“Of sorts, yes. You need to realise how rough guards can be in prison.”
“You hurt her, didn’t you?” Jaime jumped from his chair in a panic. Alazne had told him all about violence in prison.
“Sit down, Jaime!” Roig commanded in his angry tone. Jaime fell back into his seat from pure fear. “Señorita Mariñelarena took a nasty fall on some stairs when she moved to her new cell. She received care. The baby is gone, so be grateful.”
“But Alazne has done nothing!”
“Mariñelarena has a crime sheet as long as your arm, Jaime. She was plotting with Santos de la Rosa about the Town Hall bombing, which is enough to get held without charge for as long as we like. Spain may have a new King, but we have the same rules here. Mariñelarena is known to us, and friendly with terror groups in operation in Valencia, Madrid and Segovia. The girl is trouble, Jaime.”
“Am I under arrest, too?”
“No, you are free to go home to Rebelión. Be a good boy to your father, Jaime, he has done you a great favour here today.” Roig smiled again, and Jaime realised he was as vicious as José. “You have the world in your hands, so don’t fuck it up by getting involved with the wrong girl.”
“But who killed Apolinar?”
“Señor Santos de la Rosa’s death is attributed to a right-wing terror group. The terrorists work in small cells, much like the anti-Franco and separatist groups, working to preserve the rights of Spain and its Francoist regime.”
“Will the killers be caught?”
“Be caught? Jaime, they’re doing my work for me. A terrorist is dead. We’re all turning a blind eye to the death; you should too. Forget what you witnessed.”
“Is that justice? You persecute some fighting for Spain, but let others go free?”
“This is justice, Jaime, just the way we like it. You were born on the right side of Spain, so you’ve never noticed how things are done. Shut your mouth and all will be fine. Start talking, and everything will come crashing down again.”
“Can I see Alazne?”
“Political prisoners are allowed visitors twice a year, in March and September.”
“What?”
“We don’t want prisoners receiving visitors and collaborating with other criminals.”
“Can I write her a letter?” Jaime pleaded.
“Prisoners can have one letter per month, which will get censored before delivery. Jaime, by the time you can visit her, you will have met another girl, and this will be a painful memory.”
“Please, Coronel, can I borrow a pen?”
~~~
Jaime stumbled along, barefoot, in the dust on the narrow path outside the women’s prison on Paseo de la Pechina. Why was there so much dust in Valencia? Jaime looked appalling; his pants filthy, his feet, blackened, without shoes, taken when he got arrested and then ‘lost’. He had coffee stains on his day-old shirt, soaked with sweat. He had just enough money in his pocket for a ticket back to Madrid, where Paco would pick him up at the Atocha station. On the phone, Paco had been patient, understanding. Jaime felt scared to see his father again, but at least Paco was always on Jaime’s side.
The sun felt weak on Jaime’s face as he walked inside the double arch doors of the prison entrance. A familiar smell hit him; the stench of the unwashed masses. The building stank of desperation and chaos. Again, the place seemed eerily silent for a building filled to the brim with souls. It was the same place, the same guard at the front desk, who he and Luis had convinced to let Alazne and Inmaculada go months ago.
“¿Sí?” the irate guard said and didn’t look up from the roster on his reception desk.
“I would like to drop off a letter to a prisoner,” Jaime said, his throat dry, his hands shaking. The whole incident would take a while to shake off again. Colonel Roig had all but tossed Jaime onto the street outside the station. For a family friend, the man was an asshole.
“Prisoner number,” the guard mumbled.
“I don’t know.”
Finally the man looked up, the bags under his eyes so deep they seemed painful. The guard was young, yet so jaded. “You don’t know?” he sighed.
“She has just arrived here.”
“When?”
“Yesterday, I think. Maybe the day before.”
“Name?”
“Alazne Mariñelarena Belasco.”
“Do you remember which cell block she is assigned?”
“No idea.”
“What crime? If it’s prostitution, it could take a while to locate her; we seem inundated with whores at the moment. Drugs? Violence? Name the crime.”
“She is wanted for political crimes… Terrorism…”
“You have yourself a winner there, my friend,” the guard laughed. “She won’t ever be getting out at the rate they get processed. Give her a few years.”
“Years?”
“Even if she isn’t convicted. If convicted, who knows how long she will be here. Unless our new King takes pity and lets them all go.”
“What are the odds of that happening?”
“Fuck knows, at least that old cunt Franco is dead. If your girl is in the political crimes wing, we will have to read her letters and blank out any pieces we deem unreasonable. You can see her in March.”
“Can’t I just see her for a moment?”
“No chance.”
“What about court hearings? How do I find out about those?”
“Political prisoners get little time in court. Ask her in March. Perhaps something will have processed by then.”
“That’s over four months away!”
“Justice comes at its own pace.”
Jaime opened the folded piece of paper in his hands, a hasty note, scribbled in pencil, like a child.
Alazne
The guards won’t let me see you and won’t tell me what’s going on now. I got arrested for the death of Apolinar, but they have let me go. I will find out what they have arrested you for and see how I can help you. They told me you were back in Valencia and got picked up by the Guardia Civil. They said you took a fall last night, on the stairs. The police said the baby is taken care of because of the fall. I don’t know if you can write, but if you can, address it to Paco’s new place in Madrid, not Rebelión. Then Paco or Inés will receive the mail, so I can get anything you send.
I’m sorry I told you to leave Rebelión that day. Padre was so angry, but I didn’t want you to leave Rebelión. I made a mistake. Facing José would have been easier than facing the police, and now you’re in prison. I can’t find the words to say sorry for what has happened. I will take care of you, I swear. They told me that I’m allowed to send one letter per month, so expect another one at Christmas. By then I will have more news. I will send as many items to the prison as I can for you. Inés will know what a woman needs. Even if they let some items get to you, it will be better than nothing. You are not alone, Alazne, I promise.
Your ally
Jaime
Paseo le la Marquesa Viuda de Aldama 9, La Moraleja, Madrid 28109
Jaime handed the letter to the gruff guard and shoved his hands in his pockets. The guard copied down all of Jaime’s details and called for another guard to censor the letter. Surely nothing would be a problem in the note.
“Don’t ask,” the guard said as he closed the ledger on his desk, filled with visitor information.
“Ask what?”
“Ask again to see the prisoner. I can’t, I’m sorry.”
“But prisoners must have rights, to see visitors to help their case, to receive packages, make phone calls…”
“This isn’t the Ritz, Señor,” the guard chuckled. “Many prisoners get held with no official charges, and that is legal. If you want a prisoner out, call the new King or something. But today, there’s nothing you can do.”
39
Madrid, España ~ Junio de 2014
When the idea of the media being at Paco’s funeral came up, Luna couldn’t imagine anything more intrusive. But Cayetan
o didn’t even bat an eyelid. Nor did he notice the cameras at the funeral. The Spanish never mucked around with funerals. Just two days after Paco died of a cardiac arrest, the day of his funeral arrived. To Luna, it all seemed rushed; she came from a country where could take a week - or more - to arrange the funeral. Even when Fabrizio had been killed in Valencia, because it had been declared a case of manslaughter, it was two weeks before his body could be cremated back in Sicily. Paco had gone back to Madrid the day of his death, and the Morales family jumped into action to ensure a funeral was ready. Sofía was near inconsolable; Darren spent most of his time trying to keep her calm. Cayetano, however, hadn’t uttered more than a few words since his father left in the ambulance at Escondrijo.
Paco, raised a Catholic and sat in church with his wife whenever she requested, had never been a believer. Still, a cathedral ceremony was arranged in his honour, in respect for his mother and wife. As bullfighters always did, all those who had known Paco throughout his life travelled by car through the night from the corners of Spain. By the start of the ceremony, thousands of people had arrived outside the grey, austere, Colegiata de San Isidro el Real in central Madrid. Loudspeakers were set up outside for all those who would endure the harsh summer to hear the words spoken about Paco ‘El Potente’ Beltrán Caño, the greatest of his generation.
As Luna stepped out of the car outside the cathedral, her black mantilla veil over her face, she couldn’t believe her eyes. The cathedral was already full, and the cobbled plaza outside filled with well-wishers, but not all were in black. Many men dressed in the vivid colours of their former bullfighting traje de luces. They wore their monteras, bullfighting hats, out of respect for Paco. Madrid seemed awash with men in tears for the great Paco.
Cayetano, dressed head-to-toe in black, had to carry Paco’s coffin through the sea of mourners. He was accompanied by Jaime, Pedro, Luis, along with Eduardo and Alonso, dressed in their traje de luces. As anguished music rang out in the sunshine, Luna watched her husband from behind; he made the slow walk through all the people there to witness the event. She wondered whether Cayetano would make it to the altar; he didn’t sleep a wink the night before; rather frozen from the moment his father passed away. Luna held Paquito and Scarlett’s hands, with Giacomo and Enzo at their sides, the four grandchildren dressed in black behind the coffin. Luna wore the same veil Inés had worn to José’s funeral four years ago. With Paco gone, the old guard of the Beltrán family had died.
Inside the church stood a thousand people, with melancholy faces and sombre clothes. Luna struggled to make out anyone with her veil over her face. As Paco was already a widower, he had no wife to mourn his loss. Both Luna and Sofía, who walked with Darren behind Luna and the children, had their faces covered out of respect. Sofía collapsed into Darren’s embrace in the front pew the moment she got there. Luna could distract herself with settling the children for the long funeral ahead. She glanced up to see the coffin placed on an altar of flowers, and Cayetano hadn’t left his father’s side. He stood with one hand on the dark wood, by the photo of Paco fighting a bull, young, alive, himself in every sense of the word. No one said a word; no one dared to tell Cayetano to sit. The priest waited with patience, the whole cathedral in an air of total solemnity, the pain eating Cayetano laid bare for those in attendance. By the time Cayetano turned away, tears besmirching his cheeks, sobbing echoed around the tall, dark cathedral from all those hurt by the pain Paco’s son was enduring.
The priest spoke, and as everyone bowed their heads in prayer, Cayetano, rather than bringing his hands together, took Luna’s hand and held it so tight she thought her fingers might burst. As the eulogy began, Cayetano wouldn’t, couldn’t let go. Giacomo and Enzo sat in reticence at their mother’s side, the younger children on the floor of the cathedral, oblivious to the proceedings. The voices of the cathedral choir singing in the background seemed to have transfixed them.
The voice of the priest requested an awkward moment; Cayetano needed to speak about his father. He had prepared nothing, unable to complete the task. No speech could sum up the relationship he had with his father. Cayetano let go of Luna’s hand; her hand cold from his loss.
Cayetano’s feet shuffled until he stood before the crowd where he paused, in an inarticulate state, for a moment. The enormous photo of Paco and his family, taken in the late seventies, beside him; when Cayetano and Sofía were young children, Paco and Inés in their prime.
“We cannot banish dangers, but we can banish fears. We must not demean life by standing in awe of death. This is what my father would often say. Death is part of life; death is an honour. Death is what we toy with, and what we cannot control. All my life, my father taught me to treat death with respect but not awe. Papá taught me to wield my sword and tell death, ‘not today’. My first memory is of my father. I was about three, and my father held me while he did his cape work with a bull. All I remember is clinging to his chest, covered with dust and sweat in the heat, and his cape fluttering. The bull was soft; it smelled raw and hot. Years later I found a photo of me in my father’s arms, taken by photographers at Rebelión. They saw what the great ‘El Potente’ had been doing on his property, and Papá insisted on including me in the photos because I would be Spain’s greatest torero. Papá said that, from the moment I was born. As a child, I was surrounded by men who fought bulls, men of the land who bred bulls. Wherever I went with my father, someone wanted something from him. I can remember so often, looking up at him, the sun behind him, his charming smile on his face while he spoke. Papá pointed me out to everyone he talked to; ‘my son, the next great torero’. Sometimes I didn’t understand his drive, the way he pushed me. Papá complained I had the skill, but the wrong attitude. He was harsh, and my mother was soft. Papá was either away with the bulls or at home, training. That was who he was. To me, though, he was the driving force of my entire life. Papá gave me a life where my strength meant the world, and where I always had a large group of people there to help me succeed, fail, be happy or miserable. There were always people there, supporting everything I did. At my university graduation, I was 22, and we had to book sixty seats at the ceremony for everyone to come. ‘My son, the next great bullfighter, speaks three languages and has a business degree. Caya is already great in the ring and sound in the mind,’ he said. My mother told me that my presence in Papá’s life made him feel complete. So imagine the anger in Paco when Sofía and I ran off to South America for a year.”
The tearful crowd broke into a little laughter, all knowing Paco’s fiery temper. Cayetano gripped the stand supporting the microphone, his knuckles white. Luna wanted to stand up beside him, but she knew Cayetano wanted to speak alone. He had his father’s strength.
“The night before my alternativa, when I became a fully-fledged bullfighter, Papá took me aside for a chat. He told me I was entering the halls of greatness and could become distracted by women. Of course, I had a few girlfriends at the time, and Papá had refused to let any of them visit Rebelión, or La Moraleja, where I still lived. He insisted I stay living with him and Mamá so I could concentrate on my career in the ring. I didn’t know it, but he was preparing me to be the person I am today. From my father, I learned how to be a father; I learned how to be a husband. I learned to fight, but I also learned how a man shows love and respect for his wife. They pushed Sunday lunches on me, week in, week out, and now I realise how valuable the time together around the table was. I’m sure you all remember when I was 30, I got gored at Rebelión. Papá always said he felt relieved my failure in the ring was in private. But I saw him, in moments when he thought I wasn’t looking, that my accident pained him. Later on, Papá knew I struggled with my first marriage, but I tried my best, for my family. When I let my marriage go, Papá wasn’t as angry as I thought he would be. Papá pushed me from bullfight to bullfight, so I didn’t get distracted or damage my reputation. What he was doing was keeping me going, so I could get over my troubles. He said no words; he spoke with actions. That was wh
o Paco Beltrán was. When I met Luna in 2009, Papá was wary. But he met Luna, and she completed our family, and Papá fixed the gaps in Luna’s family history. My wife, named after Paco’s mother herself, came into our family, and Papá did whatever needed to make sure she was a part of the Beltrán clan. Just the other day…”
Cayetano’s words trailed off as the tears flowed ever faster. Luna got up from her seat and climbed the few stairs onto the altar. She didn’t touch Cayetano; he was stiff in position to give his speech, and Luna feared he would collapse if she moved him. Cayetano grabbed her hand and looked up at everyone again.
“Just the other day, Papá told me when Luna and I gave him and Mamá grandchildren was the best thing we could have done. Of everything, that was the event which made him so proud. He said I had become the man he wanted me to be. I became the man I am because of my father. Papá gave me my life, my beliefs, my strength, my stubbornness, my pride, my ambition, all the opportunities ever afforded me, and Papá also gave me security. To the world, he was ‘El Potente’ Beltrán, which encompassed so much. But, he was my father, my guide, my inspiration to be a good person. I so often remember Papá covered in dust at Rebelión, out with the bulls. One day in the ring at Rebelión, he once recited something which never left me. ‘By the sweat of your brow, you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return’. Lay down your sword, Papá, rest easy with Mamá.”
The rest of the funeral seemed to whiz by in a blur, through salty tears of both sorrow and gratitude. So many people spoke; Luna lost count after Inés’ three brothers stood at the altar; men and women pained with loss and heartache. Childhood friends spoke of Paco’s time living in central Madrid with his mother; those who trained with Paco in his early years talked of his determination. Multiple fighters spoke of Paco’s energetic and influential years at the top of his reign. Life-long friends spoke of Paco as a wise and proud man who never let down any soul who crossed his path.
Secrets of Spain Trilogy Page 121
