The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘Well, do pay us the honour of returning to the bookshop, Don Oswaldo. Consider it your home and we can always sort something out with prices.’

‘I will.’

He put out a hand and I shook it.

‘It’s a pleasure to do business with the Semperes.’

‘May it be the first of many such occasions.’

‘What happened to the lame man whose eyes twinkled at the sight of gold?’

‘Turned out that all that glittered wasn’t gold,’ I said.

‘A sign of our times …’

7

Barcelona, 1958

That month of January came wrapped in bright icy skies that blew powdery snow over the city’s rooftops. The sun shone every day, casting sharp angles of light and shadow on the façades of a crystalline Barcelona. Double-decker buses drove by with the top tier empty and passing trams left a halo of steam on the tracks.

Christmas lights glowed in garlands of blue fire all over the old town and carols bearing sugary wishes of goodwill and peace trickled out of a thousand and one loudspeakers by shop doors. The Yuletide message was so pervasive that a policeman guarding the nativity scene set up by the town hall in Plaza San Jaime turned a blind eye when someone had the bright idea of placing a Catalan beret on the Infant Jesus – ignoring the demands of a group of pious old women who expected him to haul the man off with a slap to police headquarters. In the end, s

omeone from the archbishop’s office reported the incident and three nuns turned up to restore order.

Christmas sales had picked up and a seasonal star in the shape of black numbers in the accounts of Sempere & Sons guaranteed that we would at least be able to cope with the electricity and heating bills. With a bit of luck, we might even enjoy a proper hot meal once a day. My father seemed to have recovered his spirits and decreed that this year we wouldn’t wait so long before decorating the bookshop.

‘We’re going to have that crib hanging around for a long time,’ grumbled Fermín with little or no enthusiasm.

After 6 January, the feast of the Three Kings, my father instructed us to wrap up the nativity scene carefully and take it down to the basement for storage until the following Christmas.

‘With care,’ warned my father. ‘I don’t want to be told that the boxes slipped accidentally, Fermín.’

‘With the utmost care, Señor Sempere. I’ll vouch for the integrity of the crib with my life, and that includes all the farm animals dotted round the swaddled Messiah.’

Once we had made room for the boxes containing all the Christmas decorations, I paused for a moment to have a quick look round the basement and its forgotten corners. The last time we’d been there, the conversation had covered matters that neither Fermín nor I had brought up again, but they still lay heavily on my mind at least. Fermín seemed to read my thoughts and he shook his head.

‘Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about that idiot’s letter.’

‘Every now and then.’

‘You won’t have said anything to Doña Beatriz, I hope.’

‘No. I put the letter back in her coat pocket and didn’t say a word.’

‘What about her? Didn’t she mention that she’d received a letter from Don Juan Tenorio?’

I shook my head. Fermín screwed up his nose, as if to say that it wasn’t a good sign.

‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’

‘What about?’

‘Don’t act innocent, Daniel. Are you or are you not going to follow your wife to her potential tryst with that old boyfriend at the Ritz and cause a little stir?’

‘You’re presupposing that she’ll be going there,’ I protested.

‘Aren’t you?’