The Frozen Heart

by Almudena Grandes

  This time, there was no one waiting for her, but she remembered the way and walked quickly towards the waiting room. The door was open, but there was no sign of the secretary who had been there the previous week. She thought perhaps she had made a mistake, perhaps Julio Carrion had decided not to come to work that morning, but she did not stop to think about it. She turned the handle, pushed the door and found him sitting at his desk, telephone in hand.

  ‘She’s right here in front of me,’ Raquel heard him say. ‘Yes, she’s here. I’m telling you, I’m looking at her right now ...’

  ‘Sebastián has nothing to do with this,’ she said, in the same tone she had used a week earlier when she asked him not to use her first name. ‘He thought I was leaving.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Carrion attempted to reassure Sebastián, ‘it doesn’t matter. I’ll call you later.’

  He hung up, and stared at her, and Raquel stared back, calmly, with a slightly impudent smile.

  ‘I thought we had nothing more to discuss.’

  ‘We don’t. Not about the Tetuán apartment, anyway,’ she said. ‘As I’m sure Señor López Parra has told you, I’ve accepted your offer — a very generous offer, I might add — so I have no problem with you on that score.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it, because I have no intention of wasting any more time answering your questions.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll be doing the talking today. All you have to do is listen. And it won’t be a waste of your time, I assure you. In fact, I think I can say it will be time well spent.’

  ‘I’m sorry, señorita,’ he looked down his nose with the condescending smile she recognised, but this time it had no effect, ‘but I don’t believe you have anything to say that will interest me.’

  ‘Well, you are wrong, Señor Carrion, and not for the first time. Even courageous men grow soft in their old age, to quote what you said the other day. I’m sure you’re right, but let me give you another little saying: Even the cleverest, most cunning men can become fools as they grow older.’ She smiled. ‘I always thought it was true, but you’ve given me ample proof. For example, the apartment you have just given me in exchange for my little place in Tetuán. As I said, it was a very generous offer, but so disproportionate that it made me think. I’ve done a lot of thinking and I’ve come to a number of conclusions. The first is that you are clearly a bigger liar than I am. Last week, you told me I couldn’t frighten you and, at first, I admit, you had me fooled. But now, thinking about the manner in which you have dealt personally with this matter, I don’t believe you. You are frightened of me, Señor Carrion, very frightened. And you were mistaken enough to let it show.’

  She paused, the first of a series of strategic silences.

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, I understand your motives, your reasoning ... For a rich man like you, a few hundred thousand euros hardly matters, does it? You calculated that, given the value of the apartment, I would go away happy, but you were wrong.’ She feigned an expression of affable surprise. ‘Did you really think that Ignacio’s grandchildren didn’t go to university?’ She smiled. ‘Didn’t Sebastián tell you what I do for a living? No, Señor Carrion, a genuinely intelligent man would have put himself in my shoes, anticipated my reaction, but you ... you didn’t even try. I, on the other hand, tried to put myself in your shoes, tried to see the situation through your eyes. It was not terribly difficult and it allowed me to draw some conclusions. That is why I was fairly sure that, after talking to me, you would think that peace and quiet were priceless.’

  She paused again, but he said nothing, simply looked at her with the same attentive curiosity he might have lavished on some exotic artefact in a glass case. You’re hard as nails, she thought, but she was not discouraged.

  ‘And there, too, you were mistaken. But I can understand, honestly I can. In fact, I understand so well, I’m going to propose a deal. I’ve come to offer you the peace and tranquillity my grandfather refused to sell to you. I admit it, I’m not a good person like Ignacio. I’m not as brave, as deserving of your respect, but I don’t suppose you care, in fact, you probably find that comforting — after all, respect has no place in business.’ She looked at him again but could not fathom his expression. ‘As you can imagine, it’s not going to be easy for a poor soul like me, moving from the Calle Tetuán to life on the Calle Jorge Juan, there’ll be a lot of expenses: furniture, clothes, accessories ... It’s going to cost me a fortune to live up to my address.’

  Now he chose to speak, though he kept it as brief as possible.

  ‘Are you attempting to blackmail me, Señorita Fernández?’

  ‘Blackmail you?’ Raquel’s eyes flew open and she gazed at him, all innocence. She shook her head and smiled. ‘Good God, no, I wouldn’t think of trying to blackmail you. I’m simply proposing a business transaction. I have something you want and I’m prepared to sell it to you, that’s all. I’ve scanned the documents we talked about the other day so that you can check them and see that I’m not lying to you ...’ She took a thick white envelope from her bag and pushed it across the desk. ‘I’ve put them in chronological order.’ As Julio reached towards the envelope, she picked it up and took out the contents. ‘It’s all there. All my great-grandparents’ title deeds, the powers of attorney made out in your name, the letters you sent, “with love to the children”, a receipt for the bank transfer of five thousand pesetas you sent to stall them, the letters from the lawyer they engaged and all the attendant documentation ...’ He flicked through the documents one by one as though they barely interested him. ‘Everything. Your peace and tranquillity. A million euros and they’re yours.’

  ‘A million euros?’ Julio Carrion burst out laughing. ‘Are you mad? It’s not 1977 any more.’

  Raquel remained calm. ‘I realise I promised you earlier that I wouldn’t ask you any questions but ... Tell me, Señor Carrion, do you read much?’ She looked at him curiously, but he did not bother to answer. ‘I didn’t think so, so I’m guessing that you don’t spend much time in bookshops. It’s a pity, really. I think you might find it interesting. You wouldn’t believe the number of books being published in Spain these days about people like you, lives just like yours ... It’s amazing. You only have to look at the covers: brigadistas, militiamen, women too, of course. It’s an interesting phenomenon and one that can’t really be explained, not even by me, and I’m the daughter of Reds. Anyway, I don’t have to tell you that, you know my family’s story by heart ... So, no, it’s not 1977. You see, in 1977, people were still scared to death to talk about these things. Not today.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘that’s what I’ve been trying to get you to understand.’

  ‘Yes, but I think you’re the one who doesn’t quite understand. I think we’re talking about a different kind of fear. You really should let me finish ... Do you mind if I smoke?’

  She wanted a cigarette, but that was not why she asked. Taking the packet out of her bag, lighting a cigarette, picking up the ashtray on the desk and setting it next to her, was all a carefully calculated ploy to cover another strategic pause.

  ‘It’s not just books, there are films too, they’re making documentaries about the war, about the post-war period, about the Spanish camps, the French camps, the children that were taken away from republican prisoners, the disappearances ...’ She feigned surprise. ‘Back in 1977, nobody ever mentioned these things, did they?’ She allowed a hard edge to creep into her voice. ‘Judges these days are happy to issue an exhumation order for anyone the fascists summarily executed during the war, or after the war. They’ve been digging them up from ditches on the roadside, finding them in wells and canyons ... Have you seen it in the papers? They even mention it on TV sometimes. Imagine what the killers must feel like, because most of them are still alive, the Falangists, the members of the Guardia Civil ... They’d be about your age now, though some of them would be younger. Imagine them, retired, happily, watching TV and suddenly a judge makes an order and bam! i
t all comes out ...’

  Raquel Fernández Perea was betting everything on a single card. It was her one shot and she was making it up as she went along, but she put her trust in fear, this ancient fear that had been slowly curdling since a warm May afternoon in 1977. Her rival’s impassivity made it impossible to judge the success of her performance, but at least he wasn’t laughing.

  ‘Oh, I know nobody’s going to do any more than that, nobody’s going to put them on trial or lock them up, but their children, their friends, their neighbours, the grandchildren’s classmates ...’ She closed her eyes, and shook her head. ‘Not a pretty picture, is it? Not that I think they don’t deserve it, but it can’t be pleasant, especially in this country. But, you know, everything changes, nothing stays the same, especially here in Spain.’ She smiled, her courage returning. ‘I won’t lie to you, I’m delighted. I think of it as justice, but I realise that justice is something that is rarely observed here in Spain. That’s why I said that I understand you, I understand why you feel you should be allowed to get away with it. But I think you’re mistaken, Señor Carrion, I have to tell you, in all honesty. You’re mistaken, like all those other men, and for them it’s too late to stop their grandchildren finding out who they really were, the crimes they committed, the people they tortured or kidnapped.’

  Raquel Fernández Perea stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and realised her heart was pounding. She had shown her card. It was there on the desk, and it was all she had. ‘On the other hand, I’ve given this a great deal of thought, as I told you, and I think one million euros is a fair price. I know no one is going to put you on trial, Señor Carrion, at least not at the moment. I hope by now you’ve realised I’m no fool. I know that nobody is going to take away what never belonged to you, because it’s one thing the political parties and unions taking back what was stolen from them, but private individuals are a different matter. Don’t think for a moment I don’t know that. But if we can’t come to some arrangement, you are leaving yourself open to severe repercussions — not prison, I’ll grant you, but deeply unpleasant nonetheless.’

  Julio Carrion loosened his tie and opened the top two buttons of his shirt. He was deeply uncomfortable now, and he could not have chosen a worse moment to show it. Raquel Fernández Perea felt her body relax, her smile broaden, her foot shifting easily to the accelerator.

  ‘If we don’t come to some arrangement, I might be forced to publish these documents. I’m sure they would make a fascinating addendum to a book, a book that told the story of your life, Señor Carrion, and that of your mother-in-law, the woman who gave Paloma’s husband up to the Falangists ...’

  She forced herself to take an unscheduled pause to calm herself a little.

  ‘My family still has photos of your mother-in-law, and of your wife Angelica when she was a child. We might even publish the beautiful love letter Carlos sent to Paloma when he was in prison a few days before they shot him. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bestseller, but I’m sure it would sell, it’s a popular subject these days. I wouldn’t make much out of it because I’d have to split the money with the author, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve made enough money out of the Calle Tetuán apartment so ... Just think about it, Señor Carrion. I wouldn’t be famous, but you would be.’ She gave a little laugh as though this last thought amused her. ‘I know that a scandal in a large city is different to a scandal in a little village, because in a place like Madrid everything gets watered down, and your children probably already know that you’re a crook, I mean, you all work together, but I’m betting it would make your company famous ...’

  When she had stepped into the office, she hadn’t been sure that she would have to go this far. She had rehearsed this part of the speech as carefully as the rest, but she was aware that it was more precarious, more risky, than personal threats. She had been prepared to wait for a more propitious moment, to wait for him to explode, but Julio Carrion was not looking well, he was very pale, and his breath was coming in gasps.

  ‘I don’t think it would be to your advantage, because like all big construction companies you’re very dependent on public investment, commissions, subsidies ... If people were to find out who you really are, where your money comes from, there would be no more motorways, Don Julio, no more building permits allowing you to build luxury developments as long as you agree a percentage of social or affordable housing should be built on-site.’ He didn’t even smile. ‘That’s how it works, isn’t it? No political party would risk the backlash of continuing to line your pockets, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t think many private companies would risk it either. I’ve thought long and hard about this and I think a million euros is very reasonable. I’m not trying to ruin you or even to leave you in poverty. I could have multiplied that amount by any figure I liked, but then you would have had to explain things, sell off assets, leave a big hole it would be difficult to account for. Of course, that would be the perfect revenge, but I don’t want revenge. All I want is a fair deal. I’m sure it won’t be too hard for you to lay your hands on a million euros without anybody noticing. I can give you a hand myself, if you like. As I’m sure Sebastián told you, I’m an investments adviser, and you’re one of our clients; I checked our files. You’d simply need to sell off a few shares.’

  Now Julio Carrion began to move. His hands were shaking as he reached into his shirt pocket and took out a scuffed silver pillbox and poured the contents on to the desk, looking for a small white pill, which he picked up with trembling fingers. He put it in his mouth and swallowed it without water, although there was a bottle and some glasses next to him. Suddenly, Raquel was scared. She saw him close his eyes, saw his head fall back against his chair and realised that this little drama was over.

  She gathered up the photocopies, slipped them back into the briefcase and got to her feet. She was sure that nothing else would happen, but just then Julio Carrion opened his eyes, leaned forward, gripping the arms of the chair, and finally spoke:

  ‘You’re nothing but lowlife scum ...’

  ‘I know,’ Raquel smiled, ‘but I think it’s about time that the lowlife scum was a Fernández, don’t you?’

  Then she headed for the door. She was so excited, she wanted to scream, but when she reached the door, she turned and said: ‘Sebastián has my details. I’d be grateful if you could get back to me as soon as possible.’

  But Julio Carrion González would never get back to Raquel Fernández Perea. This was the one detail she had not reckoned on, the one eventuality she had not foreseen as she began to plan her future.

  At work, nobody saw any problem in giving her a mortgage against the Calle Jorge Juan apartment so she could pay for her grandmother’s apartment in cash. When it was all over, Raquel decided, she would sell the apartment, pay off the mortgage and keep the profit. The rest — the million euros she expected to get any day now — she would give to Anita so that, when the time came, she would inherit no more than her rightful share. The mechanics of how this would work was the only weak point in her plan. She had not worked out how to restore some part of the Fernández Muñoz fortune without her grandmother realising she had broken her promise, but there was plenty of time to think about that. When Carrion did not get back to her immediately she was not worried. It’s difficult to raise a lot of money without inviting suspicion, she knew this better than anyone, and she assumed that the president of Promociones del Noreste would once again ask Sebastián López Parra to handle the matter. So, when she showed up at the solicitor’s office for their meeting, she was quite certain the documents to be signed would not be the only thing they had to discuss.

  ‘I suppose you heard?’

  ‘What?’ She tried to sound jokey, but she realised something serious had happened.

  ‘Don Julio had a heart attack about a week ago, not this Friday but the Friday before, the day you came by the office.’

  ‘You’re not serious!’ Her alarm was palpable. ‘That’s terrible ... I thought he looked a bit
pale ...’

  ‘Yes.’ Sebastián nodded. ‘Me too. When I went up to see him he said he was going home, that he didn’t feel well. He said I shouldn’t be angry with you, that you’d just stopped by to ask some silly question ...’

  ‘Yes, it was just a family thing, it’s a long story ...’ Raquel paused and looked at Sebastián. She realised that he had no way of knowing the truth. ‘Anyway, it’s not important. The poor man, how is he?’

  ‘Not good, not good at all. He’d already had a serious heart attack six months ago and a couple of close calls before that — his heart is weak and ... I don’t know, but I don’t think the doctors expect him to come through this time.’

  He did not come through. Two weeks later, the Carrion family published his death notice in three Madrid newspapers. The notice was simple and tasteful and gave no date or time for the funeral, but Raquel Fernández Perea had an idea. While in Madrid, no cemetery would have given her the information she asked for; in Torrelodones, they did not even ask for her name.

  The first day of March 2005 dawned, the sun was shining, the sky a deep cobalt blue, so pure, so intense, it looked like an illustration in a children’s book — a perfect sky, clear, deep, translucent. Raquel arrived in the village before the funeral cortege and stopped to let it pass. When the hearse turned into the cemetery, she locked her car and went into a bar for a coffee, but it was so cold that she couldn’t get warm.

  A quarter of an hour later, she went back to her car and drove to the cemetery. There, standing apart from the others, halfway between the cemetery gate and the grave, a dark-haired man turned towards her and looked into her eyes.

  I was eleven years old, and my parents had a summer house in a little village in Navacerrada. It was a two-storey house with a garage and a garden in a development divided into half-acre plots, all exactly the same, although some of them had swimming pools. It was set on a hillside surrounded by pine forests, the classic summer resort for the aspiring middle classes. There were no gates, no security of any kind, the streets were little more than tracks, but there was an open space the size of a football pitch and about a dozen kids of my age.