The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel (13 page)

Fermín, who for days hadn’t been able to swallow so much as a birdseed, picked up a ring-shaped pastry so as not to disobey Valls, and held it in his hand as if he were holding an amulet. Valls poured himself a glass of brandy and dropped into his ample general’s armchair.

‘So? I understand you have good news for me,’ the governor said, inviting Fermín to talk.

Fermín nodded.

‘In the belles-lettres department, I can assure Your Honour that Martín is more than persuaded and motivated to carry out the polishing and ironing task he was requested to do. Moreover, he remarked that the material you supplied him with, sir, is of such a high quality and so fine, that he thinks it will pose no difficulties. All he needs to do is dot a few i’s and cross a few t’s in your work of genius to produce a masterpiece worthy of the great Paracelsus.’

Valls paused to absorb Fermín’s barrage of words, but nodded politely without removing his frozen smile.

‘There’s no need for you to sweeten it for me, Fermín. It’s enough for me to know that Martín will do what he has to do. We’re both aware that he doesn’t like the task he’s been assigned, but I’m glad he’s seeing reason at last and understands that making things possible benefits us all. And now, about the other two points …’

‘I was coming to that, sir. Concerning the burial ground of the lost volumes …’

‘The Cemetery of Forgotten Books,’ Valls corrected him. ‘Have you been able to extract its location from Martín?’

Fermín nodded with utter conviction.

‘From what I’ve been able to gather, the aforementioned ossuary is hidden behind a labyrinth of tunnels and chambers, beneath the Borne market.’

Valls weighed up that revelation, visibly surprised.

‘And the entrance?’

‘I wasn’t able to get that far, sir. I imagine that it must be through some trapdoor camouflaged behind the uninviting paraphernalia and stench of some of the wholesale vegetable stalls. Martín didn’t want to talk about it and I thought that if I pressed him too much he might dig his heels in.’

Valls nodded slowly.

‘You did the right thing. Go on.’

‘And finally, in reference to Your Excellency’s last request, taking advantage of the death throes and moral agonies of that despicable Salgado, I was able to persuade him, in his delirium, to confess where he’d hidden the copious booty from his criminal activities in the service of Freemasonry and Marxism.’

‘So, you think he’s going to die?’

‘Any moment now. I think he’s already commended himself to Saint Leon Trotsky and is awaiting his last breath to rise into the politburo of posterity.’

‘I told those animals they wouldn’t extract anything out of him by force,’ Valls muttered under his breath.

‘Technically, I believe they extracted a gonad or a limb, but I agree with you, sir, that with vermin like Salgado the only possible method is applied psychology.’

‘So then? Where did he hide the money?’

Fermín leaned forward and adopted a confidential tone.

‘It’s complicated to explain.’

‘Don’t beat about the bush or I’ll send you down to the basement to have your vocal cords refreshed.’

Fermín then proceeded to sell Valls that outlandish plot he’d obtained from Salgado’s lips. The governor listened incredulously.

‘Fermín, let me warn you that if you’re lying you’ll be deeply sorry. What they’ve done to Salgado won’t even be a foretaste of what they’ll do to you.’

‘I can assure Your Lordship that I’m repeating, word for word, what Salgado told me. If you like I’ll swear on the irrefutable portrait of Franco that lies on your desk.’

Valls looked him straight in the eye. Fermín held his gaze without blinking, just as Martín had taught him to do. Finally, having procured the information he was looking for, the governor removed his smile as well as the plate of pastries. Without any pretence at cordiality, he snapped his fingers and the two guards came in to lead Fermín back to his cell.

This time Valls didn’t even bother to threaten Fermín. As they dragged him down the corridor, Fermín saw the governor’s secretary walking past them and stopping outside Valls’s office.

‘Governor, Sanahuja, the doctor in Martín’s cell …’

‘Yes. What?’

‘He says Martín has fainted and thinks it might be something serious. He asks for permission to go to the medicine cabinet and get a few things …’

Valls stood up in a fury.

‘’So what are you waiting for? Go on. Take him there and let him have whatever he needs.’

16

Following the governor’s orders, a jailer was left posted in front of Martín’s cell while Dr Sanahuja treated him. The jailer was a young man of about twenty who was new to the shift. The night shift was supposed to be covered by Bebo, but instead that novice had inexplicably turned up, looking incapable even of sorting out his bunch of keys and more nervous than any of the prisoners. At about nine o’clock the doctor, noticeably tired, walked over to the bars of his cell and spoke to him.

‘I need more clean gauze and some antiseptic.’

‘I can’t abandon my post.’

‘And I can’t abandon a patient. Please. Gauze and antiseptic.’

The jailer stirred nervously.

‘The governor doesn’t like it when his instructions are not followed word for word.’

‘He’ll like it even less if anything happens to Martín because you’ve ignored me.’

The young jailer assessed the situation.

‘Listen, boss,’ argued the doctor. ‘We’re unlikely to walk through the walls or swallow the iron bars …’

The jailer swore and rushed off to the medicine cabinet, while Sanahuja stood by the bars of his cell and waited. Salgado had been asleep for a couple of hours, breathing with difficulty. Fermín tiptoed up to the front of his cell and exchanged glances with the doctor. Sanahuja then threw him a parcel, the size of a pack of cards, wrapped in a shred of material and tied with a piece of string. Fermín caught it in the air and quickly retreated to the shadows at the far end of his cell. When the jailer returned with what Sanahuja had asked him for, he peered through the bars, inspecting Salgado’s silhouette on the bunk.

‘He’s on his last legs,’ said Fermín. ‘I don’t think he’ll last till tomorrow.’

‘You keep him alive until six. I don’t want him to screw things up for me. Let him die during someone else’s shift.’

‘I’ll do what is humanly possible, boss,’ replied Fermín.

17

That night, while Fermín unwrapped the parcel Dr Sanahuja had tossed him from the other side of the corridor, a black Studebaker was driving the governor down the road from Montjuïc towards the dark streets bordering the port. Jaime, the chauffeur, was taking great care to avoid potholes and any jolts that might inconvenience his passenger or interrupt the flow of his thoughts. The new governor was not like the previous one. The previous governor would strike up conversations with him in the car and once in a while he had sat in the front, next to him. Governor Valls never addressed Jaime except to give him an order and rarely caught his eye, unless he’d made a mistake, or driven over a stone, or taken a bend too fast. Then his eyes would smoulder in the rear-view mirror and his face would adopt a sour expression. Governor Valls did not let him turn on the radio because, he said, all the programmes were an insult to his intelligence. Nor did he let Jaime display photographs of his wife and daughter on the dashboard.

Luckily, at that time of night there was no traffic and the route didn’t throw up any unwelcome surprises. In just a few minutes the car had passed the old Royal Shipyards, skirted the monument to Columbus and started up the Ramblas. Two minutes later they had reached the Café de la Ópera and stopped. The Liceo audience, on the other side of the street, had already gone in for the evening performance and the Ramblas were almost deserted. The chauffeur got out and, after making sure there was nobody in the way, opened the door for Mauricio Valls. The governor stepped out, looking at the boulevard with indifference, then straightened his tie and brushed off his shoulder pads.

‘Wait here,’ he said to the driver.

When the governor entered the café, it was almost empty. The clock behind the bar said five minutes to ten. The governor responded to the waiter’s greeting with a nod and sat down at a table at the far end. He calmly slipped off his gloves and pulled out his silver cigarette case, the one his father-in-law had given him on his first wedding anniversary. He lit a cigarette and gazed at the old café. The waiter came over with a tray and wiped the table with a damp cloth that smelled of bleach. The governor threw him a look of disdain which the waiter ignored.

‘What will the gentleman have?’

‘Two camomile teas.’

‘In the same cup?’

‘No. In separate cups.’

‘Is the gentleman expecting someone?’

‘Obviously.’

‘Very good. Can I get you anything else?’

‘Honey.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The waiter left unhurriedly, while the governor made some contemptuous remark under his breath. A radio on the counter was murmuring a phone-in programme for lonely hearts, interspersed with publicity from Bella Aurora cosmetics, whose daily use guaranteed perpetual youth and sparkling beauty. Four tables away an elderly man seemed to have fallen asleep with a newspaper in his hands. The rest of the tables were empty. The two steaming cups arrived five minutes later. At a snail’s pace, the waiter placed them on the table, followed by a jar of honey.

‘Will that be all, sir?’

Valls nodded. He didn’t move until the waiter had returned to the bar. Then he proceeded to pull a small bottle out of his pocket. He unscrewed the top, while casting a quick glance at the other customer who still seemed knocked out by his newspaper. The waiter stood behind the bar, with his back to the room, methodically drying glasses with a white cloth.

Valls took the bottle and emptied its contents into the cup on the other side of the table. Then he added a generous dollop of honey and began to stir the camomile with the teaspoon until the honey had dissolved completely. On the radio someone was reading an anguished letter from a faithful listener from Betanzos whose husband, apparently annoyed because she’d burned his All Soul’s Day stew, had taken to going to the bar to listen to the football with his friends, was hardly ever home and hadn’t gone to mass since that day. She was recommended prayer, patience and to make use of her feminine wiles, but only within the strict limits of the Christian family. Valls checked the clock again. It was a quarter past ten.

18

At twenty past ten, Isabella Sempere walked in through the door. She wore a simple coat, no make-up, and her hair was tied up. Valls saw her and raised a hand. Isabella paused for a moment to look at him blankly, then slowly walked over to the table. Valls stood up and held out his hand with a friendly smile. Isabella ignored the gesture and sat down.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering two camomile teas. It’s the best thing to have on such a chilly evening.’

Isabella nodded absently, avoiding Valls’s eyes. The governor studied her closely. As every time she had come to see him, Señora Sempere had made herself look as plain as possible in an attempt to hide her beauty. Valls examined the shape of her lips, her throbbing neck and the swell of her breasts under her coat.

‘I’m listening,’ said Isabella.

‘Above all, let me thank you for agreeing to meet me at such short notice. I received your note this afternoon and thought it would be a good idea to discuss the matter away from the office and the prison.’

Isabella responded with another nod. Valls had a sip of his camomile and licked his lips.

‘Excellent. The best in all Barcelona. Taste it.’

Isabella ignored his invitation.

‘As you will understand, we can’t be discreet enough. May I ask you whether you’ve told anyone you were coming here tonight?’

Isabella shook her head.

‘Your husband, perchance?’

‘My husband is stocktaking in the bookshop. He won’t get home until the early hours of the morning. Nobody knows I’m here.’

‘Shall I get you something else? If you don’t feel like a camomile tea …’

Isabella shook her head and held the cup in her hands.

‘It’s fine.’

Valls smiled serenely.

‘As I was saying, I got your letter. I quite understand your indignation and wanted to tell you that it’s all due to a misunderstanding.’

‘You’re blackmailing a poor, mentally ill person, your prisoner, by getting him to write a book with which to promote yourself. I don’t think I misunderstood anything up to that point.’

Valls slid a hand towards Isabella.

‘Isabella … May I call you that?’

‘Don’t touch me, please.’

Valls pulled his hand away, putting on a conciliatory smile.

‘All right, but let’s talk calmly.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about. If you don’t leave David in peace, I’ll take your story and your fraud to Madrid or wherever is required. Everyone will know what sort of a person and what sort of a literary figure you are. Nothing and nobody is going to stop me.’

Isabella’s eyes brimmed with tears and the cup of camomile shook in her hands.

‘Please, Isabella. Drink a little. It will do you good.’

Isabella drank a couple of sips.

‘Like this, with a bit of honey, is how it tastes best,’ Valls added.

Isabella took two or three more sips.

‘I must say, I do admire you, Isabella,’ said Valls. ‘Few people would have the courage and the composure to defend a poor wretch like Martín … someone whom everyone has abandoned and betrayed. Everyone but you.’

Isabella glanced nervously at the clock above the bar. It was ten thirty-five. She took a couple more sips of camomile and then finished it off.

‘You must be very fond of him,’ Valls ventured. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether, given a bit of time, when you get to know me a bit better and see what I’m really like, you’ll become just as fond of me as you are of him.’

She looked at him coldly for a long while, the empty cup in her hands.

‘You make me feel sick, Valls. You and all the filth like you.’