Traces of Ink

by Antonio J. Fuentes García

  The blonde stared at the foreigner, and after a while relaxed his expression. That smile of announcement returned to show on his toasted face.

  —I'm afraid there was a mistake— he admitted—. I took you for another person.

  —Well, it's a relief to know it— he said, touching his kidneys unconsciously, where the blade had penetrated his skin a little—. I thought that strangers were greeted in this way.

  —Who is your father? —he said sullenly.

  —Who are you?

  —You first— he raised the palms of the hands—. Hey, I've asked before!

  —My name is Jonás.

  —Why are you looking for Skorzeny?

  —My father told me that...

  —Who is your father?

  —It's called..., it was called Antonio José Ulloa

  The blond grimaced almost imperceptibly at the sound of the name.

  —What happened to him?

  —It’s dead— again silence—. And why you were asking in La Esmeralda for Skorzeny?

  —It's my turn to ask now, don’t you think so? — Jonás was beginning to tense up—. What do you know about Skorzeny?

  The blond made a smile that would melt a glacier.

  -Are you looking for Otto, right? Well, you have already found him —he opened his arms— I’m Otto Skorzeny.

  Chapter 33

  In the Caldera de Taburiente rarely winter was felt, due to its volcanic soil warmed the ground from the depths of its bowels and sweated it in the form of steam.

  At the country house, the chimney crackled while the wine glasses were served, but Chacon began to feel badly before that. An intense suffocation had been rising inside him until it became a real fever, a deep combustion of his body that threatened to radiate the whole farm. He had taken off his coat and the jacket, and had loosened his tie, but the heat continued to rise. While the cigars and wine were being dispensed, the laughter and greetings among the attendees increased in sound, in that moment Chacón grabbed his throat looking for a breath that insisted on not coming. He was suffocating.

  He left the warm room and went out —without anyone noticing his absence— outside the house. The cold breeze that hit him in the face seemed a blessing to him, and he stayed there breathing with anxiety as if each breath was the last. When he had been on the porch for almost five minutes, Hermenegildo appeared, who without saying a word stood beside him and offered him a cigarette. Chacón took it and looked at the embers after the first and vigorous puff.

  —Nervous? — the host asked.

  —Or that, or menopause has come.

  They both laughed at the joke without much effusiveness.

  —What's the matter with you Paco? —he asked, now more serious.

  —I don’t know— he thought for a few seconds—. All those in there don’t understand anything of this, for them it's just about money; of the original cause, only you and I are left.

  —We need the support of these people— confirmed the host—. Although for them it doesn’t mean the same as for us. The same thing happened in the regime, but we know that a motor is made up of many different parts.

  —I know, except that, it's not the same anymore.

  —Paco— he grabbed him by both shoulders and faced him. He was higher at least two heads—. We two are not like the rest of the world; we did what we did to satisfy our appetites, only that the regime offered us on a silver platter to do it with honors and benefits. Now, the appetites of the world are moved basically for money.

  —But what's the point of all this, Herme? —he confessed dejectedly—. I'm already very old, I don’t see myself patrolling the streets again.

  —Are you having existential doubts at this point?

  —Don’t touch my balls, my friend, we know each other! —Chacon had cheered up a bit. Hermenegildo could well be the only one in the world who really understood what was happening to him—. What happens to me is that I don’t see a reward for so much effort.

  The burly host turned to face the vast expanse of green-filled land in front of the house and smiled wistfully.

  —Paco, men like you and me are an immense minority in the world, and yet they have always condemned us —he sighed deeply—. But look at all this, everything that your eyes see belongs to me, and I could have much more if I wanted to.

  —We have never moved for economic interests.

  —Nonsense! the world is moved by economic interests, only that you and I have more voracious appetites. Let’s not fool ourselves mate, in another time we would have found our bones in jail or in the cemetery, but the regime gave us the opportunity to be the best doing what we wanted to do, and on top of that we were enriched with it!

  Chacon thought it over and took a final drag on his cigarette.

  —Paco, what you feel is homesickness— he sentenced—. But let's face it, we're not going to chase the students and the reds again, at least with the club in our hands. The only thing left for us to do is to make sure that none of that transcends, and that we retire as we deserve.

  —It is possible— he admitted.

  —Friend, pay attention to me, I would also like to return to those years, but now I also have my "amusements" —his smile lengthened in a grimace —. Money is what it has, it gets you almost anything.

  —You're right, but I'm still worried about that Millán’s grandson.

  —We have sink his grandfather and he is now buried— he said—. His father is dead, and he will join them in the family niche if he sticks his nose in this.

  —Okay, I believe you.

  The host threw his stub on the ground and trampled it viciously.

  —And now, let's get in and continue to manage the threads of this nation— he put his tie in its place—. As we have been doing for more than half a century.

  ****

  They had changed the table of inside the place by one outside, in the shadow of the wooden porch. The sun plummeted, and people walked in swimsuits and light clothes along the marine promenade. The German sucked a cigarette with impetus, while looking at the horizon with nostalgia. Carlos arrived with two plates of ceviche and lime, and carefully placed the cutlery beside the glasses of white wine. Due to the ignorance of Jonás about the local gastronomy, the German had allowed himself the in asking for both.

  —But I don’t understand— said Jonás—. How can you be Skorzeny? you should be at least ninety years old!

  The German leaned back in the wicker chair and crushed the butt in the ashtray. He did not answer until a mass of tobacco fibers was scattered throughout the base, and the embers were completely extinguished.

  —Didn’t your father really explain anything to you? —he asked incredulously.

  —My father and I didn’t have a relationship of trust.

  —Yes, that seems to me— the man was much more relaxed—. Excuse my reaction before, is that I thought...

  —What was the SIDE? —Jonás finished. Or maybe one of Tiempos Libres’ hitmen? Or Billy the kid’s friend?

  He raised his hands in peace.

  —Quiet, I don’t know what happened to you, but I'm not the enemy.

  —Sincerely, I no longer know who is and who is not.

  The German stirred his plate with no apparent appetite. Jonás imitated him.

  —Jonás, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not the Skorzeny you're looking for.

  —Excuse me Otto, or how the hell you are call, but I haven’t traveled half the world in search of the person my father sent me to meet in his last moments of life to swallow a lie like that big ship you teach about.

  The German smiled and took a mouthful.

  —First try this delight —he invited. Carlos prepares it in the Peruvian style, which differs a lot from what is eaten in the rest of Chile.

  Jonás stirred his plate a little more, unconvinced; in the end he loaded the fork without thinking and put it in his mouth. Instantly he made a gesture of surprise. The blond laughed.

  —Goo
d, isn’t it? —he exclaimed amused—. The secret is to season the corvina with coriander and lime for twelve hours.

  When the sun was beginning to descend they were still at the same table, tasting cocktails looking at the sea. Jonás had spent the last hour telling him the story from the beginning, without omitting details. When he finished, he wondered if the need to let off steam with someone had led him to turn tell his secret to a man that he barely knew, or the reason was that he needed to trust someone just because he didn’t want to feel alone.

  —I knew Chacón’s story and many more related to that man —he conceded enigmatically looking at the sea—. But I had no idea about your grandfather's story.

  —Well, it seems that he was carrying it so secretly that even my father found it out just a few years ago.

  —Sometimes it is difficult to know the secrets of our relatives.

  There was a deep pain in his tone that did not go unnoticed to Jonás.

  —Jonás, before I didn’t lie to you —he confessed—. I'm not the man that you believe.

  —And why should my father send me here if you're not the man I'm looking for?

  —I have no idea why your father did something like that, but maybe I can offer you some explanation.

  He ordered two more drinks and started talking, always looking towards the sea.

  "In fact, my last name is Skorzeny, but my name is not Otto, it is Jurgen. The man you're looking for was my father —he cut Jonas's retort with one hand—. I suppose you know the story of my father, Colonel of the Waffen SS and called "the most dangerous man in Europe" by the allies.

  Carlos appeared with two glasses and placed each of them in front of the commensals. Without saying a word, he disappeared as quickly and discreetly as he had arrived. Jurgen continued, and Jonás knew that he should not interrupt him.

  ****

  —My father really was a man of war, with firm and deep-rooted ideas of what national-socialism meant, but that only served to make some men become monsters under the protection of the law —he took a short sip of his drink—. And that's what happened to him.

  Jonás knew the trance the man was marching through; the way of expiation through relief. Although he himself was not the author of the sins, the weight with which carries the soul of a descendant is often, even heavier than that of the guilty themselves.

  —Otto Skorzeny became "Scarface", a nickname that earned him the respect and fear of half of the world. His men followed him with blind faith, and the enemies tried not to meet their regiment on the battlefield. My father was promoted after a few grandiose operations, but he fell, like so many other Nazis, when the war was dying. He escaped to Spain with the help of his contacts and was judged for his crimes, although being a man of superior intelligence, they never found witnesses or evidence to incriminate him. Franco gave him the necessary asylum and power to settle as an "engineer advisor", and he passed another golden stage with the regime.

  —But what does all this have to do with my grandfather? Or with my father? —Jonás wondered.

  —My father made friends in Spain, and thanks to his intelligence and his knowledge in engineering, he joined a steel company, creating a partnership with three other men.

  —Chacón was one of them, is it true?

  —Yes —he answered—. There was also one Hermenegildo Gutiérrez, escort of the Generalissimo, and Stefano Delle Chievo, an Italian far-right terrorist.

  —The best of each house— joked Jonás.

  —Yes, it is truth— Jurgen still did not look at him. His eyes remained fixed on the marine horizon. I suppose the Spanish saying that "God raises them and they come together" was never as successful as in this case.

  —And what happened? —Jonas cheered.

  —What usually happens in these case— his gaze wandered—. In Spain at that time they stole hand over fist, but always with the permission of the state’s chief, but when you leave the power to four of the most dangerous and most unscrupulous men in Europe, things can be twisted very easily.

  Jonás let Jurgen speak, though he had thousands of questions. He leaned over and took a long sip of his drink.

  —My father was Franco's counselor, Hermenegildo his bodyguard, Chacón his hit man and executor arm, and Caccola his protected and expert in attacks —he continued—. So, they did not demand them accounts, only results. They persecuted the communists, attacked heads of state or leaders opposed to the regime, expropriated companies, mansions, lands and anything that brought them benefits. They even started the black market and the traffic of practically anything, from art and gold to fuel. Things went on, the crawlers moved free as it always was in the name of the state, until Franco decided to become the smart one. The Generalissimo was a martial man, strict and straight with his ideologies, a great strategist, but he was lack intelligence. He began to allocate the requisite funds to the "Communist Spain" for war purposes; He became obsessed with rebuilding the new homeland as the Great Man thought it should have always been, and that did not sit well with some.

  —I can imagine— Jonah pointed out.

  —Yes, Caccola didn’t care much about the Valley of the Fallen, or the highways or the memorials, he only saw in it as a waste of funds that were so risky for them to steal— Jurgen said—. So, they put a puppet in charge of an organization that was dedicated to honoring the nationalists fallen in battle (something that Franco would not get his nose on) and were allocating to their small coffers the amounts that they depleted to the regime. Little by little they were having the traffic of certain things for which the general hadn’t opted, and the more his empire grew, the more ruthless they became. They put straw men at the head of the companies and organizations and continued with their work in the face of the regime. The chieftain suspected something when the "pinch" to the red began to shrink mysteriously, so my father proposed to start stealing those who Franco would never investigate, the same nationalists. At that time, the Generalissimo was very busy in enlarging his memory and raising the image of the regime and did not worry about the petty details, so he delegated in his men. Chacón persecuted the enemies of the Spanish state, and Caccola was in charge to scare the European members with small attacks. Every time a member of the regime flourished more than the necessary, they conspired to kill them in "strange circumstances" and their patrimonies stolen. A Marquis murdered with a jackknife in the middle of Gran Vía by a thief, a countess murdered by a life-seeker, which in turn died tragically in the middle of the interrogation...

  —Do you mean that they ordered the murder of influential people to keep their money?

  —Partly yes —said Jurgen, who for the first time turned and looked him in the eyes—. But mostly it consisted not only in patrimony, but in power. These men enjoyed killing with impunity, handling the designs of the nation and when a snake poked its head out, it was cut to avoid problems —he drank again from his almost empty glass—. They censored most of the media and radio, and freely left those who disguised those murders in a sensationalist way.

  —As El Caso.

  —Effectively. If those deaths were the result of messes of skirts, crazy fortune hunters or unbalanced that were upset by jealousy, nobody would see in them conspiracy theories.

  —And my grandfather discovered it —Jonás said— That's why they tried to kill him.

  —The only thing I know about your grandfather, according to your father, is that they tried to kill him twice and since they didn’t succeed, they discredited him.

  —And what do you have to do with my father?

  Jurgen drained his glass and called Carlos with a gesture, who came quickly. After a few words, the German deposited a thick bundle of notes in a little tray that the waiter had in his hand.

  —That's another story— he revealed with a twinkle in his eyes—. And I'm already tipsy, so, what do you think if I show you where I live?

  Jonás did not know what to answer, he was confused.

  —Come on, I suppose that you have
n’t come here to stay only for a day— he said—. And my house is as good as any hotel in this city; I beg you to do me the honor of staying in it all the time you need.

  Chapter 34

  Although the room was large, a haze of smoke seemed to have remained permanently suspended above them. The cigars —of unbeatable quality— circulated like donuts among the diners while the glasses followed one after another without rest. The two young men who had been serving dinner filled the glasses with various liquors each time the level dropped to half, and then quietly went back into the shadows.

  —What is it about, Hermenegildo? —asked a man who had leaned back in his chair and let his bulging belly flow out of his shirt. I don’t understand where that leads us.

  —It is about recover power— he proclaimed with emphasis.

  —But what are you talking about? —the fat man attacked—. We already have the power!

  —No my good friend, what we have is money.

  —The money gives power— launched another with gray hair that was next to Chacón.

  —You're wrong— he corrected—. Money gives money, and that helps in buying almost anything, but not all.

  —And what do you propose? — Asked Chacon, who already knew what it was all about.

  —In Greece, Golden Dawn grows with each passing day— the host continued—. It is already the third political force in the country, and its power increases among the population. In France, the National Front has obtained a quarter of the votes; in Denmark, they won the elections with more than 27%, as did the United Kingdom's independence party— he stopped and looked slowly, fixing his burning eyes one by one—. As well as in Germany, Finland, Holland, Hungary, Italy and Austria. Europe is reacting again to a change, a change that we shouldn’t have moved from; now it's Spain's turn, now it's our turn!