The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel (26 page)
Read The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel Online
Authors: Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Bea smiled in assent.
‘Amen. Although a birdie told me the one you liked was Cary Grant.’
Bernarda blushed.
‘Don’t you? Not to marry, of course. I’d say he fell in love the first time he looked at himself in the mirror. But between you and me, and may God forgive me, I wouldn’t say no to a good squeeze from him …’
‘What would Fermín say if he heard you, Bernarda?’
‘What he always says. “After all, we’re all going to get eaten up by worms in the end …”’
Barcelona, 1958
Many years later, the twenty-three guests gathered there to celebrate the occasion would look back and remember the historic eve of the day when Fermín Romero de Torres abandoned his bachelorhood.
‘It’s the end of an era,’ proclaimed Professor Alburquerque, raising his glass of champagne in a toast, voicing better than anyone what we were all feeling.
Fermín’s stag night, an event whose effects on the global female population Gustavo Barceló compared to the death of Rudolf Valentino, took place on a clear February night of 1958. The venue was the magnificent dance hall of La Paloma, where the groom had in the past performed some heart-rending tangos, attaining moments that would now enter the secret dossier of a distinguished career at the service of the eternal female. My father, who for once in his life had been persuaded to leave home, had secured the services of a semi-professional dance band, La Habana del Baix Llobregat, who agreed to play for a knockdown price a selection of Fermín’s favourite fare: mambos,
guarachas
and
sones montunos
that transported the groom to his faraway days of intrigue and international glamour in the great gaming salons of a forgotten Cuba. Everyone, to a greater or lesser degree, let their hair down, throwing themselves on to the dance floor to shake a leg in Fermín’s honour.
Barceló had convinced my father that the glasses of vodka he kept handing him were mineral water with a few drops of anisette, and soon we were all able to witness an unprecedented sight: Señor Sempere dancing cheek-to-cheek with one of the easy ladies brought along by Rociíto – the true life and soul of the party – to brighten up the event.
‘Dear God,’ I murmured as I watched my father with that veteran madam of the night, swaying his hips and bumping his backside against hers in time to the beat.
Barceló circulated among the guests, handing out cigars and the little cards he’d had printed to commemorate the occasion, at a firm specialising in mementoes for first communions, christenings and funerals. The fine paper card depicted a caricature of Fermín dressed up as an angel, his hands together as in prayer, with the following message:
FERMÍN ROMERO DE TORRES
19??–1958
The great lover retires
1958–19??
The paterfamilias arises
For the first time in ages, Fermín was happy and calm. Half an hour before the start of the bash I’d taken him along to Can Lluís, where Professor Alburquerque certified that he’d been at the Civil Registry that very morning, armed with the entire dossier of documents and papers masterfully produced by Oswaldo Darío de Mortenssen and his assistant, Luisito.
‘Dear Fermín,’ the professor announced. ‘Allow me to welcome you officially to the world of the living. With our friends from Can Lluís as witnesses, Don Daniel Sempere and I hereby present you with a brand-new you, which comes with this fresh and legitimate identity card.’
An emotional Fermín examined his new documentation.
‘How did you manage such a miracle?’
‘We’ll spare you the technicalities,’ said the professor. ‘What really matters is that when you have a true friend who is ready to take the risk and move heaven and earth so that you can get married with everything in order and start bringing offspring into the world to continue the Romero de Torres line, almost anything is possible, Fermín.’
Fermín looked at me with tears in his eyes and hugged me so tight I thought I was going to suffocate. I’m not ashamed to admit that it was one of the happiest moments in my life.
Half an hour of music, drinks and naughty dancing had gone by when I took a breather and walked over to the bar to ask for something non-alcoholic. I didn’t think I could swallow another drop of rum and lemon, the evening’s official beverage. The waiter served me a glass of cold sparkling water and I leaned my back against the bar to take in the fun. I hadn’t noticed that Rociíto was standing at the other end. She was holding a glass of champagne, watching the party she had organised with a melancholy expression. From what Fermín had told me, I worked out that Rociíto must be close to her thirty-fifth birthday, but almost twenty years in the profession had taken their toll and even in the multicoloured half-light the crowned queen of Calle Escudellers appeared older.
I went up to her and smiled.
‘Rociíto, you’re looking more beautiful than ever,’ I lied.
She was wearing her smartest clothes and her hair showed the stunning handiwork of the best hairdresser in the Raval, but what really struck me was how sad she looked that night.
‘Are you all right, Rociíto?’
‘Look at ’im, poor thing. All skin and bone and he’s still in the mood for dancing. He always was a great dancer.’
Her eyes were glued to Fermín and I knew that she would always see in him the champion who had saved her from that small-time pimp. After her twenty years of working the streets, he was probably one of the few worthwhile men she’d met.
‘Don Daniel, I didn’t want to say anything to Fermín, but I won’t be going to the wedding tomorrow.’
‘What are you saying, Rociíto? Fermín had saved you a place of honour …’
Rociíto lowered her eyes.
‘I know, but I can’t be there.’
‘Why?’ I asked, although I could guess what the reply would be.
‘Because it would make me really sad and I want Señorito Fermín to be happy with his missus.’
Rociíto had started to cry. I didn’t know what to say, so I hugged her.
‘I’ve always loved him, you know? Ever since we met. I know I’m not the right woman for him. I know he sees me as … well, he sees me as Rociíto.’
‘Fermín loves you very much, you must never forget that.’
The woman moved away and dried her tears in embarrassment. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
‘Forgive me. You see, I’m so stupid: soon as I drink a couple of drops I don’t even know what I’m saying.’
‘That’s all right.’
I offered her my glass of water and she accepted it.
‘One day you realise your youth has passed you by and the train’s left, if you see what I mean.’
‘There’s always another train. Always.’
Rociíto nodded.
‘That’s why I’m not going to the wedding, Don Daniel. Some months ago I met this gentleman from Reus. He’s a good man. A widower. A good father. Owns a scrapyard and whenever he’s in Barcelona he comes to see me. He’s asked me to marry him. We’re not kidding ourselves, not him or me, you know? Growing old on your own is very hard, and I know I don’t have the figure to be on the street any more. Jaumet, the man from Reus, he’s asked me to go on a journey with him. His children have already left home and he’s been working all his life. He says he wants to see a bit of the world before it’s too late, and he’s asked me to go with him. As his wife, not a tart you use and then chuck out. The boat leaves tomorrow morning early. Jaumet says a captain can marry a couple on the high seas and if not, we’ll look for a priest in any old port.’
‘Does Fermín know?’
As if he’d heard us from afar, Fermín stopped bopping about on the dance floor and looked at us. He stretched his arms out towards Rociíto and gave her that silly look of someone in urgent need of a kiss and a cuddle that had always served him so well. Rociíto laughed, muttering under her breath, and before joining the love of her life on the dance floor for a last bolero, she turned to me and said:
‘Take good care of him, Daniel. There’s only one Fermín.’
The band had stopped playing and the dance floor opened up to receive Rociíto. Fermín took her hands. The lamps in La Paloma were slowly dimmed and from among the shadows the beam from a spotlight cast a hazy circle of light at the couple’s feet. The others drew aside and the orchestra gently struck up the slow rhythms of the saddest bolero ever written. Fermín put his arm round Rociíto’s waist. Looking into each other’s eyes, far from the world, the lovers of that Barcelona that would never return danced close together for the last time. When the music died away Fermín kissed her on the lips and Rociíto, bathed in tears, stroked his cheek, then walked slowly towards the exit without saying goodbye.
The orchestra came to the rescue with a
guaracha
and Oswaldo Darío de Mortenssen, who from writing so many love letters had become an encyclopedia of sad tales, encouraged everyone to return to the dance floor and pretend they hadn’t noticed anything. Looking somewhat crestfallen, Fermín walked over to the bar and sat on a stool next to me.
‘Everything all right, Fermín?’
He nodded weakly.
‘I think a bit of fresh air would do me good, Daniel.’
‘Wait here for me, I’ll get our coats.’
We were walking down Calle Tallers towards the Ramblas when, about fifty metres ahead of us, we glimpsed a familiar-looking figure, moving along slowly.
‘Hey, Daniel. Isn’t that your father?’
‘The very one. And he’s soused.’
‘The last thing I ever expected to see in this world,’ said Fermín.
‘If you didn’t expect it, imagine me!’
We quickened our pace until we caught up with him and when he saw us, my father smiled, glassy-eyed.
‘What’s the time?’ he asked.
‘Very late.’
‘That’s just what I thought. Hey Fermín, what a great party. And what girls. There were some bums in there worth going to war for.’
I rolled my eyes. Fermín took my father’s arm and guided his steps.
‘Señor Sempere, I never thought I’d have to say this, but you’re suffering from alcohol poisoning and you’d better not say anything that you might later regret.’
My father nodded, suddenly embarrassed.
‘It’s that devil, Barceló. I don’t know what he’s given me, and as I’m not used to drinking …’
‘Never mind. Just take a glass of bicarbonate of soda and sleep it off. Tomorrow morning you’ll be as fresh as a daisy and no damage done.’
‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
Between us, we held him upright while the poor man threw up everything he’d drunk. I held his sweat-drenched forehead with my hand and when we were sure there was nothing left inside him, not even his first plate of baby food, we settled him for a moment on the steps of someone’s front door.
‘Take a deep, slow breath, Señor Sempere.’
My father nodded with his eyes shut. Fermín and I exchanged glances.
‘Listen, weren’t you going to get married soon?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Hey, congratulations!’
‘Thank you, Señor Sempere. So, what do you say? Do you think we can make it home bit by bit?’
My father nodded.
‘There’s a brave man, we’re almost there.’
A cool, dry wind helped clear my father’s head. By the time we walked up Calle Santa Ana ten minutes later, he’d sized up the situation and the poor man was mortified with embarrassment. He’d probably never been drunk before in his life.
‘Please, not a word about this to anyone,’ he pleaded.
We were about twenty metres away from the bookshop when I noticed someone sitting in the main doorway of the building. The large street lamp from Casa Jorba, on the corner with Puerta del Ángel, outlined the silhouette of a young girl clutching a suitcase on her knees. When she saw us she stood up.
‘We have company,’ murmured Fermín.
My father saw her first. I noticed something strange in his expression, a tense calm that gripped him as if he’d suddenly recovered his sobriety. He advanced towards the girl but suddenly stood petrified.
‘Isabella?’ I heard him say.
Fearing the drink was still clouding his judgement and that he might collapse then and there, in the middle of the street, I took a few steps forward. Then I saw her.
She can’t have been more than seventeen. As she emerged into the light cast by the street lamp, she smiled timidly at us, lifting a hand as if in greeting.
‘I’m Sofía,’ she said, with a light accent.
My father stared at her in astonishment, as if he’d seen a ghost. I gulped, feeling a shiver run through my body. That girl was the spitting image of my mother: she had the same face that appeared in the set of photographs my father kept in his desk.
‘I’m Sofía,’ the girl repeated, looking uncomfortable. ‘Your niece. From Naples …’
‘Sofía,’ stammered my father. ‘Ah, Sofía.’
Thank God Fermín was there to take hold of the situation. After bringing me to my senses with a slap on the wrist, he explained that Señor Sempere was feeling a little under the weather.
‘You see, we’re just back from a wine-tasting event and it only takes a glass of Vichy water to put the poor man in a trance. Pay no attention to him,
signorina
, he doesn’t usually look so plastered.’
We found the urgent telegram sent by Aunt Laura, the girl’s mother, announcing her arrival. It had been slipped under the door while we were out.
Up in the flat, Fermín settled my father on the sofa and ordered me to prepare a pot of strong coffee. In the meantime, he engaged in conversation with the girl, asking her about her trip and bringing up all manner of banalities while my father slowly came back to life.
With her delightful accent and her vivacious air, Sofía told us she’d arrived at the Estación de Francia that night at half past ten. From the station she had taken a taxi to Plaza de Cataluña. When she discovered there was no one at home she’d sheltered in a nearby bar until they closed. Then she’d sat down to wait in the doorway, trusting that someone would turn up sooner or later. My father remembered the letter from her mother telling him that Sofía was coming to Barcelona, but he hadn’t imagined it was going to be so soon.
