by Pablo Poveda
“Please, don’t tell me,” he interrupted, sipping on his gin. “I’d rather not know... By the way, there’s a reason why I wanted to meet with you here.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. It sounded like a breakup.
“If it’s about the job as a professor, don’t worry,” I said, “I understand if there’s nothing for me...”
“As you know, Gabriel,” he began to explain, “I’ll probably be elected. That means I can’t be a part of any more creepy stories, scandals or party nights, if you know what I mean...”
“Getting laid every once in a while never hurt anybody, Antonio...”
“No,” he said bluntly, “we have to stop seeing each other for a while. Don’t take it personal. I just... they’re going to demand a lot from me and I have measure up to that. I hope you understand.”
Antonio was breaking up with me. It was as sad as the lyrics in a fado.
“No, I don’t understand, but if that’s what you want... I won’t tell you otherwise.”
Hidalgo rose his glass and invited me to join him in a toast that would put an end to an era; our friendship.
20
SINCE HE WAS MY FRIEND, if we had to put an end to our meetings, what better moment to do that than at the investiture. It was a strange day, a sunny first of June, and hot like a thousand demons in the body. I wasn’t used to wearing a blazer, even less in high temperatures. I hadn’t been invited, although that was not an obstacle for me to show up at the University of Alicante’s hall, along with the rest of the guests. Going back there after the two most horrible weeks of my life wasn’t easy. The memories of Botella, the craziness after Llopis’ death and Maciá’s look in the parking lot were still fresh in my mind. But there we were, all of us, as if nothing had happened. The same faces, the same shoes that would carry Hidalgo to the podium as the new dean. The vice chancellor Ramirez was there, dressed in his best clothes, along with the President of Valencia, still shocked and with a pale face, fearing what could happen.
I sat down and observed Hidalgo in his elegant suit, wearing a smile too big for his face. I saw Maciá in the distance, sitting next to an attractive woman, a few years older. He was also into cougars? The young entrepreneur was full of surprises. Who I really missed was Casavieja. I scanned the room to find his face somewhere, but it was impossible. He’d disappeared or he was simply not interested in being there.
The event finished without incident. Hidalgo gave a motivating speech that was sheltered by the applause of students and employees. When I left the place, I approached him to offer my congratulations. He didn’t care much about my presence.
“I guess this is it,” I said as we shook hands, “I hope everything goes well for you.”
“Stay for a while,” he replied. “Have a beer, the last one, at least.”
I accepted the invitation and slipped away among the people to reach the tables full of snacks and ordered a beer.
“Can I join you?” a husky voice said.
“Well, well, well. Ortiz,” I said. “It’s good to see you.”
“You don’t know anybody either, do you?” he joked. “Strange times are coming, Caballero.”
Ortiz grabbed the other beer bottle and we clinked them in a toast.
“To whatever comes.”
“Cheers,” he said and took a long sip. His Adam’s apple moved under his skin. “Tell me something. When do you plan on going back to the office?”
His question made me laugh. “I told you, Ortiz,” I replied, “I don’t think I’m going back...”
“I knew it. You’re hesitating,” he answered with enthusiasm. “You know? I’ve been pulling some strings, taking your story here and there... Of course, as sad as it is, the article wasn’t very welcome, but the stockholders did like it. If I were you, I’d keep it for that book you want to write. It may serve as inspiration.”
“Very clever of you,” I said. “I’ll keep it in mind. Can I ask you something? Between us, out of work.”
“Spit it out, Caballero.”
“We’re supposed to be journalists; our responsibility is to tell the truth,” I explained, “however, when it’s in our hands, we can’t tell it to the citizens because it interferes with someone else’s interests. What’s the point then?”
“Oh, Caballero,” he sighed with a fatherly tone, like an old dog full of experience. “With time, you’ll learn that in this job you must draw a line between real and realistic. You can shout the truth from the rooftops but, if it’s not plausible, nobody will listen. Look at all those detective novels... are they realistic? Sure, but truthful? Hell, no. But people believe in them, they live them... and that sells. During these years, I have read too many stories that won’t see the light of day. I’m sure that if we’d published them, no one would have believed them.”
Ortiz’ reflection was interesting; truth verses authenticity. Two terms that would mark the future of a of type journalism, one degraded by the Internet, fake rumors and news based on wrong facts.
Suddenly, Antonio Maciá crossed our path. Ortiz looked him up and down, something Maciá ignored. He addressed me:
“What a surprise, Caballero,” he said, holding a glass of Champaign. The woman next to him looked at me with a warm, although serious, expression. She had long blond hair, down to her shoulders, gem-like blue eyes and a fit body that made her an object of desire under that suit.
“Gabriel Caballero,” I said as I offered her my hand. The woman accepted the invitation and I noticed a diamond ring on her finger.
“Nice to meet you,” she replied in a foreign accent without saying her name.
That mysterious detail caught my attention. The woman gave me a crimson smile that went straight to my chest. Her scent, so sweet and delicate, made me forget Patricia for a minute.
“I hope I won’t see you for a while, Caballero,” Maciá said, killing the magical moment.
“You haven’t told me your name,” I insisted to the woman. I had fallen in her spell.
She smiled with confidence. “I’m sure we’ll meet again, Mr. Caballero.”
She left with Maciá at the rhythm of her heels. Ortiz and I stared at her legs, flouncing like in an artistic exercise.
“Do you know that woman?” I asked Ortiz.
“I don’t, but I wouldn’t mind,” he replied. “Those women play in another league, Caballero.”
What Ortiz didn’t know was that, to me, there weren’t unattainable leagues in love.
“By the way, regarding what I was telling you...” he began to say, popping a canapé in his mouth, “if you come back to the office, I’ll offer you a raise and freedom to write in the Current Events section.”
“Well, now that’s new,” I said with surprise. That was a joke indeed. “Why that now?”
Ortiz straightened his tie. “The newspaper is full of unpaid interns,” he explained. “I need someone who’s by my side in case one day I’m not there... Antonio, the guy in charge of the archives is retiring this year and we might get another intern there. That gives us room to pay another salary, you know... The big dogs have given me the green light and, until we find a Hemingway, we can do with you.”
“A very enriching plan for the trade,” I answered.
“Don’t be like that,” he complained, “The free content on the web is taking us down the hill. You know how many printed copies we sell...”
“Yes, it’s not you...” I said with sarcasm, “it’s complicated to go against the system.”
“Well, think about it, alright?”
I took a sip of my beer and kept Ortiz’ words in a mental drawer. I had a lot to think about during the following hours.
21
RAMIRO CASAVIEJA WAS at his desk, packing his personal items into a box, as the welcome cocktail party for the new dean was taking place at the conference hall of the university. Casavieja grabbed his phone, doubtful, took a business card from Fharma S.A, and dialed.
“Hello?” said Antonio
Maciá on the other side. He could hear the crowd in the background. “Hello?”
Casavieja breathed deeply.
“Antonio Maciá, my name is Ramiro Casavieja,” he said, “we’ve met before...”
“Casavieja? One second, I can’t hear you very well...” he replied, taking a few steps back. The noise weakened. Maciá had gone outside. “I’m listening, Casavieja. I’m in the middle of something right now...”
“Monica Llopis’ results were fake. I have the test documents and they’re positive. That puts you in a very uncomfortable position.”
“I see...” Maciá said. “And what could we do to fix that?”
“A bank transfer to the account number I’ll give you,” said the professor, “200,000€.”
“That’s a lot of money!”
The professor swallowed. He wasn’t expecting Maciá to say that. “I promise I won’t put you in a bad situation,” he said softly, “I know all the wheeling and dealing you have at the university. I have no interest in getting involved in your business, Mr. Maciá.”
“How can I be sure?” he asked with the coldness of a businessman.
“Don’t worry, I have no interest,” Casavieja said again, “I’m just taking care of my retirement.”
“You’ll hear from me soon,” he said, “I gotta go now.”
22
SOMETIMES THE PRESENT is like the drum of a washing machine, spinning around in a systematic and repetitive way. At some point, the timer reaches zero and the wash program finishes. The clothes are clean but wrinkled and we must wait for them to dry. That’s how I felt, like a clean shirt, crumbled by the last few day’s events. In my case, I’d been the only one inside the drum. Hidalgo had gotten his way. He was the dean now, a public figure who rubbed shoulders with the big fish on the political scene. He had always liked restaurants with a view of the sea, cutlery for fish and silk tablecloths.
Maciá and he would forget about their disagreements once the machine began churning out the profits that would satisfy their interests. To my surprise, we didn’t hear from Professor Casavieja ever again. He vanished as if he had dissipated into thin air. A crime? A voluntary act? I decided to turn the page, like he’d advised me, and ignored it. The only conclusion I got from all that concoction of information was that they were all a bunch of sons of bitches, with no exception. Ortiz was an old dog who knew what he was doing and he was right. Sometimes it was better not to get in the neighbor’s backyard because you don’t know how big his problems are.
After Patricia had left, I had to think about what to do with my life. The apartment was too expensive for my salary, so I moved out to an apartment that my father had inherited from his aunt, a block away. An old cubbyhole with colorless calendars and plastic tablecloths. Goodbye to the decoration from Ikea that Patricia liked so much. Goodbye to neatness, order, and a 20-inch TV. Goodbye to a fridge full of unnecessary food. I said goodbye to everything but her because I still harbored resentment in my broken heart.
Days after the investiture, I moved into the family apartment. I just had to take care of the monthly bills. My aunt’s flat still kept the furniture she’d bought before the Transition. I didn’t mind. The only thing I cared about was having a place to sleep and to make peace with my life.
I accepted Ortiz’ offer since I didn’t have many options; going back to the office or to my parents. I promised myself I’d become someone, a guy with reasons to be proud and walk with my head held high. I’d failed everybody and had forgotten about myself.
But not everything would be bad moments. The Football World Cup was around the corner; a healing summer where I’d find all the kisses Patricia had stolen from me and many more adventures.
The first night I spent at the apartment I couldn’t sleep. I went up to the top floor and opened the door to the terrace. It was dark and the people were resting in their houses. The breeze of the night blew between the clothes lines. I walked towards the wall and leaned on it. I lit a crumpled cigarette. From there I could see the lights in Santa Barbara Castle, the bullring and the Central Market. Alicante, the Spanish San Francisco by the Mediterranean. My seasons, the present, past and future of my days.
I felt big inside, relieved despite everything I’d gone through and unaware of the trouble that awaited me.
I was loyal to the hardships life throws at us. I assumed they were the rules of the game and, therefore, I had no option but to accept them humbly because, as Seneca said, whoever wished to live among the righteous should go live in the desert.
23
ON THE AFTERNOON OF June third, the new detective of the Homicide Unit walked into Andres Botella’s old office, located in the Alicante Police Department in Benalua neighborhood.
He was a tall bulky man with short hair. The detective was wearing a uniform, white shirt and tie, with a badge on his chest and decorations on his left side. The new detective grabbed a framed photograph from a box and placed it on his desk. The picture of a blond woman holding a little boy. He slid one finger across a piece of furniture to check how much dust had accumulated. A policewoman showed up at the door. He turned around.
“Detective Rojo, welcome,” she said with a warm smile, “Can I do anything for you?”
The man thought for a second. “Yes, sure,” he replied, “could I have today’s paper?”
“Of course,” she answered with curiosity. She disappeared for a moment and came back with a copy of Las Provincias. “Here you are.”
The detective thanked her and opened the paper. Like a game bird, he observed the headlines, going through the pages until he found the Current Events Section. On the top of the page there was a black and white picture of Gabriel Caballero.
“Caballero...” he muttered. He took a pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote the name down. “Finally, I see your face.”
The detective stared at his face, closed the paper and left it on the desk.
How did you like it?
GABRIEL CABALLERO IS in danger. A phone call will turn him into an unsuspecting accomplice of murder and will change his life forever.
One summer morning in Costa Blanca, the newsroom is about to close. Gabriel Caballero decides to take a last-minute anonymous call for help.
Curiosity leads him to an old factory on the outskirts of the city. The outcome: many dead bodies, a murder allegation, and a reporter who will stop at nothing to make his life impossible.
There is no time for regrets if he is to find the murderer.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PABLO POVEDA (ALICANTE, Spain, 1989) is a writer and journalist. He already published more than 30 books. After spending four years in Warsaw where he developed his writing career, currently, Pablo lives in Madrid where he writes every morning.
Finalist Period, Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award 2018 & 2020
E-mail contact: [email protected]
Website: elescritorfantasma.com
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