Traces of Ink

by Antonio J. Fuentes García

  Jonás didn’t answer and he went meditatively away between the newspapers’ piles, brochures, newspaper serials and magazines. He took a copy from year 1814 of the “Diario de Madrid” and left it impressed on top of a pile of the “El Censor”, even older.

  That in itself was a treasure, since there inside there should be millions of newspapers and gazettes with a high historical and cultural value that were rotting stacked in that abandoned printing office, but Jonás doubted very much that his grandfather would have taken so much trouble I hiding that possession in his heritage and giving it as a present to his grandson with a reversed situation of impossible usufruct clauses, and sheds in a long time abandoned docks for nothing. No, in that printing office there must be something else, and for some strange reason, Jonás felt it inside his chest. He noticed that he was missing something.

  Juandi continued running from pile to pile yelling as a crazy person, reciting the magazines’ and newspapers’ names that he kept picking up and pointing their publication day yelling. Jonás approached carefully, afraid of knocking some of those towers that were already in a precarious balance, and zigzagging he reached the door through which he had seen as he came in. The tin plate “STUDY” sparkled, as if he had been waiting for him. He catches the door handle and turned it. It gave in without any difficulty.

  —Holy Virgin! —he exclaimed—. What were you keeping here, grandpa?

  In just three seconds his friend was beside him, with his mouth opened and with a pile of magazines in his hands that ended falling to the floor.

  —I’ve told you colleague —he mumbled— Ali Baba’s cave.

  ****

  The only light bulb of the small study went out during a fraction of a second, to come back with more intensity. That small intermittence took out Jonás from his hypnotic state he looked at his watch and jumped, starling Juandi that continued laying on a small sofa surrounded by newspapers.

  —Colleague. It’s 8 o’clock! —exclaimed Jonás.

  —Eh? —Jonás blinked disoriented.

  —Well we have been here for more than four hours —he patted his pockets looking for something—. Damn where are the keys?

  —What’s the matter, are you in a hurry? —Juandi interpellated—. I don’t know about you, but I think that I’m going to stay to live here.

  They have found in that office lots of endless mountains of that weekly “El Caso” pilled in something like paper minarets; that was the periodical in which his grandfather had worked for more than ten years and in which he retired from journalism when he was stabbed in one of the editorial office’s adjacent streets. That little office had had the two friends immersed in the pages of the extraordinary events’ bulletin during almost four hours without saying a word, submerged in the reading of the postwar black chronicle journalism.

  Hundreds of colorful post-it crammed the walls and the windows with notes that Jonás recognized as his grandfather’s undoubtful calligraphy. The discovering of that sanctuary of the gazette had astonished him, and he had promised himself to order and investigate that place later; meanwhile he had only worried in reading so many of that mythic supplements —of those which his grandfather had talked too much to him—, as his tired eyes had allowed him.

  —Let’s go —urged Jonás, that for some reason needed to go out of theta place and breath some fresh air—. We need to have some dinner, I’m starving.

  —Dude, why don’t you bring me something? —he reclined a little bit more—. I’m in the case of the wounded hand and...

  Jonás approached to him and took him by the arm.

  —Come on man, that here it smells like a tiger!

  They came out vigilant —as they wanted to avoid uncomfortable questions from some gossip neighbor—, and they shut again with the three padlocks. Meanwhile they were having dinner in one of the Picasso’s square’s bar, near the hotel, they chatted animatedly about what they had discovered in the old printing office; especially about the numbers of “El Caso” weekly.

  —Jonás it’s exciting —commented Juandi—. That place it’s a national treasure!

  —The truth is that it has impressed me —he granted—. What I don’t understand is the reason why my grandfather wanted to hide it at all costs from my father.

  —Because your father is an asshole —he let go—. He would have sold all that material to the weight for four euros.

  —You are right.

  —Furthermore, I think that I understand that your father and your grandfather didn’t get on very well, isn’t that true?

  No, my father, together with the rest of his family despised my grandfather when he left all to work in El Caso —he remembered with bitterness—. My father was almost a baby, but he grew up with the same hate than the rest of the family professed him. When he was stabbed and put aside from the journalism they repudiated him up to the point of deny him to use the family’s surname. After that he had to exile himself. When my father married my mother and I was born, he adopted her surname to take off the shame of using the surname Millán.

  —What it has been said, an asshole —knocked down Juandi—. Personally, I understand your grandfather’s decision in abandoning a populist newspaper to work in El Caso. Those guys were real investigative journalists.

  —My grandfather always defended the stage in which he felt more alive. When he was a child he told me that sometimes they had to resolve themselves the cases, or how the police asked them for help.

  —How would I have liked to live those times —Juandi commented fascinated— They were as Peery Mason.

  —Don’t you think so, they always lived to the limit —he contradicted, although in his expression it could be read with clarity the attraction that the idea produced on him— On some occasions they found de assassins before the brigades or the police, and that could carry problems to them with the hitmen.

  —Yes like Billy that kid, disagreeable little piece! —he gave a superb bite to a sandwich—. The turkey was the dressing of all the sauces, and now they want to relate it with the “Gladio” it whips back.

  —Haw do you say? —Jonás was missed.

  —Yes man, the Gladio, that assassins’ and scammers’ organization that managed the show —Juandi explained animated—. Nowadays an argentine judge wants to judge him for the crimes that he had committed...

  —Where have you read that? —suddenly, Jonás seemed defensive.

  —Well, in one of the newspapers! —his friend snorted—. It talks about Billy the kid, his crimes and all that stuff that has been set up in the ONU with the theme of judging that guy many years later.

  —Are you sure that you have read that in one of the weekly’s newspapers? —he asked intensely—. You could have herd it in the news.

  —Is no, don’t fuck! —he protested—. I remember because I have just read it.

  Jonás rise his arm to mask the bill.

  —But, what happens?

  —It happens that now we are going to the hotel to rest, it has been a long day and we have a lot of stuff to do tomorrow.

  —Going to sleep? —Juandi frowned—. Stuff to do? I thought that we were going out, you know, to take some “hits”.

  —Is Tuesday. Besides, as I’ve told you we have lots of stuff to do.

  —I don’t understand you my friend.

  —Juandi, you’ve just said to me that you have read a copy of the weekly “El Caso”, that the argentine justice wants to judge Billy the kid, a hitman from the Spain’s Francoism —he made a pause, but his friend shrugged, indicating that he didn’t follow him—. Well that is the news in the 2013.

  —And?

  —Well, that “El Caso” was published the last time in 1997 —Juandi raised his eyebrows—. Something very strange is happening here, and tomorrow we are trying to find out what it is.

  Chapter 16

  What it cost him most was to put the board between the bars of the scissors, since after many years of not opening completely, the rails had st
uck and there was no way to make them run. Once they were inside, the first thing that they decided to do was to pick up all the post-it and notes that his grandfather had been sticking o fixing either way in the walls, windows or doors and nail them on a cork plank that they had bought, with the board and other things. Only that task took them more than an hour, as most of the notes didn’t have date and they had to locate them in the time that the cases referred. After that they put the board in one of the walls, and with a marking pen they wrote names and summaries that appeared in the different numbers of the “El Caso” weeklies —when some of relevance appeared—. After that, they decided to put the newspapers according to their exit order by the years. Every so often they found someone with news with reference to the dates in which the newspaper had disappeared, so they put them away in a different file so that they could review it afterwards. Very tired, they decided to rest to eat something.

  —Jonás colleague, we are going to have to ask for a leave of absence just to organize things in the study —Juandi commented as he pricked with the fork a piece of veal—. For me it’s ok, but we have to say something to Raquel.

  Jonás had already thought about it, as the conversation with her boss —and friend— was not going to be easy. Raquel will understand almost anything, but not that he didn’t go to work for some reason that he didn’t want to explain; even less if he dragged Juandi. Would require clarification why, and Jonás was not willing to give it to her, at least for now. On the other side there was Mar too. From Christmas day he hadn’t talked too much to her, but things wouldn’t become better if he returned and disappear again without any explanations.

  —Juandi, I think that the best is that you return to Madrid and...

  —And a duck’s ball! —he exclaimed very loud. He lowered his voice—. Now that the fun comes you send me away?

  —But what fun? —Jonás couldn’t understand his friend—. If the only thing we do is spending hours classifying and filing old newspapers.

  —Colleague, you don’t have depth of vision —after that he became engaged with his piece of steak without giving more explanations.

  Jonás looked at him amused and confused. He had met Juandi long time ago in a photojournalism masterclass, and they immediately they got along. Jonás was the one that recommended Raquel to hire him, and from that moment they have become intimate friends.

  —Depth of vision —repeated Jonás with a low voice—. Piddling philosopher.

  —My dearest friend, what you don’t understand is that what we have found in the printing office is just a beginning —he chewed with energy—. As they say, the iceberg’s point.

  —Juandi, they can be only the ravings of an old man —he didn’t believe it, but he needed to convince his friend—, or maybe we are only wasting our time. The best thing is that you go back, calm down Raquel and I’ll call you in a few days and tell you if there are new advances.

  —It’s said —he mumbled—. A duck’s ball.

  ****

  When the light began to disappear and the naked bulb in the roof was not sufficient, they decided to leave it for that day.

  —Jonás, take note —Juandi ordered doing a writing gesture—. We must buy a fucking flexible lamp.

  —You are right —Jonás answered looking at the poor light that the bulb emitted —. Although I think I’d better buy two or three.

  —Why not candles? —the giant started to dance with an imaginary shadow—. I would be more romantic. After all, I spend so much time with you that I think you’re starting to like me.

  He dedicated him a glance and an obscene gesture, and he started to imitate a waltz trough the room crowded with newspapers’ piles.

  —Mother of God —Jonás sighed amazed—. In what moment I choose the most idiots as friends?

  —You didn’t choose me honey —he threw him a kiss and continued dancing—.

  Love chose us.

  In one of the of the turns, he hit with the hip a pile of newspapers that were stacked in one of the corners where almost the totality of the study’s material was accumulated. The noise of one pile against another in Domino effect shocked both men.

  —Dude there you have! —Juandi said rising his hands—. I didn’t mean it.

  —It’s ok— Jonás answered, while he had approached and was picking up some newspapers under the dust cloud—. The towers had to be disarmed anyway.

  —It can be! —exclaimed with breathing his friend running to one of the corners—. God, God, God.

  Jonás stood up, frightened, and went to the corner where his friend was taking off newspapers’ covers at high speed.

  —I’ve told you— Juandi exclaimed astonished standing up—. The iceberg’s point.

  In the place where before there had been stacked several newspapers’ piles there was a double door, the size of a small child, and that have been covered by thousands of newspapers and a cloth sheet with the printing’s office’s shield. Even naked, the door was so small and was so camouflaged with the wall that is was very difficult to discover it. They approached slowly —as it could come alive and bite them—, and they observed that it had no lock, only a little hasp. Jonás draw it back and they both introduced their heads. The door didn’t conduce to another room, only a tiny brick closet so naked that it not even had shelves. The sigh of disappointment of both men closed the working day at the printing office. Tomorrow will be another day.

  ****

  Jonás started to lose his patience around breakfast hour. That morning he had woke up more pessimistic than usual, but as morning advanced, his tolerance reserves were exhausted. He stood up, dropping a lot of newspapers that he had on his knees and sighed irritated.

  —I’m leaving —he growled—. Give him all this guff of the printing office! We go —he sentenced—. Pick up.

  Juandi stood up and followed his friend that already had begun to put away the folder with the anachronic newspapers.

  —But why are you saying this?

  —It’s enough for me —he snorted—. We are wasting our time!

  —Jonás, calm down —he looked at him face to face—. To know more of your grandfather’s life never can mean a waste of time, even though we don’t find anything.

  —Juandi, what it is supposed that we are doing here? —in Jonás eyes there was a faint despair—. We are four hundred kilometers from the people we love, in the least indicated week to be far from them, and all for what, for a pile of old newspapers and an old man’s ravings?

  —It’s not you —he moaned childish—. I don’t believe that you can talk like this.

  —Well, I am! Besides, I don’t understand you either —Jonás had mutated desperation for impotence, an d this had become anger very quickly—. You should be with Raquel and not here, stuck in shit up to the shoulders!

  His friend went back, as he had received a physical knock.

  —An it’s all due to your incapacity to admit that you have fallen in love —he spitted furiously—. You ran away to any adventure, as crazy as this is, so as not to admit that for the first time in your life you feel something for someone —he took air, and spitted the first word as if it tasted as bile.—. Coward.

  His friend wobbled backwards, like a boxer that receives a “jab” in the face. Jonás put a foot forward, very conscious of what he had just done, but Juandi stopped him with a hand. He went back and picked up a folder in which he had been archiving newspapers that referred to news further than 1997.; he opened the little door of the closet that they have found the day before and threw the folders inside, with violence. Immediately he went back to pick more in his big arms.

  —Friend...

  Juandi stopped him again with a gesture that Jonás didn’t know if it was of pain or anger. He took another package of folders and threw them with strength inside the closet.

  —You are the coward —he mumbled—. I’m at least with the one I love.

  He said it so slow that Jonás couldn’t hear him, and Juandi than
ked heaven that it happened like that. That remark would have offended his friend very much.

  —What do you say? —asked Jonás.

  That when I finish putting away these folders in this blessed closet I’m out.

  —No, no —he insisted—, you’ve said something else.

  Jonás came nearer clenching fists. He had never fought, at least since the moustache had come out, but he felt in that moment that he could hit his friend. He needed to take out all that frustration, his grandfather’s death, his father’s confrontation, all that story with Mar, the printing office. Often, we lose our temper and we explode with the one that it does not deserve it —a Jonás was just to make that mistake—, when he noticed something. He stopped half the way to Juandi, that he was looking at him expectantly with the hands full with folders. He became strained when Jonás approached one step to him, although his friend kept his eyes on the floor and not in him. He turned in the direction that Jonás followed with his eyes and he dropped the folders.

  —What a shit of investigators we are —the blonde said.

  In the small closet, hide by a small rectangle made of rubber mat you could perceive a trapdoor on the floor. It had been dissimulated until a folder that had been thrown by Juandi had separated one of its edges from the wall that it had been fixed. Jonás took it with a shove, and a little gate appeared until his eyes. In the center, clinging to a thick hasp, a padlock with the letters “ALBUS”, prevented the passage. Jonás took out the key chain that he had found in the box that his grandfather’s left him and tried with one of the keys. At the second attempt, the padlock jumped. The discussion between them had disappeared in the wind as a sand storm in the dessert. They look at a black stair that went to the depths, inlaid in a narrow passage that seemed to conduct to the entrails of Hell itself.

  Chapter 17

  He preferred public places to make those encounters, but for once he had to give up and obey. Not always you could get away with yours.