Read Online The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel by Carlos Ruiz Zafón - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carlos Ruiz Zafón
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nails, looked like the claws of a bird. His eyes were open, the corneas shrivelled up like overripe fruit. His mouth was open too, with his tongue, black and swollen, wedged between rotten teeth.
‘Take his clothes off before they come and fetch him,’ came a voice from the cell on the other side of the corridor. ‘You won’t get anything else to wear until next month.’
Fermín peered into the shadows and spied two shining eyes observing him from the bunk in the other cell.
‘Don’t be afraid, the poor soul can’t hurt anyone any more,’ the voice assured him.
Fermín nodded and walked over to the sack again, wondering how he was going to carry out the operation.
‘My sincerest apologies,’ he mumbled to the deceased. ‘May God rest your soul.’
‘He was an atheist,’ the voice from the opposite cell informed him.
Fermín gave another nod and decided to skip the formalities. The cold permeating the cell was so intense it cut through one’s bones and any courtesy seemed redundant. Holding his breath, he set to work. The clothes smelled the same as the dead man. Rigor mortis had begun to spread through the body and the task of undressing the corpse turned out to be much harder than he’d anticipated. Once the deceased’s best clothes had been plucked off, Fermín covered him again with the sack and closed it with a reef knot that even the great Houdini would have been unable to tackle. At last, dressed in a ragged and foul-smelling prison uniform, Fermín huddled up again on the bed, wondering how many prisoners had worn it before him.
‘Much appreciated,’ he said finally.
‘You’re very welcome,’ said the voice on the other side of the corridor.
‘Fermín Romero de Torres, at your service.’
‘David Martín.’
Fermín frowned. The name sounded familiar. For five long minutes he shuffled through distant memories and echoes from the past and then, suddenly, it came to him. He remembered whole afternoons spent in a corner of the library on Calle del Carmen, devouring a series of books with racy covers and titles.
‘Martín the author? Of City of the Damned ?’
A sigh in the shadows.
‘Nobody appreciates pen names any more.’
‘Please excuse my indiscretion. It’s just that I had an almost scholarly devotion to your work. That’s why I know you were the person writing the novels of the immortal Ignatius B. Samson …’
‘At your service.’
‘Well, Señor Martín, it’s an honour to meet you, even if it is in these wretched circumstances, because I’ve been a great admirer of yours for years and …’
‘Are you two lovebirds going to shut up? Some people here are trying to sleep,’ roared a bitter voice that seemed to come from the next-door cell.
‘There goes old Sourpuss,’ a second voice cut in, coming from further down the corridor. ‘Pay no attention to him, Martín. If you fall asleep here you just get eaten alive by bedbugs, starting with your privates. Go on, Martín, why don’t you tell us a story? One about Chloé …’
‘Sure, so you can jerk off like a monkey,’ answered the hostile voice.
‘Fermín, my friend,’ Martín announced from his cell. ‘Let me introduce you to Number Twelve, who finds something wrong in everything, and I mean everything , and Number Fifteen, insomniac, educated and the cell block’s official ideologue. The rest don’t speak much, especially Number Fourteen.’
‘I speak when I have something to say,’ snapped a deep, icy voice Fermín assumed must belong to Number 14. ‘If we all followed suit, we’d get some peace at night.’
Fermín took in this peculiar community.
‘Good evening, everyone. My name is Fermín Romero de Torres and it’s a pleasure to make all your acquaintances.’
‘The pleasure is entirely yours,’ said Number 15.
‘Welcome, and I hope your stay is brief,’ offered Number 14.
Fermín glanced again at the sack housing the corpse and gulped.
‘That was Lucio, the former Number
‘Take his clothes off before they come and fetch him,’ came a voice from the cell on the other side of the corridor. ‘You won’t get anything else to wear until next month.’
Fermín peered into the shadows and spied two shining eyes observing him from the bunk in the other cell.
‘Don’t be afraid, the poor soul can’t hurt anyone any more,’ the voice assured him.
Fermín nodded and walked over to the sack again, wondering how he was going to carry out the operation.
‘My sincerest apologies,’ he mumbled to the deceased. ‘May God rest your soul.’
‘He was an atheist,’ the voice from the opposite cell informed him.
Fermín gave another nod and decided to skip the formalities. The cold permeating the cell was so intense it cut through one’s bones and any courtesy seemed redundant. Holding his breath, he set to work. The clothes smelled the same as the dead man. Rigor mortis had begun to spread through the body and the task of undressing the corpse turned out to be much harder than he’d anticipated. Once the deceased’s best clothes had been plucked off, Fermín covered him again with the sack and closed it with a reef knot that even the great Houdini would have been unable to tackle. At last, dressed in a ragged and foul-smelling prison uniform, Fermín huddled up again on the bed, wondering how many prisoners had worn it before him.
‘Much appreciated,’ he said finally.
‘You’re very welcome,’ said the voice on the other side of the corridor.
‘Fermín Romero de Torres, at your service.’
‘David Martín.’
Fermín frowned. The name sounded familiar. For five long minutes he shuffled through distant memories and echoes from the past and then, suddenly, it came to him. He remembered whole afternoons spent in a corner of the library on Calle del Carmen, devouring a series of books with racy covers and titles.
‘Martín the author? Of City of the Damned ?’
A sigh in the shadows.
‘Nobody appreciates pen names any more.’
‘Please excuse my indiscretion. It’s just that I had an almost scholarly devotion to your work. That’s why I know you were the person writing the novels of the immortal Ignatius B. Samson …’
‘At your service.’
‘Well, Señor Martín, it’s an honour to meet you, even if it is in these wretched circumstances, because I’ve been a great admirer of yours for years and …’
‘Are you two lovebirds going to shut up? Some people here are trying to sleep,’ roared a bitter voice that seemed to come from the next-door cell.
‘There goes old Sourpuss,’ a second voice cut in, coming from further down the corridor. ‘Pay no attention to him, Martín. If you fall asleep here you just get eaten alive by bedbugs, starting with your privates. Go on, Martín, why don’t you tell us a story? One about Chloé …’
‘Sure, so you can jerk off like a monkey,’ answered the hostile voice.
‘Fermín, my friend,’ Martín announced from his cell. ‘Let me introduce you to Number Twelve, who finds something wrong in everything, and I mean everything , and Number Fifteen, insomniac, educated and the cell block’s official ideologue. The rest don’t speak much, especially Number Fourteen.’
‘I speak when I have something to say,’ snapped a deep, icy voice Fermín assumed must belong to Number 14. ‘If we all followed suit, we’d get some peace at night.’
Fermín took in this peculiar community.
‘Good evening, everyone. My name is Fermín Romero de Torres and it’s a pleasure to make all your acquaintances.’
‘The pleasure is entirely yours,’ said Number 15.
‘Welcome, and I hope your stay is brief,’ offered Number 14.
Fermín glanced again at the sack housing the corpse and gulped.
‘That was Lucio, the former Number
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