The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘It’s the end of an era,’ proclaimed Professor Alburquerque, raising his glass of champagne in a toast, voicing better than anyone what we were all feeling.

Fermín’s stag night, an event whose effects on the global female population Gustavo Barceló compared to the death of Rudolf Valentino, took place on a clear February night of 1958. The venue was the magnificent dance hall of La Paloma, where the groom had in the past performed some heart-rending tangos, attaining moments that would now enter the secret dossier of a distinguished career at the service of the eternal female. My father, who for once in his life had been persuaded to leave home, had secured the services of a semi-professional dance band, La Habana del Baix Llobregat, who agreed to play for a knockdown price a selection of Fermín’s favourite fare: mambos, guarachas and sones montunos that transported the groom to his faraway days of intrigue and international glamour in the great gaming salons of a forgotten Cuba. Everyone, to a greater or lesser degree, let their hair down, throwing themselves on to the dance floor to shake a leg in Fermín’s honour.

Barceló had convinced my father that the glasses of vodka he kept handing him were mineral water with a few drops of anisette, and soon we were all able to witness an unprecedented sight: Señor Sempere dancing cheek-to-cheek with one of the easy ladies brought along by Rociíto – the true life and soul of the party – to brighten up the event.

‘Dear God,’ I murmured as I watched my father with that veteran madam of the night, swaying his hips and bumping his backside against hers in time to the beat.

Barceló circulated among the guests, handing out cigars and the little cards he’d had printed to commemorate the occasion, at a firm specialising in mementoes for first communions, christenings and funerals. The fine paper card depicted a caricature of Fermín dressed up as an angel, his hands together as in prayer, with the following message:

FERMÍN ROMERO DE TORRES

19??–1958

The great lover retires

1958–19??

The paterfamilias arises

For the first time in ages, Fermín was happy and calm. Half an hour before the start of the bash I’d taken him along to Can Lluís, where Professor Alburquerque certified that he’d been at the Civil Registry that very morning, armed with the entire dossier of documents and papers masterfully produced by Oswaldo Darío de Mortenssen and his assistant, Luisito.

‘Dear Fermín,’ the professor announced. ‘Allow me to welcome you officially to the world of the living. With our friends from Can Lluís as witnesses, Don Daniel Sempere and I hereby present you with a brand-new you, which comes with this fresh and legitimate identity card.’

An emotional Fermín examined his new documentation.

‘How did you manage such a miracle?’

‘We’ll spare you the technicalities,’ said the professor. ‘What really matters is that when you have a true friend who is ready to take the risk and move heaven and earth so that you can get married with everything in order and start bringing offspring into the world to continue the Romero de Torres line, almost anything is possible, Fermín.’

Fermín looked at me with tears in his eyes and hugged me so tight I thought I was going to suffocate. I’m not ashamed to admit that it was one of the happiest moments in my life.

2

Half an hour of music, drinks and naughty dancing had gone by when I took a breather and walked over to the bar to ask for something non-alcoholic. I didn’t think I could swallow another drop of rum and lemon, the evening’s official beverage. The waiter served me a glass of cold sparkling water and I leaned my back against the bar to take in the fun. I hadn’t noticed that Rociíto was standing at the other end. She was holding a glass of champagne, watching the party she had organised with a melancholy expression. From what Fermín had told me, I worked out that Rociíto must be close to her thirty-fifth birthday, but almost twenty years in the profession had taken their toll and even in the multicoloured half-light the crowned queen of Calle Escudellers appeared older.

I went up to her and smiled.

‘Rociíto, you’re looking more beautiful than ever,’ I lied.

She was wearing her smartest clothes and her hair showed the stunning handiwork of the best hairdresser in the Raval, but what really struck me was how sad she looked that night.

‘Are you all right, Rociíto?’

‘Look at ’im, poor thing. All skin and bone and he’s still in the mood for dancing. He always was a great dancer.’

Her eyes were glued to Fermín and I knew that she would always see in him the champion who had saved her from that small-time pimp. After her twenty years of working the streets, he was probably one of the few worthwhile men she’d met.

‘Don Daniel, I didn’t want to say anything to Fermín, but I won’t be going to the wedding tomorrow.’

‘What are you saying, Rociíto? Fermín had saved you a place of honour …’

Rociíto lowered her eyes.

‘I know, but I can’t be there.’

‘Why?’ I asked, although I could guess what the reply would be.

‘Because it would make me really sad and I want Señorito Fermín to be happy with his missus.’