The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  ‘We’re covered on that front,’ I said.

  ‘I’m going to have to be given the list of accomplices in this conspiracy, to make sure you’re not bluffing.’

  I went on to explain the rest of my plan.

  ‘It could work,’ he concluded.

  As soon as the main dish arrived, we wrapped up the matter and the conversation took a different direction. Although I’d been holding back during the entire meal, by the time coffee was served, I could no longer restrain myself. Feigning a certain indifference, I asked innocently:

  ‘By the way, Professor, the other day a customer was chatting to me about something in the bookshop and the name Mauricio Valls cropped up – the one who was Minister of Culture and all those things. What do you know about him?’

  The professor raised an eyebrow.

  ‘About Valls? What everyone knows, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m sure you know much more than everyone, Professor. Much more.’

  ‘Well, actually, I hadn’t heard that name for a while, but until not long ago Mauricio Valls was a real big shot. As you say, he was our famous new Minister of Culture for a few years, head of a number of institutions and organisations, a man well placed in the regime and of great prestige in those circles, patron to many, golden boy of all the cultural pages in the Spanish press … As I say, a big shot.’

  I smiled weakly, pretending to be pleasantly surprised.

  ‘And he isn’t any longer?’

  ‘Quite frankly, I’d say he disappeared off the map a while ago, or at least from the public scene. I’m not sure whether he was given some embassy or some post in an international institution, you know how these things work. But in fact I’ve lost track of him lately … I know he set up a publishing house with a number of partners some years ago. The business does very well – it doesn’t stop bringing out new books. In fact, once a month I receive an invite for the launch of one of their titles …’

  ‘And does Valls go to these events?’

  ‘He used to, years ago. We always joked about the fact that he spoke more about himself than about the book or the author he was presenting. But that was some time ago. I haven’t seen him for years. May I ask why this interest, Daniel? I didn’t think of you as someone keen on our literature’s small vanity fair.’

  ‘I’m just curious.’

  ‘I see.’

  While Professor Alburquerque paid the bill, he looked at me askance.

  ‘Why is it that I always think you’re not even telling me a quarter of the story?’

  ‘One day I’ll tell you the rest, Professor. I promise.’

  ‘You’d better, because cities have no memory and they need someone like me, a sage with his feet on the ground, to keep it alive.’

  ‘This is the deal: you help me solve Fermín’s problem and in exchange, one day I’ll tell you things that Barcelona would rather forget. For your secret history.’

  The professor held out his hand and I shook it.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. Now, returning to the subject of Fermín and the documents we’re going to have to pull out of a hat …’

  ‘I think I have the right man for the job.’

  6

  Oswaldo Darío de Mortenssen, prince of Barcelona scribes and an old acquaintance of mine, was enjoying a break after his lunch, in his booth next to La Virreina Palace, sipping a double espresso with a dash of cognac and smoking a cigar. When he saw me approaching he raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘The prodigal son returns. Have you changed your mind? Shall we get going on that love letter that will give you access to the forbidden zips and buttons of the desired young lady?’

  I showed him my wedding ring again and he nodded, remembering.

  ‘I’m sorry. Force of habit. You’re one of the old guard. What can I do for you?’

  ‘The other day I remembered why your name sounded familiar to me, Don Oswaldo. I work in a bookshop and I found a novel of yours from 1933, The Riders of Twilight.’

  That sparked a host of memories. Oswaldo smiled nostalgically.

  ‘What times those were … Barrido and Escobillas, my publishers, ripped me off to the last céntimo, the swines. May they roast for ever in hell. Still, the pleasure of writing it – nobody can take that away from me.’

  ‘If I bring it along one day, will you sign it for me?’

  ‘Of course. It was my swansong. The world wasn’t ready for a western set in the Ebro delta, with bandits on canoes instead of horses, and mosquitoes the size of watermelons.’

  ‘You’re the Zane Grey of the Spanish coast.’

  ‘I wish. What can I do for you, young man?’

  ‘Lend me your talent and cunning for an equally worthy venture.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘I need you to help me invent a documentary past for a friend, so he can marry the woman he loves without legal impediments.’

  ‘A good man?’

  ‘The best I know.’

  ‘If that’s the case, it’s a deal. My favourite scenes were always weddings and christenings.’

  ‘We’ll need official applications, reports, petitions, certificates – the whole shooting match.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem. We’ll delegate part of the logistics to Luisito, whom you already know. He’s completely trustworthy and a master in twelve different calligraphies.’

  I pulled out the one-thousand-peseta note the professor had refused and handed it to him. Oswaldo put it away swiftly, his eyes as big as saucers.

  ‘And they say you can’t make a living from writing in Spain,’ he said.

  ‘Will that cover the working expenses?’

  ‘Amply. When I’ve got it all organised I’ll let you know what the whole operation adds up to, but off the top of my head I’d guess that three or four hundred will get us there.’

  ‘I leave that to your discretion, Oswaldo. My friend Professor Alburquerque …’

  ‘Fine writer …’ Oswaldo cut in.

  ‘And an even better gentleman. As I say, my friend, the professor, will drop by and give you a list of the documents required, and all the details. If there’s anything you need, you’ll find me at the Sempere & Sons bookshop.’

  His face lit up when he heard the name.

  ‘Ah, the sanctuary. As a young man I used to go round every Saturday and those encounters with Señor Sempere opened my eyes.’

  ‘That would have been my grandfather.’

  ‘I haven’t been there for years. My finances are tight and I’ve taken to borrowing books from libraries.’

  ‘Well, do pay us the honour of returning to the bookshop, Don Oswaldo. Consider it your home and we can always sort something out with prices.’

  ‘I will.’

  He put out a hand and I shook it.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to do business with the Semperes.’

  ‘May it be the first of many such occasions.’

  ‘What happened to the lame man whose eyes twinkled at the sight of gold?’

  ‘Turned out that all that glittered wasn’t gold,’ I said.

  ‘A sign of our times …’

  7

  Barcelona, 1958

  That month of January came wrapped in bright icy skies that blew powdery snow over the city’s rooftops. The sun shone every day, casting sharp angles of light and shadow on the façades of a crystalline Barcelona. Double-decker buses drove by with the top tier empty and passing trams left a halo of steam on the tracks.

  Christmas lights glowed in garlands of blue fire all over the old town and carols bearing sugary wishes of goodwill and peace trickled out of a thousand and one loudspeakers by shop doors. The Yuletide message was so pervasive that a policeman guarding the nativity scene set up by the town hall in Plaza San Jaime turned a blind eye when someone had the bright idea of placing a Catalan beret on the Infant Jesus – ignoring the demands of a group of pious old women who expected him to haul the man off with a slap to police headquarters. In the end, s
omeone from the archbishop’s office reported the incident and three nuns turned up to restore order.

  Christmas sales had picked up and a seasonal star in the shape of black numbers in the accounts of Sempere & Sons guaranteed that we would at least be able to cope with the electricity and heating bills. With a bit of luck, we might even enjoy a proper hot meal once a day. My father seemed to have recovered his spirits and decreed that this year we wouldn’t wait so long before decorating the bookshop.

  ‘We’re going to have that crib hanging around for a long time,’ grumbled Fermín with little or no enthusiasm.

  After 6 January, the feast of the Three Kings, my father instructed us to wrap up the nativity scene carefully and take it down to the basement for storage until the following Christmas.

  ‘With care,’ warned my father. ‘I don’t want to be told that the boxes slipped accidentally, Fermín.’

  ‘With the utmost care, Señor Sempere. I’ll vouch for the integrity of the crib with my life, and that includes all the farm animals dotted round the swaddled Messiah.’

  Once we had made room for the boxes containing all the Christmas decorations, I paused for a moment to have a quick look round the basement and its forgotten corners. The last time we’d been there, the conversation had covered matters that neither Fermín nor I had brought up again, but they still lay heavily on my mind at least. Fermín seemed to read my thoughts and he shook his head.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about that idiot’s letter.’

  ‘Every now and then.’

  ‘You won’t have said anything to Doña Beatriz, I hope.’

  ‘No. I put the letter back in her coat pocket and didn’t say a word.’

  ‘What about her? Didn’t she mention that she’d received a letter from Don Juan Tenorio?’

  I shook my head. Fermín screwed up his nose, as if to say that it wasn’t a good sign.

  ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Don’t act innocent, Daniel. Are you or are you not going to follow your wife to her potential tryst with that old boyfriend at the Ritz and cause a little stir?’

  ‘You’re presupposing that she’ll be going there,’ I protested.

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  I looked down, upset with myself.

  ‘What kind of a husband doesn’t trust his wife?’ I asked.

  ‘Would you like me to give you a list of names and surnames, or will statistics do?’

  ‘I trust Bea. She wouldn’t cheat on me. She isn’t like that. If she had anything to say to me, she’d say it to my face, without lying.’

  ‘Then you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?’

  Something in Fermín’s tone made me think that my suspicions and insecurities had disappointed him. Although he was never going to admit it, I was sure it saddened him to think I devoted my time to unworthy thoughts and to doubting the sincerity of a woman I didn’t deserve.

  ‘You must think I’m a fool.’

  Fermín shook his head.

  ‘No. I think you’re a fortunate man, at least when it comes to love. And like most people who are so fortunate, you don’t realise it.’

  A knock on the door at the top of the stairs interrupted us.

  ‘Unless you’ve discovered oil down there, will you please come back up right away, there’s work to do,’ called my father.

  Fermín sighed.

  ‘Since he’s got out of the red he’s become a tyrant,’ he said.

  The days crawled by. Fermín had at last agreed to delegate the preparations for the wedding and the banquet to my father and Don Gustavo, who had taken on the role of parental authorities. As best man, I advised the presiding committee, but mine was a merely honorary title since Bea acted as chief executive and artistic director and coordinated all those involved with an iron fist.

  ‘Fermín, I have orders from Bea to take you along to Casa Pantaleoni to try on your suit.’

  ‘A striped prisoner’s suit is all I’m going to wear …’

  I’d given him my word that when the time came his name would be in order and his friend the parish priest would be able to intone those words: ‘Do you, Fermín, take Bernarda to be your lawful wedded wife?’ without us all ending up in the police station. But as the date drew closer Fermín was being eaten up by anxiety. Bernarda survived the suspense by means of prayers and egg-yolk flans, although, once her pregnancy had been confirmed by a trustworthy, discreet doctor, she spent much of her day fighting nausea and dizziness. Everything seemed to indicate that Fermín’s firstborn was going to be a handful.

  Those were days of apparent and deceptive calm, but beneath the surface I’d succumbed to a dark, murky current that was slowly dragging me into the depths of a new and irresistible emotion: hatred.

  In my spare time, without telling anyone where I was going, I would slip out and walk over to the nearby Ateneo Library on Calle Canuda, where I tracked every step of Mauricio Valls’s life in the newspaper room. What for years I’d regarded as an indistinct and uninteresting figure took on a painful clarity and precision that increased with every passing day. My investigation allowed me to reconstruct Valls’s public career during the last fifteen years, piece by piece. A lot of water had flowed under the bridge since his early days with the regime. With time and good contacts, if one were to believe what the papers said (something Fermín compared to believing that orange squash was obtained by squeezing fresh oranges from Valencia), Don Mauricio Valls had seen his wishes come true and become a shining star in Spain’s literary and artistic firmament.

  His ascent had been nothing short of spectacular. From 1944 onwards he landed posts and official appointments of growing importance in the country’s cultural and academic institutions. His articles, talks and publications multiplied. Any self-respecting award ceremony, conference or cultural event required the participation and presence of Don Mauricio. In 1947, with a couple of business partners, he created Ediciones Ariadna, a publishing company with offices in Madrid and Barcelona mostly devoted to his self-promotion, which the press spared no effort in canonising as the ‘most prestigious editorial brand’ in Spanish literature.

  By 1948, the same papers began to refer regularly to Mauricio Valls as ‘the most brilliant and well-respected intellectual in the New Spain’. The country’s self-appointed intelligentsia and those who aspired to join the club seemed to be conducting a passionate romance with Don Mauricio. Journalists covering the cultural pages went out of their way to extol Valls, seeking his favour and, with luck, the publication by Ediciones Ariadna of some manuscript they’d been keeping in a drawer, so that they could become part of the official scene and taste at least a few sweet crumbs falling from his table.

  Valls had learned the rules of the game and controlled the board better than anyone. At the start of the fifties, his fame and influence had already extended beyond official circles and were beginning to seep into so-called civil society and its members. Mauricio’s slogans had been fashioned into a canon of revealed truths adopted by the same three or four thousand Spaniards who saw themselves as the chosen few and who made it a matter of pride to parrot the gospel like diligent pupils while looking down at the low-brow masses.

  En route to the top, Valls had gathered around him a clique of like-minded characters who ate out of his hand and were gradually placed at the head of institutions and in positions of power. If anyone dared question Valls’s words or his worth, such an individual would be mercilessly crucified by the press. After being ridiculed in malicious terms, the poor wretch would end up as a pariah, a beggar to whom all doors were slammed shut and whose only alternatives were obscurity or exile.

  I spent endless hours reading every word as well as between the lines, comparing different versions of the story, cataloguing dates and making lists of successes and potential skeletons in cupboards. In other circumstances, if the purpose of my study had been purely anthropological, I would h
ave taken my hat off to Don Mauricio and his masterly moves. Nobody could deny that he’d learned to read the heart and soul of his fellow citizens and pull the strings that moved their desires, hopes and dreams. He knew the game inside out, and nobody played it better.

  If I was left with anything after endless days submerged in the official version of Valls’s life, it was the belief that the building blocks of a new Spain were being set in place and that Don Mauricio’s meteoric ascent to the altars of power exemplified a rising trend that, in all probability, would outlast the dictatorship and put down deep and immovable roots throughout the entire country for decades to come.

  In 1952 Valls reached the summit of his career when he was named Minister of Culture for a three-year period, a position on which he capitalised to consolidate his authority and place his lackeys in the last few posts he had not yet managed to control. His public projection took on a golden monotony: his words were quoted as the source of all wisdom. His presence on jury panels, tribunals and all sorts of formal audiences was constant, while his arsenal of diplomas, laurels and medals continued to grow.

  And then, suddenly, something strange happened.

  I wasn’t aware of it at first. The litany of praise and news flashes continued relentlessly, but after 1956, I spotted a detail buried among all those reports which was in stark contrast to everything published prior to that date. The tone and content of the articles were unchanged, but by reading each one of them and comparing them, I noticed something.

  Don Mauricio Valls had never again appeared in public.

  His name, his prestige, his reputation and his power were still going from strength to strength. There was just one piece missing: his person. After 1956 there were no photographs, no mention of his attendance nor any direct references to his participation in official functions.

  The last cutting confirming Mauricio Valls’s presence was dated 2 November 1956, when he received an award for the year’s most distinguished achievements in publishing. The solemn ceremony, held in Madrid’s Círculo de Bellas Artes, was attended by the highest authorities and the cream of society. The text of the news report followed the usual, predictable lines of the genre, in other words a short item couched in flattering tones. The most interesting thing about it was the accompanying photograph, the last published picture of Valls, taken shortly before his sixtieth birthday. Elegantly dressed in a well-cut suit, he was smiling modestly as he received a standing ovation from the audience. Some of the usual crowd at that type of event appeared next to Valls and, behind him, slightly off-camera, their expression serious and impenetrable, stood two individuals ensconced behind dark glasses, dressed in black, who didn’t seem to be part of the ceremony. They looked severe and disconnected from the whole farce. Vigilant.