The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘Succumbing to the tyranny of National-Catholic propaganda and its surreptitious indoctrination techniques through a display of Yuletide figures and tall stories does not sound to me like a solution,’ Fermín declared.

‘Don’t talk rubbish, Fermín,’ my father interjected. ‘This is a lovely tradition and people like to see nativity scenes during the Christmas season. The bookshop needed some of that colourful, happy spark that Christmas requires. Have a look at all the shops in the area and you’ll see how, by comparison, we look like an undertaker’s parlour. Go on, help me and we’ll set it up in the shop window. And move to the second row all those books on physics and the history of Western philosophy, Fermín. They scare the seasonal customer away.’

‘The end is near,’ mumbled Fermín.

Between the three of us we managed to position the manger and set the little figures in place. Fermín collaborated unwillingly, frowning and searching for any excuse to express his objection.

‘Señor Sempere, with all due respect, may I bring to your attention that this Baby Jesus is thrice the size of his putative father and hardly fits in the cradle?’

‘It doesn’t matter. They’d sold out of all the smaller ones.’

‘Well, I think that next to the Virgin Mary he looks like one of those Japanese fighters with a weight management problem, greased-back hair and swirly underpants tied up like a loincloth over their nether regions.’

‘Sumo wrestlers, they’re called,’ I said.

‘The very ones,’ Fermín agreed.

My father sighed, shaking his head.

‘Besides, look at those eyes. You’d think he was possessed.’

‘Come on, Fermín, shut up and switch on the crib lights,’ my father ordered, handing him the plug.

By performing one of his balancing acts Fermín managed to slip under the table that held the manger and reach the socket at one end of the counter.

‘And there was light,’ my father pronounced, gazing enthusiastically at the shining new Sempere & Sons nativity scene.

‘Adapt or perish!’ he added, pleased with himself.

‘Perish,’ mumbled Fermín under his breath.

Not a minute had passed after the official lighting-up when a lady, with three children in tow, stopped by the shop window to admire the crib and, after a moment’s hesitation, ventured into the shop.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘Do you have any storybooks about the lives of the saints?’

‘Of course,’ said my father. ‘Allow me to show you the much recommended collection Little Jesus light of my life, which I’m sure the children will love. Profusely illustrated and with a foreword by our beloved archbishop. Doesn’t get any better.’

‘Sounds lovely. The fact is, it’s so hard to find books with a positive message these days, the sort that make you feel really good about yourself, instead of pushing all that violence and depravity so in vogue today.’

Fermín rolled his eyes. He was about to open his mouth when I stopped him and dragged him away from the customer.

‘I know what you mean, madam,’ my father agreed, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, and implying with his expression that I should keep Fermín bound and gagged because we weren’t going to lose that sale for anything in the world.

I pushed Fermín into the back room and made sure the curtain was drawn so that my father could tackle the situation unhindered.

‘Fermín, I don’t know what’s up with you. I realise you’re not convinced by all this business of nativity scenes, and I respect that, but if an Infant Jesus the size of a steamroller and four clay piglets lift my father’s spirits and on top of that pull customers into the bookshop, I’m going to ask you to set the existentialist pulpit aside and look as if you’re part of the choir, at least during business hours.’

Fermín sighed and nodded, looking abashed.

‘Of course, Daniel,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I’d be prepared to walk the road to Santiago dressed up as the tooth fairy if that were to please your father and save the bookshop.’

‘All you need to do is tell him you think the crib idea is a good one, and play along with him.’

Fermín nodded.

‘Consider it done. I’ll apologise to Señor Sempere later for overstepping the mark and as an act of contrition I’ll contribute a little nativity figurine to prove that even large department stores can’t beat me at Christmas spirit. I have a friend who had to go underground who makes those lovely traditional squatting figurines – the “crappers” – in the image of Franco, so realistic they give you goose pimples.’

‘A lambkin or a King Balthazar will do.’