The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3) - Page 49

He remembered Martín telling him that years ago he’d lived in that area, in a large old house buried in the shadowy canyon of Calle Flassaders, next to the old Mauri chocolate factory. Fermín headed off in that direction but when he arrived he realised that the building in question had been shelled during the war. The authorities hadn’t bothered to remove the rubble, so the neighbours had piled it up out of the way, presumably to make room for them to walk along the street, which was narrower than the corridors of some homes in the smarter parts of town.

Fermín looked around him. A dim glow of bulbs and candles drifted down from the balconies. He moved further into the ruins, jumping over debris, broken gargoyles and beams twisted into improbable knots, looking for a space among the wreckage. At last he lay down under a stone that still had number 30 engraved on it, David Martín’s former address. Covering himself with his coat and the old newspapers he wore under his clothes, he curled up into a ball, closed his eyes and tried to get to sleep.

Half an hour went by and the chill was starting to seep into his bones. A humid wind licked the ruins, searching for holes and cracks. Fermín opened his eyes and stood up. He was trying to find a more sheltered place when he noticed a figure watching him from the street. Fermín froze. The figure took a few steps towards him.

‘Who goes there?’ asked the figure.

The figure advanced a little further and the far-off light of a street lamp revealed the profile of a tall, well-built man dressed in black. Fermín noticed the collar: a priest. He raised both hands in a gesture of peace.

‘I was leaving, Father. Please, don’t call the police.’

The priest looked him up and down. His eyes seemed harsh and he had the air of someone who had spent half his life lifting sacks in the port instead of chalices.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

Fermín, who would have eaten any of those rough stones if someone had sprinkled a few drops of olive oil over them, shook his head.

‘I’ve just had dinner at the Siete Puertas and I’ve stuffed myself silly with lobster stew,’ he said.

The priest gave him a hint of a smile. He turned round and started walking.

‘Come on,’ he ordered.

6

Father Valera lived on the top floor of a building at the end of Paseo del Borne, overlooking the market rooftops. Fermín quickly polished off three bowlfuls of thin soup and a few bits of stale bread, together with a glass of watered-down wine the priest placed in front of him, while he eyed him with curiosity.

‘Aren’t you having dinner, Father?’

‘I don’t usually eat dinner. You enjoy it. I see your hunger goes all the way back to 1936.’

While Fermín slurped his soup with its garnish of bread, he let his eyes roam around the dining room. Next to him, a glass cabinet displayed a collection of plates and glasses, various figures of saints and what looked like a modest set of silver cutlery.

‘I’ve also read Les Misérables, so don’t even think of it,’ warned the priest.

Fermín nodded, ashamed.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Fermín Romero de Torres, at your service, Monsignore.’

‘Are they after you, Fermín?’

‘Depends how you look at it. It’s a complicated matter.’

‘It’s none of my business if you don’t want to tell me. But with clothes like those you can’t wander around out there. You’ll end up in jail before you even reach Vía Layetana. They’re stopping a lot of people who have been lying low for a while. You must be very careful.’

‘As soon as I gain access to some monetary funds that I’ve had in deep storage, I thought I’d drop by El Dique Flotante and come out looking my usual dapper self.’

‘No doubt. But for the time being, humour me. Stand up a moment, will you?’

Fermín put down the spoon and stood up. The priest examined him carefully.

‘Ramón was twice your size, but I think some of the clothes from when he was young would fit you.’

‘Ramón?’

‘My brother. He was killed down there, in the street, by the front door, in May 1938. They were looking for me, but he confronted them. He was a fine musician. He played in the municipal band. Principal trumpet.’

Tags: Carlos Ruiz Zafón The Cemetery of Forgotten Mystery
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