The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘That’s what I thought. But it seems that in his free time he writes love letters to my wife.’

Fermín jumped up.

‘The son-of-a-bitch,’ he muttered, even more furious than me.

I pulled the letter out of my pocket and handed it to him. Fermín sniffed the paper before opening it.

‘Is it me, or does the swine send letters on perfumed paper?’ he asked.

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. The man’s like that. The best part comes afterwards. Read, read …’

Fermín read the letter, mumbling to himself and shaking his head.

‘Not only is this specimen a disgusting piece of excrement, he’s also as cloying as they come. This “kissing other lips” line should be enough to get him jailed for life.’

I put the letter away and looked down at the floor.

‘Don’t tell me you’re suspicious of Señora Bea?’ asked Fermín in disbelief.

‘No, of course not.’

‘You liar.’

I stood up and began to pace around the basement.

‘And what would you do if you found a letter like that one in Bernarda’s pocket?’

Fermín took his time to consider the matter.

‘What I would do is trust the mother of my child.’

‘Trust her?’

Fermín nodded.

‘Don’t take it badly, Daniel, but you have the basic problem of all men who marry a real looker. Señora Bea, who is and always will be a saint as far as I’m concerned, is, in the popular parlance, such a tasty dish you’d want to lick the plate clean. As a result, it’s only to be expected that dedicated sleazy types, full-time losers, poolside gigolos and all the half-arsed posers in town should go after her. With or without a husband and child: the simian stuck in a suit we all too kindly call Homo sapiens doesn’t give a damn about that. You may not have noticed, but I’d bet my silk undies that your saintly wife attracts more flies than a pot of honey in a barn. That cretin is just like one of those scavenger birds, throwing stones to see if he hits something. Trust me, a woman with her head and petticoat both firmly in place can see that type coming from afar.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely. Do you really think that if Doña Beatriz wanted to cheat on you she’d have to wait for a slobbering halfwit to sweet-talk her into it with his reheated boleros? I wouldn’t wonder that at least ten suitors put in an appearance every time she goes out, showing off her good looks and her baby. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.’

‘Quite frankly, I’m not sure whether all this is much comfort.’

‘Look, what you need to do is put that letter back in the coat pocket where you found it and forget all about it. And don’t even think of mentioning the matter to your wife.’

‘Is that what you would do?’

‘What I’d do is go and find that numbskull and land him such a glorious kick in the balls they’d have to surgically remove them from the back of his neck and all he’d want to do then is join a Carthusian monastery. But that’s me.’

I felt the anguish spreading inside me like a drop of oil on clear water.

‘I’m not sure you’ve helped me much, Fermín.’

He shrugged his shoulders, picked up the box, and vanished up the stairs.

We spent the rest of the morning working in the bookshop. After mulling over the business of the letter in my head for a couple of hours, I came to the conclusion that Fermín was right. What I couldn’t quite work out was whether he was right about trusting her and keeping quiet, or about going out to get that moron and give him a genital makeover. The calendar on the counter said 20 December. I had a month to decide.

The day’s business picked up little by little, with modest but steady sales. Fermín didn’t miss a single chance to praise my father for the glorious crib and for his brilliant idea of buying that Baby Jesus reminiscent of a Basque weightlifter.