isn't a variety show at the Molino!' cried Dona Encarna furiously.
We stopped in front of the door to Fermin's room. My father rapped gently with his knuckles.
'Fermin? Are you there? It's Sempere.'
The howl that pierced the walls chilled me. Even Dona Encarna lost her matronly composure and put her hands on her heart, hidden under the many folds of her ample chest.
My father called again. 'Fermin? Come on, open the door.'
Fermin howled again, throwing himself against the walls, yelling obscenities at the top of his voice. My father sighed.
'Dona Encarna, do you have a key to this room?'
'Well, of course.'
'Give it to me, please.'
Dona Encarna hesitated. The other guests were peering into the corridor again, white with terror. Those shouts must have been heard from the army headquarters.
'And you, Daniel, run and find Dr Baro. He lives very close, in number twelve Riera Alta.'
'Listen, wouldn't it be better to call a priest? He sounds to me as if he's possessed,' suggested Dona Encarna.
'No. A doctor will do fine. Come on, Daniel. Run. And you, please give me that key.'
Dr Baro was a sleepless bachelor who spent his nights reading Zola and looking at 3-D pictures of young ladies in racy underwear to relieve his boredom. He was a regular customer at my father's bookshop, and, though he described himself as a second-rate quack, he had a better eye for reaching the right diagnosis than most of the smart doctors with elegant practices in Calle Muntaner. Many of his patients were old whores from the neighbourhood or poor wretches who could barely afford to pay him, but he would see them all the same. I heard him say repeatedly that the world was God's chamber pot and that his sole remaining wish was for Barcelona's football team to win the league, once and for all, so that he could die in peace. He opened the door in his dressing gown, smelling of wine and flaunting an unlit cigarette.
'Daniel?'
'My father sent me. It's an emergency.'
When we returned to the pension, we found Dona Encarna sobbing with fear and the other guests turned to the colour of old candle wax. My father was holding Fermin Romero de Torres in his arms in a corner of the room. Fermin was naked, crying and shaking. The room was a wreck, the walls stained with something that could have been either blood or excrement - I couldn't tell. Dr Baro quickly took in the situation and gestured to my father to lay Fermin on the bed. They were helped by Dona Encarna's son, a would-be boxer. Fermin moaned and thrashed about as if some vermin were devouring his insides.
'But for goodness' sake, what's the matter with this poor man? What's wrong with him?' groaned Dona Encarna from the door, shaking her head.
The doctor took his pulse, examined his pupils with a torch and, without saying a word, proceeded to prepare an injection from a bottle he carried in his bag.
'Hold him down. This will make him sleep. Daniel, help us.'
Between the four of us, we managed to immobilize Fermin, who jerked violently when he felt the stab of the needle in his thigh. His muscles tensed like steel cables, but after a few seconds his eyes clouded over and his body went limp.
'Be careful, that man's not very strong, and anything could kill him,' said Dona Encarna.
'Don't worry. He's only asleep,' said the doctor as he examined the scars that covered Fermin's starved body.
I saw him shake his head slowly. 'Bastards,' he mumbled.
'What are these scars from?' I asked. 'Cuts?'
Dr Baro shook his head again, without looking up. He found a blanket amid the wreckage and covered his patient with it. 'Burns. This man has been tortured,' he explained. 'These marks are from a soldering iron.'
Fermin slept for two days. When he awoke, he could not remember anything; he just thought he'd woken up in a dark cell, that was all. He felt so ashamed of his behaviour that he went down on his knees to beg for Dona Encarna's forgiveness. He swore he would paint the pension for her and, knowing
We stopped in front of the door to Fermin's room. My father rapped gently with his knuckles.
'Fermin? Are you there? It's Sempere.'
The howl that pierced the walls chilled me. Even Dona Encarna lost her matronly composure and put her hands on her heart, hidden under the many folds of her ample chest.
My father called again. 'Fermin? Come on, open the door.'
Fermin howled again, throwing himself against the walls, yelling obscenities at the top of his voice. My father sighed.
'Dona Encarna, do you have a key to this room?'
'Well, of course.'
'Give it to me, please.'
Dona Encarna hesitated. The other guests were peering into the corridor again, white with terror. Those shouts must have been heard from the army headquarters.
'And you, Daniel, run and find Dr Baro. He lives very close, in number twelve Riera Alta.'
'Listen, wouldn't it be better to call a priest? He sounds to me as if he's possessed,' suggested Dona Encarna.
'No. A doctor will do fine. Come on, Daniel. Run. And you, please give me that key.'
Dr Baro was a sleepless bachelor who spent his nights reading Zola and looking at 3-D pictures of young ladies in racy underwear to relieve his boredom. He was a regular customer at my father's bookshop, and, though he described himself as a second-rate quack, he had a better eye for reaching the right diagnosis than most of the smart doctors with elegant practices in Calle Muntaner. Many of his patients were old whores from the neighbourhood or poor wretches who could barely afford to pay him, but he would see them all the same. I heard him say repeatedly that the world was God's chamber pot and that his sole remaining wish was for Barcelona's football team to win the league, once and for all, so that he could die in peace. He opened the door in his dressing gown, smelling of wine and flaunting an unlit cigarette.
'Daniel?'
'My father sent me. It's an emergency.'
When we returned to the pension, we found Dona Encarna sobbing with fear and the other guests turned to the colour of old candle wax. My father was holding Fermin Romero de Torres in his arms in a corner of the room. Fermin was naked, crying and shaking. The room was a wreck, the walls stained with something that could have been either blood or excrement - I couldn't tell. Dr Baro quickly took in the situation and gestured to my father to lay Fermin on the bed. They were helped by Dona Encarna's son, a would-be boxer. Fermin moaned and thrashed about as if some vermin were devouring his insides.
'But for goodness' sake, what's the matter with this poor man? What's wrong with him?' groaned Dona Encarna from the door, shaking her head.
The doctor took his pulse, examined his pupils with a torch and, without saying a word, proceeded to prepare an injection from a bottle he carried in his bag.
'Hold him down. This will make him sleep. Daniel, help us.'
Between the four of us, we managed to immobilize Fermin, who jerked violently when he felt the stab of the needle in his thigh. His muscles tensed like steel cables, but after a few seconds his eyes clouded over and his body went limp.
'Be careful, that man's not very strong, and anything could kill him,' said Dona Encarna.
'Don't worry. He's only asleep,' said the doctor as he examined the scars that covered Fermin's starved body.
I saw him shake his head slowly. 'Bastards,' he mumbled.
'What are these scars from?' I asked. 'Cuts?'
Dr Baro shook his head again, without looking up. He found a blanket amid the wreckage and covered his patient with it. 'Burns. This man has been tortured,' he explained. 'These marks are from a soldering iron.'
Fermin slept for two days. When he awoke, he could not remember anything; he just thought he'd woken up in a dark cell, that was all. He felt so ashamed of his behaviour that he went down on his knees to beg for Dona Encarna's forgiveness. He swore he would paint the pension for her and, knowing
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