18
At twenty past ten, Isabella Sempere walked in through the door. She wore a simple coat, no make-up, and her hair was tied up. Valls saw her and raised a hand. Isabella paused for a moment to look at him blankly, then slowly walked over to the table. Valls stood up and held out his hand with a friendly smile. Isabella ignored the gesture and sat down.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering two camomile teas. It’s the best thing to have on such a chilly evening.’
Isabella nodded absently, avoiding Valls’s eyes. The governor studied her closely. As every time she had come to see him, Señora Sempere had made herself look as plain as possible in an attempt to hide her beauty. Valls examined the shape of her lips, her throbbing neck and the swell of her breasts under her coat.
‘I’m listening,’ said Isabella.
‘Above all, let me thank you for agreeing to meet me at such short notice. I received your note this afternoon and thought it would be a good idea to discuss the matter away from the office and the prison.’
Isabella responded with another nod. Valls had a sip of his camomile and licked his lips.
‘Excellent. The best in all Barcelona. Taste it.’
Isabella ignored his invitation.
‘As you will understand, we can’t be discreet enough. May I ask you whether you’ve told anyone you were coming here tonight?’
Isabella shook her head.
‘Your husband, perchance?’
‘My husband is stocktaking in the bookshop. He won’t get home until the early hours of the morning. Nobody knows I’m here.’
‘Shall I get you something else? If you don’t feel like a camomile tea …’
Isabella shook her head and held the cup in her hands.
‘It’s fine.’
Valls smiled serenely.
‘As I was saying, I got your letter. I quite understand your indignation and wanted to tell you that it’s all due to a misunderstanding.’
‘You’re blackmailing a poor, mentally ill person, your prisoner, by getting him to write a book with which to promote yourself. I don’t think I misunderstood anything up to that point.’
Valls slid a hand towards Isabella.
‘Isabella … May I call you that?’
‘Don’t touch me, please.’
Valls pulled his hand away, putting on a conciliatory smile.
‘All right, but let’s talk calmly.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about. If you don’t leave David in peace, I’ll take your story and your fraud to Madrid or wherever is required. Everyone will know what sort of a person and what sort of a literary figure you are. Nothing and nobody is going to stop me.’
Isabella’s eyes brimmed with tears and the cup of camomile shook in her hands.
‘Please, Isabella. Drink a little. It will do you good.’
Isabella drank a couple of sips.
‘Like this, with a bit of honey, is how it tastes best,’ Valls added.
Isabella took two or three more sips.
‘I must say, I do admire you, Isabella,’ said Valls. ‘Few people would have the courage and the composure to defend a poor wretch like Martín … someone whom everyone has abandoned and betrayed. Everyone but you.’
Isabella glanced nervously at the clock above the bar. It was ten thirty-five. She took a couple more sips of camomile and then finished it off.
‘You must be very fond of him,’ Valls ventured. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether, given a bit of time, when you get to know me a bit better and see what I’m really like, you’ll become just as fond of me as you are of him.’
She looked at him coldly for a long while, the empty cup in her hands.
‘You make me feel sick, Valls. You and all the filth like you.’
Valls smiled warmly.
‘I know, Isabella. But it’s the filth like me that always rules in this country and the people like you who are always left in the shadow. It makes no difference which side is holding the reins.’
‘Not this time. This time your superiors will know what you’re doing.’
‘What makes you think they’ll care, or that they don’t do the same or much worse? After all, I’m only an amateur.’
Valls smiled and pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket.
‘Isabella, I want you to know I’m not the sort of person you think I am. And to prove it, here is the order for freeing David Martín, effective tomorrow.’
Valls showed her the document. Isabella examined it in disbelief. Valls pulled out his pen and, without further ado, signed it.
‘’There you are. David Martín is, technically, a free man. Thanks to you, Isabella. Thanks to you …’
When Isabella looked at him again her eyes had glazed over. Valls noticed how her pupils were slowly dilating and a film of perspiration appeared over her upper lip.
‘Are you all right? You look pale …’
Isabella staggered to her feet and held on to the chair.
‘Are you feeling dizzy, Isabella? Can I take you somewhere?’
Isabella retreated a few steps and bumped into the waiter as she made her way to the door. Valls remained seated, sipping his camomile tea until the clock said ten forty-five. Then he left a few coins on the table and slowly walked towards the exit. The car was waiting for him on the pavement. The chauffeur stood next to it, holding the door open for him.
‘Would the governor like to go home or back to the castle?’
‘Home. But first we’re going to make a stop in Pueblo Nuevo, in the old Vilardell factory,’ he ordered.
On his way to pick up the promised bounty, Mauricio Valls, the illustrious future of Spanish letters, gazed at the procession of black, deserted streets in that accursed Barcelona he so detested, and shed a few tears for Isabella, and for what might have been.
19
When Salgado awoke from his stupor and opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was that there was someone standing motionless at the foot of his bunk, watching him. He felt a slight panic and for a moment thought he was still in the basement room. A flickering light from the oil lamps in the corridor outlined familiar contours.
‘Fermín, is that you?’ he asked.
The figure in the shadows nodded and Salgado breathed deeply.
‘My mouth is dry. Is there any water left?’
Slowly, Fermín drew closer. He had something in his hand: a cloth and a small glass bottle.
Salgado saw Fermín pour the liquid from the bottle on to the cloth.
‘What’s that, Fermín?’
Fermín didn’t reply. His face showed no expression. He leaned over Salgado and looked him in the eye.
‘Fermín, no …’
Before Salgado was able to utter another syllable, Fermín placed the cloth over his mouth and nose and pressed hard, holding Salgado’s head down on the bed. Salgado tossed about with what little strength he had left, while Fermín kept the cloth over his face. Salgado looked at him, terror-stricken. Seconds later he lost consciousness. Fermín didn’t lift the cloth. He counted five more seconds and only then did he remove it. Sitting on the bunk with his back to Salgado, he waited a few minutes. Then, just as Martín had told him to do, he walked over to the door of the cell.
‘Jailer!’ he called.
He heard the new boy’s footsteps approaching down the corridor. In Martín’s plan it was supposed to be Bebo doing the night shift, not that moron.
‘What’s the matter now?’ asked the jailer.
‘It’s Salgado. He’s had it.’
The jailer shook his head with exasperation.
‘Fucking hell. Now what?’
‘Bring the sack.’
The jailer cursed his bad luck.
‘If you like, I’ll put him in, boss,’ Fermín offered.
The jailer nodded with just a hint of gratitude.
‘If you bring the sack now, you can go and notify them while I put him in. That way they’ll come and collect him before mi
dnight,’ Fermín added.
The jailer nodded again and went off in search of the canvas sack. Fermín stood by the door of his cell. On the other side of the corridor, Martín and Sanahuja watched him in silence.
Ten minutes later, the jailer returned holding the sack by one end, unable to hide the nausea caused by the stench of rotten flesh it gave off. Fermín moved away to the far end of the cell without waiting to be told. The jailer opened the cell door and threw the sack inside.
‘Let them know now, boss. That way they’ll take the bacon away before midnight – or we’ll have to keep him here until tomorrow night.’
‘Are you sure you can manage to put him in on your own?’
‘Don’t worry, boss, I’ve had plenty of practice.’
The jailer nodded again, not entirely convinced.
‘Let’s hope we’re in luck and it works out, because his stump is starting to ooze and I can’t begin to tell you what that’s going to smell like …’
‘Shit,’ said the jailer, scuttling off.
As soon as he heard him reach the end of the corridor, Fermín began to undress Salgado. Then he removed his own clothes and got into the thief’s stinking rags. Finally, Fermín put his own clothes on Salgado and placed him on the bed, lying on his side with his face to the wall, and pulled the blanket over him, so that it half-covered his face. Then he grabbed the canvas sack and got inside it. He was about to close it when he remembered something.
Hurriedly, he got out again and went over to the wall. With his nails, he scratched the space between two stones where he’d seen Salgado hide the key, until the tip began to show. He tried to pull it out with his fingers, but the key kept slipping and remained stuck between the stones.
‘Hurry up,’ Martín hissed from the other side of the corridor.
Fermín gripped the key with his nails and pulled hard. The nail of his ring finger was ripped off and for a few seconds he was blinded with pain. Fermín muffled a scream and sucked his finger. The taste of his own blood, salty and metallic, filled his mouth. When he opened his eyes again he noticed that about a centimetre of the key was protruding from the wall. This time he was able to pull it out easily.
He slipped into the sack again and tied the knot from the inside, as best he could, leaving an opening of about a hand’s breadth. Holding back the retching he felt rising up his throat, he lay on the floor and tightened the strings until only a small gap was left, the size of a fist. He held his nose shut with his fingers. It was preferable to breathe in his own filth than to smell that rotting stench. Now, all that remained for him to do was wait, he told himself.
20
The streets of Pueblo Nuevo were buried in a thick, humid fog that slithered up from the citadel of shacks on the Somorrostro beach. The governor’s Studebaker advanced slowly through veils of mist, past shadowy canyons formed by factories, warehouses and dark, crumbling outbuildings. In front of them, the car’s headlights carved out two tunnels of light. Soon the silhouette of the old Vilardell textile mill peered through the fog. Chimneys and crests of abandoned pavilions and workshops were outlined at the far end of the street. The large entrance was guarded by a spiked gate; behind it, just visible, was a spread of tangled undergrowth out of which rose the skeletons of burned lorries and wrecked wagons. The chauffeur stopped in front of the entrance to the old factory.
‘Leave the engine running,’ ordered the governor.
The beams from the headlights pierced the blackness beyond the gate, revealing the ruinous state of the plant, bombed during the war and abandoned like so many other buildings all over the city.
On one side, a few huts were boarded up with wooden planks. Next to these, facing a garage that looked as if it had gone up in flames, stood what Valls supposed must be the former home of the security guards. The reddish glow of a candle, or an oil lamp, licked the edges of one of the closed windows. The governor took in the scene unhurriedly from the back seat of the car. After a few minutes’ wait, he leaned forward and spoke to the chauffeur.
‘Jaime, do you see that house on the left-hand side, opposite the garage?’
It was the first time the governor had addressed him by his first name. Something in that sudden warm and polite tone made the driver prefer his usual cold treatment.
‘The lodge, you mean?’
‘Exactly. I want you to walk over there and knock on the door.’
‘You want me to go in there? Into the factory?’
The governor sighed with impatience.
‘Not into the factory. Listen carefully. You see the house, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good. Well, you walk to the gate, you slip in through the gap between the bars, and you go over to the lodge and knock on the door. Everything clear so far?’
The chauffeur nodded with little enthusiasm.
‘Right. Once you’ve knocked, someone will open the door, and then you say to him: “Durruti lives”.’
‘Durruti?’
‘Don’t interrupt. You just repeat what I’ve told you. They’ll give you something. Probably a case or a bundle. You bring it back here and that’s it. Simple, no?’
The chauffeur had gone pale and kept looking into the rear-view mirror, as if he expected someone or something to spring out from the shadows at any moment.
‘Calm down, Jaime. Nothing’s going to happen. I’m asking you to do this as a personal favour. Tell me, are you married?’
‘I got married three years ago, sir.’
‘Ah, that’s good. And do you have any children?’
‘We have a beautiful two-year-old girl, and my wife is expecting, sir.’
‘Congratulations. Family is what matters most, Jaime. You’re a good Spaniard. If you’ll accept, as an advance christening present, and as proof of my gratitude for your excellent work, I’ll give you a hundred pesetas. And if you do this small favour for me I’ll recommend you for a promotion. How would you like an office job in the Council? I have good friends there and they tell me they’re looking for men with character to pull the country out of the black hole the reds have left it in.’
The chauffeur smiled weakly at the mention of money and good prospects.
‘Won’t it be dangerous or …?’
‘Jaime, it’s me, the governor. Would I ask you to do something dangerous or illegal?’
The chauffeur looked at him but didn’t say anything. Valls smiled at him.
‘Repeat what it is you have to do, come on.’
‘I go up to the door of the house and knock. When they open the door, I say: “Long live Durruti”.’
‘Durruti lives.’
‘That’s it. Durruti lives. They give me a case and I bring it back.’
‘And we go home. That simple.’
The chauffeur nodded and, after a moment’s hesitation, got out of the car and walked up to the gate. Valls watched his silhouette pass through the beams from the headlights and reach the entrance. There the chauffeur turned for a second to look at the car.
‘Go on, you idiot, go in,’ murmured Valls.
The chauffeur slipped in between the bars and, picking his way through rubble and weeds, slowly approached the door of the lodge. The governor pulled out the revolver he kept in the inside pocket of his coat and cocked the hammer. The chauffeur reached the door and stopped there. Valls saw him knock twice then wait. Almost a minute went by and nothing happened.
‘One more time,’ muttered Valls to himself.
The chauffeur was now looking towards the car, as if he didn’t know what to do next. Suddenly, a pale yellowish light filled the space where, just a second before, there had been a closed door. Valls saw the chauffeur uttering the password. He turned one more time to look at the car, smiling. The shot, fired at point-blank range, shattered his temple and went clean through his skull. A mist of blood emerged from the other side and the body, already dead, stood for a moment wrapped in a halo of gunpowder before collapsing to the ground like a br
oken doll.
Valls stepped hurriedly out of the back seat of the Studebaker and took the wheel. Holding his revolver against the dashboard and pointing it towards the factory entrance with his left hand, he put the car into reverse and pressed down on the accelerator. The car reversed into the darkness, bumping over potholes and puddles that peppered the road. As he drove backwards he was able to see the glare of a few shots hitting the gate, but none of them reached the car. Only when he’d reversed some two hundred metres did he turn the Studebaker around. Then, accelerating fully, he drove away from that place, biting his lips with rage.
21
Tied up inside the sack, Fermín could only hear their voices approaching the cell.
‘Hey, we’ve been lucky,’ cried the novice jailer.
‘Fermín has fallen asleep,’ said Dr Sanahuja from his cell.
‘Some have it easy,’ said the jailer. ‘There it is, you can take it away.’
Fermín heard footsteps around him and felt a sudden jerk when one of the two gravediggers firmly retied the knot. Then they picked up the sack between them and, without any care, dragged him along the stone corridor like a dead weight. Fermín didn’t dare move a single muscle.
The knocks he received from steps, corners and doors stabbed him without mercy. He put a fist in his mouth and bit it to stop himself from screaming. After what seemed like a long roundabout route Fermín noticed a sudden drop in the temperature and the absence of the claustrophobic echo that resounded throughout the castle. They were outdoors. He was hauled for a few metres over a paved surface spattered with puddles that soaked the canvas. The cold air soon pierced the sack.
The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel Page 11