The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘Do you remember anything else?’

Luisito licked his lips thoughtfully.

‘He said he found the city very changed.’

‘In what way, changed?’

‘I don’t know. Changed. Without dead bodies in the streets.’

‘Dead bodies in the streets? Is that what he said?’

‘If I remember correctly …’

7

I thanked Luisito for the information and hurried back, hoping I’d reach the shop before my father returned from his errand and my absence was detected. The CLOSED sign was still on the door. I opened it, unhooked the notice and took my place behind the counter, convinced that not a single customer had come by during the almost forty-five minutes I had been away.

As I wasn’t busy, I started to think about what I was going to do with that copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and how I was going to broach the subject with Fermín when he arrived. I didn’t want to alarm him unnecessarily, but the stranger’s visit and my poor attempt at solving what he was up to had left me feeling uneasy. Normally, I would simply have told Fermín what had happened and left it at that, but I knew that on this occasion I had to be tactful. For some time now, Fermín had appeared crestfallen and in a filthy mood. I’d been trying to cheer him up but none of my feeble attempts seemed to make him smile.

‘There’s no need to clean the books so thoroughly, Fermín,’ I would say. ‘I’ve heard that very soon only noir will be fashionable.’ I was alluding to the way the press was beginning to describe the new novels of crime and punishment that only trickled in occasionally and then in tame translations.

Far from smiling kindly at my poor jokes, Fermín would grab any opportunity to embark on one of his tirades in support of doom and gloom.

‘The entire future looks noir anyway,’ he would declare. ‘If there’s going to be a flavour in vogue in this age of butchery, it will be the stink of falsehood and crime disguised in a thousand euphemisms.’

Here we go, I thought. The Book of Revelation according to St Fermín Romero de Torres.

‘Don’t exaggerate, Fermín. You should get more sun and fresh air. The other day I read in the paper that vitamin D increases our faith in fellow humans.’

‘Well, I also read in the paper that imported cigarettes make you taller and that banks around the world are deeply committed to eradicating poverty and disease on the planet in less than ten years,’ he replied. ‘So there you go.’

When Fermín embraced organised pessimism the best option was not to argue with him.

‘Do you know, Daniel? Sometimes I think that Darwin made a mistake and that in fact man is descended from the pig, because eight out of every ten members of the human race are swine, and as crooked as a hog’s tail.’

‘Fermín, I prefer it when you go for the humanist and positive view of things, like the other day when you said that deep down nobody is bad, only frightened.’

‘It must have been low blood sugar doing the talking. What rubbish.’

These days, the cheerful Fermín I liked to remember seemed to have beaten a retreat and been replaced by a man consumed by anxieties and stormy moods he did not wish to share. Sometimes, when he thought nobody could see him, he would shrink into a corner, anguish gnawing at his insides. He’d lost some weight, and considering that he was as thin as a rake at the best of times and his body seemed mostly composed of cartilage and attitude, his appearance was becoming worrisome. I’d mentioned it to him once or twice, but he denied there was any problem and dodged the issue with Byzantine excuses.

‘It’s nothing, Daniel. It’s just that I now follow the football league and every time Barça loses my blood pressure plummets. All I need is a bite of Manchego cheese and I’m as strong as an ox again.’

‘Really? But you haven’t been to a football match in your life.’

‘That’s what you think. When I was a kid everybody told me I had the legs to be a dancer or a football player.’

‘Well, to me you look like a complete wreck, legs and all. Either you’re ill or you’re just not looking after yourself.’

For an answer he’d show me a couple of biceps the size of sugar almonds and grin as if he were a door-to-door toothpaste seller.

‘Feel that! Tempered steel, like the Cid’s sword.’

My father attributed Fermín’s low form to nerves about the wedding and everything that came with it, from having to fraternise with the clergy to finding the right restaurant or café for the wedding banquet, but I suspected that his melancholy had much deeper roots. I was debating whether to tell Fermín what had happened that morning and show him the book or wait for a better moment, when he dragged himself through the door with a look on his face that would have won top honours at a wake. When he saw me he smiled faintly and offered a military salute.

‘Good to see you, Fermín. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come in today.’

‘I’d rather be dead than idle. I was held up by Don Federico, the watchmaker. When I walked past his shop he filled me in on some gossip about the fact that someone had seen Señor Sempere walking down Calle Puertaferrisa this morning, looking very dapper and en route to an unknown destination. Don Federico and that hare-brained Merceditas wanted to know whether perhaps he’d taken a mistress – apparently, these days it gives you a certain credibility among the shopkeepers in the district and if the damsel is a cabaret singer, all the more so.’