The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

Legs, arms, and other parts began to function more or less as he remembered. He recovered the rare pleasure of peeing into the wind with no burning sensations or shameful mishaps and told himself that a man who could urinate standing up and without help was a man in a fit state to face his responsibilities. That same night, in the early hours, he rose quietly and walked through the citadel’s narrow alleyways as far as the boundary marked by the railway tracks. On the other side stood the forest of chimneys and the cemetery’s skyline of angels and mausoleums. Further in the distance, in a tableau of lights that spread up the hillsides, lay Barcelona. He heard footsteps behind him and when he turned round he was met by the serene gaze of the man with the jet-black hair.

‘You’ve been reborn,’ he said.

‘Well, let’s hope this time around things turn out better. I’ve had a pretty bad time so far …’

The man with the jet-black hair smiled.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Armando, the Gypsy.’

Fermín shook his hand.

‘Fermín Romero de Torres, not a Gypsy, but still of relatively good coinage.’

‘Fermín, my friend: I get the impression that you’re considering going back to those people.’

‘You can’t make a leopard change its spots,’ Fermín proclaimed. ‘I’ve left a few things unfinished.’

Armando nodded.

‘I understand. But not yet, dear friend,’ he said. ‘Have patience. Stay with us for a time.’

The fear of what awaited him on his return and the generosity of those people kept him there until one Sunday morning, when he borrowed a newspaper some children had found in the bin of a refreshment stall on La Barceloneta beach. It was hard to tell how long the newspaper had been lying among the rubbish, but it was dated three months after the night of his escape. He combed the pages searching for a hint, a sign or some mention, but there was nothing. That afternoon, when he’d already made up his mind to return to Barcelona at nightfall, Armando approached Fermín and told him that one of his men had gone over to the pensión where he used to live.

‘Fermín, you’d better not go round there to fetch your things.’

‘How did you know my address?’

Armando smiled, avoiding the question.

‘The police told them you’d died. A notice of your death appeared in the papers weeks ago. I didn’t say anything because I realise that to read about one’s own passing when one is convalescing doesn’t help.’

‘What did I die of?’

‘Natural causes. You fell down a ravine when you were trying to flee from the law.’

‘So, I’m dead?’

‘As dead as the polka.’

Fermín weighed up the implications of his new status.

‘And what do I do now? Where do I go? I can’t stay here for ever, taking advantage of your kindness and putting you all in danger.’

Armando sat down next to him and lit one of the cigarettes he himself rolled. It smelled of eucalyptus.

‘Fermín, you can do what you want, because you don’t exist. I’d almost suggest that you stay here, because you’re now one of us, people who have no name and are not documented anywhere. We’re ghosts. Invisible. But I know you must return and resolve whatever you’ve left behind out there. Unfortunately, once you leave this place I can’t offer you my protection.’

‘You’ve already done enough for me.’

Armando patted Fermín’s shoulder and handed him a folded sheet of paper he carried in his pocket.

‘Leave the city for a while. Let a year go by and, when you return, begin here,’ he said, moving away.

Fermín unfolded the sheet of paper and read:

FERNANDO BRIANS

LAWYER