The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

Oswaldo Darío de Mortenssen, prince of Barcelona scribes and an old acquaintance of mine, was enjoying a break after his lunch, in his booth next to La Virreina Palace, sipping a double espresso with a dash of cognac and smoking a cigar. When he saw me approaching he raised a hand in greeting.

‘The prodigal son returns. Have you changed your mind? Shall we get going on that love letter that will give you access to the forbidden zips and buttons of the desired young lady?’

I showed him my wedding ring again and he nodded, remembering.

‘I’m sorry. Force of habit. You’re one of the old guard. What can I do for you?’

‘The other day I remembered why your name sounded familiar to me, Don Oswaldo. I work in a bookshop and I found a novel of yours from 1933, The Riders of Twilight.’

That sparked a host of memories. Oswaldo smiled nostalgically.

‘What times those were … Barrido and Escobillas, my publishers, ripped me off to the last céntimo, the swines. May they roast for ever in hell. Still, the pleasure of writing it – nobody can take that away from me.’

‘If I bring it along one day, will you sign it for me?’

‘Of course. It was my swansong. The world wasn’t ready for a western set in the Ebro delta, with bandits on canoes instead of horses, and mosquitoes the size of watermelons.’

‘You’re the Zane Grey of the Spanish coast.’

‘I wish. What can I do for you, young man?’

‘Lend me your talent and cunning for an equally worthy venture.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘I need you to help me invent a documentary past for a friend, so he can marry the woman he loves without legal impediments.’

‘A good man?’

‘The best I know.’

‘If that’s the case, it’s a deal. My favourite scenes were always weddings and christenings.’

‘We’ll need official applications, reports, petitions, certificates – the whole shooting match.’

‘That won’t be a problem. We’ll delegate part of the logistics to Luisito, whom you already know. He’s completely trustworthy and a master in twelve different calligraphies.’

I pulled out the one-thousand-peseta note the professor had refused and handed it to him. Oswaldo put it away swiftly, his eyes as big as saucers.

‘And they say you can’t make a living from writing in Spain,’ he said.

‘Will that cover the working expenses?’

‘Amply. When I’ve got it all organised I’ll let you know what the whole operation adds up to, but off the top of my head I’d guess that three or four hundred will get us there.’

‘I leave that to your discretion, Oswaldo. My friend Professor Alburquerque …’

‘Fine writer …’ Oswaldo cut in.

‘And an even better gentleman. As I say, my friend, the professor, will drop by and give you a list of the documents required, and all the details. If there’s anything you need, you’ll find me at the Sempere & Sons bookshop.’

His face lit up when he heard the name.

‘Ah, the sanctuary. As a young man I used to go round every Saturday and those encounters with Señor Sempere opened my eyes.’

‘That would have been my grandfather.’

‘I haven’t been there for years. My finances are tight and I’ve taken to borrowing books from libraries.’