Traces of Ink

by Antonio J. Fuentes García

  —But you also left the newspaper, isn’t that so?

  Jonás adventured to bring up the subject that had been taboo in his family for many years and that he was dying to know. In the fifties, José María was respected and listened in the highest areas of Madrid’s society, until he decided, overnight, to leave the most important newspaper and with more newspaper’s print runs of Spain to dedicate to collaborate with what at that time was only a sensationalist saga. That earned the rejection of public opinion and his own family.

  —I left “A” newspaper, yes— he conceded remarking the word—. But I didn’t leave the journalist’s career. In fact, at the time I stopped working for “El País” I began to be a real journalist.

  —Grandpa, I can’t understand— they took a seat without even notice—. You were on the top, you were in Spain’s best reporting office, you were an eminence and you left everything, for an event bulletin?

  Jonás guessed in his grandpa’s eyes that he had a great anguish and he wished he had shut up. He was there to see a man that he loved with all his soul, not for repeat him on and on his mistakes and judge him.

  —I am so sorry that you think n that way, but I don’t blame you— he said putting his head down, sad—. Is what they have explained you during all your life, but perhaps you can change your mind in the next months.

  The old man stood up from the bench and he had no longer affliction in his eyes, instead there was an overwhelming determination. Those were the eyes of someone who had a purpose.

  —Come— he invited —. I want you to see an Águilas’ place that you don’t know yet.

  ****

  From the gorge, the view of Hornillo’s bay presented an impressive perspective.

  The retirement home’s gardens ended in a stony road that went in meandering between the birches to die in that promenade. Vida Plena was basically when it was founded a retirement home for railway retirees, but its perfect management and good treatment to the elderly they had grown access requests. Little by little the retirement home kept growing until it expanded its facilities, and prepared to receive not only the railroad retirees, but also crowds of people that arrived from all the region. One of its main attractions was those splendorous gardens, with exotic trees that weren’t very common in the area, and its awesome views to the dock and to Hornillo’s bay. Jonás thought sadly that his grandfather began to forget some things, since he had showed him several times the astonishing iron bridge of the dock. Sitting on the last bench of the road, in silence contemplating from the highest point of the promenade the Aguilas’ dawn over the basin of the coast, Jonás felt again in peace, as usual when he walked with his grandfather. He did not remember anyone in the world who provoked in him such a sense of placidity.

  —Beautiful, isn’t it? — the old man cleared his throat—. You can’t believe that such wonderful construction was made more than century ago.

  —Yes, is nice.

  They both remained silent, enjoying the shines that the last solar rays of the day produced on the marine surface when they reach it.

  —As everything in life, that bridge is not what it seems— the old man said almost in whispers—. What do you know about the dock’s history?

  Jonás thought about it during some seconds and he remembered a book that mentioned the history of its construction, that his father kept in his old house’s bookshelves. Jonás read it when he was eight years old.

  —It was constructed by the English— he recited —. Around 1905 or 1906 and was basically used to download the esparto grass and the mineral that came from Europe and America.

  The old man yawned a smile and centered again his eyes in the structure, that was darkening as the sun was hiding.

  —Very good, I can see that you know the description told in the books— he pointed an indeterminate place far away—. Can you see from here the small constructions under the bridge? —. Jonás nodded—. Those little houses were the first things to be constructed in the bay, and although you can’t distinguish it from here, between them runs a small rusty path that goes into the bowels of the hill.

  Jonás have been sometimes there and didn’t remember those paths, but he decided not to interrupt his grandfather.

  —Now the dock belongs to the city of the Águila, but those tiny constructions are private— he stopped to catch his breathing, that was beginning to be lacking—. As I’ve told you, things are not as they appear to be, even though they tell in the history books.

  —Grandpa, it’s being late— Jonás said, watching in the old man the signs of fatigue.

  —At that time— he continued without paying attention to his grandson—. They pressed Mr. Gillman a lot, the dock’s engineer, to solve the cargo problems from the wagons to the ships. Gillman constructed a small railroad that moved the mineral under the hill and emptied it into hoppers, that afterwards were poured in the ships’ hold. He gave a solution to the problem.

  —So why did he build the bridge? — Jonás asked surprised, because he had never heard that story.

  The old man stared at his grandson, his eyes shined.

  The marine trade was the main source of income of some emerging countries— he explained—. The one who controlled the sea, controlled the land. When the problem was solved, some emissaries travelled from London to check that great construction, but they found a poor railway under the hill and several booths that were used as warehouse and workshop. That didn’t leave them satisfy, and they gave the order to Gillman to construct something that the ships could see from miles away, something that in whole Europe aroused admiration. Sometime after, the iron bridge accomplished the mission that the small railroad had, but the one that was mentioned in all the meetings from London to New York. Gillman was praised for that magnificent work and that finished with a very difficult transport problem, and Äguilas became one of the more requested ports.

  —I didn’t know nothing about it— Jonás answered amazed.

  —Almost nobody knows— he boasted—. As well as they don’t know that here in Águilas they are still some of Gillman’s descendants and they know the true story. The point is that Gustavo Gillman requested his transfer after that and didn’t continue working for the company.

  —Why was that? — Jonás was more and more interested in this—. That was his magnum opus, his launch!

  —Dear Jonás, his real work was to trace those ways that crossed the heart’s hill. That project was designed to optimize means and requested all the inventiveness from him. He placed hoppers every five meters with a unique pulley system, as well as the design of special wagons that were capable to hold a heavier burden with a narrower axis that suited to the way’s dimensions. That was its maximum expression, the dock was only more startling. His family told that Gillman said very sad to them that it was of greater value a thousand tons of iron, than the pulley that could move effortlessly that amount of metal.

  They both noticed that the sun was finishing to disappear in the horizon, and the night was seeking for its place.

  —What I’m trying to tell you with this story Jonás, never blindly believe what it is said, although it is written in the history books —he started to cough noisy— I’ve never quit journalism son, I was only hiding my pulleys’ system.

  They came back quickly to the retirement home because night had come to them and the Lebeche’s strong sea breeze started to blow.

  Chapter 4

  The funeral was held on Sunday morning, and on the plot of the cemetery where the family owned the pantheon there was no room for a soul. The mass had been officiated in the church of Our Lady of the Rosary, in the Aguileño center, and outstanding figures of the city had attended due to the fame achieved in the mid-fifties that had enjoyed José María Millán. In the first bank was a desolate Margarita, grabbed to the arm of her undaunted husband. Antonio José Ulloa decided to return that day (as something exceptional) to his original surname, and he answered when they called him Mr. Millán. During the mass an
d the funeral, he did not shed a single tear, but he did get tired on telling the four winds how proud he was of his father.

  Just when the body of José María Millán was being introduced to the family niche, Jonás Millán Ulloa cried silently in his grandfather's room, in that house where he had spent a good part of his childhood and in which in that moment he was suffering the greatest pain of his life.

  Chapter 5

  He reviewed his mail again, and again he threw it in the paper basket at the entrance after a quick look. He was not interested in the supermarket’s offers, neither the contests’ prizes in which he hadn’t participated. There was only one envelope that make him doubt a little more, and finally he also dropped into the paper basket crowded with publicity’s brochures and catalogs. After thinking about it for a moment he returned in his footsteps and recued the notice. The envelope was white and very sober, with the letterhead of a law firm in a corner and his centered name written in capital letters. Jonás read it and realized where it came from, although he knew the answer. That was the third letter that he received from that law firm. At last he wasted again without opening it, at the two other ones, and he took away his mountain boots. He looked at the kitchen’s clock and told himself that it was too late to start cooking for dinner, so he heated the remains of some tin raviolis, that have seen better times, and he ate them standing up. Although he didn’t want to admit it, that letter had upset him more than he supposed, so he decided to relax. He connected the Mac and tried to see chapter of Homeland that he had been resisting for three weeks. Juandi had recorded the first season for him, swearing that he’ll enjoy it, but Jonás had been working fourteen hours a day for months, so when he put himself in front of the notebook he felt asleep as soon as the initial credits began.

  A loudly shout shocked him and was about to fall off the leather chair in which he was sleepy. As usual he was drowsy in front of the computer, and the screen had gone black due to the inactivity. Amidst the darkness he could distinguish from where the howling and shrieks came. With the slowness that characterized one that has just waked up, he went to his desk and saw his cell phone buzzling and spinning like a big wounded insect. He took it without understanding and realized that probably Juandi had changed the ringtone. That was a usual joke between them and had come to an exasperating level in giving some of the schedule’s numbers horrible sounds and tones. Specifically, Jonás recognized The Omen’s soundtrack, and the name that flashed on and on in the Iphone’s screen was his father’s name. Although he felt disoriented due to the sudden awakening, and the fact that his father called occurred in that untimely hour, he could not help it and lie down to laugh at his friend’s occurrence. He hanged down and went to sleep.

  ****

  They waited at the door for more than an hour, and when they felt that they were going to lose the morning again, a retinue of black suits and identical ties appeared in the garden’s stony way. Jonás reminded him of a certain movie where the bodyguards escorted the president generating a human shield. He quickly stood up, and Juandi followed him, camera in its pole. They surrounded the small stone wall that delimited that property, crouched, and they stood in front of the door with military precision. They found themselves in front of the entourage, where you could see in the center a small and bald man that sweated no more trough his Italian designed sophisticated jacket. Jonás stood in front of them, blocking the way.

  —Mr. Maestro, it’s Jonás Millas, Mr. Maestro! — he screamed as the escorts tried to hold him.—. Mr. Maestro, take your hands off me!

  Between the crowd of black jackets, a light blue one appeared, and the men opened as the waters in the Red Sea.

  —Ah Mr. Millán! —he cheered up—. Happy to meet you at last.

  —Me too minister— he shakes off his clothes and threw a rough glance to one of the bodyguards that had grab him—. Could you be so kind to take of me the men in black, we talk about certain Panama’s founds that...

  In that moment, a heartbreaking symphony of howling and what seemed animals’ grunts resonated stridently between them. During some seconds both contemplated steadily each other— like two fighters who studied each other before a fight—, with The Omen’s soundtrack as harmonic background, until the man went backwards, and as waters, was swallowed by a black bodies’ sea.

  —When you want to be wise Mr. Millán, call me and we’ll talk —it was heard from the crowd that was moving away.

  Jonás realized that when the luxurious BMW that they have been waiting during several days and in which the man travelled left the property, the cellphone kept emitting that chorus of violins and howls. He felt anger growing inside his body, until a kind of bitter bile went up his throat. He took out the cellphone from his pocket and answered without even looking at the screen.

  —I don’t want to talk to you! —he yelled trough the speaker— Leave alone for the fucking time!

  He hanged down without waiting for an answer and stood there looking at his friend, that had put down the camera and was staring at him between amazed and worried.

  —Guy, I invite you a Templete’s tart piece —he whispered—. I think that you need it, even I’ll take a piece.

  Both went into the Nissan van and didn’t talk to each other until they arrived at the cafeteria.

  ****

  —He harasses me, you know? Literally— he swallowed a piece of apple tart that was delicious—. I don’t know how many years we have been without talking, and now he calls me constantly.

  —Something he wants —granted his friend, that was enjoying a big piece of strawberries and cream cake—. Perhaps you should answer him the phone.

  —I know what he wants— Jonás grumbled—. But call me at two and a half in the morning can’t make me feel that I want to talk with him.

  —Guy, your father lacks social conscience— he swallowed a bit of coffee as to lighten the tart—. He only has what you call individual conscience, which is the definition that an individual has of himself and in which it benefits or affects the environment.

  —Men, you look like a Jonas Brothers song —he ironized—. That is selfishness for me.

  —C’est la vie mon ami —he recited with a shrug—. Everything has a name, and in every country dogs bite.

  —Today you are philosophical. What happens to my father is that he is a vulture! —he spitted— He smells carrions and he throws himself over you without remorse.

  —And what do you expected? He is the Razón’s editor in chief! —Juandi was licking the fork like a sentenced to death in his last meal—. They have it in their genetic code.

  They finished eating their breakfast in silence, until Clara, the waitress that always attended them came to see if they wished something more.

  —It’s ok for me Clarita— answered Jonás—. Thank you, it was delicious, as always.

  —In this local we are all delicious— she answered flirtatious. She went to the cameramen, that was pinching the crumbs on the dish with anxiety—. And you, caveman don’t you have anything else to put into your belly, ox, wild pig maybe?

  —Thanks Clara but no, I have a banquet afterwards to celebrate harvest and we have cooked mammoth.

  The girl went away between giggles, and Juandi looked lascivious at her.

  —I swear you, If I was you, I’ll made her a suit.

  —Clara! —called Jonás—. Come, I think that this Cro-Magnon wants to say you something.

  Jonás observed amused how the waitress came back wiggling and the face of circumstance of his partner.

  —Yes? — The girl asked, who smiled amused at the cameraman’s suffocation.

  —Mm mm, I think that... yes, in the end I’ll take another coffee— he mumbled.

  —But he has told me too that the coffee could be this night at Tinós, the Italian at the Gran Vía— Jonás interposed— Let’s say... around night?

  The waitress looked at the man, that even he was about thirty centimeters higher than see seemed to shrink every se
cond.

  — Can’t he talk alone?

  —The cake dries out his tongue— Jonás joked—. He asked me to be his spokesman.

  —It seems perfect to —she answered resolute after looking at poor Juandi—. But I expect that you take out that t-shirt and you come dressed like a real man.

  —Mmmm... yes— he happened to say—. Of course.

  When she walked away, the cameraman looked at his partner with excessive fury. Jonás shrugged and burst into a laugh that he could barely contain putting his hand on his mouth.

  —Now we are in peace partner —he conceded—. It’s for my cell’s ringtone.

  ****

  The editorial office was a powder keg, and meanwhile Raquel was dictating the day’s order, the ones in charge of the different sections were busy in taking hasty notes. More than one wanted to contribute with his opinion, but the directress was the closest thing between a loving mother and the dictator of a banana republic. Raquel was loved and hated in equal parts, but when she exposed her day’s order, the hate won by a wide margin.

  —Understood? —se concluded—. Come on, go to work for Christ!

  There was a runaway that left deserted the boardroom in a few seconds. Jonás often joked that if Raquel had been married to Hitler, Germans would be singing a different tune. He stayed in his place, even though there was no one left he knew his boss well enough to know that that was not the best moment.

  —And what are you doing there? —she spitted doggish—. Is it that you want to ask me for a date?

  Raquel was a woman that although she had passed forty, she kept getting the men to turn around and look at her down the street. With her height of over seventy-five and a copper hair that reached up to half her back, imposed, but at the same time distilled sensuality on all four sides. Blue eyes inherited from her Swedish mother gave her an exotic appearance, and her devotion for sports kept her with a sculptural figure. Jonás knew her very well from her last stage of life at the “El Diario” a pamphlet which pretended to be a newspaper where both had worked as columnists for a scholarship salary. That had a short relationship, but it was a long time ago, and neither of the two had brought up the subject again. Even so, Jonás really appreciated her.