The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

My friend looked at me sceptically.

‘As my name is Daniel, you’re getting married with all due pomp and ceremony,’ I promised Fermín. He looked so dejected I thought nothing would manage to revive his spirits: not a packet of Sugus, not even a good movie at the Fémina Cinema with Kim Novak sporting one of her glorious brassieres that defied gravity.

‘If you say so, Daniel …’

‘You’ve given me back the truth,’ I said. ‘I’m going to give you back your name.’

5

That afternoon, when I returned to the bookshop, I set in motion my plan for rescuing Fermín’s identity. The first step consisted in making a few phone calls from the back room and establishing a course of action. The second required gathering the right team of recognised experts.

The following day turned out to be pleasant and sunny. Around noon I walked over to the library on Calle del Carmen, where I’d arranged to meet Professor Alburquerque, convinced that whatever he didn’t know, nobody knew.

I found him under the tall arches of the main reading room, surrounded by piles of books and papers, concentrating, pen in hand. I sat down opposite him, on the other side of the table, and let him get on with his work. It took him almost a minute to become aware of my presence. When he looked up he stared at me in surprise.

‘That must be really good stuff,’ I ventured.

‘I’m working on a series of articles on Barcelona’s accursed writers,’ he explained. ‘Do you remember someone called Julián Carax, an author you recommended a few months ago in the bookshop?’

‘Of course,’ I replied.

‘Well, I’ve been looking into him and his story is truly extraordinary. Did you know that for years a diabolical character went around the world searching for Carax’s books and burning them?’

‘You don’t say,’ I said, feigning surprise.

‘It’s a very odd case. I’ll let you read it when I’ve finished.’

‘You should write a book on the subject,’ I proposed. ‘A secret history of Barcelona seen through its accursed writers, those forbidden in the official version.’

The professor considered the idea, intrigued.

‘It had occurred to me, I must say, but I have so much work what with my newspaper articles and the university …’

‘If you don’t write it, nobody will …’

‘Yes, well, maybe I’ll take the plunge and get on with it. I don’t know where I’ll find the time, but …’

‘Sempere & Sons can offer you its full catalogue and any assistance you may need.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind. So? Shall we go for lunch?’

Professor Alburquerque called it a day and we set off for Casa Leopoldo where we sat down with a glass of wine and some sublime serrano ham tapas, to wait for two plates of bull’s-tail stew, the day’s special.

‘How’s our good friend Fermín? A couple of weeks ago, when I saw him in Can Lluís, he looked very downcast.’

‘Oddly enough, he’s the person I wanted to talk to you about. It’s a rather delicate matter and I must ask you to keep it between ourselves.’

‘But of course. What can I do?’

I proceeded to outline the problem as concisely as I could, without touching upon thorny or unnecessary details. The professor sensed that there was plenty more to the story than I was telling him, but he displayed his customary discretion.

‘Let’s see if I’ve understood,’ he said. ‘Fermín cannot make use of his identity because, officially, he was pronounced dead almost twenty years ago and therefore, in the eyes of the state, he doesn’t exist.’

‘Correct.’

‘But, from what you tell me, I gather that this identity that was cancelled was also fictitious, an invention of Fermín himself during the war, to save his skin.’

‘Correct.’