The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel (27 page)

‘I’m very sorry you had to wait in the street,’ he said. ‘Normally, I never go out, but tonight was Fermín’s bachelor party and …’

Delighted with the piece of news, Sofía jumped up and congratulated Fermín with a peck on the cheek. And although he had now retired from active duty, Fermín couldn’t restrain himself and invited her to the wedding on the spot.

We’d been chatting away for about half an hour when Bea, who was returning from Bernarda’s own hen party, heard voices on her way up the stairs and rang the doorbell. When she stepped into the dining room and saw Sofía she went pale and glanced at me.

‘This is my cousin Sofía, from Naples,’ I announced. ‘She’s come to Barcelona to study and she’s going to stay here for a while …’

Bea tried to conceal her alarm and greeted her with absolute normality.

‘This is my wife, Beatriz.’

‘Bea, please. Nobody calls me Beatriz.’

Time and coffee slowly softened the impact of Sofía’s arrival and after a bit, Bea suggested that the poor soul must be exhausted and had better get some sleep. Tomorrow would be another day, she said, even if it was a wedding day. It was decided that Sofía would move into the room that had been my bedroom when I was a child and, after making sure my father wasn’t going to fall into a coma again, Fermín packed him off to bed too. Bea told Sofía she would lend her one of her dresses for the ceremony and when Fermín, whose breath smelled of champagne from two metres off, was on the point of making some inappropriate remark on the similarities and differences between their shapes and sizes, I gave him a jab in the ribs with my elbow to shut him up.

A photograph of my parents on their wedding day observed us from a shelf.

The three of us sat there, in the dining room, gaping at it in disbelief.

‘Like two peas in a pod,’ murmured Fermín.

Bea looked at me out of the corner of her eye, trying to read my thoughts. She took my hand with a cheerful expression, ready to change the subject.

‘So tell me, how was the celebration?’

‘Dignified and restrained. How was the ladies’ party?’

‘Ours was anything but that.’

Fermín threw me a serious look.

‘I told you that when it comes to such matters women are far more loutish than us.’

Bea gave us a quizzical smile.

‘Who are you calling loutish, Fermín?’

‘Forgive this unpardonable slip, Doña Beatriz. It’s the bubbly in my bloodstream that’s making me talk nonsense. I swear to God that you’re a model of virtue and decorum and this humble servant of yours would rather be struck dumb and spend the rest of his days in a Carthusian cell in silent penitence than insinuate that you possess the remotest hint of loutishness.’

‘No such luck,’ I remarked.

‘We’d better not discuss this any further,’ Bea cut in, looking at us as if we were both eleven years old. ‘And now I suppose you’re going to take your customary pre-wedding walk down to the breakwater,’ she said.

Fermín and I looked at one another.

‘Go on. Off you go. And you’d better make it to the church on time tomorrow …’

5

The only place we found open at that time of night was El Xampanyet, on Calle Montcada. They must have felt sorry for us because they let us stay for a bit, while they cleaned up, and when they closed, hearing that Fermín was hours away from becoming a married man, the owner expressed his condolences and presented us with a bottle of house medicine.

‘Be brave, and may God be with you,’ he pronounced.

We wandered through the narrow streets of the Ribera quarter, putting the world to rights, as we usually did, until the sky took on a purple hue and we knew the time had come for the groom and his best man – in other words, me – to head for the breakwater. There we would sit once again to greet the dawn facing the greatest mirage in the universe: the reflection of Barcelona awakening in the harbour waters.

We sat there with our legs dangling over the jetty to share the bottle we’d been given at El Xampanyet. Between one gulp and the next, we gazed silently at the city, tracing the flight of a flock of seagulls over the dome of La Mercé Church and watching them draw an arc between the towers of the Post Office building. In the distance, crowning the mountain of Montjuïc, the castle loomed darkly, a ghostly bird of prey scrutinising the city at its feet, expectant.

The silence was broken by a ship’s horn. On the other side of the National Dock a large cruiser was weighing anchor. Pulling away from the pier it set sail with a surge of the propellers, leaving a wide wake behind it on the waters of the port. Dozens of passengers came out to wave from the stern. I wondered whether Rociíto was among them, next to her mature, handsome scrap merchant from Reus. Fermín watched the ship, deep in thought.

‘Do you think Rociíto will be happy, Daniel?’

‘What about you, Fermín? Will you be happy?’

We saw the cruiser move into the distance and the figures grow smaller until they became invisible.

‘Fermín, there’s one thing that intrigues me. Why didn’t you want anyone to give you wedding presents?’

‘I don’t like to put people in a tight spot. And besides, what were we going to do with sets of glasses, teaspoons with the Spanish shield and all that kind of stuff people give at weddings?’

‘Well, I was looking forward to giving you a present.’

‘You’ve already given me the biggest present anyone could give me, Daniel.’

‘That doesn’t count. I’m talking about a present for personal use and enjoyment.’

Fermín looked intrigued.

‘Don’t tell me it’s a porcelain Madonna or a figurine of Saint Teresa. Bernarda has such an ample collection already that I don’t know where we’re going to find room to sit down.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s not an object.’

‘Don’t tell me it’s money …’

‘As you know, I don’t have a
céntimo
, unfortunately. The one with the funds is my father-in-law and he doesn’t splash it about.’

‘These new Francoists are as tight as two coats of paint.’

‘My father-in-law is a good man, Fermín. Don’t have a go at him.’

‘Let’s draw a line under the matter, but don’t change the subject now you’ve put the sweet in my mouth. What present?’

‘Guess.’

‘A batch of Sugus sweets.’

‘Cold, cold …’

Fermín arched his eyebrows, dying with curiosity. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

‘No … It was about time.’

I nodded.

‘There’s a time for everything. Now, listen carefully. You mustn’t tell anyone what you’re about to see today, Fermín. No one …’

‘Not even Bernarda?’

6

The first light of the day spilled like liquid copper over the cornices of Rambla de Santa Mónica. It was a Sunday morning and the streets were quiet and deserted. When we entered the narrow alleyway of Calle Arco del Teatro, the ghostly beam of light penetrating from the Ramblas dimmed and by the time we reached the large wooden door we had become submerged in a city of shadows.

I climbed the steps and rapped with the knocker a few times. The echo trailed off inside, like ripples on a pond. Fermín, who had assumed a respectful silence and looked like a boy on his first day of school, turned to me anxiously.

‘Isn’t it rather early to call?’ he asked. ‘I hope the chief doesn’t get annoyed …’

‘This isn’t a department store. There are no opening times,’ I reassured him. ‘And here the chief is called Isaac. Don’t speak unless he asks you something first.’

Fermín nodded compliantly.

‘Not a peep.’

A couple of minutes later I heard the dance of cogs, pulleys and levers operating the lock and I stepped down again. The door opened just a fraction and the vulturine face of Isaac Montfort, the keeper, peered round with its usual steely look. The keeper’s eyes alighted first on me and, after a quick glance at Fermín, proceeded to X-ray, catalogue and examine him from head to toe.

‘This must be the illustrious Fermín Romero de Torres,’ he murmured.

‘At your service, and God’s and …’

I silenced Fermín with a nudge and smiled at the severe keeper.

‘Good morning, Isaac.’

‘A good morning, Sempere, will be one when you don’t call at dawn, or while I’m in the toilet, or on a religious holiday,’ replied Isaac. ‘Come on, in with you.’

The keeper opened the door a bit further and we slid through. When the door closed behind us, Isaac retrieved his oil lamp from the floor and Fermín was able to observe the elaborate movements of the lock as it folded back upon itself like the insides of the biggest clock in the world.

‘A burglar could age like a good Camembert trying to prise this one open,’ he let slip.

I threw him a warning glance and he quickly put a finger to his lips.

‘Collection or delivery?’ asked Isaac.

‘Well, you see, I’ve been meaning to bring Fermín here for ages so he could get to know the place first-hand. I’ve often talked to him about it. He’s my best friend and he’s getting married today, at noon,’ I explained.

‘Gracious,’ said Isaac. ‘Poor thing. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to offer you nuptial asylum here?’

‘Fermín is quite convinced about getting married, Isaac.’

The keeper looked Fermín up and down. Fermín smiled apologetically.

‘What courage.’

Isaac guided us along the wide corridor to the entrance of the gallery leading into the large hall. I let Fermín walk ahead of me so that he could discover with his own eyes a vision that no words could describe.

His tiny figure was engulfed by the great beam of light pouring down from the glass dome in the ceiling. Brightness fell in a vaporous cascade over the sprawling labyrinth of corridors, tunnels, staircases, arches and vaults that seemed to spring from the floor like the trunk of an endless tree of books and branched heavenwards displaying an impossible geometry. Fermín stepped on to a gangway extending like a bridge into the base of the structure. He gazed at the sight open mouthed. I drew up to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Welcome to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, Fermín.’

7

In my experience, whenever someone discovered that place, their reaction was always one of bewitchment and amazement. The beauty and the mystery of the premises reduced the visitor to a silent, dream-like contemplation. Naturally, Fermín had to be different. He spent the first half-hour hypnotised, wandering like a man possessed through every nook and cranny of the large jigsaw formed by the winding labyrinth. He stopped to rap his knuckles against flying buttresses and columns, as if he doubted their solidity. He stood at different angles and perspectives, forming a spyglass with his hands and trying to decipher the logic of the construction. He walked through the spiral of libraries with his large nose almost touching the infinite rows of spines running along endless pathways, making a mental note of titles and cataloguing whatever he discovered on his way. I followed a few steps behind him, with a mixture of alarm and anxiety.

I was beginning to suspect that Isaac was going to kick us out of there when I bumped into the keeper on one of the bridges suspended between book-lined vaults. To my surprise, not only did he show no sign of irritation but he was smiling good-humouredly as he watched Fermín’s progress during his first exploration of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books.

‘Your friend is a rather peculiar specimen,’ Isaac reckoned.

‘You haven’t scratched the surface yet.’

‘Don’t worry about him, leave him alone. He’ll come down from his cloud eventually.’

‘What if he gets lost?’

‘He seems to be on the ball. He’ll work it out.’

I wasn’t so sure, but I didn’t want to contradict Isaac. I walked with him to the room that doubled as his office and accepted the cup of coffee he was offering me.

‘Have you explained the rules to your friend?’

‘Fermín and rules are incompatible notions. But I have summed up the basics and he replied with a convincing: “But of course, who do you take me for?”’

While Isaac filled my cup again he caught me gazing at a photograph of his daughter Nuria hanging above his desk.

‘It will soon be two years since she left us,’ he said with a sadness that cut through the air.

I looked down, distressed. A hundred years could go by and the death of Nuria Montfort would still be on my mind, as would the certainty that if I’d never met her she might still be alive. Isaac caressed the photograph with his eyes.

‘I’m getting old, Sempere. It’s about time someone took my post.’

I was about to protest at such a suggestion when Fermín walked in with his face all flushed, and panting as if he’d just run a marathon.

‘So?’ asked Isaac. ‘What do you think?’

‘Glorious. Although it doesn’t appear to have a toilet. At least not that I noticed.’

‘I hope you didn’t pee in some corner.’

‘I made a superhuman effort to hold it in and make it back here.’

‘It’s that door on the left. You’ll have to pull the chain twice, the first time it never works.’

While Fermín relieved himself, Isaac poured out a cup of coffee which awaited him steaming hot when he returned.

‘I have a few questions I’d like to ask you, Don Isaac.’

‘Fermín, I don’t think …’ I pleaded.

‘It’s fine. Go ahead, ask.’

‘The first lot is related to the history of the premises. The second one concerns technical and architectural works. And the third is basically bibliographic …’

Isaac laughed. It was the first time I’d ever heard him laugh and I didn’t know whether to take it as a sign from heaven or the presage of some imminent disaster.

‘First you’ll have to choose the book you want to save,’ Isaac proposed.

‘I’ve had my eye on a few, but even if it’s just for sentimental reasons, I’ve selected this one, if that’s all right.’

He pulled a book out of his pocket. It was bound in red leather, with the title embossed in gold letters and an engraving of a skull on the title page.

‘Well I never:
City of the Damned, episode thirteen: Daphne and the impossible staircase
, by David Martín,’ Isaac read.

‘An old friend,’ Fermín explained.