The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘I’m so sorry, Father.’

The priest shrugged his shoulders.

‘More or less everyone has lost someone, whatever side they belong to.’

‘I don’t belong to any side,’ Fermín replied. ‘What’s more, I think flags are nothing but painted rags that represent rancid emotions. Just seeing someone wrapped up in one of them, spewing out hymns, badges and speeches, gives me the runs. I’ve always thought that anyone who needs to join a herd so badly must be a bit of a sheep himself.’

‘You must have a very hard time in this country.’

‘You have no idea. But I always tell myself that having direct access to serrano ham makes up for everything. And anyhow, it’s the same the world over.’

‘That’s true. Tell me, Fermín. How long since you last tasted real serrano ham?’

‘March sixth 1934. Los Caracoles on Calle Escudellers. Another life.’

The priest smiled.

‘You can stay here for tonight, Fermín, but tomorrow you’ll have to find some other place. People talk. I can give you a bit of money for a pensión, but don’t forget they all ask for identity cards and register their lodgers’ names with the police.’

‘That goes without saying, Father. Tomorrow, before sunrise, I’ll vanish faster than goodwill. And I won’t accept a single céntimo from you. I’ve already taken enough advantage of your …’

The priest put a hand up and shook his head.

‘Let’s see how some of Ramón’s things look on you,’ he said, rising from the table.

Father Valera insisted on providing Fermín with a pair of slightly worn shoes, a modest but clean wool suit, a couple of changes of underwear and a few

personal toiletries which he put in a suitcase. A shining trumpet was displayed on one of the shelves, next to a number of photographs of two smiling, good-looking young men, in what looked like the annual fiestas of the Gracia district. One had to look closely to realise that one of them was Father Valera, who now looked thirty years older.

‘I have no hot water. And they don’t fill the tank till the morning, so either you wait, or you use the water jug.’

While Fermín washed himself as best he could, Father Valera prepared a pot of coffee with some sort of chicory mixed with other substances that looked vaguely suspicious. There was no sugar but that cup of dirty water was warm and the company was pleasant.

‘Anyone would say we’re in Colombia, enjoying the finest selection of coffee beans,’ said Fermín.

‘You’re a peculiar fellow, Fermín. Can I ask you something personal?’

‘Will the secrecy of the confessional cover it?’

‘Let’s say it will.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Have you killed anyone? During the war, I mean.’

‘No,’ replied Fermín.

‘I have.’

Fermín went rigid, his cup half empty. The priest lowered his eyes.

‘I’ve never told anyone.’

‘It remains bound by the secrecy of the confessional,’ Fermín assured him.

The priest rubbed his eyes and sighed. Fermín wondered how long this man had lived there alone, harbouring that secret and the memory of his dead brother.

‘You must have had your reasons, Father.’