Mala Vida

by Marc Fernandez

  “Welcome to Charles de Gaulle Airport. The ground temperature is sixty degrees Fahrenheit; the skies are cloudy.” The wheels have only just touched down, but already the air is filled with the clicks and beeps of seat belts unbuckling and emails and texts arriving. Diego doesn’t move a muscle and watches with a mix of exasperation and scorn as his fellow passengers spring into action. He has never understood this frenetic need to deplane before the cabin door has opened. Hurry, hurry, time to leave. Quick, quick, be the first out the door. Faster now, make sure everyone appreciates what a rush you are in. He waits until the cabin is almost empty, then he stands, grabs his bag, and thanks the flight crew on his way out. His first priority is to get outside where he can smoke a cigarette, send Ana a message that he is “in the zone” (a little ritual of theirs), and find the commuter train into Paris. He wouldn’t dream of taking a taxi. Too expensive. And what’s worse, if his memory serves him well, the drivers are just too stupid, as tourists from around the world can attest. Diego wasn’t favorably impressed by his last ride in a Paris taxi: it cost him over fifty euros to drive two miles from the Porte Maillot to the Porte d’Auteuil. When he finally met up with his friends, they assured him he had definitely been taken for a ride.

  After some trouble figuring out the automated ticket machine, he manages to pay his fare and board the train heading into Paris. Forty-five minutes later, he is standing at the top of the Lamarck–Caulaincourt staircase, in the heart of the Montmartre district. Diego’s early, so he crosses the street to the café on the corner. He hasn’t eaten since the night before, and he is starting to feel hungry. He orders a full tourist breakfast: Radio Uno is paying, and he’ll have no trouble expensing this one. A double espresso, orange juice (in a bottle: disgusting), croissants … for nearly eleven euros. A tourist price, too. It’s almost time for his appointment. Once more, Diego checks the street number where he has to be in five minutes, and then starts down the stairs, feeling the adrenaline kick in. He doesn’t know yet who he is going to meet or what the person will tell him, only that it will be critically important. Standing outside number 55 rue Lamarck is an old woman leaning on a cane. When Diego nears, she looks up at him, smiles, and speaks to him directly in Spanish.

  “Diego Martin? Good morning, I am Emilia Ferrer, Isabel’s grandmother.”

  He never saw that one coming. He guessed the lawyer had arranged for him to meet an older individual, someone who had lived under Franco, maybe someone who had been a victim of El Caudillo’s police. But her own grandmother? He begins to understand Isabel Ferrer’s involvement with the National Association of Stolen Babies. He is so surprised that he forgets to greet the woman, who is still planted firmly in front of him. She bursts into laughter.

  “Well, don’t just stand there like an idiot! I see my granddaughter didn’t warn you. … I thought she should, but she persuaded me to let it be a surprise. Judging from the look on your face, it certainly was.”

  “Excuse me, yes, you’re right, I … Let me just say, with my apologies, good morning, ma’am, and thank you.”

  “Knock it off with your ‘ma’am’s;’ none of that between us! Call me Emilia,” says the old woman with a wink. “Now, let’s go up to the apartment. I’ll make you a coffee, and we’ll have a talk. I’m guessing you have some questions. And I have some answers, but above all, I have quite a story to tell you.”

  An old-fashioned elevator with heavy black steel doors carries them slowly to the fifth floor. Emilia doesn’t say another word the whole way up, but she never takes her eyes off the journalist. Only a smile that breaks over her face as he gropes nervously in his bag for his Nagra and headphones and presses the record button after she signals to him with a quick movement of her hand and a nod to start. Once inside her tidy two-bedroom apartment, Diego can’t resist the temptation to take a good look around. The apartment is bright and furnished in a tastefully contemporary style, something else he didn’t expect. No heavy wood sideboards or antique dressers here. No; the beige and white minimalist interior might have been lifted right from a furniture showroom. Anticipating his question, she explains that her granddaughter redecorated the apartment for her a few months ago after Emilia’s husband passed away.

  Seated now in the living room, with a pitcher of water, two glasses, an Italian espresso pot, and two steaming cups before them on the stylish glass coffee table, the journalist and the grandmother have not yet begun their interview. Diego likes to take his time, soak up the atmosphere, and wait to have the undivided attention of his subject before launching into his first question. Next to the flat-screen TV that faces the white leather couch where they are sitting, a writing table holds a black-and-white photo of a youngish-looking man in a suit and a Panama hat, his head thrown back in laughter. He is standing in a wide, public square surrounded by pigeons that look to be pestering him.

  “Is that your husband?” Diego asks, indicating the picture.

  “Yes, that is my Vicente. I love that photo. It was so long ago, just after our wedding; we went to Valencia for our honeymoon. A different time. He died about a year ago; his cancer had spread. But he’s always with me. I visit him once a week. He’s nearby, at the Montmartre cemetery.”

  “He didn’t want to be buried in Spain?”

  “Absolutely not! We never went back after we left. That was in 1946. Let’s get started, shall we? Ask me your first question; I’ll do my best to help you understand what happened to us and why we fled our country.”

  Two hours of questions and answers. Diego is exhausted, and he can tell that Emilia is too. She spoke for most of that time. She told her story, simply, directly, and emotionally, and she never let up. She has great resolve, but at eighty-nine and in fragile health, this trip back in time has taken a toll on her. She asks Diego to pass her a pill box and serves herself from it with a large glass of water. Her breathing is labored, which worries the journalist. He doesn’t want to leave her like this.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to call your doctor? I’ll stay with you until he arrives.”

  “No, no, I’m fine. It’s just that it’s the first time I ever told anyone all of that at once. I didn’t think it would affect me so much. I’m going to lie down for a moment. I’m sure I’ll feel better then. Don’t worry,” Emilia says, seeing Diego’s concern. “I just have one thing to ask you.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Make good use of my story: broadcast it, and talk about it. I can assure you that I am convinced that I am not the only woman this happened to. That’s why my granddaughter took up the cause of the NASB. The public has to know about this scandal. And whoever did this is going to have to pay.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Diego hesitates. “You’re aware, however, that before I do, I’m going to have to verify quite a lot of this. You are making some serious allegations. I have to look into them more closely. But rest assured I will help you. Our interview will air on my next show, and it’s going to drop like a bomb.”

  “So much the better!”

  “Which makes me wonder … Are you sure you want to go through with this? There might be some unwelcome repercussions. I won’t name you on my show, but my colleagues might come looking for you. Other journalists are going to want to meet you, and it won’t be hard to find you.”

  “I’m not worried!” Emilia reassures the journalist. “Anyways, this is the only interview I’m giving. I’ve done my part. Now it’s up to you and Isabel to do yours.”

  Her last comment strikes Diego as odd, and it sticks with him as he boards the train back to the airport. Before that, though, he took a detour to the cemetery to find the final resting place of Vicente Ferrer, Emilia’s husband. Not far from the grave of the singer Dalida, he located Vincente’s sober tombstone, decorated only by a bouquet of flowers. On it were inscribed his name, birth date, date of death, and a sentence that has the ring of a rallying cry: “¡No pasarán!” Clearly a staunch supporter of the left and an early anti-Francoist.


  Diego has four hours until his flight, but he wants to sit down in one of the airport bars to gather his thoughts, take some notes in his Moleskine, and listen to the tape recording. He gets up incessantly to smoke cigarette after cigarette near the taxi stand outside. No one seeing him pacing back and forth with his headphones on would guess he was listening to anything other than music. In reality, he is making himself travel back through the years with Emilia a second time, to suffer again through her heartbreaking story. The story of a young wife, twenty-one years old, who was excitedly expecting a child. The baby would be born in a country that a brutal dictator kept subjugated under his iron fist, but he would be welcomed by loving parents. They were active members of the Communist Party and fervent opponents of the regime. They had considered very seriously before making the decision to start a family. They had been baited, arrested, and even tortured by Franco’s men. But they remained hopeful that Franco would be overthrown one day. When Emilia’s water broke, she was alone. Her husband was at a secret meeting to plan strategic attacks on several government buildings. A friend took her to the maternity ward, in a hospital operated by the Catholic Church, as so many hospitals were at the time. But there, everything that could go wrong did. When the nuns and the midwives explained to her that her baby boy died during delivery, her life changed forever.

  The utmost discretion was required for this meeting, so David Ponce asked Isabel to meet him at Casa Pepe, his and Diego’s preferred lunch spot. The owner, a friend, agreed to close up earlier than usual, no questions asked. At nine o’clock, he simply pulled the roll-down gate over the entrance and left the keys with the judge, along with a few plates of tapas. Now David and Isabel are the only ones in the restaurant. Before getting started, Isabel informs him that she put Diego in touch with her grandmother and tells David her story in a few sentences. He is surprised but doesn’t let it show, nor does he give a hint of the effect the young woman’s beauty and intensity are having on him. She seems to be motivated by both an iron will and an unquenchable desire for justice. Does her sense of indignation stem from the wrong done to her family? That attitude could prove dangerous: there’s a fine line between justice and revenge, David thinks. His fears are swept aside, however, when she produces a pile of documents, mostly originals, some very old, some more recent, as well as transcriptions of statements by mothers whose children were forcibly taken from them.

  The judge reads in silence. Isabel is prepared to give him all the time he needs. She doesn’t want to sway him in any way. She nibbles at the tapas, pours herself a glass of wine, then another, and smokes one cigarette after the other. His attention absorbed entirely by the file, David doesn’t eat anything or even taste his beer. From time to time, he writes something down in a little notebook. After an hour like this—an eternity for the lawyer—he raises his gaze at last and looks Isabel straight in the eyes. He takes a deep gulp of his beer, picks up his pack of Peter Stuyvesants (the last person in Madrid to still smoke them), and finally addresses her in a tone of voice that he hopes sounds casual but that belies his excitement.

  “Why me?”

  She was expecting this question and has her response ready.

  “Because you have the experience and you are highly respected, and because you have already investigated some very complicated political cases, because—”

  “I’ll repeat the question: Why did you choose me? And don’t give me your prepared speech; I want the truth.”

  “OK, OK … You’re right. I’ll give you the short, simple answer. Why you? Because, as far as I can tell, you are the only judge with the cojones to open an investigation, you don’t give a damn about the fallout, and, if what they say about you at the courthouse is true, you’re a first-class pain in the ass.”

  “See? That wasn’t so hard,” replies David. “Well, thanks, first of all. I’ll take that as a compliment. Second, it’s clear from what you’ve just shown me that I could start a preliminary investigation. However, my superiors in the department will block me at every step. The families are going to have to press charges, but will they? And if they do, do they understand what that could mean? For both them and for the country? If all of this is true, this is not simply a case of human trafficking but of an entire system put in place to kidnap children, and one that functioned for years and years. I’m not even talking about the underlying ideology here. As for you, no one who takes aim at the halls of power gets away unscathed.”

  “They’re ready, they understand the risks; I’ve been through it all with them. And don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing and whose toes I’m stepping on.”

  “Fine. I’ll call you in twenty-four hours with my decision.”

  “No, I’ll call you. I hope you’ll make the right choice. In the meantime, if you don’t mind, these documents are going to stay with me. If you need them, you know where to find them. And if you decide to help us, I think I can find you more like them, too.”

  Isabel gets up from the table, slowly gathers her things, and stops for a moment in front of David. After a minute during which she sizes him up intently with her dark eyes, she extends her hand to him, then walks out without a word of goodbye. He leans back on the banquette for a long moment. Eventually, he decides to clear the table and moves behind the bar to make himself a coffee. He spies a bottle of Cognac above the espresso machine, grabs it, and pours a generous shot into his coffee cup. He sits back down at the table, opens his notebook, and rereads what he wrote down earlier. His mind is made up already. The answer is yes, and David is even going to offer to file the first complaints himself. Hard to know what will happen next. His career will undoubtedly take a detour, but he can handle it. On the other hand, the scandal that is brewing is going to be nothing short of explosive. The consequences of an affair this big are unpredictable, especially when the highest-ranking positions in government are filled by people whose own families orchestrated the kidnappings. There are no guarantees of winning this one.

  Isabel strides quickly through Malasaña’s bustling streets. People are everywhere. Young and old, all with glasses in hand. An indescribable din fills the air of Madrid’s trendiest neighborhood. Nightclubs with their doors wide open are pumping a mix of musical styles (electro, rumba, disco) onto the sidewalks, which may as well be a giant disco. She parked her car nearby. Lost in thought—she is disappointed that the judge didn’t say yes immediately, but she is holding out hope that he will—she does not notice that a man is following her from a distance of about fifty feet. He waited for her in a car parked outside Casa Pepe and started tailing her when she left. Dressed in black pants and a black jacket, he walks silently with his hands in his pockets as he gets closer. When she opens her car door, he is right next to her, with a ski mask over his face. He grabs her violently, throws her face-first against the hood of the car, and keeps her in that position so she can’t see him. With one hand, he takes a fistful of her hair and with the other covers her mouth to prevent her from calling for help. Frozen with fear, Isabel doesn’t dare move. She thinks her attacker is going to rape her, but when he brings his mouth close to her ear, she understands what’s happening.

  “This is your first warning,” he tells her in a cold, hard whisper. “You can see for yourself: we’re following you, we know who you are, and we know what you do. If you want to stay alive, this is where you turn back. Put an end to this association and its lies about stolen babies. If not …”

  He gives Isabel a violent blow to the head such that she almost loses consciousness, then he runs off, disappearing into one of the crowded pedestrian streets.

  At the same time, two men in a delivery van parked directly behind Isabel’s car have watched the whole incident play out. They even filmed it and took pictures. One of them wanted to jump in at first, but his partner stopped him.

  “No! That’s not what we’re here for! Our job is only to keep an eye on her, take pictures, write a report, and see what the chief says. But Jesus! Who is that bast
ard? He didn’t steal anything. It’s got to have something to do with the NASB. We’re going to have to let HQ know right away. We’re not the only ones in this business, apparently.”

  Isabel is still paralyzed with shock. She remains slumped over the hood for a long time before she is sure she can turn herself over. Her head is killing her. When the fear finally drains from her, she tells herself as she gets behind the wheel of her car that this was only child’s play. The worst is yet to come. But it is going to take more than that to frighten her. She hasn’t yet finished what she started. And she plans to see this to the end.

  9

  IT’S ALMOST TIME for Radio Confidential to start. Diego locks his office, checks that he has all the documents he’ll need while he’s on the air, and takes the elevator to the basement, earlier than usual. He doesn’t meet anyone on the way. It’s as if the entire station was on standby. It’s Friday night, so most of Radio Uno’s employees have left for the weekend. Radio Confidential’s producer is already in the control room of Studio 4, his attention moving from the soundboard to a computer screen to the potentiometers to the cue sheet, preparing all of the sound cues he’ll use during the show.

  “¡Hola!” Diego shouts out as he bursts into the studio.

  “Christ! You scared the shit out of me! What, you’re here already? What gives? Are you sick or something?”

  “Nope. I just thought that, for once, I’d get here early. Also, I have to talk to you—there have been some changes. You can throw out the running order sheet I gave you before. I made a new one.”

  “Oh, shit! And you’re only telling me now? You’re a real jackass, you know that?”

  “Now, just take a look,” Diego says. “We’re going to start with this, and then, after Prosecutor X, we’re going to go right into this interview.”

  Diego hands a flash drive and the new running order sheet to his producer, who starts to read it. He sighs deeply.