The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel (22 page)

‘Correct.’

‘That’s where I get lost. Help me, Daniel. If Fermín thought up a false identity once, why can’t he make up another one now to get married with?’

‘For two reasons, Professor. The first is purely practical and that is, whether he uses his name or another invented one, currently Fermín does not possess any legal identity. Therefore, whatever identity he decides to use must be created from scratch.’

‘But he wants to continue being Fermín, I suppose.’

‘Exactly. And that is the second reason, which is not practical but spiritual, so to speak, and far more important. Fermín wants to continue being Fermín because that is the person Bernarda has fallen in love with, the man who is our friend, the one we all know and the one
he
wants to be. The person he used to be hasn’t existed for years. It’s a skin he sloughed off. Not even I, who am probably his best friend, know what name he was given when he was christened. For me, and for all those who love him, and especially for himself, he is Fermín Romero de Torres. And when you think of it, if it’s a question of creating a new identity for him, why not create his present one?’

Professor Alburquerque finally nodded in assent.

‘Correct,’ he pronounced.

‘So, do you think this is feasible, Professor?’

‘Well, it’s a quixotic mission if ever there was one,’ considered the professor. ‘How to endow the gaunt knight Don Fermín de la Mancha with lineage, greyhound and a sheaf of false documents with which to pair him off with his beautiful Bernarda del Toboso in the eyes of God and the register office?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it and consulting legal books,’ I said. ‘In this country, a person’s identity begins with a birth certificate, which, when you stop to consider, is a very simple document.’

The professor raised his eyebrows.

‘What you’re suggesting is delicate. Not to say a serious crime.’

‘Unprecedented in fact, at least in the judicial annals. I’ve verified it.’

‘Have you? Please continue, this is getting better.’

‘Let’s suppose that someone, hypothetically speaking, had access to the offices of the Civil Registry and could, to put it bluntly,
plant
a birth certificate in the archives … Wouldn’t that provide sufficient grounds to establish a person’s identity?’

The professor shook his head.

‘Perhaps for a newborn child. But if we’re speaking, hypothetically, of an adult, we’d have to create an entire documentary history. And even if you had access, hypothetically, to the archives, where would you get hold of those documents?’

‘Let’s say I was able to create a series of credible facsimiles. Would you think it possible then?’

The professor considered the matter carefully.

‘The main risk would be that someone uncovers the fraud and wants to bring it to light. Bearing in mind that in this case the so-called accuser who could have spilled the beans regarding documental irregularities is deceased, the problem would boil down to a), being able to gain access to the archives and introduce a file into the system with a fictitious but plausible identity and b), generating the whole string of documents required to establish that identity. I’m talking about papers of all shapes and sizes, and all sorts of certificates including certificates of baptism from parish churches, identity cards …’

‘With regard to point a), I understand that you’re writing a series of articles on the marvels of the Spanish legal system, commissioned by the Council for a report on that institution. I’ve been looking into it a little and discovered that during the war, a number of archives in the Civil Registry were bombed. That means that hundreds, even thousands, of identities must have been reconstructed any old how. I’m no expert, but I imagine that this would open a gap or two which someone well informed, well connected and with a plan could take advantage of …’

The professor looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

‘I see you’ve been doing some serious research, Daniel.’

‘Forgive me, Professor, but Fermín’s happiness is worth that and much more.’

‘And it does you credit. But it could also earn whoever attempted to do such a thing a heavy sentence if he was caught red handed.’

‘That’s why I thought that if someone, hypothetically, had access to one of those reconstructed archives in the Civil Registry, he could take a helper along with him who would, so to speak, assume the more risky part of the operation.’

‘If that were the case, the hypothetical helper would have to be able to guarantee the facilitator a twenty per cent lifelong discount on the price of any book bought at Sempere & Sons. Plus an invitation to the wedding of the newborn.’

‘That’s a done deal. And I’d even raise that to twenty-five per cent. Although, come to think of it, I know someone who, hypothetically, would be prepared to collaborate pro bono, just for the pleasure of scoring a goal against a rotten, corrupt regime, receiving nothing in exchange.’

‘I’m an academic, Daniel. Emotional blackmail doesn’t work with me.’

‘For Fermín, then.’

‘That’s another matter. Let’s go into the technicalities.’

I pulled out the one-thousand-peseta note Salgado had given me and showed it to him.

‘This is my budget for running costs and issuance of documents,’ I remarked.

‘I see you’re sparing no expense. But you’d do better to put that money aside for other endeavours that will be required by this noble deed. My services come free of charge,’ replied the professor. ‘The bit that worries me most, dear assistant, is the much needed documentary trail. Forget all the new public works and prayer books: the new centurions of the regime have also doubled the already colossal structure of the state bureaucracy, worthy of the worst nightmares of our friend Franz Kafka. As I say, a case like this will require generating all kinds of letters, applications, petitions and other documents that must look credible and have the consistency, tone and smell that are characteristic of a dusty, dog-eared and unquestionable file …’

‘We’re covered on that front,’ I said.

‘I’m going to have to be given the list of accomplices in this conspiracy, to make sure you’re not bluffing.’

I went on to explain the rest of my plan.

‘It could work,’ he concluded.

As soon as the main dish arrived, we wrapped up the matter and the conversation took a different direction. Although I’d been holding back during the entire meal, by the time coffee was served, I could no longer restrain myself. Feigning a certain indifference, I asked innocently:

‘By the way, Professor, the other day a customer was chatting to me about something in the bookshop and the name Mauricio Valls cropped up – the one who was Minister of Culture and all those things. What do you know about him?’

The professor raised an eyebrow.

‘About Valls? What everyone knows, I suppose.’

‘I’m sure you know much more than everyone, Professor. Much more.’

‘Well, actually, I hadn’t heard that name for a while, but until not long ago Mauricio Valls was a real big shot. As you say, he was our famous new Minister of Culture for a few years, head of a number of institutions and organisations, a man well placed in the regime and of great prestige in those circles, patron to many, golden boy of all the cultural pages in the Spanish press … As I say, a big shot.’

I smiled weakly, pretending to be pleasantly surprised.

‘And he isn’t any longer?’

‘Quite frankly, I’d say he disappeared off the map a while ago, or at least from the public scene. I’m not sure whether he was given some embassy or some post in an international institution, you know how these things work. But in fact I’ve lost track of him lately … I know he set up a publishing house with a number of partners some years ago. The business does very well – it doesn’t stop bringing out new books. In fact, once a month I receive an invite for the launch of one of their titles …’

‘And does Valls go to these events?’

‘He used to, years ago. We always joked about the fact that he spoke more about himself than about the book or the author he was presenting. But that was some time ago. I haven’t seen him for years. May I ask why this interest, Daniel? I didn’t think of you as someone keen on our literature’s small vanity fair.’

‘I’m just curious.’

‘I see.’

While Professor Alburquerque paid the bill, he looked at me askance.

‘Why is it that I always think you’re not even telling me a quarter of the story?’

‘One day I’ll tell you the rest, Professor. I promise.’

‘You’d better, because cities have no memory and they need someone like me, a sage with his feet on the ground, to keep it alive.’

‘This is the deal: you help me solve Fermín’s problem and in exchange, one day I’ll tell you things that Barcelona would rather forget. For your secret history.’

The professor held out his hand and I shook it.

‘I’ll take your word for it. Now, returning to the subject of Fermín and the documents we’re going to have to pull out of a hat …’

‘I think I have the right man for the job.’

6

Oswaldo Darío de Mortenssen, prince of Barcelona scribes and an old acquaintance of mine, was enjoying a break after his lunch, in his booth next to La Virreina Palace, sipping a double espresso with a dash of cognac and smoking a cigar. When he saw me approaching he raised a hand in greeting.

‘The prodigal son returns. Have you changed your mind? Shall we get going on that love letter that will give you access to the forbidden zips and buttons of the desired young lady?’

I showed him my wedding ring again and he nodded, remembering.

‘I’m sorry. Force of habit. You’re one of the old guard. What can I do for you?’

‘The other day I remembered why your name sounded familiar to me, Don Oswaldo. I work in a bookshop and I found a novel of yours from 1933,
The Riders of Twilight
.’

That sparked a host of memories. Oswaldo smiled nostalgically.

‘What times those were … Barrido and Escobillas, my publishers, ripped me off to the last
céntimo
, the swines. May they roast for ever in hell. Still, the pleasure of writing it – nobody can take that away from me.’

‘If I bring it along one day, will you sign it for me?’

‘Of course. It was my swansong. The world wasn’t ready for a western set in the Ebro delta, with bandits on canoes instead of horses, and mosquitoes the size of watermelons.’

‘You’re the Zane Grey of the Spanish coast.’

‘I wish. What can I do for you, young man?’

‘Lend me your talent and cunning for an equally worthy venture.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘I need you to help me invent a documentary past for a friend, so he can marry the woman he loves without legal impediments.’

‘A good man?’

‘The best I know.’

‘If that’s the case, it’s a deal. My favourite scenes were always weddings and christenings.’

‘We’ll need official applications, reports, petitions, certificates – the whole shooting match.’

‘That won’t be a problem. We’ll delegate part of the logistics to Luisito, whom you already know. He’s completely trustworthy and a master in twelve different calligraphies.’

I pulled out the one-thousand-peseta note the professor had refused and handed it to him. Oswaldo put it away swiftly, his eyes as big as saucers.

‘And they say you can’t make a living from writing in Spain,’ he said.

‘Will that cover the working expenses?’

‘Amply. When I’ve got it all organised I’ll let you know what the whole operation adds up to, but off the top of my head I’d guess that three or four hundred will get us there.’

‘I leave that to your discretion, Oswaldo. My friend Professor Alburquerque …’

‘Fine writer …’ Oswaldo cut in.

‘And an even better gentleman. As I say, my friend, the professor, will drop by and give you a list of the documents required, and all the details. If there’s anything you need, you’ll find me at the Sempere & Sons bookshop.’

His face lit up when he heard the name.

‘Ah, the sanctuary. As a young man I used to go round every Saturday and those encounters with Señor Sempere opened my eyes.’

‘That would have been my grandfather.’

‘I haven’t been there for years. My finances are tight and I’ve taken to borrowing books from libraries.’

‘Well, do pay us the honour of returning to the bookshop, Don Oswaldo. Consider it your home and we can always sort something out with prices.’

‘I will.’

He put out a hand and I shook it.

‘It’s a pleasure to do business with the Semperes.’

‘May it be the first of many such occasions.’

‘What happened to the lame man whose eyes twinkled at the sight of gold?’

‘Turned out that all that glittered wasn’t gold,’ I said.

‘A sign of our times …’

7

Barcelona, 1958

That month of January came wrapped in bright icy skies that blew powdery snow over the city’s rooftops. The sun shone every day, casting sharp angles of light and shadow on the façades of a crystalline Barcelona. Double-decker buses drove by with the top tier empty and passing trams left a halo of steam on the tracks.

Christmas lights glowed in garlands of blue fire all over the old town and carols bearing sugary wishes of goodwill and peace trickled out of a thousand and one loudspeakers by shop doors. The Yuletide message was so pervasive that a policeman guarding the nativity scene set up by the town hall in Plaza San Jaime turned a blind eye when someone had the bright idea of placing a Catalan beret on the Infant Jesus – ignoring the demands of a group of pious old women who expected him to haul the man off with a slap to police headquarters. In the end, someone from the archbishop’s office reported the incident and three nuns turned up to restore order.

Christmas sales had picked up and a seasonal star in the shape of black numbers in the accounts of Sempere & Sons guaranteed that we would at least be able to cope with the electricity and heating bills. With a bit of luck, we might even enjoy a proper hot meal once a day. My father seemed to have recovered his spirits and decreed that this year we wouldn’t wait so long before decorating the bookshop.