The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

The doctor signalled to Fermín to turn around and walk towards the other end of the courtyard.

‘In times like these, even walls have ears,’ said the doctor.

‘All we need now is for the walls to grow half a brain between the ears and we might get out of this mess,’ answered Fermín.

‘Do you know what Martín said to me the first time I was told by the governor to give him a medical examination?

‘“Doctor, I think I’ve discovered the only way of getting out of this prison.”

‘“How?”

‘“Dead.”

‘“Can’t you think of a more practical way?”

‘“Have you read The Count of Monte Cristo, Doctor?”

‘“As a kid. I barely remember it.”

‘“Well, reread it. It’s all there.”

‘I didn’t want to tell him the governor had ordered all books by Dumas to be removed from the prison library, together with anything by Dickens, Galdós and many other authors whose works he considered rubbish for entertaining the uncultured masses. He replaced them with a collection of some of his own unpublished novels and short stories, together with books by friends of his, bound in leather by Valentí, a prisoner with a graphic arts background. Once Valentí had handed in his work, the governor let him die of exposure, forcing him to spend five nights out in the yard, in the rain, in the middle of January, just because he’d joked about the elegance of the governor’s prose. Valentí managed to leave this place through Martín’s method: dead.

‘After I’d been here for some time, listening to conversations among the jailers, I realised that David Martín had come to the prison at the request of the governor himself. He was being held at La Modelo Prison, accused of a string of crimes which I don’t think anyone really believed he’d committed. Among other things, they said he’d killed his mentor and best friend in a fit of jealousy – a wealthy man called Pedro Vidal, a writer like him – as well as Vidal’s wife, Cristina. People also said he’d cold-bloodedly murdered a number of policemen and someone else, I can’t remember who. These days they accuse so many people of so many things, you just don’t know what to make of it. I find it hard to believe that Martín is a murderer, but it’s also true that during the war years I saw so many people on either side remove their mask and show who they really were, that anything seems possible. Everyone casts the stone and then points a finger at his neighbour.’

‘If I were to tell you …’ remarked Fermín.

‘The fact is that the father of this Vidal character is a powerful industrialist, stinking rich. They say he was one of the key bankers on the national side. Why is it that all wars are won by bankers? Anyway, this magnate, Vidal, personally asked the Ministry of Justice to find Martín and make sure he rotted in prison because of what he’d done to his son and his daughter-in-law. Apparently, Martín had fled the country and been on the run for almost three years when they found him near the border. He couldn’t have been in his right mind to return to Spain where they were waiting to crucify him – at least, that’s what I think. And to make matters worse, this happened during the final days of the war, when thousands of people were crossing over in the opposite direction.’

‘Sometimes one just gets tired of fleeing,’ said Fermín. ‘The world’s very small when you don’t have anywhere to go.’

‘I suppose that’s what Martín must have thought. I don’t know how he managed to cross the border, but some Puigcerdà locals notified the Civil Guards after they’d seen him wandering around the town for days, dressed in rags and talking to himself. Then some shepherds said they’d seen him on the Bolvir road, a couple of kilometres from Puigcerdà, near a large old house called La Torre del Remei, which in wartime had been turned into a hospital for wounded soldiers. It was run by a group of women who probably felt sorry for Martín and, taking him for a soldier, offered him shelter and food. When the Civil Guards got there he’d already left, but that night they caught him walking over the frozen lake, trying to make a hole in the ice with a stone. At first they thought he was trying to commit suicide, so they took him to Villa San Antonio, the sanatorium. Apparently one of the doctors there recognised him – don’t ask me how – and as soon as his name reached the milit

ary headquarters he was transferred to Barcelona.’

‘The lion’s den.’

‘You can say that again. It seems the trial barely lasted two days. The list of accusations against him was endless and although there was hardly any evidence or proof of any sort to sustain them, for some strange reason the public prosecutor managed to produce a good number of witnesses. Dozens of people filed through court, showing such zealous hatred for Martín that even the judge was surprised – no doubt they had all been given handouts by the elder Vidal. Among them were old colleagues of Martín’s from the years when he worked for a minor newspaper called The Voice of Industry. Coffee-shop intellectuals, poor devils and envious pricks of all sorts came out of the woodwork to swear that Martín was guilty of everything he was accused of, and more. You know how things work here. On the judge’s orders, and Vidal senior’s advice, all his works were confiscated and burned, being considered subversive material, immoral and contrary to decent behaviour. When Martín declared in the trial that the only decent behaviour he defended was reading, and anything else was the reader’s business, the judge added another ten years to the sentence he’d already given him. It seems that instead of keeping his mouth shut during the trial Martín replied to everything he was asked without mincing his words, and ended up digging his own grave.’

‘Everything can be forgiven in this world, save telling the truth.’

‘The fact is, he was given a life sentence. The Voice of Industry, owned by Vidal senior, published a long piece listing all his crimes, and to cap it all, an editorial. Guess who signed it.’

‘Our illustrious prison governor, Don Mauricio Valls.’

‘The very one. He described him as “the worst writer in history” and was delighted that his books had been destroyed because they were “an affront to humanity and good taste”.’

‘That’s exactly what they said about the Palau de la Música auditorium,’ Fermín pointed out. ‘We’re so fortunate in this country to be blessed with the very cream of the international intellectual community. Unamuno was right when he said: let others do the inventing, we’ll provide the opinions.’

‘Innocent or not, after witnessing his public humiliation and the burning of every single page he’d ever written, Martín ended up in a cell in La Modelo Prison, where he probably would have died in a matter of weeks if it hadn’t been for the fact that our governor, who had been following the case with great interest and for some strange reason was obsessed with Martín, was given access to his file and then asked for his transfer to this place. Martín told me that the day he arrived here, Valls had him brought into his office and fired off one of his lectures.

‘“Martín, you’re a convicted criminal and probably a fanatical subversive, but something binds us together. We’re both men of letters and although you spent your failed career writing rubbish for the ignorant masses who lack all intellectual guidance, I think you may be able to help me and thus redeem your errors. I have a collection of novels and poems I’ve been working on for the past few years. They’re of an extraordinarily high literary standard. So much so, I very much fear that in this illiterate country there could be no more than three hundred readers capable of understanding and appreciating their worth. That is why I’ve been thinking that perhaps, because of the way you have prostituted your writings, and your closeness to the common man who reads potboilers in trams, you might help me make some small changes that will draw my work nearer to the lamentable levels of Spanish readers. If you agree to collaborate, I can assure you that I‘ll make your existence far more pleasant. I could even get your case reopened. Your little friend … What’s her name? Ah, yes, Isabella. A beauty, if you will allow me the comment. Anyhow, your girlfriend came to see me and told me she’s hired a young lawyer, someone called Brians, and has managed to raise enough money for your defence. Let’s not kid ourselves: we both know there were no grounds for your case and you were sentenced thanks to dubious witnesses. You seem to make enemies with incredible ease, even among people I’m sure you don’t even know exist. Don’t make the mistake of making another enemy of me, Martín. I’m not one of those poor devils. Here, between these walls, to put it plainly, I am God.”

‘I don’t know whether Martín accepted the governor’s proposal or not, but I have a feeling he did, because he’s still alive and clearly our particular God is still interested in keeping it that way, at least for the moment. He’s even provided Martín with paper and the writing tools he has in his cell, I suppose so that he can rewrite our governor’s great works and enable him to enter the Hall of Fame, achieving the literary glory he so craves. Personally, I don’t know what to think. My impression is that poor Martín is in no fit state to rewrite even his own name. He seems to spend most of his time trapped in a sort of purgatory he’s been building in his own head, where remorse and pain are eating him alive. Although my field is general medicine and I’m not qualified to give a diagnosis …’

7

The good doctor’s story kindled Fermín’s interest. True to his unconditional support of lost causes, he decided to do a little investigation on his own, hoping to discover more about Martín and, at the same time, perfect the idea of the escape via mortis, in the style of Monsieur Alexandre Dumas. The more he turned the matter over in his mind, the more he thought that, at least in this particular, the Prisoner of Heaven was not as nuts as they all made him out to be. Whenever they were allowed out into the yard, Fermín would contrive to go up to Martín and engage in conversation with him.