The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

Calle de Caspe, 12

Attic Floor, room 1

Barcelona. Telephone 564375

‘How can I repay you for everything you’ve done for me?’

‘One day, when you’ve sorted out your business, come by and ask for me. We’ll go and see Carmen Amaya dance and you can tell me how you managed to escape from up there. I’m curious,’ said Armando.

Fermín looked into those black eyes and nodded slowly.

‘What cell were you in, Armando?’

‘Cell thirteen.’

‘Were those crosses on the wall yours?’

‘Unlike you, Fermín, I am a believer, but I’ve lost my faith.’

That afternoon nobody said goodbye to Fermín or tried to stop him leaving. He set off, one more invisible person, towards the streets of a Barcelona that smelled of electricity. In the distance the towers of the Sagrada Familia seemed stranded in a blanket of red clouds that threatened a storm of biblical proportions, and he went on walking. His feet took him to the bus depot on Calle Trafalgar. There was some money in the pockets of the coat Armando had given him, and he bought a ticket for the longest trip available. He spent the night on the bus, driving through deserted roads under the rain. The following day he did the same, until, after three days on trains, on foot and on midnight buses, he reached a place where the streets had no name and the houses had no number and where nothing or no one could remember him.

He had a hundred jobs and no friends. He made money, which he spent. He read books that spoke of a world in which he no longer believed. He started to write a letter that he never knew how to end, battling with reminiscences and remorse. More than once he walked up to a bridge or a precipice and gazed calmly at the chasm below. At the last moment the memory of that promise would always return, and the look in the eyes of the Prisoner of Heaven. After a year, Fermín left the room he had rented above a café and, with no baggage other than a copy of City of the Damned he’d found in a flea market – possibly the only book of Martín’s that hadn’t been burned and which Fermín had read a dozen times – he walked two kilometres to the train station and bought the ticket that had been waiting for him all those months.

‘One way to Barcelona, please.’

The ticket-office clerk issued the ticket and gave it to him with a disdainful look.

‘Rather you than me,’ he said. ‘With all those goddam Catalan dogs.’

5

Barcelona, 1941

It was starting to get dark when Fermín stepped off the train in the Estación de Francia. A cloud of steam and soot belched out by the engine stole along the platform, masking the passengers’ feet as they descended after the long journey. Fermín joined the silent procession towards the exit, among people in threadbare clothes, dragging suitcases held together with straps, people aged well before their time carrying all their belongings in a bundle, children with empty eyes and em

ptier pockets.

A pair of Civil Guards patrolled the entrance. Fermín saw how they followed the passengers with their eyes and stopped some of them at random to ask for documentation. He kept walking in a straight line towards one of them. When he was only about a dozen metres away, he noticed that the Civil Guard was watching him. In Martín’s novel, the book that had kept Fermín company all those months, one of the characters swore that the best way of disarming the authorities was to speak to them first before they addressed you. So before the officer was able to point him out, Fermín walked straight up to the man and said in a calm voice:

‘Good evening, chief. Would you be so kind as to tell me where I can find the Hotel Porvenir? I believe it’s in Plaza Palacio, but I hardly know the city.’

The Civil Guard examined him silently, somewhat disconcerted. His colleague had moved closer, covering his right side.

‘You’ll have to ask someone when you get out,’ he said in a rather unfriendly tone.

Fermín nodded politely.

‘That’s what I’ll do. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

He was about to continue walking towards the entrance hall when the other officer took hold of his arm.

‘Plaza Palacio is on the left as you go out. Opposite the Military Headquarters.’

‘Most obliged. Have a good evening.’

The Civil Guard let go of him and Fermín walked away slowly, pacing himself, until he reached the entrance hall and then the street.

A scarlet sky curved over Barcelona. The city looked dark, entwined with sharp, black silhouettes. A half-empty tram hauled itself along, shedding a flickering light on the cobblestones. Fermín waited for it to go by before crossing to the other side. As he stepped over the shining rails he gazed into the distance, where the sides of Paseo Colón seemed to converge and the hill and castle of Montjuïc loomed above the city. He looked down again and set off up Calle Comercio towards the Borne market. The streets were deserted and a cold breeze blew though the alleyways. He had nowhere to go.