‘Don’t think that because you’re hanging out there I’m going to give you a discount. I’ve had an eye on you ever since you jumped on board.’
‘Nobody cares about social realism any more,’ murmured Fermín. ‘What a country.’
We handed him a few coins and he gave us our tickets. We were beginning to think Salgado must have fallen asleep when, as the tram turned into the road leading to the Estación del Norte, he stood up and pulled the chain to request a stop. The driver was now slowing down, so we jumped off opposite the palatial art nouveau headquarters of the Hydroelectric Company and followed the tram on foot to the stop. We saw Salgado step down, assisted by two passengers, and then head off towards the train station.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ I asked.
Fermín nodded. We followed Salgado to the station’s grand entrance hall, camouflaging ourselves – or perhaps making our presence painfully obvious – behind Fermín’s oversized umbrella. Once inside, Salgado approached a row of metal lockers lined up along one of the walls like miniature niches in a cemetery. We sat on a bench in the shadows of the hall. Salgado was standing in front of the countless lockers, staring at them, utterly absorbed.
‘Do you think he’s forgotten where he hid the booty?’ I asked.
‘Of course he hasn’t. He’s been waiting twenty years for this moment. He’s simply savouring it.’
‘If you say so … But he’s forgotten, if you ask me.’
We remained there, watching and waiting.
‘Fermín, you never really told me where you hid the key when you escaped from the castle …’
Fermín threw me a hostile glance.
‘Forget it,’ I conceded.
The wait continued a few minutes longer.
‘Perhaps he has an accomplice …’ I said, ‘and he’s waiting for him.’
‘Salgado isn’t the sharing sort.’
‘Perhaps there’s someone else who …’
‘Shhh,’ Fermín hushed me, pointing at Salgado, who had moved at last.
The old man walked over to one of the lockers and placed his hand on the metal door. He pulled out the key, inserted it in the lock, opened the door and looked inside. At that precise moment a pair of Civil Guards doing their rounds turned into the entrance hall from the station platforms and walked over to where Salgado was standing, trying to pull something out of the locker.
‘Oh dear, oh dear …’ I murmured.
Salgado turned and greeted the two officers. They exchanged a few words and one of them pulled a case out of the locker and left it on the floor by Salgado’s feet. The thief thanked them effusively for their help and the Civil Guards touched their three-cornered hats and continued on their beat.
‘God bless Spain,’ murmured Fermín.
Salgado grabbed the case and dragged it along to another bench, at the opposite end from where we were sitting.
‘He’s not going to open it here, is he?’ I asked.
‘He has to make sure it’s all there,’ replied Fermín. ‘That nasty piece of work has put up with years of misery to recover his treasure.’
Salgado looked around him a few times to make sure there was nobody nearby, and finally decided to take action. We saw him open the suitcase just a few centimetres and peer inside.
He remained like that for almost a minute, motionless. Fermín and I looked at one another without understanding. Suddenly Salgado closed the suitcase and got up, then walked off towards the exit, leaving the suitcase behind him in front of the open locker.
‘But what’s he doing?’ I asked.
Fermín stood up and signalled to me.
‘You get the suitcase, and I’ll follow him …’
Without giving me time to reply, Fermín hastened towards the exit. I hurried over to the place where Salgado had abandoned the case. A smart alec, who was reading a newspaper on a nearby bench, had also set eyes on it and, looking both ways first to check that nobody was watching, got up and was preparing to swoop on it like a bird of prey. I quickened my pace. The stranger was about to grab the case when, by the miracle of a split second, I managed to snatch it from him.
‘That suitcase isn’t yours,’ I said.
The individual fixed me with a hostile look and clutched the handle.
‘Shall I call the Civil Guards?’ I asked.
Looking flustered, the scamp let go of the case and moved swiftly away in the direction of the platforms. I took it over to the bench and, after making sure no one was looking, opened it.
It was empty. Salgado’s treasure was gone.
Only then did I hear shouts and turned my head to discover that some incident had occurred outside the station. I got to my feet and looked through the glass doors. The two Civil Guards were pushing their way through a circle of bystanders that had congregated in the rain. When the crowd parted, I saw Fermín kneeling on the ground, holding Salgado in his arms. The old man’s eyes were staring into space.
A woman came into the station, a hand clamped over her mouth.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘A poor old man, he just keeled over …’ she said.
I went outside and walked across to the knot of people observing the scene. I could see Fermín looking up and exchanging a few words with the Civil Guards. One of them was nodding. Fermín then took off his raincoat and spread it over Salgado’s corpse, covering his face. By the time I arrived there, a three-fingered hand was peeping out from under the garment. On the palm, shining in the rain, was the key. I protected Fermín with the umbrella and put a hand on his shoulder. We slowly moved away.
‘Are you all right, Fermín?’
My good friend shrugged.
‘Let’s go home,’ he managed to say.
4
As we left the station behind us I took off my raincoat and put it over Fermín’s shoulders. He’d abandoned his on Salgado’s body. I didn’t think my friend was in a fit state to take a long walk, so I hailed a taxi. I opened the door for him and, once he was seated, closed it and got in on the other side.
‘The suitcase was empty,’ I said. ‘Someone played a dirty trick on Salgado.’
‘It takes a thief to catch a thief …’
‘Who do you think it was?’
‘Perhaps the same person who said I had his key and told him where he could find me,’ Fermín murmured.
‘Valls?’
Fermín gave a dispirited sigh.
‘I don’t know, Daniel. I no longer know what to think.’
I noticed the taxi driver looking at us in the mirror, waiting.
‘We’re going to the entrance to Plaza Real, on Calle Fernando,’ I said.
‘Aren’t we going back to the bookshop?’ asked Fermín, who didn’t have enough fight left in him even to argue about a taxi ride.
‘I am. But you’re going to Don Gustavo’s, to spend the rest of the day with Bernarda.’
We made the journey in silence, staring out at Barcelona, a blur in the rain. When we reached the arches on Calle Fernando, where years before I’d first met Fermín, I paid the fare and we got out. I walked Fermín as far as Don Gustavo’s front door and gave him a hug.
‘Take care of yourself, Fermín. And eat something, or Bernarda will get a bone sticking into her on the wedding night.’
‘Don’t worry. When I set my mind to it, I can put on more weight than an opera singer. As soon as I go up to the flat I’ll gorge myself with those almond cakes Don Gustavo buys in Casa Quílez and by tomorrow I’ll look like stuffed turkey.’
‘I hope so. Give my best to the bride.’
‘I will, although with things the way they are on the legal front and with all that red tape, I can see myself living in sin.’
‘None of that. Remember what you once told me? That destiny doesn’t do home visits, that you have to go for it yourself?’
‘I must confess I took that sentence from one of Carax’s books. I liked the sound of it.’
‘Wel
l, I believed it and still do. That’s why I’m telling you that your destiny is to marry Bernarda on the arranged date with all your papers in order – with priests, rice and your name and surnames.’
My friend looked at me sceptically.
‘As my name is Daniel, you’re getting married with all due pomp and ceremony,’ I promised Fermín. He looked so dejected I thought nothing would manage to revive his spirits: not a packet of Sugus, not even a good movie at the Fémina Cinema with Kim Novak sporting one of her glorious brassieres that defied gravity.
‘If you say so, Daniel …’
‘You’ve given me back the truth,’ I said. ‘I’m going to give you back your name.’
5
That afternoon, when I returned to the bookshop, I set in motion my plan for rescuing Fermín’s identity. The first step consisted in making a few phone calls from the back room and establishing a course of action. The second required gathering the right team of recognised experts.
The following day turned out to be pleasant and sunny. Around noon I walked over to the library on Calle del Carmen, where I’d arranged to meet Professor Alburquerque, convinced that whatever he didn’t know, nobody knew.
I found him under the tall arches of the main reading room, surrounded by piles of books and papers, concentrating, pen in hand. I sat down opposite him, on the other side of the table, and let him get on with his work. It took him almost a minute to become aware of my presence. When he looked up he stared at me in surprise.
‘That must be really good stuff,’ I ventured.
‘I’m working on a series of articles on Barcelona’s accursed writers,’ he explained. ‘Do you remember someone called Julián Carax, an author you recommended a few months ago in the bookshop?’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
‘Well, I’ve been looking into him and his story is truly extraordinary. Did you know that for years a diabolical character went around the world searching for Carax’s books and burning them?’
‘You don’t say,’ I said, feigning surprise.
‘It’s a very odd case. I’ll let you read it when I’ve finished.’
‘You should write a book on the subject,’ I proposed. ‘A secret history of Barcelona seen through its accursed writers, those forbidden in the official version.’
The professor considered the idea, intrigued.
‘It had occurred to me, I must say, but I have so much work what with my newspaper articles and the university …’
‘If you don’t write it, nobody will …’
‘Yes, well, maybe I’ll take the plunge and get on with it. I don’t know where I’ll find the time, but …’
‘Sempere & Sons can offer you its full catalogue and any assistance you may need.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind. So? Shall we go for lunch?’
Professor Alburquerque called it a day and we set off for Casa Leopoldo where we sat down with a glass of wine and some sublime serrano ham tapas, to wait for two plates of bull’s-tail stew, the day’s special.
‘How’s our good friend Fermín? A couple of weeks ago, when I saw him in Can Lluís, he looked very downcast.’
‘Oddly enough, he’s the person I wanted to talk to you about. It’s a rather delicate matter and I must ask you to keep it between ourselves.’
‘But of course. What can I do?’
I proceeded to outline the problem as concisely as I could, without touching upon thorny or unnecessary details. The professor sensed that there was plenty more to the story than I was telling him, but he displayed his customary discretion.
‘Let’s see if I’ve understood,’ he said. ‘Fermín cannot make use of his identity because, officially, he was pronounced dead almost twenty years ago and therefore, in the eyes of the state, he doesn’t exist.’
‘Correct.’
‘But, from what you tell me, I gather that this identity that was cancelled was also fictitious, an invention of Fermín himself during the war, to save his skin.’
‘Correct.’
‘That’s where I get lost. Help me, Daniel. If Fermín thought up a false identity once, why can’t he make up another one now to get married with?’
‘For two reasons, Professor. The first is purely practical and that is, whether he uses his name or another invented one, currently Fermín does not possess any legal identity. Therefore, whatever identity he decides to use must be created from scratch.’
‘But he wants to continue being Fermín, I suppose.’
‘Exactly. And that is the second reason, which is not practical but spiritual, so to speak, and far more important. Fermín wants to continue being Fermín because that is the person Bernarda has fallen in love with, the man who is our friend, the one we all know and the one he wants to be. The person he used to be hasn’t existed for years. It’s a skin he sloughed off. Not even I, who am probably his best friend, know what name he was given when he was christened. For me, and for all those who love him, and especially for himself, he is Fermín Romero de Torres. And when you think of it, if it’s a question of creating a new identity for him, why not create his present one?’
Professor Alburquerque finally nodded in assent.
‘Correct,’ he pronounced.
‘So, do you think this is feasible, Professor?’
‘Well, it’s a quixotic mission if ever there was one,’ considered the professor. ‘How to endow the gaunt knight Don Fermín de la Mancha with lineage, greyhound and a sheaf of false documents with which to pair him off with his beautiful Bernarda del Toboso in the eyes of God and the register office?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it and consulting legal books,’ I said. ‘In this country, a person’s identity begins with a birth certificate, which, when you stop to consider, is a very simple document.’
The professor raised his eyebrows.
‘What you’re suggesting is delicate. Not to say a serious crime.’
‘Unprecedented in fact, at least in the judicial annals. I’ve verified it.’
‘Have you? Please continue, this is getting better.’
‘Let’s suppose that someone, hypothetically speaking, had access to the offices of the Civil Registry and could, to put it bluntly, plant a birth certificate in the archives … Wouldn’t that provide sufficient grounds to establish a person’s identity?’
The professor shook his head.
‘Perhaps for a newborn child. But if we’re speaking, hypothetically, of an adult, we’d have to create an entire documentary history. And even if you had access, hypothetically, to the archives, where would you get hold of those documents?’
‘Let’s say I was able to create a series of credible facsimiles. Would you think it possible then?’
The professor considered the matter carefully.
‘The main risk would be that someone uncovers the fraud and wants to bring it to light. Bearing in mind that in this case the so-called accuser who could have spilled the beans regarding documental irregularities is deceased, the problem would boil down to a), being able to gain access to the archives and introduce a file into the system with a fictitious but plausible identity and b), generating the whole string of documents required to establish that identity. I’m talking about papers of all shapes and sizes, and all sorts of certificates including certificates of baptism from parish churches, identity cards …’
‘With regard to point a), I understand that you’re writing a series of articles on the marvels of the Spanish legal system, commissioned by the Council for a report on that institution. I’ve been looking into it a little and discovered that during the war, a number of archives in the Civil Registry were bombed. That means that hundreds, even thousands, of identities must have been reconstructed any old how. I’m no expert, but I imagine that this would open a gap or two which someone well informed, well connected and with a plan could take advantage of …’
The professor looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
‘I see you’ve been doing s
ome serious research, Daniel.’
‘Forgive me, Professor, but Fermín’s happiness is worth that and much more.’
‘And it does you credit. But it could also earn whoever attempted to do such a thing a heavy sentence if he was caught red handed.’
‘That’s why I thought that if someone, hypothetically, had access to one of those reconstructed archives in the Civil Registry, he could take a helper along with him who would, so to speak, assume the more risky part of the operation.’
‘If that were the case, the hypothetical helper would have to be able to guarantee the facilitator a twenty per cent lifelong discount on the price of any book bought at Sempere & Sons. Plus an invitation to the wedding of the newborn.’
‘That’s a done deal. And I’d even raise that to twenty-five per cent. Although, come to think of it, I know someone who, hypothetically, would be prepared to collaborate pro bono, just for the pleasure of scoring a goal against a rotten, corrupt regime, receiving nothing in exchange.’
‘I’m an academic, Daniel. Emotional blackmail doesn’t work with me.’
‘For Fermín, then.’
‘That’s another matter. Let’s go into the technicalities.’
I pulled out the one-thousand-peseta note Salgado had given me and showed it to him.
‘This is my budget for running costs and issuance of documents,’ I remarked.
‘I see you’re sparing no expense. But you’d do better to put that money aside for other endeavours that will be required by this noble deed. My services come free of charge,’ replied the professor. ‘The bit that worries me most, dear assistant, is the much needed documentary trail. Forget all the new public works and prayer books: the new centurions of the regime have also doubled the already colossal structure of the state bureaucracy, worthy of the worst nightmares of our friend Franz Kafka. As I say, a case like this will require generating all kinds of letters, applications, petitions and other documents that must look credible and have the consistency, tone and smell that are characteristic of a dusty, dog-eared and unquestionable file …’
The Prisoner of Heaven Page 17
