The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel Read Free Page A

years of splendour could have aroused.
    ‘A love letter, an application, a request to the distinguished official of your choice, a spontaneous “hope this letter finds you well” for the relatives in the country, young man?’
    The scribe whose booth I had adopted as a hiding place was peering out like a father confessor and looked at me expectantly, hoping I’d make use of his services. The poster above the counter read:
    OSWALDO DARÍO DE MORTENSSEN
    MAN OF LETTERS AND FREE THINKER
    Writes love letters, petitions, wills, poems, praises,
greetings, pleas, obituaries, hymns, dissertations, applications
and all types of compositions in all classic styles and metrics
Ten céntimos per sentence (rhymes are extra)
Special prices for widows, disabled war veterans and minors .
    ‘What say you, young man? A love letter of the sort that makes girls of a courting age wet their petticoats with desire? I’ll give you a special price.’
    I showed him my wedding ring. Oswaldo, the scribe, shrugged his shoulders, unperturbed.
    ‘These are modern times,’ he argued. ‘If you knew the number of married men and women who come by my booth …’
    I read the notice again. There was something familiar about it, which I couldn’t put my finger on.
    ‘Your name rings a bell …’
    ‘I’ve seen better times. Maybe from back then.’
    ‘Is it your real name?’
    ‘ Nom de plume . An artist’s name needs to match his mission. On my birth certificate I’m Jenaro Rebollo, but with a name like that, who is going to entrust their love letters to me …? What do you say to the day’s offer? Are we to prepare a letter of passion and longing?’
    ‘Some other time.’
    The scribe nodded with resignation. He followed my eyes and frowned, intrigued.
    ‘Watching the lame guy, aren’t you?’ he remarked casually.
    ‘Do you know him?’ I asked.
    ‘For about a week now I’ve seen him walk past this place every day and stop right there, by the jeweller’s shop window, where he stares open mouthed as if what was on show were not rings and necklaces but Bella Dorita’s bare derriere,’ he explained.
    ‘Have you ever spoken to him?’
    ‘One of my colleagues copied out a letter for him the other day; he’s missing some fingers, you see …’
    ‘Which one of your colleagues was that?’ I asked.
    The scribe looked at me doubtfully, fearing the possible loss of a client if he replied.
    ‘Luisito, the one over there, next to the music store, the one who looks like a seminarist.’
    I offered him a few coins in gratitude but he refused them.
    ‘I make a living with my pen, not with my tongue. There are plenty of the latter already in this courtyard. If you ever find yourself in need of grammatical rescue, you’ll find me here.’
    He handed me a card with the same wording as on his poster.
    ‘Monday to Saturday, from eight to eight,’ he specified. ‘Oswaldo, soldier of the written word, at your service for any epistolary cause.’
    I put the card away and thanked him for his help.
    ‘Your bird’s flying off.’
    I turned and could see that the stranger was moving on again. I hastened after him, following him down the Ramblas as far as the entrance to the Boquería market, where he stopped to gaze at the sight of the stalls and people coming and going, loading or unloading fine delicacies. I saw him limp up to Bar Pinocho and climb on to one of the stools, with difficulty but with aplomb. For the next half-hour the stranger tried to polish off the treats which the youngest in the bar, Juanito, kept serving him, but I had a feeling that he wasn’t really up to the challenge. He seemed to be eating more with his eyes, as if when he asked for tapas, which he barely sampled, he was recalling days of healthier appetites. Sometimes the palate does not savour so much as try to remember. Finally, resigned to the vicarious joy of watching others eating and licking their lips, the stranger paid his bill and continued on his voyage until