The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel (21 page)

‘If you’re planning to reintroduce it into restricted areas of your anatomy, I beg you to step into the bathroom for the sake of decorum. This is a family venue, open to the general public,’ Fermín warned him.

Salgado, who seemed to have recovered the bloom of first youth, broke into a smile of boundless satisfaction.

‘Come to think of it, you’ve actually done me a huge favour keeping it for me all these years,’ he declared.

‘That’s what friends are for,’ answered Fermín. ‘God bless, and don’t hesitate never to come back here again.’

Salgado smiled and winked at us. He walked towards the door, already lost in thought. Before stepping into the street he turned round for a moment and raised a hand in a conciliatory farewell.

‘I wish you luck and a long life, Fermín. And rest assured, your secret is safe with me.’

We watched him leave in the rain, an old man anyone might have thought was at death’s door but who, I was sure, didn’t feel the cold raindrops lashing at him then, or even the years of imprisonment and hardships he carried in his blood. I glanced at Fermín, who seemed nailed to the ground, looking pale and confused at the sight of his old cellmate.

‘Are we going to let him go just like that?’ I asked.

‘Have you a better plan?’

3

After the proverbial minute’s wait, we hurried down the street armed with dark raincoats and an umbrella the size of a parasol that Fermín had bought in one of the bazaars in the port – intending to use it both winter and summer for his escapades to La Barceloneta beach with Bernarda.

‘Fermín, with this thing we stick out like a sore thumb,’ I warned him.

‘Don’t worry. I’m sure the only thing that swine can see are gold doubloons raining down from heaven,’ replied Fermín.

Salgado was some hundred metres ahead of us, hobbling briskly under the rain along Calle Condal. We narrowed the gap a little, just in time to see him about to climb on to a tram going up Vía Layetana. We sprinted forward, closing the umbrella as we ran, and by some miracle managed to leap on to the tram’s running board. In the best tradition of those days we made the journey hanging from the back. Salgado had found a seat in the front, offered to him by a Good Samaritan, who couldn’t have known who he was dealing with.

‘That’s what happens when people reach old age,’ said Fermín. ‘Nobody remembers they’ve been bastards too.’

The tram rumbled along Calle Trafalgar until it reached the Arco de Triunfo. We peered inside and saw that Salgado was still glued to his seat. The ticket collector, a man with a bushy moustache, scowled at us.

‘Don’t think that because you’re hanging out there I’m going to give you a discount. I’ve had an eye on you ever since you jumped on board.’

‘Nobody cares about social realism any more,’ murmured Fermín. ‘What a country.’

We handed him a few coins and he gave us our tickets. We were beginning to think Salgado must have fallen asleep when, as the tram turned into the road leading to the Estación del Norte, he stood up and pulled the chain to request a stop. The driver was now slowing down, so we jumped off opposite the palatial art nouveau headquarters of the Hydroelectric Company and followed the tram on foot to the stop. We saw Salgado step down, assisted by two passengers, and then head off towards the train station.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ I asked.

Fermín nodded. We followed Salgado to the station’s grand entrance hall, camouflaging ourselves – or perhaps making our presence painfully obvious – behind Fermín’s oversized umbrella. Once inside, Salgado approached a row of metal lockers lined up along one of the walls like miniature niches in a cemetery. We sat on a bench in the shadows of the hall. Salgado was standing in front of the countless lockers, staring at them, utterly absorbed.

‘Do you think he’s forgotten where he hid the booty?’ I asked.

‘Of course he hasn’t. He’s been waiting twenty years for this moment. He’s simply savouring it.’

‘If you say so … But he’s forgotten, if you ask me.’

We remained there, watching and waiting.

‘Fermín, you never really told me where you hid the key when you escaped from the castle …’

Fermín threw me a hostile glance.

‘Forget it,’ I conceded.

The wait continued a few minutes longer.

‘Perhaps he has an accomplice …’ I said, ‘and he’s waiting for him.’

‘Salgado isn’t the sharing sort.’

‘Perhaps there’s someone else who …’

‘Shhh,’ Fermín hushed me, pointing at Salgado, who had moved at last.

The old man walked over to one of the lockers and placed his hand on the metal door. He pulled out the key, inserted it in the lock, opened the door and looked inside. At that precise moment a pair of Civil Guards doing their rounds turned into the entrance hall from the station platforms and walked over to where Salgado was standing, trying to pull something out of the locker.

‘Oh dear, oh dear …’ I murmured.

Salgado turned and greeted the two officers. They exchanged a few words and one of them pulled a case out of the locker and left it on the floor by Salgado’s feet. The thief thanked them effusively for their help and the Civil Guards touched their three-cornered hats and continued on their beat.

‘God bless Spain,’ murmured Fermín.

Salgado grabbed the case and dragged it along to another bench, at the opposite end from where we were sitting.

‘He’s not going to open it here, is he?’ I asked.

‘He has to make sure it’s all there,’ replied Fermín. ‘That nasty piece of work has put up with years of misery to recover his treasure.’

Salgado looked around him a few times to make sure there was nobody nearby, and finally decided to take action. We saw him open the suitcase just a few centimetres and peer inside.

He remained like that for almost a minute, motionless. Fermín and I looked at one another without understanding. Suddenly Salgado closed the suitcase and got up, then walked off towards the exit, leaving the suitcase behind him in front of the open locker.

‘But what’s he doing?’ I asked.

Fermín stood up and signalled to me.

‘You get the suitcase, and I’ll follow him …’

Without giving me time to reply, Fermín hastened towards the exit. I hurried over to the place where Salgado had abandoned the case. A smart alec, who was reading a newspaper on a nearby bench, had also set eyes on it and, looking both ways first to check that nobody was watching, got up and was preparing to swoop on it like a bird of prey. I quickened my pace. The stranger was about to grab the case when, by the miracle of a split second, I managed to snatch it from him.

‘That suitcase isn’t yours,’ I said.

The individual fixed me with a hostile look and clutched the handle.

‘Shall I call the Civil Guards?’ I asked.

Looking flustered, the scamp let go of the case and moved swiftly away in the direction of the platforms. I took it over to the bench and, after making sure no one was looking, opened it.

It was empty. Salgado’s treasure was gone.

Only then did I hear shouts and turned my head to discover that some incident had occurred outside the station. I got to my feet and looked through the glass doors. The two Civil Guards were pushing their way through a circle of bystanders that had congregated in the rain. When the crowd parted, I saw Fermín kneeling on the ground, holding Salgado in his arms. The old man’s eyes were staring into space.

A woman came into the station, a hand clamped over her mouth.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘A poor old man, he just keeled over …’ she said.

I went outside and walked across to the knot of people observing the scene. I could see Fermín looking up and exchanging a few words with the Civil Guards. One of them was nodding. Fermín then took off his raincoat and spread it over Salgado’s corpse, covering his face. By the time I arrived there, a three-fingered hand was peeping out from under the garment. On the palm, shining in the rain, was the key. I protected Fermín with the umbrella and put a hand on his shoulder. We slowly moved away.

‘Are you all right, Fermín?’

My good friend shrugged.

‘Let’s go home,’ he managed to say.

4

As we left the station behind us I took off my raincoat and put it over Fermín’s shoulders. He’d abandoned his on Salgado’s body. I didn’t think my friend was in a fit state to take a long walk, so I hailed a taxi. I opened the door for him and, once he was seated, closed it and got in on the other side.

‘The suitcase was empty,’ I said. ‘Someone played a dirty trick on Salgado.’

‘It takes a thief to catch a thief …’

‘Who do you think it was?’

‘Perhaps the same person who said I had his key and told him where he could find me,’ Fermín murmured.

‘Valls?’

Fermín gave a dispirited sigh.

‘I don’t know, Daniel. I no longer know what to think.’

I noticed the taxi driver looking at us in the mirror, waiting.

‘We’re going to the entrance to Plaza Real, on Calle Fernando,’ I said.

‘Aren’t we going back to the bookshop?’ asked Fermín, who didn’t have enough fight left in him even to argue about a taxi ride.

‘I am. But you’re going to Don Gustavo’s, to spend the rest of the day with Bernarda.’

We made the journey in silence, staring out at Barcelona, a blur in the rain. When we reached the arches on Calle Fernando, where years before I’d first met Fermín, I paid the fare and we got out. I walked Fermín as far as Don Gustavo’s front door and gave him a hug.

‘Take care of yourself, Fermín. And eat something, or Bernarda will get a bone sticking into her on the wedding night.’

‘Don’t worry. When I set my mind to it, I can put on more weight than an opera singer. As soon as I go up to the flat I’ll gorge myself with those almond cakes Don Gustavo buys in Casa Quílez and by tomorrow I’ll look like stuffed turkey.’

‘I hope so. Give my best to the bride.’

‘I will, although with things the way they are on the legal front and with all that red tape, I can see myself living in sin.’

‘None of that. Remember what you once told me? That destiny doesn’t do home visits, that you have to go for it yourself?’

‘I must confess I took that sentence from one of Carax’s books. I liked the sound of it.’

‘Well, I believed it and still do. That’s why I’m telling you that your destiny is to marry Bernarda on the arranged date with all your papers in order – with priests, rice and your name and surnames.’

My friend looked at me sceptically.

‘As my name is Daniel, you’re getting married with all due pomp and ceremony,’ I promised Fermín. He looked so dejected I thought nothing would manage to revive his spirits: not a packet of Sugus, not even a good movie at the Fémina Cinema with Kim Novak sporting one of her glorious brassieres that defied gravity.

‘If you say so, Daniel …’

‘You’ve given me back the truth,’ I said. ‘I’m going to give you back your name.’

5

That afternoon, when I returned to the bookshop, I set in motion my plan for rescuing Fermín’s identity. The first step consisted in making a few phone calls from the back room and establishing a course of action. The second required gathering the right team of recognised experts.

The following day turned out to be pleasant and sunny. Around noon I walked over to the library on Calle del Carmen, where I’d arranged to meet Professor Alburquerque, convinced that whatever he didn’t know, nobody knew.

I found him under the tall arches of the main reading room, surrounded by piles of books and papers, concentrating, pen in hand. I sat down opposite him, on the other side of the table, and let him get on with his work. It took him almost a minute to become aware of my presence. When he looked up he stared at me in surprise.

‘That must be really good stuff,’ I ventured.

‘I’m working on a series of articles on Barcelona’s accursed writers,’ he explained. ‘Do you remember someone called Julián Carax, an author you recommended a few months ago in the bookshop?’

‘Of course,’ I replied.

‘Well, I’ve been looking into him and his story is truly extraordinary. Did you know that for years a diabolical character went around the world searching for Carax’s books and burning them?’

‘You don’t say,’ I said, feigning surprise.

‘It’s a very odd case. I’ll let you read it when I’ve finished.’

‘You should write a book on the subject,’ I proposed. ‘A secret history of Barcelona seen through its accursed writers, those forbidden in the official version.’

The professor considered the idea, intrigued.

‘It had occurred to me, I must say, but I have so much work what with my newspaper articles and the university …’

‘If you don’t write it, nobody will …’

‘Yes, well, maybe I’ll take the plunge and get on with it. I don’t know where I’ll find the time, but …’

‘Sempere & Sons can offer you its full catalogue and any assistance you may need.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind. So? Shall we go for lunch?’

Professor Alburquerque called it a day and we set off for Casa Leopoldo where we sat down with a glass of wine and some sublime
serrano
ham tapas, to wait for two plates of bull’s-tail stew, the day’s special.

‘How’s our good friend Fermín? A couple of weeks ago, when I saw him in Can Lluís, he looked very downcast.’

‘Oddly enough, he’s the person I wanted to talk to you about. It’s a rather delicate matter and I must ask you to keep it between ourselves.’

‘But of course. What can I do?’

I proceeded to outline the problem as concisely as I could, without touching upon thorny or unnecessary details. The professor sensed that there was plenty more to the story than I was telling him, but he displayed his customary discretion.

‘Let’s see if I’ve understood,’ he said. ‘Fermín cannot make use of his identity because, officially, he was pronounced dead almost twenty years ago and therefore, in the eyes of the state, he doesn’t exist.’

‘Correct.’

‘But, from what you tell me, I gather that this identity that was cancelled was also fictitious, an invention of Fermín himself during the war, to save his skin.’