all bark and no bite. I’m not the man I used to be.’

  ‘None of us are what we once were.’

  Fermín started on the crème caramels, savouring every mouthful.

  ‘I don’t know where I’ve read that deep down we’ve never been who we think we once were, and we only remember what never happened …’ said Fermín.

  ‘That’s the beginning of a novel by Julián Carax,’ I replied.

  ‘True. Where might our friend Carax be? Don’t you ever wonder?’

  ‘Every single day.’

  Fermín smiled, remembering our past adventures. Then he pointed to my chest and gave me a questioning look.

  ‘Does it still hurt?’

  I undid a couple of buttons on my shirt and showed him the scar Inspector Fumero’s bullet had left when it went through my chest that faraway day, in the ruins of the Angel of Mist.

  ‘Every now and then.’

  ‘Scars never go away, do they?’

  ‘They come and go, I believe. Fermín: look into my eyes.’

  Fermín’s evasive eyes looked straight into mine.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  For a couple of seconds Fermín hesitated.

  ‘Did you know that Bernarda is expecting?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘Is that what’s worrying you?’

  Fermín shook his head as he finished up his second crème caramel with the teaspoon, sipping the remains of the syrup.

  ‘She hasn’t wanted to tell me yet, poor thing, because she’s worried. But she’s going to make me the happiest man in the world.’

  I looked at him carefully.

  ‘To be honest, right now, you don’t exactly look the picture of happiness. Is it because of the wedding? Are you worried about having to go through a church wedding and all that?’

  ‘No, Daniel. I’m actually quite excited about it, even if there are priests involved. I could marry Bernarda every day of the week.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Do you know the first thing they ask you when you want to get married?’

  ‘Your name,’ I said, without thinking.

  Fermín nodded his head slowly. It hadn’t occurred to me to think about that until then. Suddenly I understood the dilemma my good friend was facing.

  ‘Do you remember what I told you years ago, Daniel?’

  I remembered it perfectly. During the civil war and thanks to the nefarious dealings of Inspector Fumero who, before joining the fascists, acted as a hired thug for the communists, my friend had landed himself in prison, where he’d been on the verge of losing his mind and his life. When he managed to get out, alive by some sheer miracle, he decided to adopt a new identity and erase his past. He was at death’s door when he borrowed a name he saw on an old poster in the Arenas bullring. That is how Fermín Romero de Torres was born, a man who invented his life story day after day.

  ‘That’s why you didn’t want to fill in those papers in the parish church,’ I said. ‘Because you can’t use the name Fermín Romero de Torres.’

  Fermín nodded.

  ‘Look, I’m sure we can find a way of getting you new documentation. Do you remember Lieutenant Palacios, the one who left the police force? He teaches physical education at a school in the Bonanova area, but sometimes he drops by the bookshop. Well, one day, talking about this and that, he told me there was a whole underground market of new identities for people who were returning to Spain after spending years away. He said he knows someone with a workshop near the old Royal Shipyards who has contacts in the police force and for a hundred pesetas can supply people with a new identity card and get it registered in the ministry.’

  ‘I know. His name was Heredia. Quite an artist.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘He turned up floating in the port a couple of months ago. They said he’d fallen off a pleasure boat while he was sailing towards the breakwater. With his hands tied behind his back. Fascist humour.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘We met now and then.’

  ‘Then you do have documents that certify you are Fermín Romero de Torres …’

  ‘Heredia managed to get them for me in 1939, towards the end of the war. It was easier then, Barcelona was a madhouse, and when people realised the ship was sinking they’d even sell you their coat of arms for a couple of duros.

  ‘Then why can’t you use your name?’

  ‘Because Fermín Romero de Torres died in 1940. Those were bad times, Daniel, far worse than these. He didn’t even last a year, poor bastard.’

  ‘He died? Where? How?’

  ‘In the prison of Montjuïc Castle. In cell number thirteen.’

  I remembered the dedication the stranger had left for Fermín in the copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.

  For Fermín Romero de Torres,

  who came back from among the dead

  and holds the key to the future.

  13

  ‘That night I only told you a small part of the story, Daniel.’

  ‘I thought you trusted me.’

  ‘I would trust you with my life. If I only told you part of it, it was to protect you.’

  ‘Protect me? From what?’

  Fermín looked down, devastated.

  ‘From the truth, Daniel … from the truth.’

  Part Two

  From Among the Dead

  1

  Barcelona, 1939

  New prisoners were brought in by night, in cars or black vans that set off from the police station on Vía Layetana and crossed the city silently, nobody noticing or wishing to notice them. The vehicles of the political police drove up the old road scaling the slopes of Montjuïc and more than one prisoner would relate how, the moment they glimpsed the castle on top of the hill silhouetted against black clouds that crept in from the sea, they felt certain they would never get out of that place alive.

  The fortress was anchored at the highest point of the rocky mountain, suspended between the sea to the east, Barcelona’s carpet of shadows to the north and, to the south, the endless city of the dead – the old Montjuïc Cemetery whose stench rose up among the boulders and filtered through cracks in the stone and through the bars of the cells. In times past, the castle had been used for bombarding the city below, but only a few months after the fall of Barcelona, in January, and the final defeat in April, death came to dwell there in silence and Barcelonians, trapped in the lo
ngest night of their history, preferred not to look skywards and recognise the prison’s outline crowning the hill.

  Upon arrival, prisoners brought in by the political police were assigned a number, usually that of the cell they were going to occupy and where they were likely to die. For most tenants, as some of the jailers liked to refer to them, the journey to the castle was only one-way. On the night tenant number 13 arrived in Montjuïc it was raining hard. Thin veins of black water bled down the stone walls and the air reeked of excavated earth. Two police officers escorted him to a room containing only a metal table and a chair. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling and flickered every time the generator’s flow diminished. He stood there waiting in his soaking clothes for almost half an hour, watched by a guard with a rifle.

  At last he heard footsteps, the door opened and in came a man who couldn’t have been a day over thirty. He wore a freshly ironed wool suit and smelled of eau de cologne. He had none of the martial looks of a professional soldier or police officer: his features were soft and his expression seemed pleasant. To the prisoner he came across as someone affecting the manners of a wealthy young man, giving off a condescending air of superiority in a setting that was beneath him. His most striking feature were his eyes. Blue, penetrating and sharp, alive with greed and suspicion. Only his eyes, behind that veneer of studied elegance and kind demeanour, betrayed his true nature.

  Two round lenses augmented them, and his pomaded hair, combed back, lent him a vaguely affected look that didn’t match the sinister decor. The man sat down on the chair behind the desk and opened a folder he was carrying. After a quick inspection of its contents, he joined his hands, placed his fingertips under his chin and sat scrutinising the prisoner, who finally spoke up.

  ‘Excuse me, but I think there has been a mistake …’

  The blow on the prisoner’s stomach with the rifle butt knocked the wind out of him and he fell, curled up into a ball.

  ‘You only speak when the governor asks you a question,’ the guard told him.

  ‘On your feet,’ commanded the governor in a quavering voice, still unused to giving orders.

  The prisoner managed to stand up and face the governor’s uncomfortable gaze.