The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘That’s another matter. Let’s go into the technicalities.’

I pulled out the one-thousand-peseta note Salgado had given me and showed it to him.

‘This is my budget for running costs and issuance of documents,’ I remarked.

‘I see you’re sparing no expense. But you’d do better to put that money aside for other endeavours that will be required by this noble deed. My services come free of charge,’ replied the professor. ‘The bit that worries me most, dear assistant, is the much needed documentary trail. Forget all the new public works and prayer books: the new centurions of the regime have also doubled the already colossal structure of the state bureaucracy, worthy of the worst nightmares of our friend Franz Kafka. As I say, a case like this will require generating all kinds of letters, applications, petitions and other documents that must look credible and have the consistency, tone and smell that are characteristic of a dusty, dog-eared and unquestionable file …’

‘We’re covered on that front,’ I said.

‘I’m going to have to be given the list of accomplices in this conspiracy, to make sure you’re not bluffing.’

I went on to explain the rest of my plan.

‘It could work,’ he concluded.

As soon as the main dish arrived, we wrapped up the matter and the conversation took a different direction. Although I’d been holding back during the entire meal, by the time coffee was served, I could no longer restrain myself. Feigning a certain indifference, I asked innocently:

‘By the way, Professor, the other day a customer was chatting to me about something in the bookshop and the name Mauricio Valls cropped up – the one who was Minister of Culture and all those things. What do you know about him?’

The professor raised an eyebrow.

‘About Valls? What everyone knows, I suppose.’

‘I’m sure you know much more than everyone, Professor. Much more.’

‘Well, actually, I hadn’t heard that name for a while, but until not long ago Mauricio Valls was a real big shot. As you say, he was our famous new Minister of Culture for a few years, head of a number of institutions and organisations, a man well placed in the regime and of great prestige in those circles, patron to many, golden boy of all the cultural pages in the Spanish press … As I say, a big shot.’

I smiled weakly, pretending to be pleasantly surprised.

‘And he isn’t any longer?’

‘Quite frankly, I’d say he disappeared off the map a while ago, or at least from the public scene. I’m not sure whether he was given some embassy or some post in an international institution, you know how these things work. But in fact I’ve lost track of him lately … I know he set up a publishing house with a number of partners some years ago. The business does very well – it doesn’t stop bringing out new books. In fact, once a month I receive an invite for the launch of one of their titles …’

‘And does Valls go to these events?’

‘He used to, years ago. We always joked about the fact that he spoke more about himself than about the book or the author he was presenting. But that was some time ago. I haven’t seen him for years. May I ask why this interest, Daniel? I didn’t think of you as someone keen on our literature’s small vanity fair.’

‘I’m just curious.’

‘I see.’

While Professor Alburquerque paid the bill, he looked at me askance.

‘Why is it that I always think you’re not even telling me a quarter of the story?’

‘One day I’ll tell you the rest, Professor. I promise.’

‘You’d better, because cities have no memory and they need someone like me, a sage with his feet on the ground, to keep it alive.’

‘This is the deal: you help me solve Fermín’s problem and in exchange, one day I’ll tell you things that Barcelona would rather forget. For your secret history.’

The professor held out his hand and I shook it.

‘I’ll take your word for it. Now, returning to the subject of Fermín and the documents we’re going to have to pull out of a hat …’

‘I think I have the right man for the job.’

6