The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘If I didn’t know you so well I’d say it was the Mediterranean diet and the fresh sea air.’

Salgado gave an attempt at a laugh that sounded like a hoarse cough or his bronchial tubes on the verge of collapse.

‘You never change, Fermín. That’s why we got along so famously back then. What times those were. But I don’t want to bore the young man here with memories of the good old days. This generation isn’t interested in our stuff. They’re into the charleston, or whatever they call it these days. Shall we talk business?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘You’re the one who must do the talking, Fermín. I’ve already said all I had to say. Are you going to give me what you owe me? Or are we going to have to kick up a fuss you’d do better to avoid?’

Fermín remained impassive for a few moments, leaving us in an uncomfortable silence. Salgado was staring straight at him with venom in his eyes. Fermín gave me a look I didn’t quite understand and sighed dejectedly.

‘You win, Salgado.’

He pulled a small object out of his pocket and handed it to him. A key. The key. Salgado’s eyes lit up like those of a child. He got to his feet and slowly approached Fermín, accepting the key with his remaining hand, trembling with emotion.

‘If you’re planning to reintroduce it into restricted areas of your anatomy, I beg you to step into the bathroom for the sake of decorum. This is a family venue, open to the general public,’ Fermín warned him.

Salgado, who seemed to have recovered the bloom of first youth, broke into a smile of boundless satisfaction.

‘Come to think of it, you’ve actually done me a huge favour keeping it for me all these years,’ he declared.

‘That’s what friends are for,’ answered Fermín. ‘God bless, and don’t hesitate never to come back here again.’

Salgado smiled and winked at us. He

walked towards the door, already lost in thought. Before stepping into the street he turned round for a moment and raised a hand in a conciliatory farewell.

‘I wish you luck and a long life, Fermín. And rest assured, your secret is safe with me.’

We watched him leave in the rain, an old man anyone might have thought was at death’s door but who, I was sure, didn’t feel the cold raindrops lashing at him then, or even the years of imprisonment and hardships he carried in his blood. I glanced at Fermín, who seemed nailed to the ground, looking pale and confused at the sight of his old cellmate.

‘Are we going to let him go just like that?’ I asked.

‘Have you a better plan?’

3

After the proverbial minute’s wait, we hurried down the street armed with dark raincoats and an umbrella the size of a parasol that Fermín had bought in one of the bazaars in the port – intending to use it both winter and summer for his escapades to La Barceloneta beach with Bernarda.

‘Fermín, with this thing we stick out like a sore thumb,’ I warned him.

‘Don’t worry. I’m sure the only thing that swine can see are gold doubloons raining down from heaven,’ replied Fermín.

Salgado was some hundred metres ahead of us, hobbling briskly under the rain along Calle Condal. We narrowed the gap a little, just in time to see him about to climb on to a tram going up Vía Layetana. We sprinted forward, closing the umbrella as we ran, and by some miracle managed to leap on to the tram’s running board. In the best tradition of those days we made the journey hanging from the back. Salgado had found a seat in the front, offered to him by a Good Samaritan, who couldn’t have known who he was dealing with.

‘That’s what happens when people reach old age,’ said Fermín. ‘Nobody remembers they’ve been bastards too.’

The tram rumbled along Calle Trafalgar until it reached the Arco de Triunfo. We peered inside and saw that Salgado was still glued to his seat. The ticket collector, a man with a bushy moustache, scowled at us.

‘Don’t think that because you’re hanging out there I’m going to give you a discount. I’ve had an eye on you ever since you jumped on board.’

‘Nobody cares about social realism any more,’ murmured Fermín. ‘What a country.’

We handed him a few coins and he gave us our tickets. We were beginning to think Salgado must have fallen asleep when, as the tram turned into the road leading to the Estación del Norte, he stood up and pulled the chain to request a stop. The driver was now slowing down, so we jumped off opposite the palatial art nouveau headquarters of the Hydroelectric Company and followed the tram on foot to the stop. We saw Salgado step down, assisted by two passengers, and then head off towards the train station.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ I asked.

Fermín nodded. We followed Salgado to the station’s grand entrance hall, camouflaging ourselves – or perhaps making our presence painfully obvious – behind Fermín’s oversized umbrella. Once inside, Salgado approached a row of metal lockers lined up along one of the walls like miniature niches in a cemetery. We sat on a bench in the shadows of the hall. Salgado was standing in front of the countless lockers, staring at them, utterly absorbed.