“There’ll be no pardon for you, because there’ll be no sentence.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You owe loyalty to the people who chose you.”
“I don’t recognize you, Belen. Did you pass them information behind my back? Who are you with? With the party or with me?”
“We’re together in this.”
“No, we’re not. This doesn’t concern you. You weren’t with me in those days. You’ve no idea about what kind of hell that was, Belen. And, you know what? I’m disgusted…I think it’s time for people to know everything.”
“Think about what you’re saying, Fontecha…”
“You call me Fontecha now?”
Belen glanced at the expensive furniture in the room. How many households could be decorated with Ikea furniture by selling those pieces?
“They’ve got me too. They found out about our visit to the hospital. It wasn’t a good idea to go together.”
Javier Fontecha got even angrier:
“What do you mean, Belen? Would you be willing to testify against me?”
“Seriously, Javier, are you stupid? They don’t need me to testify at all. They can just leak my medical report, your signature is in the ER registry. All they need to do is make two copies: one for your wife, and another to be sent to El Mundo newspaper, to that Julio Virado who loves you so much…Even if I don’t testify, the result will be the same, maybe even worse, because my silence would corroborate their worst hypothesis: ‘Socialist candidate beats up secretary,’ in capital letters. And below: ‘He was in a relationship with her.’ That’s a huge scandal. Even if you came out of the trial unscathed, you’d have to retire.”
“But it isn’t true…”
“What isn’t true?”
“That I beat you up!”
“Oh really, that’s news. Since when does truth matter? They wouldn’t forgive you: not the truth in lowercase, nor the lie in capital letters.”
“I thought we had something special.”
“That’s not going to change…but you know very well that I had no other choice.”
Javier Fontecha goes silent.
“Because…you didn’t tell your wife that you took me to the hospital, did you?”
Javier Fontecha stays silent.
“That’s what I thought.”
She forgave him everything, even the fact that he questioned whether she was more loyal to the party or to him. They continued to be lovers, despite all that. He had her by his side throughout the torment that was the trial, and that meant something.
On the other hand, how do you celebrate freedom? Is there a way of celebrating your freedom, when you’ve just eluded, in extremis, charges that you were guilty of, and you know that your trusted men, Rodrigo Mesa, Vargas – who’s almost dead – and the others who collaborated with the Portuguese are going to have to spend some time in prison? Champagne was absurd, but sometimes one can only adhere to the cliché and follow the script. With the bottle of Taittinger spurting foam – which they’ll even delay sex for – Fontecha pours out two glasses, brimming with joy.
“To us…”
Belen pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. She responds to the toast with a smile, a slightly forced one.
“I’ll have to spend some time under the radar, I have two or three offers from the private sector. They asked me to join the foundation, but I don’t know…It’s too boring for those of us used to these levels of adrenaline, don’t you think?”
“No doubt about it…”
“Wherever I go, I want you with me, of course. That’s non-negotiable.”
Fontecha grabs Belen’s wrist. She leaves the champagne flute on top of the TV. She hasn’t touched it.
“What’s wrong, Belen?”
“Tell me one thing: have you celebrated with your wife already, or will you do that later? Do you have another bottle of Taittinger in the car? Did you buy them, or did you ask someone else to buy them? I’m curious, I’d like to know…”
“I don’t understand…Do you want me to leave Patricia? I’m leaving her soon…As you must have noticed, she hasn’t been with me during the trial.”
“Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush: they’ve offered me a post in the president’s ministry.”
“In Madrid? Who?”
“Fuchs and his group.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Rumor has it that he’ll be the socialist candidate in the next general election. With you out of the picture, chances are that Erviti and Subiol will step aside too.”
“Fuchs has always been the man in the shadows…He was never entered into the draws.”
“No, but the existing need to reach consensus for a candidate will spur him on.”
Fontecha feels like he’s inhabiting the skin of someone else, not himself, and saying words that aren’t his own either.
“You are not thinking of accepting, are you?”
Belen stays silent. Fontecha should have guessed it from the start. Their insistence in asking him to put himself forward. The great generosity of the party in putting the best possible coordinator by his side. To help him? More like to make perfectly sure that he didn’t step out of line. On someone’s command. A request from Alberto Fuchs and his group. And Fontecha had believed it all.
He decides to pressure her a bit more, without waiting for her response.
“You’re not ready.”
“They told me they want new blood, Javier.”
Fontecha can’t repress a bitter smile. “They need someone who isn’t tainted by corruption, Javier,” that’s what Belen meant to say. They need a virgin that can conjure up powerful enough mirages and hopes in the electorate. A young woman who can conquer voters by pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. Make room for the youth. New blood. The law of life. The party was nothing but a machine to win elections, what was Fontecha so surprised about?
He feels volcanoes of jealousy and ire inside him: Alberto Fuchs doesn’t speak English. Fontecha can imagine who will be whispering translations into his ear.
“You’re not ready and you know it.”
“You never know if you’re ready until you leap into the pool.”
“So…you’ve decided.”
“We’re talking about Alberto Fuchs…surveys are against us, it’ll be a challenge to join the campaign if he truly decides to put himself forward…It’s a national campaign, Javier, I can’t say no to this.”
Her eyes are shining, he’s never seen Belen like that. Ambition makes her spread her imperial eagle wings. Fontecha begins to resign himself.
“He’s offered you something else, beyond working in the president’s ministry, isn’t that so?”
“He wants me to be in charge of the press bureau.”
“And, if he wins, a ministry. A female minister, young and stylish…Bingo…The Ministry of Equality, perhaps?”
“Fuchs loved the work I did with you, I will always owe you that, Javier. Without you, I would have never…”
Every time she says his name, she hammers the nail in his heart some more.
“What do you know about Fuchs? You don’t know him, Belen. He’s always stayed out of the limelight. The same in the eighties. Do you know what that means? Have you looked into it?”
“We’ll stay in touch, what’s between us doesn’t need to…”
He doesn’t want to seem desperate but he thinks it’s time to change attitude, because really, he is. Desperate and disappointed. He wants to inspire a bit of pity on her, although he knows it won’t work, because, unlike Patricia, he was never any good at injecting the exact amount of compassion.
“I won’t be able to dig myself out of this hole without you, Belen.”
“This is my opportunity: who knows if I’ll ever have another one like it. Some trains only stop once.”
“You never used to talk like this…You’ve changed a lot since the party’s Extraordinary Congress in Toledo.”
“
I wasn’t sure about what I wanted before. Now my eyes have been opened, thanks to you…”
“I haven’t paid you enough attention lately, I know. I’ve learned the lesson. I’ve understood. Things will change.”
“I’m sorry, Javi.”
Fontecha picks up the flute of Taittinger from the top of the TV, it’s lost its bubbles. He pours it down the toilet.
“They are going to destroy you, don’t you realize?”
Fontecha feels pathetic when he hears himself utter borrowed words, words that Patricia had pronounced before. The Minotaur wants a young woman, and that woman will be Belen. Or maybe not. They may not destroy her and she might get out of it safe and sound. The girl will have more options than Fontecha, she’s right: she’s young, she exudes freshness, which is what’s most highly valued nowadays, maybe they’ll forgive her missteps. She will need a good manager, just that, an agent that will arrange easy matches for her, who’ll help her reach the top bit by bit, without burning her. And that manager is Fuchs. Is Belen really the chosen one, the one the party barons pointed at with their fingers after evaluating a multitude of factors; press chief to the candidate today, minister tomorrow, first female candidate to the Spanish presidency the day after that? Is Belen really the chosen one for that journey of thorns? Maybe so. Undoubtedly, Patricia was right from the beginning, and Fontecha had made a gross mistake in thinking that they’d placed Belen next to him as an assistant: Fontecha was the assistant, and not the other way around. Without hardly realizing it, he had taught her everything he knew, the things he did well and, above all, the things he did badly and she’d better avoid. Javier Fontecha imagines a conversation between Fuchs and Belen many months ago: “Pay attention to this or that when you’re with him, his weak points are this and that, keep an eye on all his contacts in that time. The most important thing is to have a good address book. If in doubt, it’s better to remain silent. Don’t say anything. It’s better to regret silence than to have to retract your words. We’ll have to go slowly with you.”
Yes, they’ve used him from the beginning, and now that they’ve squeezed him completely, they push him to the side without even thanking him for the services provided.
The last shot is always the most desperate one.
“Fuchs belonged to the group…in the eighties they’d come to funerals from Madrid packing guns…In Trota’s funeral…We received a message from him…’Guarantees.’ Did he tell you that?”
There is no answer.
“Did he talk to you about that, Belen?”
“You had your chance to say all that during the trial, Javier. It’s too late now.”
Javier Fontecha feels humiliated. Destroyed.
And it’s then that he sees Belen entering a hall filled with people, late, true, but in possession of a certain magic that makes the wait sweet, people accept it willingly; he sees her with the same clarity that we see what we know will happen tomorrow or the day after, he sees, clearly, Belen shaking hands with people, mechanically but effortlessly, a walking potential equation, repeating words that are not her own, slippery, an eel that flirts and slithers away avoiding all hooks, with a wide smile that reflects that the money her parents spent having her teeth corrected when she was a teenager was money well spent, “Wonderful to meet you, it’s a pleasure, I’ve heard great things about you.”
PAPER REQUIEM
FEDE EPELDE LAUGHS SPONTANEOUSLY and wholeheartedly when Lucio walks into his office.
“They just called from jail…”
Lucio doesn’t think this is a laughing matter.
Fede continues to laugh. Like seldom before. Humor isn’t his more marked characteristic. Lucio still doesn’t understand what’s triggered his laughter.
“The last package, the books for a prison…”
“Have they not arrived?”
For months they had stopped shredding and recycling surplus books, they sent them to prisons now. The stock in storage, but also books that piled up in their respective homes that they knew with absolute certainty they would never read again. From a certain age onward, an overabundance of books can be exasperating. After a mass email to authors in the publishing house and their respective friends, they too started to get rid of their merchandise. They managed to gather a considerable number of boxes at the end of every month.
“They have actually arrived, but they didn’t like them. Can you believe it? They didn’t like our books in Martutene Prison! ‘We appreciate the delivery, but please don’t send us your detritus!’”
“I don’t believe it…they’ve no shame.”
“On the contrary! They are completely right: being in jail shouldn’t deprive them from accessing the best literature in the world, we shouldn’t torture them with that infantile pseudoliterature for adults our authors produce!”
“Are they going to return the package?”
“No, but henceforward they won’t be accepting just anything. What do you think? They take reading very seriously in jail. Who would have thought? Maybe we were mistaken, maybe there’s hope after all…”
“Should we notify our authors so that they don’t send just anything?”
“No way. They’d be offended…Authors are like Chinese porcelain vases; worse, even, Lucio, if you add their tendency to feel affronted to their fragility…It’s important to know how to look after them. Keep in mind, though, that the editor must also know how to provoke an author’s jealousy when they are feeling too sure of themselves: by praising books by other authors every now and then, by suggesting that other writers with very different styles to theirs are more to your liking, even if it’s a lie, so that they keep giving the best of themselves in the next book…”
“Don’t you run the risk of losing them?”
“You have to know when to tighten and when to release the leash, Lucio: you have to do the opposite with authors who have low self-esteem, dismiss their colleagues so their morale stays up.”
“I see, you’re half editor…half psychologist.”
The newspaper director Julio Virado called a meeting with Idoia, Victor, and Roger. They’ve seen him many times before, on TV and in photos too, in the multitudinous dinner parties the media group celebrates every year. This is the first time he’s right in front of them, however. At least in the case of Idoia and Roger, who very quickly realize Victor must know him, since he patted his shoulder with familiarity. As is often the case on such occasions, Virado seems smaller than they’d imagined. The fact that he undertook the journey from Madrid to see them instead of asking them to travel to the capital doesn’t bode well. Their suspicions are soon confirmed.
“Unfortunately, we have to restructure all our newsrooms. We need to adapt to the times and be very careful with expenses from now on…As you well know, we have a radio station, have purchased three digital terrestrial television licenses, and our hope is to keep expanding our empire. Which means that you’ll have to become complete journalists; we’ll be asking you for brief commentary on the news in our stations, at least for now…”
“Will we have to go to the studios?”
“This is not applicable to you, Roger, but to Victor and Idoia. And no, you won’t have to go to the studios: you’ll be able to make your contributions via phone. We have a good ISDN connection in the office, don’t we?”
At this point, Julio Virado hesitates and with his eyes begs his secretary for a support she can’t give him. As was to be expected, there is also an encyclical about strategic business lines. When they all get up from the table and Idoia thinks she’s finally earned the right to breathe easily, Virado holds her by the elbow.
“I’d like to talk to you, Idoia.”
As the conversation advances, the revulsion Idoia feels for Virado increases; for his clothes, which are expensive but tasteless, for his too-dry lips and too-wet gums, for his mane of dyed black hair, which he doesn’t comb in excess – hoping but failing to appear youthful.
“I wanted to tell you this in pr
ivate: you’re the most indispensable element in this newsroom.”
Even though she knew that it was all an act and nothing but an act, Idoia momentarily lowered her lines of defense, immediately berating herself for retreating her troops so joyfully. That’s how weak we are: the most squalid bit of praise from someone we hate is enough to incomprehensibly undo our lack of appreciation for that person.
He’ll ask me now, deduces Idoia, coming to the conclusion that she’s got reason enough to begin to tremble.
“You have a great voice. Have you ever worked on the radio?”
“When I was an intern, but only for a few months, in Herri Irratia.”
“Herri Irratia?”
“Radio Popular.”
“Ah! The Cope channel! Our strategic allies…”
I should have stayed quiet, thinks Idoia, knowing that there was no point in her trying to explain the difference between Radio Popular and Herri Irratia, and it wasn’t in her interest at all to do so.
“That’s it then, it’s clear: you’re what we need. We’ll release you from certain jobs in the newsroom and you can be in charge of the disconnections during news bulletins. You’ll be working in the street…A bit of everything. For as long as you accept, of course. We’d raise your wages, of course.”
She didn’t dare ask how much her wages would increase. Why? She didn’t want to disappoint the person who’d showered her with such fake praise. It was difficult to explain how much and in how many ways Idoia was annoyed by her evident low self-esteem. Whatever happened to her dialectic ability, her verbal ping-pong prowess? They shook hands; Idoia offered hers docilely, Julio Virado squeezed it with determination.
In the bar, Roger wanted to know what they had talked about.
“What did Virado say?”
“That I’ll have to work more: newsroom, radio bulletins, ‘working in the street ’ a bit of everything.’ It’s unbelievable. I didn’t have the guts to say no.”
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