The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  ‘That’s exactly what they said about the Palau de la Música auditorium,’ Fermín pointed out. ‘We’re so fortunate in this country to be blessed with the very cream of the international intellectual community. Unamuno was right when he said: let others do the inventing, we’ll provide the opinions.’

  ‘Innocent or not, after witnessing his public humiliation and the burning of every single page he’d ever written, Martín ended up in a cell in La Modelo Prison, where he probably would have died in a matter of weeks if it hadn’t been for the fact that our governor, who had been following the case with great interest and for some strange reason was obsessed with Martín, was given access to his file and then asked for his transfer to this place. Martín told me that the day he arrived here, Valls had him brought into his office and fired off one of his lectures.

  ‘“Martín, you’re a convicted criminal and probably a fanatical subversive, but something binds us together. We’re both men of letters and although you spent your failed career writing rubbish for the ignorant masses who lack all intellectual guidance, I think you may be able to help me and thus redeem your errors. I have a collection of novels and poems I’ve been working on for the past few years. They’re of an extraordinarily high literary standard. So much so, I very much fear that in this illiterate country there could be no more than three hundred readers capable of understanding and appreciating their worth. That is why I’ve been thinking that perhaps, because of the way you have prostituted your writings, and your closeness to the common man who reads potboilers in trams, you might help me make some small changes that will draw my work nearer to the lamentable levels of Spanish readers. If you agree to collaborate, I can assure you that I‘ll make your existence far more pleasant. I could even get your case reopened. Your little friend … What’s her name? Ah, yes, Isabella. A beauty, if you will allow me the comment. Anyhow, your girlfriend came to see me and told me she’s hired a young lawyer, someone called Brians, and has managed to raise enough money for your defence. Let’s not kid ourselves: we both know there were no grounds for your case and you were sentenced thanks to dubious witnesses. You seem to make enemies with incredible ease, even among people I’m sure you don’t even know exist. Don’t make the mistake of making another enemy of me, Martín. I’m not one of those poor devils. Here, between these walls, to put it plainly, I am God.”

  ‘I don’t know whether Martín accepted the governor’s proposal or not, but I have a feeling he did, because he’s still alive and clearly our particular God is still interested in keeping it that way, at least for the moment. He’s even provided Martín with paper and the writing tools he has in his cell, I suppose so that he can rewrite our governor’s great works and enable him to enter the Hall of Fame, achieving the literary glory he so craves. Personally, I don’t know what to think. My impression is that poor Martín is in no fit state to rewrite even his own name. He seems to spend most of his time trapped in a sort of purgatory he’s been building in his own head, where remorse and pain are eating him alive. Although my field is general medicine and I’m not qualified to give a diagnosis …’

  7

  The good doctor’s story kindled Fermín’s interest. True to his unconditional support of lost causes, he decided to do a little investigation on his own, hoping to discover more about Martín and, at the same time, perfect the idea of the escape via mortis, in the style of Monsieur Alexandre Dumas. The more he turned the matter over in his mind, the more he thought that, at least in this particular, the Prisoner of Heaven was not as nuts as they all made him out to be. Whenever they were allowed out into the yard, Fermín would contrive to go up to Martín and engage in conversation with him.

  ‘Fermín, you and I are beginning to look like a couple. Every time I turn around, there you are.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Señor Martín, it’s just that I’m intrigued about something.’

  ‘And what is it, exactly, that intrigues you so, pray tell?’

  ‘Well, to put it bluntly, I can’t for the life of me fathom how a decent fellow like you has consented to help that conceited, repugnant meatball of a governor in his rapacious attempts to pass himself off as chief literary lion.’

  ‘Direct, aren’t you? There don’t seem to be any secrets in this place.’

  ‘It’s just that I have a natural flair for the art of detection and the finer investigative pursuits.’

  ‘In which case you surely must also have surmised that I’m not a decent fellow, but a criminal.’

  ‘That seems to have been the judge’s estimation.’

  ‘Backed up by an army and a half of witnesses who testified under oath.’

  ‘Incidentally, all on a crook’s payroll and chronically constipated with envy and petty chicanery, if I may say so.’

  ‘You may, but it hardly changes anything. Tell me, Fermín, is there anything about me you don’t know?’

  ‘Heaps of things. But the one issue that really sticks in my gullet is why you are in business with that self-absorbed dunce. People like him are the gangrene of this country.’

  ‘There are people like him everywhere, Fermín. Nobody holds the patent.’

  ‘But only here do we take them seriously.’

  ‘Perhaps, but don’t judge him so hastily. In this whole farce, the governor is a far more complex character than it would appear. This self-absorbed dunce, as you so generously call him, is, for starters, a very powerful man.’

  ‘God, according to him.’

  ‘Within this particular purgatory, that may not be too far off the mark.’

  Fermín screwed up his nose. He didn’t like what he was hearing. It almost sounded as if Martín had been sipping the wine of his own downfall.

  ‘Has he threatened you? Is that it? What more can he do to you?’

  ‘To me? Nothing, except make me laugh. But to others, outside this place, he can do a lot of harm.’

  Fermín kept quiet for a long while.

  ‘You must forgive me, Señor Martín. I didn’t mean to offend you. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘You don’t offend me, Fermín. On the contrary. I think you hold a far too generous view of my circumstances. Your trust says much more about yourself than about me.’

  ‘It’s that young miss, isn’t it? Isabella.’

  ‘It’s a missus.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were married.’

  ‘I’m not. Isabella isn’t my wife. Or my lover, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  Fermín kept silent. He didn’t want to doubt Martín’s words, but just hearing him talk about that girl – whether she was single or married – he was quite convinced that she was the person poor Martín loved most in the world, probably the only thing that kept him alive in that well of misery. And the saddest thing was that he didn’t even seem to realise it.

  ‘Isabella and her husband run a bookshop, a place that has always held a very special meaning for me, ever since I was a child. The governor told me that if I didn’t do what he was asking, he’d make sure they were accused of selling subversive material. They’d have their business seized and then they’d be sent to prison and their son, who isn’t even three years old, would be taken from them.’

  ‘That fucking son-of-a-bitch,’ Fermín muttered.

  ‘No, Fermín,’ said Martín. ‘This isn’t your war. It’s mine. It’s what I deserve for having done what I’ve done.’

  ‘You haven’t done anything, Martín.’

  ‘You don’t know me well enough, Fermín. Not that you need to. What you must concentrate on is getting out of here.’

  ‘Glad you bring that up, since that’s the other thing I wanted to ask you. I hear you’re developing an experimental method for getting out of this chamber pot. If you need a skinny guinea pig – but one that is bursting with enthusiasm – consider me at your service.’

  Martín observed him thoughtfully.

  ‘Have you read Dumas?’

  ‘From cover to cover.’

&nbs
p; ‘You look the type. If that’s the case, you’ll have an inkling of what’s coming. Listen well.’

  8

  Fermín had been in captivity for six months when a series of circumstances substantially changed the course of his life. The first of these was that during that period, when the regime still believed that Hitler, Mussolini and Co. were going to win the war and that Europe would soon parade the same colours as the Generalissimo’s underpants, an unhindered wave of thugs, informers and newly appointed commissars drove up the number of imprisoned, arrested, prosecuted or ‘disappeared’ citizens to an all-time high.

  The country’s jails couldn’t cope with the influx. The military authorities had instructed the Montjuïc prison management to double or even treble their intake and thus absorb part of the torrent of convicts flooding that defeated, miserable Barcelona of 1940. To that effect, in his flowery Sunday speech, the governor informed the prisoners that from then on they would share their cells. Dr Sanahuja was moved into Martín’s cell, presumably to keep an eye on him and protect him from his suicidal fits. Fermín had to share cell 13 with his grumpy old next-door neighbour, Number 14. All the prisoners in the block were coupled together in order to make room for the new arrivals who were driven up every night in vans from La Modelo or the Campo de la Bota prisons.

  ‘Don’t pull that face. I like it even less than you do,’ Number 14 informed his new companion when he moved in.

  ‘Let me warn you that unbridled hostility gives me insidious bouts of gas,’ Fermín threatened. ‘So drop the Buffalo Bill act. Make an effort to behave and try to piss facing the wall and without splashing, or one of these days you’ll wake up sprouting mushrooms.’

  Ex-Number 14 spent five days without speaking to Fermín. Finally, surrendering in the face of the sulphuric flatulence Fermín offered him in the middle of the night, he switched strategy.

  ‘I did warn you,’ said Fermín.

  ‘All right. I give in. My name is Sebastián Salgado, a trade unionist by profession. Let’s shake hands and be friends, but, please, I beg you, stop farting like that, because I’m beginning to hallucinate and in my dreams I see Comrade Joseph Stalin doing the charleston.’

  Fermín shook Salgado’s hand and noticed that he was missing his little finger and his ring finger.

  ‘Fermín Romero de Torres, pleased to make your acquaintance at last. Member of the secret service in the Caribbean sector of the Catalan Government, now in the clandestine reserve. But my true vocation is bibliographer and lover of literature.’

  Salgado looked at his new comrade-in-arms and rolled his eyes.

  ‘And they say Martín is mad.’

  ‘A madman is one who considers himself sane and thinks that fools don’t belong in his rank.’

  Salgado nodded, defeated.

  The second circumstance occurred a few days later, when a couple of guards turned up at dusk to fetch him. Bebo opened their cell, trying to hide his concern.

  ‘You, Skinny Arse, get up,’ one of the guards muttered.

  For a moment Salgado thought his prayers had been answered and Fermín was being taken away to be shot.

  ‘Be brave, Fermín.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘Off to die for God and country, what could be more beautiful?’

  The two guards grabbed Fermín, shackled his hands and feet, and dragged him away among the anguished looks of the entire block and Salgado’s roars of laughter.

  ‘You’re not farting your way out of this one, that’s for sure,’ laughed his companion.

  9

  Fermín was led through a maze of tunnels until they reached a long corridor with a heavy wooden door visible at one end. He felt queasy, convinced that his miserable life was now over and that Inspector Fumero would be waiting behind that door with a welding torch and the night off. To his surprise, when he reached the door one of the guards removed his shackles while the other one rapped gently.

  ‘Come in,’ answered a familiar voice.

  That is how Fermín found himself in the governor’s office, a room luxuriously decorated with fancy furniture and carpets presumably stolen from some ritzy mansion in the Bonanova area. The scene was rounded off with a Spanish flag – eagle, coat of arms and inscription – a portrait of the Caudillo with more retouching than a publicity shot of Marlene Dietrich, and the governor himself, Don Mauricio Valls, smiling behind his desk, enjoying an imported cigarette and a glass of brandy.

  ‘Sit down. Don’t be afraid,’ he invited.

  Fermín noticed a tray next to him, with a plateful of actual red meat grilled to perfection, sautéed fresh peas and steaming mashed potatoes that smelled of hot butter and spices.

  ‘It’s not a mirage,’ said the governor softly. ‘It’s your dinner. I hope you brought an appetite.’

  Fermín, who hadn’t seen anything like it since 1936, threw himself on the food before the vision evaporated. The governor watched him wolf it down with a mild expression of disgust and disdain behind his fixed smile, smoking and smoothing his slicked-back hair every other minute. When Fermín had licked his plate clean as a mirror, Valls told the guards to leave. On his own, the governor seemed far more sinister than with an armed escort.

  ‘Fermín, isn’t it?’ he asked casually.

  Fermín nodded.

  ‘You’ll wonder why I’ve summoned you.’

  Fermín shrank in his chair.

  ‘Nothing that need worry you. On the contrary. I’ve made you come because I want to improve your living conditions and, who knows, perhaps review your sentence: we both know that the charges brought against you didn’t hold water. That’s the problem with times like ours, a lot of things get stirred up and sometimes it’s the innocent who suffer. Such is the price of our national renaissance. Over and above such considerations, I want you to understand that I’m on your side. I’m a bit of a prisoner here myself. I’m sure we both want to get out as soon as possible and I thought we could help one another. Cigarette?’

  Fermín accepted timidly.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll save it for later.’

  ‘Of course. As you please. Here, have the whole packet.’

  Fermín slid it into his pocket. The governor leaned over the table, smiling. There’s a snake just like that in the zoo, thought Fermín, but that one only eats mice.

  ‘So, how do you like your new cellmate?’

  ‘Salgado? A true humanitarian.’

  ‘I don’t know whether you’re aware that before we put him inside, this swine was an assassin for hire working for the communists.’

  Fermín shook his head.

  ‘He told me he was a trade unionist.’

  Valls laughed softly.

  ‘In May 1938, all on his own, he slipped into the home of the Vilajoana family on Paseo de la Bonanova and did away with them all, including their five children, the four maids and the eighty-six-year-old grandmother. Do you know who the Vilajoanas were?’

  ‘Well, actually …’

  ‘Jewellers. At the time of the crime there were jewels and cash in the house to the value of sixty-five thousand pesetas. Do you know where this money is now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know, and nobody knows. The only person who knows is Comrade Salgado, who decided not to hand it over to the proletariat but to hide it, so he could live in grand style after the war. Which is something he’ll never do because we’ll keep him here until he sings like a canary or until your friend Fumero slices what’s left of him into little cutlets.’

  Fermín nodded, putting two and two together.

  ‘I’d noticed he is missing a couple of fingers on his left hand and he walks in a funny way.’

  ‘One of these days you must ask him to pull his trousers down and you’ll see he’s also missing some other key equipment he’s lost along the way because of his stubborn refusal to cooperate.’

  Fermín gulped.

  ‘I want you to know that I find such atrocities repugnant. That’s one of the t
wo reasons why you’re here, and why I’ve ordered Salgado to be moved to your cell. Because I believe that when people talk they get to understand one another. I want you to discover where he’s hidden the stash from the Vilajoanas, and from all the other thefts and crimes he committed in the last few years, and I want you to tell me.’

  Fermín felt his heart fall to the ground.

  ‘And the other reason?’

  ‘The second reason is that I’ve noticed that you have recently become pals with David Martín. Which is fine by me. Friendship is a virtue that ennobles humans and helps rehabilitate prisoners. I’m not sure if you know that Martín is a writer of sorts.’

  ‘I’ve heard something.’

  The governor threw him an icy glance but kept up his friendly smile.

  ‘Martín isn’t a bad person, really, but he’s mistaken about a lot of things. One of them is this naïve notion that he has to protect the weak and the innocent and such.’

  ‘How extravagant of him.’

  ‘Indeed. That’s why I thought that perhaps it would be good if you keep close to him, with your eyes and ears well open, and tell me what he tells you, what he thinks and feels … I’m sure there must be something he’s mentioned to you that has caught your attention.’

  ‘Come to think of it, Governor, he’s recently been complaining quite a lot about a spot in his groin where his underpants rub against him.’

  The governor sighed and muttered something under his breath, visibly tired from having to feign so much politeness with such an undesirable specimen.

  ‘Look here, you imbecile, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. I’m trying to be reasonable, but all I have to do is to pick up the phone and your friend Fumero will be here in half an hour. I’ve been told that lately, as well as the welding torch, he keeps a cabinetmaker’s toolbox in one of the basement cells with which he works wonders. Am I making myself clear?’

  Fermín clasped his hands to hide his trembling.