The Prisoner of Heaven: A Novel by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

Vanguardia .’
    ‘I wish I could. It’s those damned dissertations. Having to read the inane babble written by the spoiled rich kids who come through university these days is beginning to give me bouts of dyslexia.’
    At that point, one of the waiters served him his pudding, a plump crème caramel wobbling under a surge of burned sugar tears and smelling of the finest vanilla.
    ‘Your lordship will get over it after a couple of spoonfuls of this marvel,’ said Fermín. ‘Goodness me: it jiggles just like the formidable bust of Doña Margarita Xirgu.’
    The learned professor gazed at his pudding in the light of those considerations and agreed, spellbound. We left the wise man enjoying the sugary charms of the famous stage diva and took shelter at a corner table at the back of the dining room, where we were soon served a sumptuous meal. Fermín devoured it with the appetite of a retreating army.
    ‘I thought you weren’t hungry,’ I let drop.
    ‘Hard muscle burns a lot of calories,’ Fermín explained, mopping his plate with the last piece of bread in the basket, although I thought it was just his anxiety doing all the eating.
    Pere, the waiter who was serving us, came over to see how everything was going and when he saw Fermín’s ravaged plate, he handed him the dessert menu.
    ‘A little dessert to finish off the job, maestro?’
    ‘Come to think of it, I wouldn’t say no to a couple of those home-made crème caramels I saw earlier, if possible with a bright red cherry on top of each one,’ said Fermín.
    Pere assented. He told us that when the owner heard how Fermín had expounded on the consistency and the metaphorical attractions of that recipe, he’d decided to rechristen the crème caramels ‘ margaritas ’.
    ‘I’m fine with an espresso,’ I said.
    ‘The boss says coffee and dessert are on the house,’ said Pere.
    We raised our wine glasses in the direction of the owner, who was standing behind the bar chatting with Professor Alburquerque.
    ‘Good people,’ mumbled Fermín. ‘Sometimes one forgets that not everyone in this world is a bastard.’
    I was surprised at the bitterness of his tone.
    ‘Why do you say that, Fermín?’
    My friend shrugged his shoulders. Shortly after, the crème caramels arrived, swaying temptingly, topped with shiny cherries.
    ‘May I remind you that in a few weeks’ time you’re getting married and your margarita days will be over?’ I joked.
    ‘Poor me,’ said Fermín. ‘I’m afraid I’m all bark and no bite. I’m not the man I used to be.’
    ‘None of us are what we once were.’
    Fermín started on the crème caramels, savouring every mouthful.
    ‘I don’t know where I’ve read that deep down we’ve never been who we think we once were, and we only remember what never happened …’ said Fermín.
    ‘That’s the beginning of a novel by Julián Carax,’ I replied.
    ‘True. Where might our friend Carax be? Don’t you ever wonder?’
    ‘Every single day.’
    Fermín smiled, remembering our past adventures. Then he pointed to my chest and gave me a questioning look.
    ‘Does it still hurt?’
    I undid a couple of buttons on my shirt and showed him the scar Inspector Fumero’s bullet had left when it went through my chest that faraway day, in the ruins of the Angel of Mist.
    ‘Every now and then.’
    ‘Scars never go away, do they?’
    ‘They come and go, I believe. Fermín: look into my eyes.’
    Fermín’s evasive eyes looked straight into mine.
    ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
    For a couple of seconds Fermín hesitated.
    ‘Did you know that Bernarda is expecting?’ he asked.
    ‘No,’ I lied. ‘Is that what’s worrying you?’
    Fermín shook his head as he finished up his second crème caramel with the teaspoon, sipping the remains of the syrup.
    ‘She hasn’t wanted to tell me yet, poor thing, because she’s worried. But she’s going to make me the happiest man in the world.’
    I looked at him