The first light of the day spilled like liquid copper over the cornices of Rambla de Santa Mónica. It was a Sunday morning and the streets were quiet and deserted. When we entered the narrow alleyway of Calle Arco del Teatro, the ghostly beam of light penetrating from the Ramblas dimmed and by the time we reached the large wooden door we had become submerged in a city of shadows.
I climbed the steps and rapped with the knocker a few times. The echo trailed off inside, like ripples on a pond. Fermín, who had assumed a respectful silence and looked like a boy on his first day of school, turned to me anxiously.
‘Isn’t it rather early to call?’ he asked. ‘I hope the chief doesn’t get annoyed …’
‘This isn’t a department store. There are no opening times,’ I reassured him. ‘And here the chief is called Isaac. Don’t speak unless he asks you something first.’
Fermín nodded compliantly.
‘Not a peep.’
A couple of minutes later I heard the dance of cogs, pulleys and levers operating the lock and I stepped down again. The door opened just a fraction and the vulturine face of Isaac Montfort, the keeper, peered round with its usual steely look. The keeper’s eyes alighted first on me and, after a quick glance at Fermín, proceeded to X-ray, catalogue and examine him from head to toe.
‘This must be the illustrious Fermín Romero de Torres,’ he murmured.
‘At your service, and God’s and …’
I silenced Fermín with a nudge and smiled at the severe keeper.
‘Good morning, Isaac.’
‘A good morning, Sempere, will be one when you don’t call at dawn, or while I’m in the toilet, or on a religious holiday,’ replied Isaac. ‘Come on, in with you.’
The keeper opened the door a bit further and we slid through. When the door closed behind us, Isaac retrieved his oil lamp from the floor and Fermín was able to observe the elaborate movements of the lock as it folded back upon itself like the insides of the biggest clock in the world.
‘A burglar could age like a good Camembert trying to prise this one open,’ he let slip.
I threw him a warning glance and he quickly put a finger to his lips.
‘Collection or delivery?’ asked Isaac.
‘Well, you see, I’ve been meaning to bring Fermín here for ages so he could get to know the place first-hand. I’ve often talked to him about it. He’s my best friend and he’s getting married today, at noon,’ I explained.
‘Gracious,’ said Isaac. ‘Poor thing. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to offer you nuptial asylum here?’
‘Fermín is quite convinced about getting married, Isaac.’
The keeper looked Fermín up and down. Fermín smiled apologetically.
‘What courage.’
Isaac guided us along the wide corridor to the entrance of the gallery leading into the large hall. I let Fermín walk ahead of me so that he could discover with his own eyes a vision that no words could describe.
His tiny figure was engulfed by the great beam of light pouring down from the glass dome in the ceiling. Brightness fell in a vaporous cascade over the sprawling labyrinth of corridors, tunnels, staircases, arches and vaults that seemed to spring from the floor like the trunk of an endless tree of books and branched heavenwards displaying an impossible geometry. Fermín stepped on to a gangway extending like a bridge into the base of the structure. He gazed at the sight open mouthed. I drew up to him and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Welcome to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, Fermín.’
7
In my experience, whenever someone discovered that place, their reaction was always one of bewitchment and amazement. The beauty and the mystery of the premises reduced the visitor to a silent, dream-like contemplation. Naturally, Fermín had to be different. He spent the first half-hour hypnotised, wandering like a man possessed through every nook and cranny of the large jigsaw formed by the winding labyrinth. He stopped to rap his knuckles against flying buttresses and columns, as if he doubted their solidity. He stood at different angles and perspectives, forming a spyglass with his hands and trying to decipher the logic of the construction. He walked through the spiral of libraries with his large nose almost touching the infinite rows of spines running along endless pathways, making a mental note of titles and cataloguing whatever he discovered on his way. I followed a few steps behind him, with a mixture of alarm and anxiety.
I was beginning to suspect that Isaac was going to kick us out of there when I bumped into the keeper on one of the bridges suspended between book-lined vaults. To my surprise, not only did he show no sign of irritation but he was smiling good-humouredly as he watched Fermín’s progress during his first exploration of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books.
‘Your friend is a rather peculiar specimen,’ Isaac reckoned.
‘You haven’t scratched the surface yet.’
‘Don’t worry about him, leave him alone. He’ll come down from his cloud eventually.’