Mala Vida

by Marc Fernandez

  “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know when I say that numerous acts of violence were committed during the thirty-six years that Franco was in power. And that the transition to democracy could only happen because we have, all of us, chosen to close our eyes. Above all, the past had to remain undisturbed; the criminals could not be brought to justice. It’s possible that what I am about to tell you will surprise you, but it is worse than anything you can imagine. I want to tell you about babies who were stolen and children who were forcibly taken from their “leftist” parents in an attempt to stomp out the opposition. I want to tell you about, not one or two kidnappings, but about a vast criminal organization created to take these children from their parents by any means.”

  Murmurs now, camera flashes again, pens flying across notebook pages, hands raised in the hope of questioning the lawyer directly. Nothing less than a government scandal is being brought to the public’s attention. There were rumors, of course, and historians had found them plausible, but they were never able to prove anything. Isabel has entered her zone: she seems to take no notice of the commotion her words have caused. She continues to speak, oblivious to everything else, with the same assurance: the victims, she says, number in the thousands, even the tens of thousands.

  “And the worst news of all is that this program survived after Franco. Believe me, for years following Franco’s death, many ‘good’ Catholic families continued to ‘buy’—there’s no other word for it—these babies born into the lowest socioeconomic ranks of our society. This is why we are launching today the National Association of Stolen Babies, the NASB. We are a small group today, but we hope many more will join us in the coming days. We are calling, solemnly, on all those women and men who believe they were the victims of this trafficking. It doesn’t matter if you are a child, a parent, or a family member. If you have the slightest doubt, don’t wait. Come see us. We are not afraid, and we make this firm promise to those who knew and said nothing, and to those who are guilty of these crimes, that we will not let you rest easy. We will fight you to our very last breath. And to our government officials, we want them to know that we will not be stopped by the Amnesty Law. These are crimes against humanity, they are unconditional. The citizens of Argentina and Chile have done it. The time has perhaps come for us in this country, too, to search deeply in our past. And may those who should pay be made to clear their debts once and for all. We are tired of keeping silent. We can no longer ask these mothers and fathers whose children were taken from them to wait for answers any longer. Thank you for your attention.”

  Isabel stands, signaling that the press conference is over. There will be no time for questions, but she does let them know that more concrete details will be released in the coming days. Her strategy is simple: drop the bomb and let the media jump on it with their special editions, experts, and analysts of all kinds. Let them stew over it. Then return to the attack with micro-releases of evidence and historical documentation.

  In the meantime, she needs to get some rest. She needs to get far away from the media hype that is going to build like a hurricane. She needs to spend time with the files she has put together, to learn everything she can from the first statements to come in from mothers and fathers looking for their children. She also needs to continue preparing for her next appointment. He doesn’t know it yet, but there is a man out there who is about to cross paths with her.

  4

  DIEGO HASN’T SLEPT for days. The media storm that followed the NASB’s press conference upset everything in its path. No one has been talking about anything else for the last forty-eight hours. Newspapers, radio, television, Internet; no matter the media or the time of day, in the street, in cafés, at work, everywhere. The entire country is obsessed with the story of the stolen babies. As if it had suddenly awoken from a deep sleep. Or a coma. For Diego, that’s the real story. But there’s a problem: he wants his radio show to continue as planned, only introducing this new story in incremental doses. He knows that his listeners won’t understand if he just ignores it. But he also knows that running after the story is a fool’s game. Let the others have their conjectures; he will investigate but in his own time. That’s his plan. It’s easier said than done, however, with a story as hot and as unavoidable as this one.

  As soon as the association was launched, he began researching it online and put Ana on the case. He didn’t have to convince her, as sometimes needed to happen in the past. The private detective called him almost immediately to offer her services; her Argentine blood was boiling. She was having flashbacks to when she was a teenager, which were her most terrifying years, when being gay, different, and wanting a sex change bought her prison time and torture. She eventually fled. Now the country that gave her a home is doing the same thing. The same system, the same ingredients, and the same victims. There are still kids in Argentina today who are searching for the truth. Others will be going through the same ordeal, here, in Spain. How many?

  “It’s insane, Diego!” she screams at him over the phone. “Do you realize? It’s just like in my country, just like in all of these Latino dictatorships. Fuck, I can’t believe it!”

  “It’s pretty incredible, all right. The main thing to find out is how many of them there are. I’ve heard rumors of several thousand.”

  “Can you imagine? Of course it’s true. It’s the same thing, only the names are different. What a bunch of fuckers! My god, to do that to kids …? I’d just waste them. That’s all they deserve!”

  “Calm down, Ana. Calm down. OK, I know that’s easy for me to say, and this is a subject that hits close to home for you, but you can’t just say anything that comes into your head. Can I take it you want this story? Try to see what kind of initial elements you can find as quickly as possible. This story could bring down the government, not to mention the monarchy. It doesn’t smell good at all. Look into this association, NASB, as well: Who’s behind it? How many are in it? Who is financing it? Also, find out who this lawyer is … the one who gave the press conference.”

  “Oh, now that you mention it, I know her! Can you believe it?”

  “What? You waited until now to tell me? Who is she? How do you know her?”

  “She hired me a few weeks ago to put a file together on that Don Pedro De La Vega. You know, the filthy rich notary who was a big contributor to the APM.”

  “Why did she want it?”

  “Beats me. You know I just do my job and don’t ask questions. It was interesting, though. I’ll tell you sometime. But what that means is that I have her cell phone number. I’ll try to get in touch with her and set up an appointment as soon as possible. I’ll keep you posted.”

  That’s all they have time for. Diego still has to finish editing his interview with the mother of the murdered APM councilman, Paco Gómez. It’s scheduled to air on his next show. Getting this exclusive interview was no small feat; he called so many times he could be charged with phone harassment.

  It is the first interview the woman has given since the murder. To top it off, it is with a journalist who is not her cup of tea and whose ideology she doesn’t share. She let Diego know it the minute he walked into her house.

  “I don’t like you, Diego Martin, and I don’t like what you stand for. You gain audience ratings out of other people’s deaths and the pain of families who have lost a loved one. However, I also have to concede that you are stubborn and persistent, which undoubtedly serves you well in your line of work. You don’t let go of anything, which leads me to believe that if anyone can find out who killed my son, you will. And that is why I agreed to meet you.”

  It was a hell of an opener. Since his recorder was already running, Diego knew immediately he would play this introduction on the air. The rest was a typical interview, with just enough drama to grab listeners. Paco’s mother is from that bourgeois milieu that abhors the expression of any emotion, especially in public. She fought back her tears until the last moment, answering in a quavering voice before finall
y sobbing uncontrollably at the final question. It’s going to make for a great show.

  Sitting in front of his computer with his headphones on and the editing program running, Diego struggles to concentrate on the task at hand. His mind is wandering, and he stares into space; he hasn’t heard a single answer from his interviewee. Just then his phone rings, causing him to jump. It’s a landline: David Ponce’s. The judge almost never calls Diego from his office phone.

  “David, how are you?”

  “Fine, and you? Listen, I’m calling to confirm our appointment tomorrow night. It’s at nine o’clock, correct?”

  His friend’s question and tone of voice are unusual, but Diego doesn’t let his surprise show. Ponce has already shared with him his suspicions, namely that, as president of the left-leaning Association of Magistrates, his phone might be tapped. If Ponce is calling him like this, it’s because he has something important to tell Diego.

  “That’s right. Nine o’clock. Let’s meet in the café across from your office. I’m interested in hearing the Association’s official position on this case,” Diego adds.

  It’s a little lie, to let David know he got the message.

  “Perfect! See you tomorrow night!”

  After such a bizarre call, Diego decides to leave the editing for later. He has twenty-four hours until he meets David. It’s enough time to keep digging into the mysterious stolen babies. However, there isn’t much to be found online beyond the dozens and dozens of links to media sites around the world reporting on the creation of the NASB and the possible consequences these revelations could have for the country. In short, there is practically nothing at all. There are some anarchist blogs and comments posted on far-left discussion forums, spreading rumors about couples in the opposition who were murdered by Franco’s police so they could steal their children and raise them Catholic and Francoist, or about abortions forced on women suspected of being part of the underground Communist party.

  He’s going to have to find some more reliable sources the old-fashioned way. He is going to have to go to the library and the national archives; he’ll have to talk to historians and members of the opposition at the time, although their numbers are dwindling. Above all, he has to meet this lawyer for the NASB. She certainly knows much more than she let on in front of the cameras the other day.

  Diego calls Ana. She picks up at the first ring as if she was waiting for his call and knew what he was going to ask. Before he can get a word out, she answers him.

  “I can’t reach her. She must have turned her phone off.”

  “Shit! Keep trying, call every ten minutes, but I absolutely have to meet her. She’s the one with the information. She’s the only one who can help us.”

  He’s not optimistic though. It’s going to take either a stroke of luck or a serious misunderstanding for her to agree to meet him. However, he’s convinced she has at least some of the answers to his questions. Even better would be if she had concrete proof that would leave no doubt as to the veracity of her declaration. And that she would agree to show him. There’s no harm in dreaming.

  The train to Barcelona has just left the Atocha station. In two hours, she will be walking the famous La Rambla boulevard in that fabled city. She has an appointment with a doctor not far from there, on a tiny street in the Barrio Gótico. She has dyed her hair blond for the occasion. It brings out her wide, dark, almond-shaped eyes. It’s best to take precautions when meeting this kind of individual. Wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and Converse sneakers, she looks like she’s leaving on a long weekend. She doesn’t plan to stay as long as that, however. As soon as the meeting is over, she will retrace her steps exactly. Depending on the time, she’ll try to catch the last train, leaving at midnight sharp. In case she misses it, she has reserved a room in a small family-run bed and breakfast to spend one short night before returning to Madrid.

  She shivers. The air-conditioning is on full blast. She is seated by herself in a window seat in a half-empty first-class car. Today’s newspapers lie untouched on her tray. A small overnight bag sits at her feet. When the train conductor offered to place it in the overhead rack, she politely but firmly refused, explaining that it held her computer and that she was planning on catching up on work during the trip.

  What it holds, mainly, is her P38 with a silencer. There is also a folder containing maps of Barcelona, some official documents, and a set of photos of a man that were taken in the street and a variety of public places with a telephoto lens: Juan Ramírez, the third. Named after his grandfather and father, of course also both named Juan Ramírez. All of them doctors and part of one of Barcelona’s oldest families. Little Juan is married, a father of five children, and a practicing Catholic. He has one particular trait, however, for which his family has taken to calling him the “artist” of the clan. He plays the bandoneon, a kind of concertina typical of tango ensembles in Argentina. Every Thursday night, after his last appointment, Juan leaves his office in the chic and bustling Avenida Diagonal and heads for the Barrio Gótico, the Gothic Quarter. There, on the ground floor of one of its tiny, faded houses, he takes lessons from an elderly musician who came to Barcelona years ago from Mar del Plata and who is trying to inculcate in his student an appreciation for the spirit of this very specialized instrument.

  Isabel knows all of this. She’s been watching Ramírez for a while. She’s the one who took the photos in the file and who gathered the documents on the Catalan bigwig and his family. It only took a few well-placed phone calls to some government agencies. It’s crazy the amount of information that is out there and legally available to the public. You only have to ask for it. And, of course, to know whom to ask. Plus, if you’re nice, they’ll even email it to you the same day.

  Ten days of close observation were enough for her to move in on her target and put together a plan. It was out of the question to approach Ramírez at his office or at home: too risky. On the other hand, it couldn’t be easier to run into him alone after his music lesson. That plan would also buy her time to leave the neighborhood without attracting attention. With a little luck, in such a deserted street, there’s even a chance that Ramírez’s body won’t be found for hours.

  But she’s not there yet, and fatigue has finally caught up with her, despite her nerves. The announcement of the train’s imminent arrival at the Barcelona Sants station wakes her with a start. She lets out a long sigh and begins to gather her things. She glances at the newspapers she still hasn’t read, picks one up at random, and turns it over to read the headlines. Not surprisingly, the front-page story is the NASB and its press conference the other day. A headshot of Isabel is crowned by the sensationalist headline: Isabel Ferrer: The Woman Who Wants to Overthrow the Monarchy. As if she could. Either they didn’t understand a thing, she thinks, or they are really bound hand and foot by the government. It is surprising to see this from a supposedly left-leaning newspaper. But only if you don’t know that its owner is in thick with the APM, playing golf and tennis with the most powerful ministers in the new government and making business deals with the party’s bigwigs. Now that the major TV stations have been running her speech on a loop, she has become the subject of all kinds of speculation. Everyone wants to interview her, everyone wants an exclusive, and some have started investigating her background. She knows because her former boss in Paris emailed her to say he was being bombarded by phone calls from journalists in Spain wanting to know everything they can about her. He sent them packing, of course. To avoid any interruptions on this trip, she turned off her cell phone and left it behind in Madrid. She bought herself another phone with a prepaid card, just like the dealers she once defended. The only person who has this new number is her grandmother, whom she called as soon as she left the press conference. So as not to alarm any of her family and friends, she sent a group email to say that everything was fine but that she was going to have to cut off all communication for a few days, enough for the media hype to die down. She always knew her statement and the launch of th
e NASB would be a huge news story, but she never imagined it would be like this. Too much attention could be damaging to her mission.

  She has three hours of time to kill before meeting Juan Ramírez face-to-face. She decides to take a walk on the beach at La Barceloneta, hoping the fresh air will clear her head. The wind gives her an appetite. She walks back into town and finds a table in a bar. She orders a local specialty: pá amb tomàquet, which is bread rubbed with tomato and olive oil. She’s tempted to order a glass of wine but opts instead for sparkling water. She needs to have all her wits about her to kill the doctor.

  Night falls at last. Isabel begins walking toward the Barrio Gótico. She wanders slowly through the neighborhood while checking her map, looking like just another tourist. Isabel is close to the street now. She slows down and then stops in her tracks when she sees Juan Ramírez, his bandoneon case in one hand. Not yet. Stick to the plan. Wait for him to finish his lesson so that his teacher doesn’t sound the alarm when he doesn’t show up. At least an hour to wait. She looks around: there’s practically no one on the street. She can’t stay here without attracting attention. She decides to retrace her steps to a busier section of the neighborhood. She finds a tree-lined square filled with teenagers practicing their favorite sport: getting drunk. El botellón is a game of street drinking passed down from generation to generation. The goal is to get plastered as quickly as possible. The pastime may be universal, but since Spaniards don’t do anything like anyone else, they have a particular method all their own, which involves using a high-octane cocktail called calimoxo, a sickening mixture of Coca-Cola and wine. It does the trick though: two or three drinks in quick succession and you’re guaranteed a hangover. Throw in a couple of firecrackers and it’s a party. Isabel spots an empty park bench and takes it for herself. She watches with a pang of nostalgia as the kids show off. They remind her of the summer vacations she spent in Spain when she was their age when her parents would leave her with her grandparents, and she played the same drinking game with her cousins and their friends.