Mala Vida

by Marc Fernandez

  “Umm, my friend … Are you sure this is what you want to do? Do the studio execs know?”

  “One hundred percent sure. And no, I didn’t tell anyone. In any case, there’s no one here now; who could I tell on a Friday at eleven thirty at night? Don’t worry! Look, I’ll take the blame for everything, like always. But they’ll only make a big deal out of it to look tough, given the audiences we’re going to have.”

  “It’s your call,” says his producer incredulously. “What the hell do I care? They can’t fire me; I’m a union rep. But you, you’re playing with fire here.”

  “Yeah, yeah. We’ll just see. Let’s go now: get this interview into your machine there. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. I’m going to get set up in the studio. And I’m counting on you not to make any calls before the show starts. They’ve got quite a surprise in store for them.”

  Before taking his seat at the microphone and getting his headphones on, Diego makes a quick stop at the coffee machine. He doesn’t really need the caffeine, but he could use an ashtray. He presses the button for hot water and carries the steaming plastic cup into the studio. As soon as the heavy door swings shut, he lights a cigarette. From the other side of the window, the producer shoots him a nasty look and, to express the extent of his disapproval, gives Diego the finger too, but it only provokes a burst of laughter from the journalist.

  Diego picks up his notes and reads through his script one last time. He can feel his excitement building as the hour approaches for launching the show, which is now less than ten minutes away. All that’s left to do is post a summary of the upcoming show to social media. Twitter and Facebook will spread the information in a matter of seconds, and Diego’s followers will share it and tune into Radio Uno. He prepared a tweet and a text for Facebook before coming into the studio. It just takes a click to send them out. Finally, he texts his live guest. This is a little surprise he kept from his producer: “Phone call to” is all that he wrote on the new running order sheet. His guest’s number is saved onto Diego’s phone. “I’ll call you in the final ten minutes of the show, so be ready.” It will be late by that time, but this story will be on everyone’s lips tomorrow.

  The show begins. Opening music. Lead-in. Announcement: a special edition on the stolen babies scandal, with an exclusive interview. Followed by Prosecutor X’s segment, and its usual shockwaves. After that and the musical break (“Chinga Tu Madre” [Screw Your Mother] by the Mexican group Molotov—Diego has a flair for irony), he gets into the evening’s topic. He gives a quick summary of the affair to date and a reminder of the NASB’s activities and then breaks the suspense by signaling to his producer to launch his interview with Emilia Ferrer. Just as Diego promised her, he never uses her last name or mentions her location, revealing only that they met “somewhere in France.”

  For twenty minutes, the elderly woman’s voice is the only sound there is in the studio. The emotion is palpable. Even the producer wipes tears from his eyes as he hangs on her every word.

  “I was exhausted. My water had broken twelve hours earlier, and the baby still hadn’t come. My husband either. He had left the day before for work, and he didn’t even know I was at the maternity ward. This was in 1946. Communication wasn’t as easy as it is now. I was lying there alone in the delivery room. I was in pain. I was crying. Every once in a while, a nun came by to see how I was doing. She never told me her name. I do remember, though, that she was very young. In fact, she only worried me more, telling me that the labor had been very long and that the baby could be harmed if it continued. I was in a panic. Finally, I delivered, in great pain. I heard my baby cry. He was alive when he was born and in perfect health, I know that. A mother knows those things. I know it, that’s all I can say. The nun took him as soon as the doctor cut the umbilical cord. She never even let me hold him; I only had a glimpse of his little face. She left the room, and I never saw my son again. After what seemed like an eternity, the young nun returned, alone. She took my hand and explained to me that my baby wasn’t doing well when he finally arrived and that was the reason that she took him out so quickly, to try to save him. And that they tried everything, but he died, unfortunately. That I would have to be very brave. That she was there for me. That it was a hardship. That I would get over it. That I would have other children. I screamed. I beat the table with my arms. I tried to get up. They wouldn’t let me. They even tied me down. There were a few of them: the nun, a doctor, and some nurses. I cried and cried and cried for hours. I yelled at them to give me my baby back. That they were lying, that he was alive, that I had to see him. The nun told me that was impossible. That it was better not to. That I needed to rest. A doctor came in and gave me a shot of something. I fell asleep. When I woke up, my husband was there, red-eyed, holding my hand. I yelled again that they had stolen my baby. My husband didn’t know what to do, he didn’t understand. Of course, when he got to the hospital, they told him the baby had died. They gave me another sedative, a powerful one. It went on like that for several days, until I was well enough to go home and they could get rid of me. I told my husband everything that happened. He didn’t want to believe me at first, but then he started to listen more carefully to what I was saying. But it was too late. There was nothing we could do. He went back to the maternity ward several times to try to get to the bottom of it. Nothing. They just told him the same thing. When I was discharged, they gave me an official document, a death certificate, and a certificate of burial. They pointed us to a grave in the cemetery near the hospital, where they said my son was buried. I’m sure it’s empty. My son cannot be there for the simple reason that he didn’t die. I don’t know what they did with him, but I know he is alive and that he was perfectly healthy when he came into the world. They stole my baby. And today, I think to myself that I’m not the only one this happened to. When I heard about the NASB, it was like a light bulb went on. Everything came back to the surface. I am convinced that other mothers have suffered the same ordeal. Whoever did this must be punished.”

  While the interview aired, the switchboard at Radio Uno lit up. The phone lines jammed, and messages from listeners poured onto the show’s Facebook page and Twitter feed. In the studio, Diego was eating it up: bull’s-eye! The two young interns whose job it is to screen callers didn’t know where to start. They tried their best to verify the identities of the callers before dashing off a line on each for the journalist. During the call-in hour that followed, the reactions were endless. They came mostly from women who wanted to thank Emilia for her courageous testimony, or who said they lived through the same horror, convinced like Emilia that their babies were alive and that they had been kidnapped. Other callers had stories about strange things that happened on the maternity ward where Emilia gave birth. Men called in, too, younger men, to share on the air their suspicions about their parents: “What if I’m one of the stolen babies?” they wondered aloud.

  Diego had never imagined so many calls would come in with stories similar to Emilia’s, which confirmed what he’d read in the documents Isabel Ferrer had given him. However, he’s still missing an essential piece of the puzzle: the motivation. Why kidnap children? For whom? To do what? Diego won’t let himself believe it was just for the money. But then, why not? Nothing that happens in this country can surprise him anymore.

  “Thanks to everyone who called in,” he says into the microphone. “We’re almost out of time. But before we wrap up this special edition—which is only the first of many, I assure you—I’d like to open our lines to one final caller, who has an announcement to make. Judge David Ponce, good evening. I’m guessing that what you heard tonight only corroborates your decision?”

  “Good evening, and thank you for the opportunity to speak tonight. Of course, like everyone else listening this evening, I’m shaken, devastated even. But putting my feelings aside, in the wake of the launch of the NASB and having seen a certain number of documents that the association’s lawyer made available to me—I won’t call them proof yet—I have de
cided to open a special investigation into the abduction, illegal confinement, and trafficking of minors. I can’t tell you yet where this investigation will lead, but our justice system owes answers to these families.”

  Kaboom. The second bomb of the night, which had been kept under wraps right up until it detonated. He had seen David Ponce’s message when he got back from Paris, describing his meeting with Isabel Ferrer. “We have to talk,” the text said. And that’s how Diego became the first person to learn of the judge’s decision.

  “I’m going to make a motion to open a preliminary inquiry: there’s too much in what she showed me. It’s insane. She told me she had plenty more evidence and other people who wanted to come forward. We’re talking about an entire system put into place by Franco’s regime. Can you believe it? They were abducting kids and selling them!”

  “You know you’re taking a huge risk, don’t you? Remember what you went through with the Castro case? That’s going to be nothing compared to this, if you want my opinion.”

  “I know, I know. But Isabel Ferrer came to me with this: she came to me. If I don’t do this, I’ll never forgive myself. Sure, it’s going to be tough. And with their damned amnesty, I don’t have much recourse, but we’ll try to get them for crimes against humanity if nothing else. It’s a fail-safe and will get me around the law. At least, I hope so.”

  Announcing his decision on a Friday night was supposed to buy the judge some time before all hell broke loose. However, in a scandal of such proportions, the reactions are similarly excessive. David is still on the air when he receives a message from the Ministry of Justice. A summons to appear first thing the next morning. An independent judiciary? He’s almost tempted to put the question to Diego’s audience, while he still has the microphone, but decides against it.

  Diego is dripping with sweat as he closes the show. Rarely has an episode of Radio Confidential been so intense. With the nighttime program launched, he stays in the studio for a few minutes by himself. The producer was so shocked by what he heard that he ran out as soon as he was finished. Diego needs a moment of quiet. It doesn’t last long. His telephone won’t stop ringing: Ana, the station’s directors, Ponce, and some unknown numbers. Until he has caught his breath, he prefers not to answer. Two messages arrive simultaneously, each a single word: “Thanks.” One is from Emilia, and the other is from Isabel. Mission accomplished. For tonight, at least.

  He has really done it this time. Diego has to admit he’s rather pleased with himself. What will happen next is anyone’s guess, but one thing is for sure: it’s only the beginning. In a country where unemployment is rising, factories are shutting, and businesses are going bankrupt, where no one trusts the political class and the years of dictatorship have left gaping wounds, the ruling party runs enormous risks, and even more so in this time of polarizing tensions. But they are going to do whatever it takes to maintain the status quo, to prevent any information from surfacing that could threaten this fragile democracy, this constitutional monarchy established by an aging tyrant and approved by the people because they were backed into a corner and had no other choice, less than forty years ago. In a country that idealizes children, kidnapping babies is a capital offense. If the king’s subjects finally woke up, they could do some damage. Some serious damage.

  Isabel is still in a state of shock from the attack. Her first reflex when she got home was to lock the door behind her and check the apartment for any signs of burglary or tampering; she looked for microphones too. After pouring herself a generous glass of red wine, she considered calling her grandmother but told herself it was better not to worry her. She decides to call Ana Durán. Isabel doesn’t know why, but she feels she can trust Ana. The private detective reassures Isabel as best she can and offers to find her a bodyguard, but Isabel refuses.

  “No, I’m not afraid of them. I’m just a bit shaken up; I wasn’t expecting that already. I knew I might run into that kind of trouble, but it’s something else entirely when it happens to you.”

  “If that’s what you want, but be careful. Look behind you and keep an eye on who is around you in the street and the cars following you. In other words, be a bit more paranoid than usual. I’m not at all surprised that someone has you under surveillance. You know the government has unlimited means, and it won’t hesitate to use them. We’ve already seen it in different circumstances.”

  “I’m going to take a break for a few days. Get out of Madrid. Turn off my phone and catch my breath on the coast.”

  “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for you to disappear like that again. Don’t stay away for too long. People will start asking questions. Anyways, we need you here.”

  “I’ll be back in two days. I’ll call you when I’m on my way.”

  Next stop: Valencia. It’s March, so the third largest city in the country is currently buzzing, celebrating the arrival of spring with its annual Falles celebration. This local tradition dating back to the Middle Ages attracts millions of people. Huge papier-mâché tableaux lampooning events and personalities from the previous year will be burned in a giant pyrotechnic celebration amidst firecrackers and fireworks. This ephemeral outdoor art display goes up in flames with a terrifying din. It’s not the ideal place to get some rest, but if your purpose is to go unnoticed, it’s perfect. Isabel knows this only too well.

  It’s not a coincidence, either, that her travel plans coincide exactly with the one year anniversary of both the elections that brought the APM to power and her assassination of Paco Gómez. She has an appointment with an elderly woman who chose to retire in this Mediterranean city. The woman will die here, too, earlier than she planned, probably. When she does, Isabel will have terminated her mission.

  Target number five is a woman. Isabel wonders if that might make this one any different, but she doesn’t have the time to overthink it. She is going to have to act fast and in public. She followed some of Ana’s advice and took precautions before coming to Valencia. In an attempt to throw off anyone who might be tempted to tail her, Isabel made several train reservations for various cities on different days and at different times. Then she rented a car to drive to Valencia. Her plan worked. The two men in the delivery van parked outside her apartment got word that she had made several train reservations. All they had to do was watch for her to leave to know which train she would be taking. When, to their surprise, they saw her leave by car for the station, they decided not to take any unnecessary risks by following her. Instead, they drove straight to the station to catch up with her there. Except she never showed up.

  “Shit! She got us!” was all one of the agents could say.

  Before he could reply, his colleague had to answer the phone. The director of the intelligence agency was on the line in person and expecting news. When he learned they had lost her, he was more than a little disappointed.

  “Figure this out however you want, but find her, goddammit! You’re useless! Unbelievable! I don’t want to know your plan, just get her back in your sights!”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. We’ll be in touch.”

  Their job just got a lot more complicated. Where to begin? A regular needle in a haystack, this one. After checking her recent online purchases, they decide to split up: one leaves for Barcelona, the other for Valencia.

  Valencia, Spain’s orange capital, is only four hours by car from Madrid. Isabel is walking with the crowds that have taken over the central square in front of City Hall. This is the main stage of the festivities and the place to come to witness any of the Falles processions. Every afternoon at two o’clock, a match is put to a highly sophisticated pyrotechnic installation, launching a concert of fireworks across the city that would drown out a hundred Airbus jets taking off. That’s the Mascletà. And it’s completely insane. The noise is so loud that anyone watching has to stand with their mouths open to keep their eardrums from exploding. Hundreds of decibels make the earth shake for four minutes. The perfect cover for shooting someone. Isabel is convinced no one
could possibly hear a gunshot in all the noise, which is why she decided to come here despite the risks.

  While she waits to put the final step of her plan into action, she checks out the location, her camera in hand like every other tourist. She walks the perimeter of the square and then wanders into the maze of tiny pedestrian streets that lend the city its old-world charm. Across from the imposing Art Deco facade of City Hall stands another towering building from the same period, which houses the central post office. Next to that is a stone chapel with a wooden door. Pedestrians walk past without ever suspecting what’s inside. Only the locals know that an enormous cloister lies just behind its walls, home to a Carmelite convent established here over a century ago.

  Isabel pushes the door open and enters. She isn’t here to pray but to scout out the location, although she considers whether lighting a candle would bring her luck. She read on the Internet and in several books that a back entrance exists that leads out onto a street on the other side of the post office. That is going to be her exit, and she wants to make sure it is open and will be tomorrow as well. She won’t have long to get out, and she can’t leave anything to chance. Her last hit is the hardest to set up, and there is no margin for error.

  The night was short, and sleep was elusive. Revelers in the street below her window kept her up until early morning. Isabel dawdles in the neighborhood until one o’clock in the afternoon, when she takes up position in the chapel. She finds a seat in the back where she can observe the movements of the nuns and the chapel’s few visitors. If they were to notice her, they would presume she was deep in prayer. She is looking for her target. Not so easy when the sisters wear identical habits. Several times she thinks she has spotted the one she is looking for before realizing her mistake. She starts to lose patience. Her frustration mounts as the hour of the Mascletà draws near.