Rose of Fire

when there was nobody else in the shop but me and thousands of books.
    That morning, Radio Barcelona was broadcasting a rare recording of a fabulous Louis Armstrong concert – made when the trumpeter and his band had played at the Hotel Windsor Palace on Avenida Diagonal, three Christmases earlier. During the publicity breaks, the presenter insisted on labelling that music as chass , with the warning that some of its suggestive syncopations might not be suitable for pious Spanish listeners brought up on the popular tonadillas and boleros that ruled the airwaves.
    Fermín was in the habit of saying that if Don Isaac Albéniz had been born black, jazz would have been invented in the village of Camprodón, near the Pyrenees. That glorious sound, he said, was one of the precious few true achievements of the twentieth century along with the pointed bras worn by his adored Kim Novak in some of the films we saw at the Fémina Cinema matinees. I wasn’t going to argue with that. I let the remainder of the morning drift by between the alchemy of the music and the perfume of books, savouring the satisfaction that comes from a simple task well done.
    Fermín had taken the morning off to finalise preparations for his wedding with Bernarda, due to take place at the beginning of February, or so he said. The first time he’d brought up the subject, barely two weeks earlier, we’d all told him he was rushing into it and that too much haste would lead him nowhere fast. My father tried to persuade him to postpone the event for at least two or three months, arguing that weddings were always best in the summer when the weather was good. But Fermín had insisted on sticking to his date, alleging that, being a specimen weathered in the harsh, dry airs of the Extremadura hills, he was prone to break into profuse perspiration during the Mediterranean summer, a semi-tropical affair in his estimation, and didn’t deem it appropriate to celebrate his nuptials flashing sweat stains the size of pancakes under his armpits.
    I was beginning to think that something odd must be happening to Fermín Romero de Torres – proud standard-bearer of civil resistance against the Holy Mother Church, banks and good manners in that pious 1950s Spain so given to religious services and propaganda newsreels – for him to display such urgency for tying the knot. In his pre-matrimonial zeal he’d even befriended Don Jacobo, the new parish priest at the church of Santa Ana, who was blessed with a relaxed ideology and the manners of a retired boxer. Fermín had infected him with his boundless passion for dominoes and together they staged epic matches at the Bar Admiral on Sundays after mass. Don Jacobo would laugh his head off when my friend asked him, between glasses of fine liqueurs, if he had it from a higher source that nuns actually had thighs, and if that were the case, were they as soft and nibbly as he’d been suspecting since adolescence?
    ‘You’ll manage to get that priest excommunicated,’ my father scolded him. ‘Nuns are not to be looked at, or touched.’
    ‘But the reverend is almost more of a rogue than I am,’ Fermín protested. ‘If it weren’t for the uniform . . .’
    I was recalling that conversation and humming to the sound of Maestro Armstrong’s trumpet when I heard the soft tinkle of the doorbell and looked up, expecting to see my father returning from his secret mission, or Fermín ready to start the afternoon shift.
    ‘Good morning,’ came a deep, broken voice from the doorway.

    3
    Cast against the light from the street, the silhouette resembled a tree trunk lashed by the wind. The visitor sported a dark, old-fashioned suit and presented a grim figure as he leaned on his walking stick. He took one step forward, limping visibly. The light from the small lamp on the counter revealed a face lined by age and the unmistakable trace of misfortune. The man stared at me for a few moments, sizing me up unhurriedly. He had the cold eyes of a bird of prey, patient and calculating.
    ‘Are you Señor Sempere?’
    ‘I’m Daniel. Señor Sempere is my father, but he’s not in right now. Is there anything I can help you with?’
    The visitor ignored my question and began to wander around the bookshop examining everything in detail with almost covetous interest. The limp affecting him suggested that the wounds concealed beneath those clothes must have been quite severe.
    ‘Souvenirs from the war,’ said the stranger, as if he’d