The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  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.’

  Rociíto had started to cry. I didn’t know what to say, so I hugged her.

  ‘I’ve always loved him, you know? Ever since we met. I know I’m not the right woman for him. I know he sees me as … well, he sees me as Rociíto.’

  ‘Fermín loves you very much, you must never forget that.’

  The woman moved away and dried her tears in embarrassment. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Forgive me. You see, I’m so stupid: soon as I drink a couple of drops I don’t even know what I’m saying.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  I offered her my glass of water and she accepted it.

  ‘One day you realise your youth has passed you by and the train’s left, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘There’s always another train. Always.’

  Rociíto nodded.

  ‘That’s why I’m not going to the wedding, Don Daniel. Some months ago I met this gentleman from Reus. He’s a good man. A widower. A good father. Owns a scrapyard and whenever he’s in Barcelona he comes to see me. He’s asked me to marry him. We’re not kidding ourselves, not him or me, you know? Growing old on your own is very hard, and I know I don’t have the figure to be on the street any more. Jaumet, the man from Reus, he’s asked me to go on a journey with him. His children have already left home and he’s been working all his life. He says he wants to see a bit of the world before it’s too late, and he’s asked me to go with him. As his wife, not a tart you use and then chuck out. The boat leaves tomorrow morning early. Jaumet says a captain can marry a couple on the high seas and if not, we’ll look for a priest in any old port.’

  ‘Does Fermín know?’

  As if he’d heard us from afar, Fermín stopped bopping about on the dance floor and looked at us. He stretched his arms out towards Rociíto and gave her that silly look of someone in urgent need of a kiss and a cuddle that had always served him so well. Rociíto laughed, muttering under her breath, and before joining the love of her life on the dance floor for a last bolero, she turned to me and said:

  ‘Take good care of him, Daniel. There’s only one Fermín.’

  The band had stopped playing and the dance floor opened up to receive Rociíto. Fermín took her hands. The lamps in La Paloma were slowly dimmed and from among the shadows the beam from a spotlight cast a hazy circle of light at the couple’s feet. The others drew aside and the orchestra gently struck up the slow rhythms of the saddest bolero ever written. Fermín put his arm round Rociíto’s waist. Looking into each other’s eyes, far from the world, the lovers of that Barcelona that would never return danced close together for the last time. When the music died away Fermín kissed her on the lips and Rociíto, bathed in tears, stroked his cheek, then walked slowly towards the exit without saying goodbye.

  3

  The orchestra came to the rescue with a guaracha and Oswaldo Darío de Mortenssen, who from writing so many love letters had become an encyclopedia of sad tales, encouraged everyone to return to the dance floor and pretend they hadn’t noticed anything. Looking somewhat crestfallen, Fermín walked over to the bar and sat on a stool next to me.

  ‘Everything all right, Fermín?’

  He nodded weakly.

  ‘I think a bit of fresh air would do me good, Daniel.’

  ‘Wait here for me, I’ll get our coats.’

  We were walking down Calle Tallers towards the Ramblas when, about fifty metres ahead of us, we glimpsed a familiar-looking figure, moving along slowly.

  ‘Hey, Daniel. Isn’t that your father?’

  ‘The very one. And he’s soused.’

  ‘The last thing I ever expected to see in this world,’ said Fermín.

  ‘If you didn’t expect it, imagine me!’

  We quickened our pace until we caught up with him and when he saw us, my father smiled, glassy-eyed.

&
nbsp; ‘What’s the time?’ he asked.

  ‘Very late.’

  ‘That’s just what I thought. Hey Fermín, what a great party. And what girls. There were some bums in there worth going to war for.’

  I rolled my eyes. Fermín took my father’s arm and guided his steps.

  ‘Señor Sempere, I never thought I’d have to say this, but you’re suffering from alcohol poisoning and you’d better not say anything that you might later regret.’

  My father nodded, suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘It’s that devil, Barceló. I don’t know what he’s given me, and as I’m not used to drinking …’

  ‘Never mind. Just take a glass of bicarbonate of soda and sleep it off. Tomorrow morning you’ll be as fresh as a daisy and no damage done.’

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Between us, we held him upright while the poor man threw up everything he’d drunk. I held his sweat-drenched forehead with my hand and when we were sure there was nothing left inside him, not even his first plate of baby food, we settled him for a moment on the steps of someone’s front door.

  ‘Take a deep, slow breath, Señor Sempere.’

  My father nodded with his eyes shut. Fermín and I exchanged glances.

  ‘Listen, weren’t you going to get married soon?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Hey, congratulations!’

  ‘Thank you, Señor Sempere. So, what do you say? Do you think we can make it home bit by bit?’

  My father nodded.

  ‘There’s a brave man, we’re almost there.’

  A cool, dry wind helped clear my father’s head. By the time we walked up Calle Santa Ana ten minutes later, he’d sized up the situation and the poor man was mortified with embarrassment. He’d probably never been drunk before in his life.

  ‘Please, not a word about this to anyone,’ he pleaded.

  We were about twenty metres away from the bookshop when I noticed someone sitting in the main doorway of the building. The large street lamp from Casa Jorba, on the corner with Puerta del Ángel, outlined the silhouette of a young girl clutching a suitcase on her knees. When she saw us she stood up.

  ‘We have company,’ murmured Fermín.

  My father saw her first. I noticed something strange in his expression, a tense calm that gripped him as if he’d suddenly recovered his sobriety. He advanced towards the girl but suddenly stood petrified.

  ‘Isabella?’ I heard him say.

  Fearing the drink was still clouding his judgement and that he might collapse then and there, in the middle of the street, I took a few steps forward. Then I saw her.

  4

  She can’t have been more than seventeen. As she emerged into the light cast by the street lamp, she smiled timidly at us, lifting a hand as if in greeting.

  ‘I’m Sofía,’ she said, with a light accent.

  My father stared at her in astonishment, as if he’d seen a ghost. I gulped, feeling a shiver run through my body. That girl was the spitting image of my mother: she had the same face that appeared in the set of photographs my father kept in his desk.

  ‘I’m Sofía,’ the girl repeated, looking uncomfortable. ‘Your niece. From Naples …’

  ‘Sofía,’ stammered my father. ‘Ah, Sofía.’

  Thank God Fermín was there to take hold of the situation. After bringing me to my senses with a slap on the wrist, he explained that Señor Sempere was feeling a little under the weather.

  ‘You see, we’re just back from a wine-tasting event and it only takes a glass of Vichy water to put the poor man in a trance. Pay no attention to him, signorina, he doesn’t usually look so plastered.’

  We found the urgent telegram sent by Aunt Laura, the girl’s mother, announcing her arrival. It had been slipped under the door while we were out.

  Up in the flat, Fermín settled my father on the sofa and ordered me to prepare a pot of strong coffee. In the meantime, he engaged in conversation with the girl, asking her about her trip and bringing up all manner of banalities while my father slowly came back to life.

  With her delightful accent and her vivacious air, Sofía told us she’d arrived at the Estación de Francia that night at half past ten. From the station she had taken a taxi to Plaza de Cataluña. When she discovered there was no one at home she’d sheltered in a nearby bar until they closed. Then she’d sat down to wait in the doorway, trusting that someone would turn up sooner or later. My father remembered the letter from her mother telling him that Sofía was coming to Barcelona, but he hadn’t imagined it was going to be so soon.

  ‘I’m very sorry you had to wait in the street,’ he said. ‘Normally, I never go out, but tonight was Fermín’s bachelor party and …’

  Delighted with the piece of news, Sofía jumped up and congratulated Fermín with a peck on the cheek. And although he had now retired from active duty, Fermín couldn’t restrain himself and invited her to the wedding on the spot.

  We’d been chatting away for about half an hour when Bea, who was returning from Bernarda’s own hen party, heard voices on her way up the stairs and rang the doorbell. When she stepped into the dining room and saw Sofía she went pale and glanced at me.

  ‘This is my cousin Sofía, from Naples,’ I announced. ‘She’s come to Barcelona to study and she’s going to stay here for a while …’

  Bea tried to conceal her alarm and greeted her with absolute normality.

  ‘This is my wife, Beatriz.’

  ‘Bea, please. Nobody calls me Beatriz.’

  Time and coffee slowly softened the impact of Sofía’s arrival and after a bit, Bea suggested that the poor soul must be exhausted and had better get some sleep. Tomorrow would be another day, she said, even if it was a wedding day. It was decided that Sofía would move into the room that had been my bedroom when I was a child and, after making sure my father wasn’t going to fall into a coma again, Fermín packed him off to bed too. Bea told Sofía she would lend her one of her dresses for the ceremony and when Fermín, whose breath smelled of champagne from two metres off, was on the point of making some inappropriate remark on the similarities and differences between their shapes and sizes, I gave him a jab in the ribs with my elbow to shut him up.

  A photograph of my parents on their wedding day observed us from a shelf.

  The three of us sat there, in the dining room, gaping at it in disbelief.

  ‘Like two peas in a pod,’ murmured Fermín.

  Bea looked at me out of the corner of her eye, trying to read my thoughts. She took my hand with a cheerful expression, ready to change the subject.

  ‘So tell me, how was the celebration?’

  ‘Dignified and restrained. How was the ladies’ party?’

  ‘Ours was anything but that.’

  Fermín threw me a serious look.

  ‘I told you that when it comes to such matters women are far more loutish than us.’

  Bea gave us a quizzical smile.

  ‘Who are you calling loutish, Fermín?’

  ‘Forgive this unpardonable slip, Doña Beatriz. It’s the bubbly in my bloodstream that’s making me talk nonsense. I swear to God that you’re a model of virtue and decorum and this humble servant of yours would rather be struck dumb and spend the rest of his days in a Carthusian cell in silent penitence than insinuate that you possess the remotest hint of loutishness.’

  ‘No such luck,’ I remarked.

  ‘We’d better not discuss this any further,’ Bea cut in, looking at us as if we were both eleven years old. ‘And now I suppose you’re going to take your customary pre-wedding walk down to the breakwater,’ she said.

  Fermín and I looked at one another.

  ‘Go on. Off you go. And you’d better make it to the church on time tomorrow …’

  5

  The only place we found open at that time of night was El Xampanyet, on Calle Montcada. They must have felt sorry for us because they let us stay for a bit, while they cleaned up, and when they closed, hear
ing that Fermín was hours away from becoming a married man, the owner expressed his condolences and presented us with a bottle of house medicine.

  ‘Be brave, and may God be with you,’ he pronounced.

  We wandered through the narrow streets of the Ribera quarter, putting the world to rights, as we usually did, until the sky took on a purple hue and we knew the time had come for the groom and his best man – in other words, me – to head for the breakwater. There we would sit once again to greet the dawn facing the greatest mirage in the universe: the reflection of Barcelona awakening in the harbour waters.

  We sat there with our legs dangling over the jetty to share the bottle we’d been given at El Xampanyet. Between one gulp and the next, we gazed silently at the city, tracing the flight of a flock of seagulls over the dome of La Mercé Church and watching them draw an arc between the towers of the Post Office building. In the distance, crowning the mountain of Montjuïc, the castle loomed darkly, a ghostly bird of prey scrutinising the city at its feet, expectant.

  The silence was broken by a ship’s horn. On the other side of the National Dock a large cruiser was weighing anchor. Pulling away from the pier it set sail with a surge of the propellers, leaving a wide wake behind it on the waters of the port. Dozens of passengers came out to wave from the stern. I wondered whether Rociíto was among them, next to her mature, handsome scrap merchant from Reus. Fermín watched the ship, deep in thought.

  ‘Do you think Rociíto will be happy, Daniel?’

  ‘What about you, Fermín? Will you be happy?’

  We saw the cruiser move into the distance and the figures grow smaller until they became invisible.

  ‘Fermín, there’s one thing that intrigues me. Why didn’t you want anyone to give you wedding presents?’

  ‘I don’t like to put people in a tight spot. And besides, what were we going to do with sets of glasses, teaspoons with the Spanish shield and all that kind of stuff people give at weddings?’

  ‘Well, I was looking forward to giving you a present.’