The Prisoner of Heaven

  ‘Would you be so kind as to give me the name and address where you would like us to deliver the book, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s all there,’ he said, without turning his head.

  I opened the book and looked for the page with the inscription the stranger had written out.

  For Fermín Romero de Torres,

  who came back from among the dead

  and holds the key to the future.

  13

  Then I heard the tinkle of the doorbell and when I looked up, the stranger was gone.

  I dashed over to the door and peered out into the street. The visitor was limping away, merging with the silhouettes that moved through the veil of blue mist sweeping up Calle Santa Ana. I was about to call him, but I bit my tongue. The easiest thing would have been to let him go and have done with it, but my instinct and my characteristic lack of prudence got the better of me.

  4

  I hung the CLOSED sign on the door and locked up, determined to follow the stranger through the crowd. I knew that if my father returned and discovered that I had abandoned my post – on the one occasion when he’d left me alone and bang in the middle of that sales drought – I’d be in serious trouble. But I’d think of a convenient excuse along the way. Better to face my father’s temper than be consumed by the anxiety left in me by that sinister character, and not know what was the true intent of his business with Fermín.

  A professional bookseller has few opportunities to acquire the fine art of following a suspect in the field without being spotted. Unless a substantial number of his customers are prominent defaulters, such opportunities are only granted to him vicariously by the collection of crime stories and penny dreadfuls on his bookshelves. Clothes maketh not the man, but crime, or its presumption, maketh the detective, especially the amateur sleuth.

  While I followed the stranger towards the Ramblas, I recalled the essentials, beginning by leaving a good fifty metres between us, camouflaging myself behind someone larger and always having a quick hideaway ready – a doorway or a shop – in case the subject I was tailing should stop and turn around without warning. When he reached the Ramblas the stranger crossed over to the central boulevard and began to walk down towards the port. The boulevard was festooned with traditional Christmas decorations and more than one shop had decked its window with lights, stars and angels announcing a seasonal bonanza. If the regime’s radio said better times were ahead, it must be true.

  In those days, Christmas still retained a certain aura of magic and mystery. The powdery light of winter, the hopeful expressions of people who lived among shadows and silences, lent that setting a slight air of promise in which at least children and those who had learned the art of forgetting could still believe.

  Perhaps that is why it became increasingly obvious to me that nobody seemed more out of place amid all that Christmas fantasy than the peculiar object of my investigation. He limped slowly, often stopping by one of the bird stalls or flower stands to admire parakeets and roses, as if he’d never before set eyes on one. A couple of times he walked over to the newspaper kiosks that dotted the Ramblas and amused himself glancing at the covers of papers and magazines and idly twirling the postcard carousels. He acted as if he had never been there in his life, like a child or a tourist walking down the Ramblas for the first time – but then children and tourists often display an air of innocence that comes with not knowing one’s whereabouts, whereas our man couldn’t have looked less innocent even with the blessing of Baby Jesus, whose statue he passed when he reached the Church of Belén.

  Then he stopped, apparently entranced by a cockatoo that was eyeballing him from one of the animal stalls opposite the entrance to Calle Puertaferrisa. Approaching the birdcage just as he’d approached the glass cabinet in the bookshop, the stranger started mumbling something to the cockatoo. The bird, a specimen with a large head, the body of a capon and luxurious plumage, survived the stranger’s sulphuric breath and applied itself with great relish and concentration to what his visitor was reciting. In case there was any doubt, the bird nodded its head repeatedly and raised its feathery pink crest, visibly excited.

  After a few minutes, the stranger, satisfied with his avian exchange, resumed his itinerary. No more than thirty seconds later, as I walked past the bird stall, I noticed that a small hullabaloo had broken out. The shop assistant, plainly embarrassed, was hastily covering the cockatoo’s cage with a hood because the bird kept repeating with exemplary elocution the refrain, Franco, you prick, you can’t lift your dick. I was in no doubt at all about the source of the couplet. The stranger at least displayed a daring sense of humour and audacious political leanings, which in those days were as rare as skirts worn above the knee.

  Distracted by the incident, I thought I’d lost sight of him, but soon I glimpsed his hunched figure standing in front of the window of the Bagués jewellery shop. I sidled over to one of the scriveners’ booths bordering the entrance to the Palace of La Virreina and observed him carefully. His eyes shone like rubies and the sight of gold and precious stones behind the bulletproof pane seemed to have awoken a lust in him that not even a row of chorus girls from La Criolla in its years of splendour could have aroused.

  ‘A love letter, an application, a request to the distinguished official of your choice, a spontaneous “hope this letter finds you well” for the relatives in the country, young man?’

  The scribe whose booth I had adopted as a hiding place was peering out like a father confessor and looked at me expectantly, hoping I’d make use of his services. The poster above the counter read:

  OSWALDO DARÍO DE MORTENSSEN

  MAN OF LETTERS AND FREE THINKER

  Writes love letters, petitions, wills, poems, praises,

  greetings, pleas, obituaries, hymns, dissertations, applications

  and all types of compositions in all classic styles and metrics

  Ten céntimos per sentence (rhymes are extra)

  Special prices for widows, disabled war veterans and minors.

  ‘What say you, young man? A love letter of the sort that makes girls of a courting age wet their petticoats with desire? I’ll give you a special price.’

  I showed him my wedding ring. Oswaldo, the scribe, shrugged his shoulders, unperturbed.

  ‘These are modern times,’ he argued. ‘If you knew the number of married men and women who come by my booth …’

  I read the notice again. There was something familiar about it, which I couldn’t put my finger on.

  ‘Your name rings a bell …’

  ‘I’ve seen better times. Maybe from back then.’

  ‘Is it your real name?’

  ‘Nom de plume. An artist’s name needs to match his mission. On my birth certificate I’m Jenaro Rebollo, but with a name like that, who is going to entrust their love letters to me …? What do you say to the day’s offer? Are we to prepare a letter of passion and longing?’

  ‘Some other time.’

  The scribe nodded with resignation. He followed my eyes and frowned, intrigued.

  ‘Watching the lame guy, aren’t you?’ he remarked casually.

  ‘Do you know him?’ I asked.

  ‘For about a week now I’ve seen him walk past this place every day and stop right there, by the jeweller’s shop window, where he stares open mouthed as if what was on show were not rings and necklaces but Bella Dorita’s bare derriere,’ he explained.

  ‘Have you ever spoken to him?’

  ‘One of my colleagues copied out a letter for him the other day; he’s missing some fingers, you see …’

  ‘Which one of your colleagues was that?’ I asked.

  The scribe looked at me doubtfully, fearing the possible loss of a client if he replied.

  ‘Luisito, the one over there, next to the music store, the one who looks like a seminarist.’

  I offered him a few coins in gratitude but he refused them.

  ‘I make a living with my pen, not with my tongue. There are plenty of the
latter already in this courtyard. If you ever find yourself in need of grammatical rescue, you’ll find me here.’

  He handed me a card with the same wording as on his poster.

  ‘Monday to Saturday, from eight to eight,’ he specified. ‘Oswaldo, soldier of the written word, at your service for any epistolary cause.’

  I put the card away and thanked him for his help.

  ‘Your bird’s flying off.’

  I turned and could see that the stranger was moving on again. I hastened after him, following him down the Ramblas as far as the entrance to the Boquería market, where he stopped to gaze at the sight of the stalls and people coming and going, loading or unloading fine delicacies. I saw him limp up to Bar Pinocho and climb on to one of the stools, with difficulty but with aplomb. For the next half-hour the stranger tried to polish off the treats which the youngest in the bar, Juanito, kept serving him, but I had a feeling that he wasn’t really up to the challenge. He seemed to be eating more with his eyes, as if when he asked for tapas, which he barely sampled, he was recalling days of healthier appetites. Sometimes the palate does not savour so much as try to remember. Finally, resigned to the vicarious joy of watching others eating and licking their lips, the stranger paid his bill and continued on his voyage until he reached the entrance to Calle Hospital, where the peculiar arrangement of Barcelona’s streets had conspired to place one of the great opera houses of the old world next to one of the most squalid red-light districts of the northern hemisphere.

  5

  At that time of the day the crews of a number of military and merchant ships docked in the port happened to be venturing up the Ramblas to satisfy cravings of various sorts. In view of the demand, the supply had already appeared on the corner: a rota of ladies for rent who looked as if they had clocked up quite a few miles and were ready to offer a very affordable minimum fare. I winced at the sight of tight skirts over varicose veins and purple patches that hurt just to look at them, at wrinkled faces and a general air of last-fare-before-retiring that inspired anything but lust. A sailor must have had to spend many months on the high seas to rise to the bait, I thought, but to my surprise the stranger stopped to flirt with a couple of those ladies of the long-gone springtime, as if he were bantering with the fresh beauties of the finest cabarets.

  ‘Here, ma’ love, let me take twenty years off you with my speciality rubdown,’ I heard one of them say. She could easily have passed for the grandmother of Oswaldo the scribe.

  You’ll kill him with a rubdown, I thought. The stranger, with a prudent gesture, declined the invitation.

  ‘Some other day, my darling,’ he replied, stepping further into the Raval quarter.

  I followed him for a hundred more metres or so, until I saw him stop in front of a narrow, dark doorway, nearly opposite the Hotel Europa. He disappeared into the building and I waited half a minute before going in after him.

  Inside, a dark staircase seemed to trail off into the bowels of the building. The building itself looked as if it were listing to port, or perhaps were even on the point of sinking into the catacombs of the Raval district, judging from the stench of damp and a faulty sewerage system. On one side of the hallway stood some sort of porter’s lodge where a greasy-looking individual in a sleeveless vest, with a toothpick between his lips and a transistor radio, cast me a look somewhere between inquisitive and plainly hostile.

  ‘You’re on your own?’ he asked, vaguely intrigued.

  It didn’t take a genius to realise I was in the lobby of an establishment that rented out rooms by the hour and that the only discordant note about my visit was the fact that I wasn’t holding the hand of one of the cut-price Venuses on patrol round the corner.

  ‘If you like, I’ll get a nice girl for you,’ he offered, preparing a parcel with a towel, a bar of soap and what I guessed must be a rubber or some other prophylactic device to be used as a last resort.

  ‘Actually, I just wanted to ask you a question,’ I began.

  The porter rolled his eyes.

  ‘It’s twenty pesetas for half an hour and you provide the filly.’

  ‘Tempting. Perhaps some other day. What I wanted to ask you was whether a gentleman has just gone upstairs, a couple of minutes ago. An older man. Not in the best shape. On his own. Filly-less.’

  The porter frowned. I realised from his expression that he was instantly downgrading me from potential client to pesky fly.

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone. Go on, beat it before I call Tonet.’

  I gathered Tonet could not be a very endearing character. I placed my few remaining coins on the counter and gave the porter a conciliatory smile. In a flash, the money vanished as if it were an insect and the porter’s hands – with their plastic thimbles – the darting tongue of a chameleon.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Does the man I described to you live here?’

  ‘He’s been renting a room for a week.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘He paid a month in advance, so I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Do you know where he comes from, what he does for a living …?’

  ‘This isn’t a phone-in programme. People come here to fornicate and I don’t ask any questions. And this one doesn’t even fornicate. So you do the sums.’

  I reconsidered the matter.

  ‘All I know is that every now and then he goes out and then comes back. Sometimes he asks me to send up a bottle of wine, bread and a bit of honey. He pays well and doesn’t say a word.’

  ‘And you’re sure you don’t remember any names?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘All right. Thanks and I’m sorry I bothered you.’

  I was about to leave when the porter’s voice called me back.

  ‘Romero,’ he said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I think he said he’s called Romero or something like that …’

  ‘Romero de Torres?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Fermín Romero de Torres?’ I repeated, incredulous.

  ‘That’s the one. Wasn’t there a bullfighter going by that name before the war?’ asked the porter. ‘I thought it sounded familiar …’

  6

  I made my way back to the bookshop, more confused than before I left. As I walked past La Virreina Palace, Oswaldo, the scribe, raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

  I mumbled a negative reply.

  ‘Try Luisito, he might remember something.’

  I gave Oswaldo a nod and went over to Luisito’s booth. Luisito was cleaning his collection of nibs. When he saw me he smiled and asked me to sit down.

  ‘What’s it going to be? Pleasure or business?’

  ‘Your colleague Oswaldo sent me.’

  ‘Our mentor and master,’ declared Luisito. ‘A great man of letters, unrecognised by the corrupt establishment. And there he is, in the street, working with words at the service of the illiterate.’

  ‘Oswaldo was saying that the other day you served an older man, lame and a bit clapped out, with one hand missing and some fingers of the other …’

  ‘I remember him. I always remember one-handed men. Because of Cervantes – he lost a hand in the battle of Lepanto, you know?’

  ‘I know. And could you tell me what business brought this man to you?’

  Luisito stirred in his chair, uncomfortable at the turn the conversation was taking.

  ‘Look, this is almost like a confessional. Professional confidentiality is paramount.’

  ‘I understand that. The trouble is, this is a serious matter.’

  ‘How serious?’

  ‘Sufficiently serious to threaten the well-being of people who are very dear to me.’

  ‘I see, but …’

  Luisito craned his neck and tried to catch Oswaldo’s eye at the other end of the courtyard. I saw Oswaldo nod and then Luisito relaxed.

  ‘The gentleman brought a letter he’d written. He wanted it copied out i
n good handwriting, because with his hand …’

  ‘And the letter was about …?’

  ‘I barely remember, we write so many letters every day …’

  ‘Make an effort, Luisito. For Cervantes’ sake.’

  ‘Well, although I may be confusing it with another letter I wrote for some other client, I believe it was something to do with a large sum of money the one-handed gentleman was hoping to receive or recover or something like that. And something about a key.’

  ‘A key.’

  ‘Right. He didn’t specify whether this was an Allen key, a piano key or a door key.’

  Luisito smiled at me, visibly pleased with his own wit.

  ‘Do you remember anything else?’

  Luisito licked his lips thoughtfully.

  ‘He said he found the city very changed.’

  ‘In what way, changed?’

  ‘I don’t know. Changed. Without dead bodies in the streets.’

  ‘Dead bodies in the streets? Is that what he said?’

  ‘If I remember correctly …’

  7

  I thanked Luisito for the information and hurried back, hoping I’d reach the shop before my father returned from his errand and my absence was detected. The CLOSED sign was still on the door. I opened it, unhooked the notice and took my place behind the counter, convinced that not a single customer had come by during the almost forty-five minutes I had been away.

  As I wasn’t busy, I started to think about what I was going to do with that copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and how I was going to broach the subject with Fermín when he arrived. I didn’t want to alarm him unnecessarily, but the stranger’s visit and my poor attempt at solving what he was up to had left me feeling uneasy. Normally, I would simply have told Fermín what had happened and left it at that, but I knew that on this occasion I had to be tactful. For some time now, Fermín had appeared crestfallen and in a filthy mood. I’d been trying to cheer him up but none of my feeble attempts seemed to make him smile.