Rose of Fire

at the watermarks. And these lines. The texture . . .’
    ‘Is the gentleman an expert in forgeries?’
    ‘In this world, everything is a fake, young man. Everything except money.’
    He placed the note in my hand and closed my fist over it, patting my knuckles.
    ‘Keep the change for my next visit,’ he said. ‘On account.’
    ‘It’s a lot of money, sir. Six hundred and fifty pesetas . . .’
    ‘Loose change.’
    ‘Let me give you a receipt then.’
    ‘I trust you.’
    The stranger examined the book without interest.
    ‘By the way, it’s a gift. I’m going to ask you to deliver it in person.’
    For a moment, I hesitated.
    ‘We don’t normally do deliveries, but in this case we’ll be happy to take care of your package, free of charge. May I ask whether the address is in Barcelona itself or . . . ?’
    ‘It’s right here,’ he said.
    His icy look seemed to betray years of anger and resentment.
    ‘Would you like to include a dedication, or add a personal note before I wrap the book up, sir?’
    The visitor opened the book at the title page with some difficulty. I noticed then that his left hand was artificial, made of painted porcelain. He pulled out a fountain pen and wrote a few words. Then he gave the book back to me and turned to leave. I watched him as he hobbled towards the door.
    ‘Would you be so kind as to give me the name and address where you would like us to deliver the book, sir?’ I asked.
    ‘It’s all there,’ he said, without turning his head.
    I opened the book and looked for the page with the inscription the stranger had written out.
    For Fermín Romero de Torres,
    who came back from among the dead
    and holds the key to the future.
    13
    Then I heard the tinkle of the doorbell and when I looked up, the stranger was gone.
    I dashed over to the door and peered out into the street. The visitor was limping away, merging with the silhouettes that moved through the veil of blue mist sweeping up Calle Santa Ana. I was about to call him, but I bit my tongue. The easiest thing would have been to let him go and have done with it, but my instinct and my characteristic lack of prudence got the better of me.

    4
    I hung the CLOSED sign on the door and locked up, determined to follow the stranger through the crowd. I knew that if my father returned and discovered that I had abandoned my post – on the one occasion when he’d left me alone and bang in the middle of that sales drought – I’d be in serious trouble. But I’d think of a convenient excuse along the way. Better to face my father’s temper than be consumed by the anxiety left in me by that sinister character, and not know what was the true intent of his business with Fermín.
    A professional bookseller has few opportunities to acquire the fine art of following a suspect in the field without being spotted. Unless a substantial number of his customers are prominent defaulters, such opportunities are only granted to him vicariously by the collection of crime stories and penny dreadfuls on his bookshelves. Clothes maketh not the man, but crime, or its presumption, maketh the detective, especially the amateur sleuth.
    While I followed the stranger towards the Ramblas, I recalled the essentials, beginning by leaving a good fifty metres between us, camouflaging myself behind someone larger and always having a quick hideaway ready – a doorway or a shop – in case the subject I was tailing should stop and turn around without warning. When he reached the Ramblas the stranger crossed over to the central boulevard and began to walk down towards the port. The boulevard was festooned with traditional Christmas decorations and more than one shop had decked its window with lights, stars and angels announcing a seasonal bonanza. If the regime’s radio said better times were ahead, it must be true.
    In those days, Christmas still retained a certain aura of magic and mystery. The powdery light of winter, the hopeful expressions of people who lived among shadows and silences, lent that setting a slight air of promise in which at least children and those who had learned the art of forgetting could still believe.
    Perhaps that is why it became increasingly obvious to me that nobody seemed more out of place amid all that Christmas fantasy than the peculiar object of my investigation. He limped slowly, often stopping by one of the bird stalls or flower stands to admire parakeets and roses, as if he’d never before set eyes on one. A couple