The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘No, Fermín,’ said Martín. ‘This isn’t your war. It’s mine. It’s what I deserve for having done what I’ve done.’

‘You haven’t done anything, Martín.’

‘You don’t know me well enough, Fermín. Not that you need to. What you must concentrate on is getting out of here.’

‘Glad you bring that up, since that’s the other thing I wanted to ask you. I hear you’re developing an experimental method for getting out of this chamber pot. If you need a skinny guinea pig – but one that is bursting with enthusiasm – consider me at your service.’

Martín observed him thoughtfully.

‘Have you read Dumas?’

‘From cover to cover.’

&nbs

p; ‘You look the type. If that’s the case, you’ll have an inkling of what’s coming. Listen well.’

8

Fermín had been in captivity for six months when a series of circumstances substantially changed the course of his life. The first of these was that during that period, when the regime still believed that Hitler, Mussolini and Co. were going to win the war and that Europe would soon parade the same colours as the Generalissimo’s underpants, an unhindered wave of thugs, informers and newly appointed commissars drove up the number of imprisoned, arrested, prosecuted or ‘disappeared’ citizens to an all-time high.

The country’s jails couldn’t cope with the influx. The military authorities had instructed the Montjuïc prison management to double or even treble their intake and thus absorb part of the torrent of convicts flooding that defeated, miserable Barcelona of 1940. To that effect, in his flowery Sunday speech, the governor informed the prisoners that from then on they would share their cells. Dr Sanahuja was moved into Martín’s cell, presumably to keep an eye on him and protect him from his suicidal fits. Fermín had to share cell 13 with his grumpy old next-door neighbour, Number 14. All the prisoners in the block were coupled together in order to make room for the new arrivals who were driven up every night in vans from La Modelo or the Campo de la Bota prisons.

‘Don’t pull that face. I like it even less than you do,’ Number 14 informed his new companion when he moved in.

‘Let me warn you that unbridled hostility gives me insidious bouts of gas,’ Fermín threatened. ‘So drop the Buffalo Bill act. Make an effort to behave and try to piss facing the wall and without splashing, or one of these days you’ll wake up sprouting mushrooms.’

Ex-Number 14 spent five days without speaking to Fermín. Finally, surrendering in the face of the sulphuric flatulence Fermín offered him in the middle of the night, he switched strategy.

‘I did warn you,’ said Fermín.

‘All right. I give in. My name is Sebastián Salgado, a trade unionist by profession. Let’s shake hands and be friends, but, please, I beg you, stop farting like that, because I’m beginning to hallucinate and in my dreams I see Comrade Joseph Stalin doing the charleston.’

Fermín shook Salgado’s hand and noticed that he was missing his little finger and his ring finger.

‘Fermín Romero de Torres, pleased to make your acquaintance at last. Member of the secret service in the Caribbean sector of the Catalan Government, now in the clandestine reserve. But my true vocation is bibliographer and lover of literature.’

Salgado looked at his new comrade-in-arms and rolled his eyes.

‘And they say Martín is mad.’

‘A madman is one who considers himself sane and thinks that fools don’t belong in his rank.’

Salgado nodded, defeated.

The second circumstance occurred a few days later, when a couple of guards turned up at dusk to fetch him. Bebo opened their cell, trying to hide his concern.

‘You, Skinny Arse, get up,’ one of the guards muttered.

For a moment Salgado thought his prayers had been answered and Fermín was being taken away to be shot.

‘Be brave, Fermín.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘Off to die for God and country, what could be more beautiful?’

The two guards grabbed Fermín, shackled his hands and feet, and dragged him away among the anguished looks of the entire block and Salgado’s roars of laughter.

‘You’re not farting your way out of this one, that’s for sure,’ laughed his companion.

9