Rose of Fire

of times he walked over to the newspaper kiosks that dotted the Ramblas and amused himself glancing at the covers of papers and magazines and idly twirling the postcard carousels. He acted as if he had never been there in his life, like a child or a tourist walking down the Ramblas for the first time – but then children and tourists often display an air of innocence that comes with not knowing one’s whereabouts, whereas our man couldn’t have looked less innocent even with the blessing of Baby Jesus, whose statue he passed when he reached the Church of Belén.
    Then he stopped, apparently entranced by a cockatoo that was eyeballing him from one of the animal stalls opposite the entrance to Calle Puertaferrisa. Approaching the birdcage just as he’d approached the glass cabinet in the bookshop, the stranger started mumbling something to the cockatoo. The bird, a specimen with a large head, the body of a capon and luxurious plumage, survived the stranger’s sulphuric breath and applied itself with great relish and concentration to what his visitor was reciting. In case there was any doubt, the bird nodded its head repeatedly and raised its feathery pink crest, visibly excited.
    After a few minutes, the stranger, satisfied with his avian exchange, resumed his itinerary. No more than thirty seconds later, as I walked past the bird stall, I noticed that a small hullabaloo had broken out. The shop assistant, plainly embarrassed, was hastily covering the cockatoo’s cage with a hood because the bird kept repeating with exemplary elocution the refrain, Franco, you prick, you can’t lift your dick . I was in no doubt at all about the source of the couplet. The stranger at least displayed a daring sense of humour and audacious political leanings, which in those days were as rare as skirts worn above the knee.
    Distracted by the incident, I thought I’d lost sight of him, but soon I glimpsed his hunched figure standing in front of the window of the Bagués jewellery shop. I sidled over to one of the scriveners’ booths bordering the entrance to the Palace of La Virreina and observed him carefully. His eyes shone like rubies and the sight of gold and precious stones behind the bulletproof pane seemed to have awoken a lust in him that not even a row of chorus girls from La Criolla in its years of splendour could have aroused.
    ‘A love letter, an application, a request to the distinguished official of your choice, a spontaneous “hope this letter finds you well” for the relatives in the country, young man?’
    The scribe whose booth I had adopted as a hiding place was peering out like a father confessor and looked at me expectantly, hoping I’d make use of his services. The poster above the counter read:
    OSWALDO DARÍO DE MORTENSSEN
    MAN OF LETTERS AND FREE THINKER
    Writes love letters, petitions, wills, poems, praises,
    greetings, pleas, obituaries, hymns, dissertations, applications
    and all types of compositions in all classic styles and metrics
    Ten céntimos per sentence (rhymes are extra)
    Special prices for widows, disabled war veterans and minors.
    ‘What say you, young man? A love letter of the sort that makes girls of a courting age wet their petticoats with desire? I’ll give you a special price.’
    I showed him my wedding ring. Oswaldo, the scribe, shrugged his shoulders, unperturbed.
    ‘These are modern times,’ he argued. ‘If you knew the number of married men and women who come by my booth . . .’
    I read the notice again. There was something familiar about it, which I couldn’t put my finger on.
    ‘Your name rings a bell . . .’
    ‘I’ve seen better times. Maybe from back then.’
    ‘Is it your real name?’
    ‘ Nom de plume. An artist’s name needs to match his mission. On my birth certificate I’m Jenaro Rebollo, but with a name like that, who is going to entrust their love letters to me . . . ? What do you say to the day’s offer? Are we to prepare a letter of passion and longing?’
    ‘Some other time.’
    The scribe nodded with resignation. He followed my eyes and frowned, intrigued.
    ‘Watching the lame guy, aren’t you?’ he remarked casually.
    ‘Do you know him?’ I asked.
    ‘For about a week now I’ve seen him walk past this place every day and stop right there, by the jeweller’s shop window, where he stares open mouthed as if what was on show were not rings and necklaces but Bella Dorita’s bare derriere,’ he explained.
    ‘Have you ever spoken to