‘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 carefully.
‘To be honest, right now, you don’t exactly look the picture of happiness. Is it because of the wedding? Are you worried about having to go through a church wedding and all that?’
‘No, Daniel. I’m actually quite excited about it, even if there are priests involved. I could marry Bernarda every day of the week.’
‘Then what?’
‘Do you know the first thing they ask you when you want to get married?’
‘Your name,’ I said, without thinking.
Fermín nodded his head slowly. It hadn’t occurred to me to think about that until then. Suddenly I understood the dilemma my good friend was facing.
‘Do you remember what I told you years ago, Daniel?’
I remembered it perfectly. During the civil war and thanks to the nefarious dealings of Inspector Fumero who, before joining the fascists, acted as a hired thug for the communists, my friend had landed himself in prison, where he’d been on the verge of losing his mind and his life. When he managed to get out, alive by some sheer miracle, he decided to adopt a new identity and erase his past. He was at death’s door when he borrowed a name he saw on an old poster in the Arenas bullring. That is how Fermín Romero de Torres was born, a man who invented his life story day after day.
‘That’s why you didn’t want to fill in those papers in the parish church,’ I said. ‘Because you can’t use the name Fermín Romero de Torres.’
Fermín nodded.
‘Look, I’m sure we can find a way of getting you new documentation. Do you remember Lieutenant Palacios, the one who left the police force? He teaches physical education at a school in the Bonanova area, but sometimes he drops by the bookshop. Well, one day, talking about this and that, he told me there was a whole underground market of new identities for people who were returning to Spain after spending years away. He said he knows someone with a workshop near the old Royal Shipyards who has contacts in the police force and for a hundred pesetas can supply people with a new identity card and get it registered in the ministry.’
‘I know. His name was Heredia. Quite an artist.’
‘Was?’
‘He turned up floating in the port a couple of months ago. They said he’d fallen off a pleasure boat while he was sailing towards the breakwater. With his hands tied behind his back. Fascist humour.’
‘You knew him?’
‘We met now and then.’
‘Then you do have documents that certify you are Fermín Romero de Torres …’
‘Heredia managed to get them for me in 1939, towards the end of the war. It was easier then, Barcelona was a madhouse, and when people realised the ship was sinking they’d even sell you their coat of arms for a couple of duros.
‘Then why can’t you use your name?’
‘Because Fermín Romero de Torres died in 1940. Those were bad times, Daniel, far worse than these. He didn’t even last a year, poor bastard.’
‘He died? Where? How?’
‘In the prison of Montjuïc Castle. In cell number thirteen.’
I remembered the dedication the stranger had left for Fermín in the copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.