Secrets of Spain Trilogy

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “No, I thought we could thank her for helping us, and being discreet.”

  “It’s okay to say you want to check out the ladies, little brother.” Jaime stood up and tossed his paper in a nearby trash bin. He looked Luis up and down; Luis looked every inch the country boy, his black hair combed down with cream, making it shine. His heavy work boots looked hidden under simple dark blue jeans and a plain light blue shirt, buttoned all the way up. Jaime felt far more the sophisticated brother. With his jeans, high-waisted and flared at the ankles, his shined brown shoes had a small heel, Jaime always insisted on detailed, colourful shirts, with the top three buttons undone. Jaime always let his black hair do its own thing; his tight curls a permanent mess. Jaime loved city fashion, even if Valencia felt too provincial for his personal taste.

  “Luis, we are in town for one night,” Jaime continued and gestured for his brother to follow him. Luis tossed his drink, and they crossed the small road next to the fountain and headed along with a wide, smooth footpath outside the stately post office building. “If you want to pick up a girl, it’s okay. After all, being free to travel the country has helped me and Pedro with the ladies. Paco, too, used to have plenty of female attention. You’re free from Padre and his strict rules, Luis. You could enjoy yourself more often if you left the farm and lived a little.”

  “I’m fine as I am, Jaime,” Luis replied, his voice deep. He may have been young, but Luis’ voice, like his brothers, was strong and robust. His jet-black hair and dark complexion made him look far older than he was. If he could dress more his age, he would have no problems with women. “I have no interest in picking up a girl.”

  “Luis, you’ve never even known a woman, have you?”

  “I am not you, Jaime. I don’t need to show off with tales of girls in Seville, Salamanca or Santander. Besides, you are meant to marry Isadora.”

  “Can’t I have fun first, before I get saddled with a career in the family, and a wife and horde of children to weigh me down?”

  “It’s sad you see your future that way.”

  “Indeed, so why not have some fun instead?”

  “Is it always so quiet here?” Luis asked, a sceptical expression accompanying the words.

  Jaime stopped and looked around Plaza del Caudillo. There was less traffic than usual; a few people were walking in the warm afternoon, but far fewer than usual. “No,” Jaime frowned. “It’s usually busy here. Valencians seem to yell every word. I guess there are other things to do.”

  “We’re not even meant to be here,” Luis continued. “We are to go to the El Siglo ganadería and assess the bulls Padre wishes us to buy. El Siglo is 35 kilometres from the city in the Sierra Calderona. You were here during the explosion, so why would you wish to come back after what happened to Pedro?”

  “I mentioned to Padre I may bring you to the city, to see the bullring, and to show you where we lived as children.”

  “Yes, and all that was interesting. The birthplace for all three of us Morales men.”

  “See? Not a wasted trip.” Jaime stepped inside the Casa Balanza bar, his shoes sprinkled with the yellow dust from the outside path. Valencia was always such a dusty city. Luis followed close behind. “We’ll see if the waitress is here, and you can thank her for helping Pedro. Or ask her to spend the night in our hotel. Your choice.” Jaime went to the bar, Luis by his side. An older man stood there in a navy shirt covered by a grey apron, wiping the white granite surface. The bottles of drinks behind him reflected against the tiled white wall. “Caballeros,” he said. “How may I help you?”

  “I was wondering if Inmaculada Concepción was here today,” Jaime asked. “We’re friends,” he added as the man frowned.

  “No, she will not be back here,” he snapped and ran his hand over the comb-over he had obviously spent time creating. “Señorita Ortiz no longer works here.”

  “Oh,” Jaime said. “I was here during the fire at the nightclub. She helped me and my brothers. You may have heard of him – Maestro Paco Beltrán Caño.”

  “Of course!” the man cried and opened his hands to the pair. “I am Emilio, I apologise for not responding to you. I am sorry; there was an incident the night after the explosion and Inmaculada…” Emilio paused and made sure the few patrons around the wide and sparkling bar were not listening. “She got arrested at the protest here in the Plaza del Caudillo. A group of youths protested to the Town Hall, about the proposed executions of those ETA and FRAP terrorists. What good will it do, yelling at a building in Valencia?”

  “International pressure is being applied and foreign ambassadors are being recalled. Voices within Spain and around the world will be heard,” Luis said.

  “Sorry, my brother here is young,” Jaime said, despite being just one year older than Luis. “Please forgive him.”

  “I’m sure Inmaculada did nothing wrong, but the Guardia Civil, they stormed the plaza and hauled away many people. Everyone knows being sympathetic to terrorists is a crime. We haven’t seen Inmaculada since, but I can’t have her on staff now, not after all this, it doesn’t look good.”

  “Where would they take her?” Luis asked. “She hasn’t committed a crime.”

  “After those new laws got passed in August, on anti-terrorism, she has committed a crime. Protesting is illegal. I guess she is in the holding cells on Paseo de la Pechina.”

  “What can be done?” Luis asked.

  “Who knows?” Emilio shrugged and made the sign of the cross, bumping his starched navy collar under his apron. “These are the times we live in now. I swear, I thought things would get better as Franco aged, but no.”

  “Gracias, Don Emilio,” Jaime said and slid a small tip across the shining counter. It was apparent the man didn’t find the conversation comfortable. The old man pocketed the cash in a hurry as Jaime and Luis retreated.

  “That sounds unfair,” Luis commented as the pair stepped back out into the sunshine.

  “Laws are laws,” Jaime sighed as he pulled his cigarettes from his front pocket. “Those laws protect people like us.”

  “Do they? What if we had been passing the protest and got arrested? Stranger things have happened.”

  Jaime lit his cigarette and offered one to Luis, who declined. “We have no reason to worry,” Jaime said with a deep exhale of smoke. “Padre would have us out of jail with one phone call. Franco’s special forces can call on friends whenever it suits.”

  “Perhaps Padre could help this girl.”

  “Why should he?”

  “You said Inmaculada was kind to Pedro when he became terrified of the explosion. Why shouldn’t we help her?”

  “You think Padre should do a favour for a woman he doesn’t even know? You don’t even know her!” Jaime admonished. “Christ, five minutes ago you were complaining we shouldn’t have even come to the city, just get the truck, load the bulls and go back to Rebelión. Now, you want to break someone out of jail.”

  “You were the one suggesting we have an adventure, Jaime.”

  “Padre would have our heads on a spike for trying to bust a left-wing terrorist from prison. I’m not saying that is what Inmaculada is, but Padre built his career on imprisoning women like her.”

  “Fine. Let’s go back to our hotel room and just sit in peace,” Luis suggested. “Perhaps we could stop by the church our parents’ once visited? Or, you could break this girl out of jail, and maybe get laid for a change.”

  “Hey, I score plenty.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “What would you know, virgin?” Jaime challenged.

  Luis chuckled and put his hands in his pockets. “More than you think. Look, I’m not on the same side of politics as you and Padre, Jaime.”

  “I’m not on any side.”

  “You’re on the side of the winners, just like Pedro and Padre. Paco, however, you know he stays quiet when Padre raves about Franco and the Movimiento. It’s obvious Paco attends church for Inés’s sake. I’m with Paco, with hidden left-wing depths
in my ideas.”

  “So you want to use Padre’s political influence against all he holds dear, and bust a protestor from jail, someone you don’t know. I had no idea about you, Luis, I thought you were busy being the golden boy at Rebelión. Here you are, a secret anarchist.”

  “When Paco finishes his career, or God forbid…” Luis paused and made the sign of the cross, “gets killed in the ring, what then? The money will dry up; I am at Rebelión, working for good reason.”

  “Little Cayetano will be of age in ten years.”

  “That’s no guarantee of income. Padre won’t live forever. Padre won’t be breeding bulls and promoting fights, earning enough to buy your fancy new shoes. Who will run the place after Padre? Not you.”

  “Rebelión’s destined to be owned by Paco and Inés.”

  “But I’m the one who can run the place the best. I’m putting in the hours.”

  “Where is this conversation going, Luis?”

  Luis paused and watched a couple get out of a taxi outside the post office. He ran over and leaned in the front window of the dusty black thing. “Señor, cómo sabes Paseo de la Pechina?”

  “Sí.”

  “La cárcel de mujeres?”

  “Sí, that is where the women’s prison is. Do you want to go there?”

  “Come on,” Luis called to his brother and opened the back door of the beaten-up car. “Show me some of the bravado you swear you get from the bullring.”

  “Hey!” Jaime cried as he got into the dirty car with his brother. “I understand why you get left at Rebelión now; Luis, you’re mad.”

  “Going to be a famous park one day, they say,” the taxi driver said as dust came in the open windows of the car. They drove along a narrow street hard against the edge of the riverbed, which was filled with digging equipment trucks, excavating the dry river. “After they diverted the river, they wanted to make a highway. Fuck that, said Valencians. One day, it will be a green space for all to use, rich and poor. They have already completed some parts of the park.”

  “Our father was here during the flood,” Luis commented as the car pulled off the main road onto a small alley lined with dry trees. The prison gate was now in sight.

  “This area got devastated,” the driver continued. “That’s why we have some many new buildings around here.”

  Jaime glanced up at the plain brown apartment blocks going up, along with other shorter but sparkling new buildings. It reminded him a little of the outskirts of Madrid where slums were being knocked down in place of modern apartment blocks.

  “Here,” the driver said and stopped a little way from the stone archway gate of the prison. The place looked like a hellhole. “The prison is old; they are thinking of pulling it down. The main door is inside the old archway, the only entry to the stark building. This is where they keep the women. Are you sure you want to go in here? You look like polite young men.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Luis bluffed as he paid the small fare, giving a generous tip, and farewelled the man.

  “This is mad,” Jaime said, trailing his younger brother. Luis powered toward the entrance to the double storeyed stone building. The smell already grated Jaime’s nerves. Luis went straight for the tall open wooden doors in the archway entrance without a word.

  “Damn it, Luis,” Jaime continued. “What’s the plan here? Say our father used to be in Franco’s Brigada Especial, and we demand the release of someone we don’t know?”

  “I will know what to do when I get there,” Luis hissed as he approached the desk. A man in black uniform and cap stood there, a frown at the men before him.

  “Señor,” Luis said and straightened his plain shirt, damp with sweat. “Could you assist me in enquiring about the status of a prisoner?”

  “Why?” the man barked. Jaime shuddered as the smell of the guard’s breath attacked his senses. The man was a fat, fierce animal of the human being; unshaved, hard eyes, dirty fingernails. Perfect to be assaulting women in prisons. Everyone had heard the stories of prison torture.

  “My father is assisting a woman with her release.”

  “Why should I care about your father?”

  Luis took a step back to avoid the guard’s breath. “Señor, my father, José Morales Ruiz, is a former Guardia Civil and Brigada Especial in both Valencia and Madrid. Don José is keen to ensure those who deserve it get punished. If someone should get released, then another woman more suited to punishment will be able to take her place.”

  “Brigada Especial, you say?” the guard replied, his interest caught. “This woman, a relative?”

  “A friend. Family friend believed to have gotten caught up something she had no part of during the protest in Plaza del Caudillo.”

  “We have many relatives here, you realise, pleading for the release of guilty parties.”

  “We do not wish to do such things,” Jaime said for his brother. “We are just checking up on prisoners on behalf of our father.” Jaime hesitated; on the desk the guard had a bullfighting schedule. “Our father now owns a ganadería. He cannot always leave to attend to such matters.”

  “You breed bulls for fights?” the man asked, his expression of interest growing by the second.

  “Indeed.”

  “And your father was in the Brigada Especial?”

  “Franco himself knew both my father, also my brother-in-law, Paco Beltrán.”

  The guard flashed a smile. “I love ‘El Potente’ Beltrán. Don Paco is your brother-in-law?”

  “Sure is,” Luis grinned. “What is your name, Señor?”

  “Aaron Betres Avino. I would love ‘El Potente’ Beltrán’s autograph.”

  “Fortunately, I have a spare copy with me,” Luis lied and pulled out his wallet. “I would be happy to share if…”

  “Tell me the name of the woman you need to see.”

  “The surname is Ortiz. First name Inmaculada Concepcíon.”

  The guard pulled a list from the top drawer and flicked through the papers. It was just M through P, but the list was long. So many women locked away. “Here, Inmaculada Concepcíon Ortiz Munoz. She is awaiting her time in court.”

  “How long shall it take?”

  “For girls like her, could be months, years under these new anti-terrorism laws. So you say she did nothing wrong?”

  “No, she is an innocent, caught up in a difficult moment.”

  “Wait here.” The guard left the list on the counter and disappeared through the door behind him.

  “The fucking smell,” Jaime said and held his nose. “What do the cells smell like, if this whole place smells like piss?”

  “This building should get torn down.” Luis looked at the grey paint peeling from the ceiling. “This is incentive enough never to break the law.”

  “A choir boy like you?” Jaime scoffed. “Luis, you couldn’t do anything wrong.” He leaned forward on the counter and skimmed through the names. The name right at the top caught his eye. “Shit.”

  “What?” Luis asked as he wiped the sweat from the back of his neck.

  Alazne Mariñelarena Belasco. The Basque terrorist woman from the bar that night. A protest in Plaza del Caudillo. Of course, she was there. Jaime glanced at Luis, who was scribbling on a piece of paper. “What are you doing?”

  “Faking Paco’s signature for the guard,” he grinned.

  Betres appeared a few moments later, a book in hand. He laid it down and squinted to read the messy handwriting on the yellowing pages. “I found her – Inmaculada Concepcíon Ortiz Munoz, lives at Calle Salines 6, age 22. Arrested for illegal protesting.”

  “She works in the plaza,” Jaime argued. “Inmaculada went to see the commotion and got swept up in the turmoil.”

  “Stupid whore should have stayed inside,” Betres replied. “Your father will call on her behalf for the release?”

  “He could, when he is free,” Luis sighed, waving Paco’s fake signature like a fan.

  “If you sign the paperwork, she can be released,�
� Betres replied. “There are plenty more where she came from; I’ll tell you. A good word from the sons of a Brigada Especial officer is good enough.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  “It is for some in society,” Betres smiled. “We’re all special, aren’t we?”

  “With your power, of course,” Luis bluffed.

  “While we are here,” Jaime continued, “may I also enquire about a woman named Alazne Mariñelarena?”

  Betres went back a few pages in the log book and found her. “Alazne Mariñelarena Belasco, of no fixed address, age 20. This suspect may be transferred back to Madrid for crimes committed there. They say she was one who organised the protest. Someone even heard her talking of ETA ties, so an informant says.”

  “What will happen to her?”

  “She’s a political prisoner. Mariñelarena will get locked up for a long time without bail. By the time she is let out, she’ll be pregnant, broken, or dead. Some of them just don’t survive rigorous interrogation.” Betres grinned.

  “Perks of the job, ¿no?” Jaime asked.

  “Indeed.”

  “Any chance of having Mariñelarena released?”

  Betres glanced at his watch; almost two. Time to close for the day. “I don’t know, putting in a good word for this one may not be enough. She faces serious charges…”

  “But who knows if they’re correct?” Jaime asked. “Should I ask my father to call you now, Señor Betres? Maybe he could call his friends in the government, but it could take hours. My father and brother got injured in the Cafetería Rolando bombing in Madrid last year. I wouldn’t get a terrorist released, believe me. I don’t sympathise with terrorists.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Betres replied. “Just wait a minute.”

  As the guard disappeared into the back room again, Luis whispered, “What are you doing? Who is this woman?”

  “I don’t even know what I’m doing,” Jaime muttered as the guard returned.

  “So calling your father and having his government friends take action could take hours?”

  “Sí. It’s siesta, so…”

  “I was going home for lunch…”