But José Antonio had already hanged. “So that asshole has a printing office abandoned in his native city”. He went forward with big strides through the avenue and jumped into a taxi that was waiting with its lights on.
—Where are you going Sir? —the taxi man asked him helpful.
—To Atocha Station.
****
He didn’t even go home, instead just after he got down the train in Atocha he took a taxi and went to in the direction of Raquel’s house.
The urbanization —although exclusive—, had nothing to do with others as the Finca or Monte Príncipe. Aravaca was stablished between Moncloa district and Pozuela de Alarcón a few kilometers from the urban center. In its majority it was occupied by middle-high class that preferred to be far from the bustling urban nucleus of the noisy capital. A sentry box and a barrier stopped the circulation, but in the three or four times that Juandi had been there he had never found a guard, or the barrier down.
When the taxi took the Pinilla street, he paid the race to the chauffer and he started to walk a good rhythm, avoiding the cars that had parked on the side of the street. He opened the wooden gate at full speed and crossed the lawn. He was eager to get there, but he could not say for sure if he was going to tell Raquel the whole story, or because he longed to see her again. When he reached the door and felt his heart hammering in his chest like a water pump, he knew it was because of the encounter with her.
Although the urbanization had areas of conventional buildings, other sectors of the neighborhood had become true districts of luxury and ostentation. Raquel owned one of these lands called "high standing" for the quantity of relevant figures who had moved there in search of proximity to the center and the Moncloa neighborhood. The sports halls, private schools and even a hospital, had finally converted what was once a residential neighborhood in one of the most quoted areas of Madrid. Rachel's house was one of those that had triplicated its value for being in a suitable place.
When he rang the doorbell, he felt pressure in his chest and he wanted to urinate. Her friend opened before he could call a second time and made a gesture of real strangeness.—Juandi?— instinctively she covered his robe, as if she were standing before a stranger—. But what are you doing here? You told me you were in...
—May I pass?
—Oh, sure, of course.
She let him in, and as soon as the door was closed, he held her close and kissed her.—I must tell you something—. He showed her the sports bag in which he carried several of the newspapers and folders with the files—. But first, please, invite me a beer.
****
Although he had spent the whole morning working, he was not tired, but rather euphoric. He thought at first of doing it all up there, with the machines he knew and that without in no doubt it would have saved him a lot of effort, but he used in the end strange linotype that his grandfather had designed. Initially it cost him to get hold of that monster, but once the first line of text was created, everything was sewing and singing. The Mac that his grandfather had attached to the mechanism greatly simplified the task of layout and pre-printing, accelerating the process and making it simple. His eyes and back ached, but he was happy with how it ended; and above all, for having achieved his small tribute to the memory of his grandfather.
As he had agreed with his friend, he would collect everything necessary and leave for Madrid as soon as possible. He finished saving some of the most relevant files and the copy of El Caso, which he had spent all morning editing in his backpack and kept the rest as he had found it. Exhausted, he decided that he would go through the station to pick up one of the bus to Murcia, and then book the ticket to Madrid for the same afternoon. When he was putting the leftover tools of the linotype machine into one of the cupboard drawers, he realized that something had been caught between the metal plates. There, under one of the plates, was a little black notebook with the word NOTES; his grandfather's tight handwriting was unmistakable.
Chapter 21
"Dear Jonás, if you have come this far in the end, it is time for you to begin to understand. My true crypt is the printing press, and the heart is this basement. You know, " nothing is what it appears to be”.
I will start at the beginning, because you have already advanced in this story enough. In 1947 I worked as a scholar in the Diario Madrid, and in 1956 I already directed the editorial services. One day, in a talk of coffee and cigar with Eugenio Suarez, an entrepreneur who had founded the weekly El Caso — for us, the serious journalists "The weekly of the caretakers" — appeared in the conversation a base that the CIA was setting up in the Canary Islands. After an after-dinner of speculations and spy tales, Suarez and I vowed to see each other again to discuss about espionage and hidden plots of the government. As you know, in those times of censorship, these talks had to be held in close anonymity, so I invited him to my house. That talk became habitual every Thursday. I put the place and the beers, and Suarez very interesting reports that we ended up discussing until late at night. One of those Thursdays, Suarez appeared with some photographs, and several days later I myself became involved in the investigation. Three years later -in the 59-, I left the Diario Madrid and started as an active journalist for the weekly El Caso. That decision cost me a lot of things, among others my family —which did not support that sudden change—, and the disapproval of the academic world that had done so much "the thread" before. But what can I say, dear grandson; Investigative journalism is like a drug, and once you find a trace it becomes an obsession. Between Eugenio and I we found a trace of something that cost us misfortunes and many years of obsession. Maybe that's why I did not get to the end, for lack of courage. The fear of ending that which had occupied my efforts for so many years plunged my life. But maybe you will get it. I know you're made of another pasta. It all started with a crime and the consequent photograph you will find on the first page. As a precaution I have not kept the photographs in chronological order with reference to the cases involved, but at the end of this diary you have a glossary. Classify it and restore the puzzle. "
****
Antonio José Ulloa called from the Carmen station while he was waiting for a taxi. They had informed him that there were buses every hour from there to Mula, but he should wait until the next morning, since the service ended at nine o'clock at night. He thought about going to the town by taxi, but he should look for a hotel when he had arrived, and he supposed that in his father's town there would barely be two or three, at the most, so he decided to spend the night in the capital of Murcia.
—Honey —he answered when he heard that they that they picked up from the other side—. I had to leave urgently to Bilbao, you know, the writing stuff. I'm calling you so don’t get scared and don’t wait for me up. As much tomorrow I will be back to eat.
He listened for a few seconds in silence and nodded, as if from the other side his wife could see him.
—I love you too honey, and I promise that from now on things will change for the better — he took a deep breath and let go.—. Maybe I will retire this year.
On the other side burst a chorus of cheers and screams of happiness that made him dizzy. He had just offered his wife a magnificent opportunity to press him even more on the stuff of renouncing his lifestyle.
—And I — he sighed—. I am also very happy. Tomorrow I call you honey, it's getting late and the editors demand me.
When he put away the phone, he had the feeling that he was finally going to fulfill a promise made to his wife. Somehow, he also wanted to get away from all that. He would take care of his son and prepare the ground in the coming months in the newspaper to appoint a successor. After, a mobile home or a retreat to the Maldives, maybe.
Chapter 22
Jonás continued reading the diary that his grandfather had written to him. The further he went, the more fascinated he was. The old man's way of describing possessed that magnetism of which one that has told many stories in words, endowing the story with that cadence so fo
rgotten between tragic moments and comedy. Jonás surprised himself by laughing as he read the article "The thief kicked me in the mouth". Among the details of his cases, José María Millán introduced some especially detailed, where he linked the murder committed and some sub-plot that included the bloodthirsty Billy the kid, or characters as fearsome as the gangster and terrorist Caccola. Little by little, while digging in the life of his grandfather during those turbulent years of the dictatorship, he realized the risk that the reporters took, that plus to publish with mischief to avoid censorship, they should cook the reports themselves, meddling in police matters and becoming friends with murderers, confidants and informers. In that time shooting in the neck and something else, where death was traitorous and could get from one side of the law or from another, the correspondents were risking their lives —and the beans—, microphone in hand.
As relevant names and cases appeared in the story, he came to the board and joined arrows with each other. By midday he had defined a clear structure of what his grandfather had learned.
He was glad he had sent his friend the previous afternoon back to Madrid with the files, and he hoped that he could find something that would put a new piece in the whole structure. After eating something in a nearby bar he packed the newspapers that his grandfather had printed in that basement in two large cardboard boxes and sent them to the editorial office of the newspaper in Madrid. By the time the transport van parked at the door of the printing house an hour later, Jonah had already added several more packages to the shipment, which he had to pay at the price of gold for not being included in the order. When he saw the vehicle had gone with the acronyms of the parcel company he felt a small emptiness, but a feeling of immense relief. Finally, he put away the diary (which he had felt unable to send with the other things) in his backpack, and went upstairs, where the printing press waited with the silence of a crouched animal. He was coming out of the basement when he heard the characteristic sound of the outer scissor gate grille, but the wind went over him. He approached the generator on the wall and disconnected it. The fence again. Someone was trying to open it, there was no doubt left. He thought they had not been careful enough maybe and a neighbor who had seen them come in had come to snoop around a bit.
—It’s closed —he shouted to the empty room—. I’ve only come to fetch some things.
The sound increased, and Jonah heard the rails open with difficulty. "What the hell". He put the backpack on his back and left the office. There, in the middle of the main room of the printing press, with his head erect and stiff as if he were standing at attention, was Antonio José Ulloa.
Chapter 23
They looked at the eyes during a long time. The tension was more than evident.
—What are you doing here? — Jonás finally said harshly.
—I have come to speak with you —Antonio Jose looked away and began to walk through the hall with his eyes fixed on the floor—. Why didn’t you tell me that this place existed?
—Because it's not your business.
—It is, if it was my father's —he argued—. But I do not understand why this secrecy; remove this property from the inheritance, not be registered in the property registry, your sudden flight from Madrid ...
—I haven’t done any flight —he loaded his backpack—. In fact, right now I was leaving for Madrid.
—Ah, that's perfect— his father answered, running a finger along one of the bindery—. We could go back together and catch up.
Jonah felt anger rising inside him. What the hell was his father looking for in his grandfather's hometown, to which he had not returned since he was a child?
—Dad, don’t fuck with me— he snapped—. What did you come for? and don’t tell me that you came to do rural tourism, because I don’t believe it.
—I have already told you— he stood a few inches from his son and faced him—. To talk to you.
—I have nothing to talk about with you— he made a movement to move away, but his father held him by the elbow—. Let me go.
He did it, but he did not move a millimeter away from his path.
—I think we have something to talk about— Antonio José changed the look on his face—. I think I owe you an explanation.
—Don’t bother yourself.
—Jonás, this is bigger than you think— there was a great embarrassment in his face—. Please, let me explain it to you.
At that moment the gate of the entrance was heard again, and both turned towards the hall. From the noise, someone was trying to force the rails in frustration. Antonio José tensed.
—Is there someone else here with you?" —he asked quietly to his son.
—No.
—Come on!
He held him tight and pushed him toward the office. Antonio José began to look for a place to hide with a palpable despair in his face; Jonás was bewildered but acted impulsively without thinking much about the consequences.
—Come on, follow me— he guided—. Here.
They opened again the closet that Jonás had closed a few minutes ago, and quickly pulled back the rug. He released the padlock with trembling hands while outside, in the printing room voices were heard and the sound of objects falling to the ground.
—Shit— he muttered as the padlock guide snagged on the pin.
His father grabbed his hands and made a gesture of silence. Outside a powerful voice was heard giving orders. Antonio José gently removed the padlock and opened the trapdoor. Both rushed inside and dropped the door with all the softness that was possible. As soon as they were in the small space, they clearly heard a few steps up and thousands of books, newspapers and file cabinets falling to the floor. Jonas felt a twinge of pain every time he heard something breaking on the floor above.
—That's not! —a voice bellowed—. Keep looking!
Antonio José became tense and Jonás noticed how his father's breathing was more accelerated in that small space. The anguish of his father infected him, and once again that feeling of claustrophobia that he thought he had overcome. He tried to calm down while the search continued upstairs.
He did not know how long they stayed down there, listening as they destroyed the work of a life and that his grandfather had kept hidden for almost thirty years, until suddenly everything ceased. They waited a few more minutes, and suddenly they felt a terrible bang right above their heads. A crack of light was introduced by one of the joints of the trapdoor, and Jonás prayed that they had closed the door’s shutter. After a few seconds the steps went away. In that moment they heard some words with total clarity.
—Burn it all— the footsteps hurried again back to the office- Burn it to the foundations!
Chapter 24
Only a few minutes had passed, but the heat was already unbearable in that tight atmosphere.
—Who the hell are those guys? — Jonas spitted grabbing his shirt by the chest.
—I don’t understand how they have known— he said to himself—. They must have followed me.
—Dad, who are they?
—I only know one of them, but he is the one who matters— he clarified—. Now he's called Cristóbal Asensio, or Francisco Chacón before that.
—Francisco Chacon? —Jonás said incredulously—. Billy the kid?
—How do you know that name? — His father asked in amazement.
—I could ask you the same thing, but I don’t think it's time to talk—. He lacked air, and he was getting very nervous—. If we don’t do something, we will roast like chickens.
—If we leave, for sure they are waiting for us outside.
—And what do you suggest? — he whispered crisply—. Because I prefer to try to negotiate than to bake in my juice.
—You can’t negotiate with that man— his father said cryptically—. But I’ve just thought something.
He took a deep breath and tried to loosen his legs. He grabbed his son by the shoulders and forced him to look into his eyes, which in the gloom they could barely see ea
ch other.
—Jonás, son— his voice broke—. That man is looking for me, he doesn’t know that you're involved in this, so I'm going to give him something that he wants, and it will be over at once.
Jonás did not understand what his father was talking about.
—But first, I need you to do something for me— the nervousness in his voice was palpable—. Go and see your mother and tell her I'm going to quit my job, prepare the suitcases and wait for me.
—What are you going to do, Dad? — he began to panic—. I don’t understand you.
Without saying another word, Antonio José Ulloa left his hiding place in the closet’s basement and went to the office. Although the flames had not yet reached there, the suffocating oppression of the smoke was noticeable. He felt his son's presence behind him and arming himself with a value he did not know that existed, he opened the door that led to the printing room. A hell was taking place few meters from there, devouring the thousands of newspapers, books and magazines that filled the room. Huge tongues ran and jumped from one heap to another, consuming everything in its path and absorbing the oxygen in the room. In just a few seconds they were breathless and began to cough ceaseless, trying in vain to introduce a little clean air into their lungs.
—To the exit Jonás! — his father shouted over the roar of the flames—. It will not be long before they get here.
They ran crouched, trying to hold their breath so as not to get intoxicated by the black smoke that the machines were emitting, but they had to stop when a huge pyre of flashes howled in front of them like a maddened animal.
—The door is behind those flames— Antonio José shouted—. We need to get there without burning to a crisp.
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