The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel (17 page)

‘Who goes there?’ asked the figure.

The figure advanced a little further and the far-off light of a street lamp revealed the profile of a tall, well-built man dressed in black. Fermín noticed the collar: a priest. He raised both hands in a gesture of peace.

‘I was leaving, Father. Please, don’t call the police.’

The priest looked him up and down. His eyes seemed harsh and he had the air of someone who had spent half his life lifting sacks in the port instead of chalices.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

Fermín, who would have eaten any of those rough stones if someone had sprinkled a few drops of olive oil over them, shook his head.

‘I’ve just had dinner at the Siete Puertas and I’ve stuffed myself silly with lobster stew,’ he said.

The priest gave him a hint of a smile. He turned round and started walking.

‘Come on,’ he ordered.

6

Father Valera lived on the top floor of a building at the end of Paseo del Borne, overlooking the market rooftops. Fermín quickly polished off three bowlfuls of thin soup and a few bits of stale bread, together with a glass of watered-down wine the priest placed in front of him, while he eyed him with curiosity.

‘Aren’t you having dinner, Father?’

‘I don’t usually eat dinner. You enjoy it. I see your hunger goes all the way back to 1936.’

While Fermín slurped his soup with its garnish of bread, he let his eyes roam around the dining room. Next to him, a glass cabinet displayed a collection of plates and glasses, various figures of saints and what looked like a modest set of silver cutlery.

‘I’ve also read
Les Misérables
, so don’t even think of it,’ warned the priest.

Fermín nodded, ashamed.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Fermín Romero de Torres, at your service,
Monsignore
.’

‘Are they after you, Fermín?’

‘Depends how you look at it. It’s a complicated matter.’

‘It’s none of my business if you don’t want to tell me. But with clothes like those you can’t wander around out there. You’ll end up in jail before you even reach Vía Layetana. They’re stopping a lot of people who have been lying low for a while. You must be very careful.’

‘As soon as I gain access to some monetary funds that I’ve had in deep storage, I thought I’d drop by El Dique Flotante and come out looking my usual dapper self.’

‘No doubt. But for the time being, humour me. Stand up a moment, will you?’

Fermín put down the spoon and stood up. The priest examined him carefully.

‘Ramón was twice your size, but I think some of the clothes from when he was young would fit you.’

‘Ramón?’

‘My brother. He was killed down there, in the street, by the front door, in May 1938. They were looking for me, but he confronted them. He was a fine musician. He played in the municipal band. Principal trumpet.’

‘I’m so sorry, Father.’

The priest shrugged his shoulders.

‘More or less everyone has lost someone, whatever side they belong to.’

‘I don’t belong to any side,’ Fermín replied. ‘What’s more, I think flags are nothing but painted rags that represent rancid emotions. Just seeing someone wrapped up in one of them, spewing out hymns, badges and speeches, gives me the runs. I’ve always thought that anyone who needs to join a herd so badly must be a bit of a sheep himself.’

‘You must have a very hard time in this country.’

‘You have no idea. But I always tell myself that having direct access to
serrano
ham makes up for everything. And anyhow, it’s the same the world over.’

‘That’s true. Tell me, Fermín. How long since you last tasted real
serrano
ham?’

‘March sixth 1934. Los Caracoles on Calle Escudellers. Another life.’

The priest smiled.

‘You can stay here for tonight, Fermín, but tomorrow you’ll have to find some other place. People talk. I can give you a bit of money for a
pensión
, but don’t forget they all ask for identity cards and register their lodgers’ names with the police.’

‘That goes without saying, Father. Tomorrow, before sunrise, I’ll vanish faster than goodwill. And I won’t accept a single
céntimo
from you. I’ve already taken enough advantage of your …’

The priest put a hand up and shook his head.

‘Let’s see how some of Ramón’s things look on you,’ he said, rising from the table.

Father Valera insisted on providing Fermín with a pair of slightly worn shoes, a modest but clean wool suit, a couple of changes of underwear and a few personal toiletries which he put in a suitcase. A shining trumpet was displayed on one of the shelves, next to a number of photographs of two smiling, good-looking young men, in what looked like the annual
fiestas
of the Gracia district. One had to look closely to realise that one of them was Father Valera, who now looked thirty years older.

‘I have no hot water. And they don’t fill the tank till the morning, so either you wait, or you use the water jug.’

While Fermín washed himself as best he could, Father Valera prepared a pot of coffee with some sort of chicory mixed with other substances that looked vaguely suspicious. There was no sugar but that cup of dirty water was warm and the company was pleasant.

‘Anyone would say we’re in Colombia, enjoying the finest selection of coffee beans,’ said Fermín.

‘You’re a peculiar fellow, Fermín. Can I ask you something personal?’

‘Will the secrecy of the confessional cover it?’

‘Let’s say it will.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Have you killed anyone? During the war, I mean.’

‘No,’ replied Fermín.

‘I have.’

Fermín went rigid, his cup half empty. The priest lowered his eyes.

‘I’ve never told anyone.’

‘It remains bound by the secrecy of the confessional,’ Fermín assured him.

The priest rubbed his eyes and sighed. Fermín wondered how long this man had lived there alone, harbouring that secret and the memory of his dead brother.

‘You must have had your reasons, Father.’

The priest shook his head.

‘God has abandoned this country,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry then. As soon as he sees what’s brewing north of the Pyrenees, he’ll come back with his tail between his legs.’

The priest kept quiet for a long time. They finished off the ersatz coffee and Fermín, to cheer up the poor priest, who seemed to look gloomier with every passing minute, poured himself a second cup.

‘Do you really like it?’

Fermín nodded.

‘Would you like me to hear your confession?’ the priest suddenly asked him. ‘I’m not joking now.’

‘Don’t be offended, Father, but I don’t really believe in that sort of thing …’

‘But perhaps God believes in you.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘You don’t have to believe in God to confess. It’s something between you and your conscience. What is there to lose?’

During the next couple of hours Fermín told Father Valera everything he’d kept to himself since he fled from the castle over a year ago. The priest listened to him attentively, nodding every now and then. At last, when Fermín felt he had said it all and the stone slab that had been suffocating him for months without him realising had been lifted, Father Valera pulled out a flask of liqueur from a drawer and, without asking, poured what was left of it into a glass and handed it to Fermín.

‘I was hoping for absolution, Father, not a reward of a swig of cognac.’

‘It comes to the same thing. Besides, I’m no longer in a position to forgive or to judge anyone, Fermín. But I think you needed to get all that off your chest. What are you going to do now?’

Fermín shrugged.

‘If I’ve returned, and I’m risking my neck by doing so, it’s because of the promise I made to Martín. I must find the lawyer and then Señora Isabella and that boy, Daniel, and protect them.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll think of something. Any suggestions?’

‘But you don’t even know them. They’re just strangers that a man you met in prison told you about …’

‘I know. When you put it that way it sounds crazy, doesn’t it?’

The priest was looking at him as if he could see through his words.

‘Might it not be that you’ve seen so much misery and so much evil among men that you want to do something good, even if it’s madness?’

‘And why not?’

Valera smiled. The priest took the glass with the untouched drink from Fermín’s hands and knocked it back.

‘I knew God believed in you.’

7

The following day, Fermín tiptoed out of the flat so as not to disturb Father Valera, who had fallen asleep on the sofa with a book of poems by Machado in his hand and was snoring like a fighting bull. Before leaving he kissed him on the forehead and left the silverware – which the priest had wrapped in a napkin and slipped into his suitcase – on the dining-room table. Then he set off down the stairs with clean clothes and a clean conscience, determined to stay alive, at least for a few more days.

That day the sun was strong and a fresh breeze swept over the city. The sky looked bright and steely, casting long shadows as people walked by. Fermín spent the morning strolling through streets he remembered, stopping in front of shop windows and sitting on benches to watch pretty girls go by – and they all looked pretty to him. Around noon he walked over to a café at the entrance to Calle Escudellers, near the Los Caracoles restaurant of such happy memories. The café itself was notorious among those with fearless and undemanding palates for offering the cheapest sandwiches in town. The trick, said experts, was not to ask about the ingredients.

Sporting his smart new clothes and an armour of newspapers packed beneath them to lend him some bulk, a hint of muscles and low-cost warmth, Fermín sat at the bar, checked the list of delicacies within reach of modest pockets and began negotiating with the waiter.

‘I have a question, young man. In today’s special, peasant’s bread with
mortadella
and cold cuts from Cornellá, does the bread come with fresh tomato?’

‘Just arrived from our market garden in El Prat, behind the sulphuric acid plants.’

‘A premium bouquet. And tell me, my good man, does this establishment extend credit to suitable individuals?’

The waiter lost his cheerful expression and withdrew behind the bar, hanging his rag over his shoulder with a hostile gesture.

‘Not even to God almighty.’

‘I see. And would you consider making an exception in the case of a decorated disabled war hero?’

‘Scram or we’ll call the police.’

In light of the stringent policies being enforced, Fermín beat a hasty retreat, searching for a quiet corner where he could reconsider his plans. He’d just settled on the steps of the building next door when a young girl, who couldn’t have been a day older than seventeen but already possessed the curves of a budding starlet, walked past him and fell flat on her face.

Fermín stood up to help her and had only just taken hold of her arm when he heard a voice that made the words from the hostile waiter who had sent him on his way sound like heavenly music.

‘Look here, you goddam slut, don’t give me this crap or I’ll slice your face up and dump you in the street, which is already filled with unemployed cut-up whores.’

The author of such a notable speech turned out to be a sallow-skinned pimp with a questionable eye for fashion. Despite the fact that the man was twice Fermín’s size, and was holding what appeared to be a sharp object, or at least a fairly pointy one, Fermín, who was beginning to be fed up to his back teeth with bullies, stood between the girl and her aggressor.

‘And who the fuck are you, you loser? Go on, beat it before I cut your face up.’

Fermín felt the girl grip his arms in fear. She smelled of a particular mixture of sweet cinnamon and refried calamari. A quick glance was enough for Fermín to realise that the situation was unlikely to be resolved through diplomacy, so he decided to move into action. After a lightning assessment of his opponent he concluded that the grand total of his body mass was mainly flab, and that when it came to actual muscle, or grey matter, he was not packing a lethal punch.

‘Don’t talk to me in that way, even less to the young lady.’

The pimp looked at him in astonishment, as if he hadn’t taken in the words. A second later, the individual, who was expecting anything from this wimp except a fight, got the surprise of his life when a suitcase slammed into his soft parts and sent him to the ground clutching his privates. This was followed by four or five knocks in strategic places inflicted with the leather corners of the case that left him, at least for a short while, notably lacking in any mood to fight back.

A group of passers-by who had witnessed the incident began to applaud and, when Fermín turned to check whether the girl was all right, he was welcomed by her adoring look, laced with undying gratitude and tenderness.

‘Fermín Romero de Torres, at your service, miss.’

The girl stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

‘I’m Rociíto.’

The specimen at his feet was gasping and struggling to get up. Before the balance of the contest stopped favouring him, Fermín decided to distance himself from the scene of the confrontation.

‘We’d better make haste and shove off,’ he announced. ‘Now we’ve lost the initiative, the battle will go against us …’

Rociíto took his arm and guided him through the twisted web of narrow streets that led to Plaza Real. Once they were in the sunlight and in the open, Fermín stopped for a second to recover his breath. Rociíto noticed that Fermín was becoming increasingly pale. He looked unwell. She guessed that the emotions induced by the skirmish, or perhaps plain old hunger, had caused a drop in her brave champion’s blood pressure. She walked him to the terrace of the Hostal Dos Mundos, where Fermín collapsed into one of the chairs.

Rociíto, who might have been seventeen but had a clinical eye that many an experienced doctor would have coveted, proceeded to ask for a selection of tapas with which to revive him. When Fermín saw the feast arriving, he was alarmed.

‘Rociíto, I don’t have a
céntimo
on me …’