Traces of Ink
Antonio J. Fuentes García
Translated by Raquel Espinosa Pizarro
“Traces of Ink”
Written By Antonio J. Fuentes García
Copyright © 2018 Antonio J. Fuentes García
All rights reserved
Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.
www.babelcube.com
Translated by Raquel Espinosa Pizarro
“Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Traces of Ink
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epílogo
ACNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR | ANTONIO JESUS FUENTES GARCIA
To my mother,
who gave me a book in my hands
when I barely knew how to read,
and made me discover new worlds.
NOTE OF THE AUTHOR
Names, places and doings have been modified in this novel, therefore, nothing is true... except something.
PROLOGUE
Madrid, 1965
Palace of the Marquis, Villanueva Street.
In spite that the manor was monumental, he knew how to find the door that gave access to the drawing room, where two repulsive plaster statues with the form of naked women and in a lascivious attitude received him between glances of frozen luster. Even José María loved art, he never understood the moth-eaten satisfaction of the Spain’s rich men, who on and on surrounded themselves with kitsch art. A maid came to meet him —she was almost a child— sheathed in an ugly and grovel uniform, crowned with a coping that constantly kept tilting on her small head, giving her a funny appearance more than a formal one.
—May I help you Sir? — offered obedient with a weak voice.
—Of course, my name is José María Millán — he introduced himself. I’ve arranged with the Marquis to meet with him here.
—You mean Don Julio de ...?
—As he lives and breathes — interrupted her, afraid that the poor woman would spout all the titles, string and mentions attached to the name. — Could you be so kind please in announcing me; I’ll wait here.
He stood as a soldier — a bit stagy —, and he hinted a big smile that pretended to calm the prepubescent chick. It seemed to be effective, since the girl escaped quickly, maybe to do her duty, or maybe to escape from the eyes of that old man with walrus’ moustache that stared at her in a so solaced way. While he was waiting, José María took a view of the huge drawing room, that finished in two spectacular marble stairs that went up in half a spiral up to the second floor. Once more, it came to his mind the difference between social classes in that Spain’s postwar period.
Half an hour after the maid left him waiting in the drawing room’s vast space without one chair to seat down, Julio Muñoz appeared, the Marquis of Alella —and other surnames— trying to copy the way of those who truly have been born in high society. He was dressed on a brown silk shirt, topped with a portentous watery red wine waistcoat, and all that was completed with a well-tailored trousers and with Italian loafers. A thin little ridiculous moustache tried to look like Europe’s emerging fashion, but in José María’s opinion, it looked very ugly in a face like that one of Don Julio. As he walked with his bandy legs he stared at him and noticed that he had no grace, so Jose María said to himself his dearest mother’s phrase: “you can’t make a silk purse out of a saw’s ear”.
—Good morning dear Millán— greeted the Marquis, although he had seen Jose Maria only once-. What brings you to my poor dwelling in such a wonderful day?
Jose María disliked him as bad as the first day he met him, although in his work he had to show cordiality. That’s what his lentils depended on.
—Good morning Don Julio-he answered. I only wanted to ask you some questions about the Jarabo case.
The noble twisted his mouth and it didn’t go unnoticed to José María.
—A tragic incident, unfortunate I will say.
—Ok.
—You don’t know well what this means to...people like us— José María felt as his insides trembled—. That a gentleman of an aristocratic social standing could commit these atrocities. I mean, that people of low-class and villains kill themselves daily for a loaf of bread, but us...I can’t understand it at all.
—The motivations of the Jarabo case I fear were not-monetary —he added—. Rather of another nature —José María had released the hook, and the Marquis tumbled down the rabbit’s hole. Now only he had to pick up the fishing line—. But in fact, he did not just want to talk about the Jarabo.
The stuck up noble raised an eyebrow without understanding. That gesture made him uglier, if that was possibly.
—As you know, there was a time when I worked for the newspaper “El País” —Muñoz nodded —but since a few years my commitments have been directed towards other let’s say... intrigues.
—I don’t see the point right now mister Millán— Muñoz started to get nervous, a thin drop of sweat slipped on his waxed moustache—. Sorry I am very busy, so if you will allow me...
—Are you familiar with the name Carmen Broto? —he said point-blank—. I fear that the Jarabo case leads me to reopen Miss Broto’s death.
The marquis radically changed his body posture and stopped pretending. In the end José María could see the kind of person he was dealing with, and by no means he was a gentleman.
—Listen to me, I don’t know what a nasty pamphlet you subsist, but stop sticking your nose where you don’t mind—he approached threateningly—. Perhaps they are going to cut it off.
—Are you threatening me mister Muñoz?
—Gentlemen don’t threat— he arranged his gesture and turned to leave—, we pay for others to do it.
After saying this he went out through one of the doors that crammed the hall to the manor’s bowels, as if he had been waiting for this moment, the maid appeared at full speed. She stood in front of the guest with extreme shyness and showed him the way out.
—Don’t bother dear, I know my way out— he stared at the girl, thinking that she was about sixteen years and was a wild beauty—. Take care of your lord. Please?
The girl looked at him with her almond shaped eyes for the first time, and Jos�
� saw something in them that he couldn’t explain. Fear, determination maybe...
—If you allow me— she cut in with a hand gesture.
****
In spite that he didn’t like drinking, Jose María had allowed himself to be persuaded by his redaction fellows and they all ended in the “El Tapete”, stuffing themselves with templated beer and tripe with tomato. Late at night he said goodbye to his fellows a little bit drunk, they were singing “face to sun” with their pitchers in high.
—Stay a little bit more killjoy! —they insisted, but he decided to decline the offer when he realized that he had difficulty in focusing.
—I’m leaving because drunk people and I don’t get mixed— he joked.
Hearing his fellows’ laughing he went out to the middle of May refreshing night, that against all weather forecasts it had appeared stormy. He went undecided through Severo Ochoa until Candilejas, and from there went across several Peleterías’ dark passageways. When he was arriving to the Gran Vía he felt a tremendous push in the back that made him stumble and fall to the ground, and almost before he could ask himself what was happening, two sinewy hands grabbed him by his nape and back and pushed him to a dark passage. He received punches in different directions that broke his teeth, nose and lips, and a kick in his belly that made him release all the air that because of the fear he had accumulated in his lungs. Blinded by fear he could distinguish two faces half hidden in the dark and dressed up in berets. One of them took the saddlebags that he had hanging from his belt, and in a glint sparkled in the dark, José María knew what was going to happen, but that didn’t stop that ten centimeters of a Toledo blade was inserted in his guts. He counted one, two, three times...until he founded himself laying on the floor, looking at the blade men’s old shoes walking away down the street. After that, his eyes closed.
Chapter 1
He gave the signal, and immediately a red light confirmed him that he was being recorded. He sat straight as practiced a thousand of times and started to talk. He moved slowly— so the camera could follow him—, trying not to lose his pretended naturality appearance. When he finished talking he sighed disgusted and told the man beside him.
—Did you imagine yourself at university that you would be covering a bunch of politicians? — he asked acidly. The cameraman, a chunky guy with more hair in his beard than in his head forced a gesture.
—You always forget Jonás, I never went to university as you the rich children— he joked—. I can see all this bullshit is glory for my stingy expectations.
—Bud guys don’t say such things as “stingy” — he answered giving him a hit in the forearm— if you are going to go tough, change your language.
Both got away from the congress door between laughs, where they have been covering the news of a new encounter between the politicians’ groups that didn’t decide to join forces to govern Spain. As almost always they covered news in Madrid, they left all their working stuff in the small Nissan Vanette van, and sent a message to the editor of the news network promising to take the interview in an hour, just to eliminate the spare minutes and correct mistakes. If by any chance something would not have been understandable, Jonás would made a locution in the studio, that he afterwards will put on top of his speech at the street. That were the advantages of not going alive. They got near to El Templete— a fashionable cafeteria famous between deputies because of its delicious variety of desserts—, and they asked as always.
—Bring me a coffee with semi-skimmed milk— demanded Juan Diego—.With saccharin please.
Jonás looked at him with a grin, and his friend decided not to go in the same battle. Since a few months ago, Juan Diego had stablished for himself some strange diet habits. He asked for coffee with saccharin, never tasted the food with anything else than water or Zero Coke, and although they drove him crazy, he didn’t touch pastry or sweets; but he didn’t doubt in taking chickpeas and bacon, arguing that for a big guy as him those were the proteins that his body needed. Jonás was very lucky to be one of those people that keep slim despite of eating almost anything, and he laughed again and again at his partner.
—Bring me a coffee with a small amount of condensed milk— he turned to his partner and gave him a cruel smile— and one piece of that chocolate tart that you have over there. Could you be so kind Clara?
The chick corresponded him with a teenager glowing smile and went to prepare the order. Juan Diego grumbled something under his breath.
—What are you saying?
—Nothing.
—Yes partner, you have just said something— Jonás insisted— Come on, be brave!
The big guy half turned in his seat and gave him a sullen glance.
—I said— making great emphasis on his words— God bless me with the luck of being there the day that your belly looks like that one of a seventh months pregnant.
—Is very ugly to wish the evil of others.
—Dear Jonás, you know that inside I am a good person, but you get the worst out of me.
—Jonás laughed thunderous resonating in the deserted cafeteria and delivered a serious blow on his friend’s back. They did not have to worry in keeping formality’s sake, because although that in less than half an hour that store will be crowded from side to side, they were both alone with the waiters.
—You realize? I am tired of this— Jonás expressed changing his attitude and opening his arms-. From all of this. The stuffing articles, rushing to obtain a few words from the corrupt one in office, half-truths or politically correct corrections.
—And what were you expecting, are you a journalist?
Coffees arrived, and Clara waited more than usual for the Jonás’ morning compliment that wasn’t said. When he talked about his work he lost his usual manners.
—I expected another thing Juandi, another thing! —he answered raising his voice, hot-blooded—. When I became a journalist I expected, whatever, another kind of journalism.
—Jonás nowadays we don’t have the same type of journalism that your grandfather had— said his friend stirring the coffee, knowing what was coming next. They have had that conversation several times before.
—Which, investigative journalism? —his ardor increased— Real journalism, real articles?
—That’s still being done.
—Yes of course, in documentaries about Chinese bazars or about businessmen who defraud! —he got upset—. I mean to catch news, pull the thread, sniff and publish the plot without restriction.
—That is the police’s task— he said giving little sips to his cup—. I think that you have mistaken your profession.
Jonás saw a snort of consternation when he noticed that the obtuse mind of his friend began to get him out of control. He grabbed the fork, cut a big piece of tart, making sure that his partner was looking at him before he ate it. That topic drove him round the bend, and Juan Diego didn’t help to improve it. He chewed overreacting and he licked with a sigh of pleasure. His friend growled at his side.
—Why did you leave the newspaper? —spitted the cameraman with a rough voice, since he knew he was putting his finger on the weak spots.
—Are you serious? —Jonás stopped, with the cup half its way—. Are you kidding me?
—They pay well— the other enjoyed it. Although he liked his partner, sometimes he enjoyed making him angry.
—Yes, for writing what others dictated me.
—Your father rules over you— Juan Diego was using all his arsenal. The tart topic knocked him out of control—. You want it or not, the last name weighs.
Jonás finished taking the cup to his mouth and drank lengthily. He noticed as the heat started to travel across his insides, but he didn’t want to give his friend the satisfaction.
—Rich child stuff— he said ironically—. You’ve just said it.
With that phrase Juan Diego ended his revenge. He knew his friend from college and knew that holding back with that matter was demanding him a great sacrifice. He decide
d to calm down and be nice.
—So, are you going to see that hot girl again?
—You mean Mar? I don’t think so. — Jonás maintained a commented relationship with a beautiful news journalist—. We didn’t finish very well.
Suddenly Jonás’ iPhone rang— he took it out of his command shirt —and stared at the screen. The number that appeared left him speechless. Juan Diego look surprised at him, feeling that he had taken things too far and his friend was in risk to have a heart attack.
—And talking about the Devil’s invocation —he whispered. He pressed the green key to take the call— Yes, Dad.
Juan Diego chocked with the last sip of coffee. He knew very well that Jonás had a long time without talking to his father since the time he quit the newspaper, more than three years ago.
—Aha— he nodded without saying a word—. And how is mom?
He listened in silence a couple of seconds more, meanwhile he kept nodding. Then, without saying goodbye or pronouncing a sound, he hanged down.
—What happened? —his friend asked— it’s your mother ok?
Jonás had a good relationship with his mother, even though they talked on special dates as birthdays or holidays. Despite of living in the same city, Jonás had more than six months without visiting his parents’ home, and the last time he did so was because his father was on a trip in Barcelona.
—Eh? Yes, yes, my mother is all right— he claimed —It’s my grandfather.
—Jonás seemed broken, and his partner feared the worst. If there was someone that his friend respected that was his grandfather.
—Juandi, I need you to do me a favor— he asked —. Could you take for me the news from the congress?
—No problem pal, but what’s up? — he became worried.
—Partner, later I call Raquel, but I need a few days to do so— he acted as he was no longer there— Would you tell her for me?
—Macho, you have not taken a day off since you started, Rachel will even be relieved.
His friend agreed with an unreal smile in his face and called Clara to ask her for the bill. After paying he gave a hug to his friend and turned around.
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