The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

The following day the attraction of the illuminated manger was proving its worth and I saw my father smile to himself for the first time in weeks as he entered a few sales in the ledger. From early morning some old customers who hadn’t set foot in the bookshop for a while began to drop by, together with new readers who were visiting us for the first time. I let my father deal with them all with his expert hand and enjoyed watching him as he recommended titles, roused their curiosity and guessed at their tastes and interests. It promised to be a good day, the first in many weeks.

‘Daniel, we should bring out the collections of illustrated children’s classics. The Vértice editions, with the blue spine.’

‘I think they’re in the basement. Do you have the keys?’

‘Bea asked me for them the other day. She wanted to take something down there – something to do with the baby. I don’t remember her giving them back to me. Have a look in the drawer.’

‘They’re not here. I’ll run up to the flat to look for them.’

I left my father serving a gentleman who had just come in, looking to buy a history of old Barcelona cafés, and went out through the back room to the staircase in the hallway. The flat Bea and I shared was high up and, apart from the extra light it provided, walking up and down those stairs invigorated both our spirits and our legs. On the way I came across Edelmira, a widow on the third floor who had once been a chorus girl and now made a living by painting Madonnas and saints in her home. Too many years on the stage of the Arnau Theatre had finished off her knees and now she had to hold on to the banisters with both hands to negotiate a simple flight of stairs. In spite of her problems, she always had a smile on her lips and something kind to say.

‘How’s your beautiful wife, Daniel?’

‘Not as beautiful as you, Doña Edelmira. Shall I help you down?’

As usual, Edelmira refused my help and asked me to give her regards to Fermín, who always volunteered slightly flirtatious comments or cheeky propositions when he saw her go by.

When I opened the door of the apartment, it still smelled of Bea’s perfume and that mixture of aromas given out by babies and their props. Bea usually got up early and took Julián out for a walk in the shiny new Jané pushchair Fermín had given us, which we all referred to as ‘the Mercedes’.

‘Bea?’ I called out.

It was a small flat and my voice echoed back even before I’d closed the door behind me. Bea had already left. I stepped into the dining room, trying to reconstruct my wife’s train of thought and work out where she could have put the basement keys. Bea was far tidier and more methodical than me. I began by looking through the drawers in the dining-room sideboard where she usually kept receipts, unanswered letters and loose change. From there I moved on to side tables, fruit bowls and shelves.

The next stop was the glass cabinet in the kitchen, where Bea usually left notes and reminders. Finally, having had no luck so far, I end

ed up in the bedroom, standing in front of the bed and looking around me with a critical eye. Bea’s clothes took up seventy-five per cent of the wardrobe, drawers and other storage areas in the bedroom. Her line of reasoning was that I always dressed the same, so I could easily make do with a corner of the cupboard. The arrangement of her drawers was far too sophisticated for me. I felt a sudden twinge of guilt as I went through my wife’s private belongings, but after rummaging in vain through all the bits of furniture in sight, I still hadn’t found the keys.

Let’s re-enact the crime scene, I said to myself. I vaguely remembered that Bea had said something about taking down a box with summer clothes. That had been a couple of days ago. If I was right, that day Bea was wearing the grey coat I’d given her on our first wedding anniversary. I smiled at my powers of deduction and opened the wardrobe to search for the coat. There it was. If everything I’d learned reading Conan Doyle and his disciples was correct, my father’s keys would be in one of the pockets of that coat. I thrust my hand into the right pocket and felt two coins and a couple of mints, the sort they give you at the chemist. I went on to inspect the other pocket and was pleased to confirm my thesis. My fingers felt the bunch of keys.

And something else.

There was a piece of paper in the pocket. I pulled out the keys and, after a moment’s doubt, decided to take out the paper too. It was probably one of those lists of errands Bea would always make to avoid forgetting anything.

When I took a closer look I realised it was an envelope. A letter. It was addressed to her maiden name, Beatriz Aguilar, and the postmark dated it a week earlier. The letter had been sent to the home of Bea’s parents, not to the flat in Santa Ana. I turned it over and when I read the name of the sender, the basement keys slipped out of my hand.

Pablo Cascos Buendía

Bewildered, I sat on the bed and stared at the envelope. Pablo Cascos Buendía had been Bea’s fiancé when we started going out together. The son of a wealthy family who owned a number of shipyards and industries in El Ferrol, he had always rubbed me up the wrong way, and I could tell the feeling was mutual. At that time, he had been doing his military service as second lieutenant. But ever since Bea had written to him to break off their engagement I hadn’t heard any more about him. Until now.

What was a letter from Bea’s ex-fiancé, with a recent date stamped on it, doing in her pocket? The envelope was open, but I hesitated for a whole minute before pulling out the letter. Realising this was the first time I had spied behind Bea’s back, I was on the point of replacing it and hurrying out of there. My moment of virtue lasted about ten seconds. Any trace of guilt and shame evaporated before I reached the end of the first paragraph.

Dear Beatriz,

I hope you’re well and feeling happy in your new life in Barcelona. You haven’t replied to any of the letters I’ve sent you these past months and sometimes I wonder what I’ve done to make you ignore me. I realise that you’re a married woman with a child and that perhaps it’s wrong for me to write to you, but I confess that even after all this time I can’t forget you, although I’ve tried and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m still in love with you.

My life has also taken a new course. A year ago I started to work as head of sales for an important publishing firm. I know how much books mean to you and working among them makes me feel closer to you. My office is in the Madrid branch, although I travel all over Spain for my work.

I never stop thinking about you, about the life we could have shared, the children we might have had together … I ask myself every day whether your husband knows how to make you happy and whether you didn’t marry him through force of circumstance. I can’t believe that the modest life he can offer you is what you want. I know you well. We were colleagues and friends and there haven’t been any secrets between us. Do you remember those afternoons we spent together on San Pol beach? Do you remember the plans, the dreams we shared, the promises we made to one another? I’ve never felt this way about anyone else. Since we broke off our engagement I’ve been out with a few girls, but now I know that none of them can compare with you. Every time I kiss other lips I think of yours and every time I touch someone else’s skin, it’s your skin I feel.

In a month’s time I’ll be travelling to Barcelona to visit our offices there and hold a few meetings with the staff about a future restructuring of the firm. I could easily have solved these matters by letter and telephone. The real reason for my trip is none other than the hope of being able to see you again. I know you’ll think I’m mad, but that would be better than thinking I’d forgotten you. I arrive on 20 January and will be staying at the Hotel Ritz on the Gran Vía. Please, I beg you, let’s meet, even if only for a while. Let me tell you in person what is in my heart. I’ve made a reservation in the hotel restaurant for the 21st at 2 o’clock. I’ll be there, waiting for you. If you come you’ll make me the happiest man in the world and I’ll know that my dreams of regaining your love might still come true.

I love you, always,

PABLO

For a couple of seconds I sat there, on the bed I’d shared with Bea just a few hours earlier. I slipped the letter back in the envelope and when I stood up I felt as if I’d just been punched in the stomach. I ran to the bathroom sink and threw up that morning’s coffee. I let the cold water run and splashed my face. The eyes of a younger Daniel whose hands were shaking the first time he had caressed Bea gazed back at me from the mirror.

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