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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 him?’
    ‘One of my colleagues copied out a letter for him the other day; he’s missing some fingers, you see . . .’
    ‘Which one of your colleagues was that?’ I asked.
    The scribe looked at me doubtfully, fearing the possible loss of a client if he replied.
    ‘Luisito, the one over there, next to the music store, the one who looks like a seminarist.’
    I offered him a few coins in gratitude but he refused them.
    ‘I make a living with my pen, not with my tongue. There are plenty of the latter already in this courtyard. If you ever find yourself in need of grammatical rescue, you’ll find me here.’
    He handed me a card with the same wording as on his poster.
    ‘Monday to Saturday, from eight to eight,’ he specified. ‘Oswaldo, soldier of the written word, at your service for any epistolary cause.’
    I put the card away and thanked him for his help.
    ‘Your bird’s flying off.’
    I turned and could see that the stranger was moving on again. I hastened after him, following him down the Ramblas as far as the entrance to the Boquería market, where he stopped to gaze at the sight of the stalls and people coming and going, loading or unloading fine delicacies. I saw him limp up to Bar Pinocho and climb on to one of the stools, with difficulty but with aplomb. For the next half-hour the stranger tried to polish off the treats which the youngest in the bar, Juanito, kept serving him, but I had a feeling that he wasn’t really up to the challenge. He seemed to be eating more with his eyes, as if when he asked for tapas, which he barely sampled, he was recalling days of healthier appetites. Sometimes the palate does not savour so much as try to remember. Finally, resigned to the vicarious joy of watching others eating and licking their lips, the stranger paid his bill and continued on his voyage until he reached the entrance to Calle Hospital, where the peculiar arrangement of Barcelona’s streets had conspired to place one of the great opera houses of the old world next to one of the most squalid red-light districts of the northern hemisphere.

Copyright
    ROSE OF FIRE . Copyright © 2012 by Shadow Factory S.L.; translation copyright © 2012 by Lucia Graves.
    THE PRISONER OF HEAVEN . Copyright © 2011 by Shadow Factory S.L.; translation copyright © 2012 by Lucia Graves.
    All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
    FIRST EDITION
    Rose of Fire
    Epub Edition © JULY 2012 ISBN: 9780062237040
    The Prisoner of Heaven
    ISBN 978-0-06-220628-2 (Hardcover)
    ISBN 978-0-06-220630-5 (Epub)
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