The case of Fernando Cotoner y Cotoner

            It had been some days since I was crashing out at Luis Cañigral’s. Luis was Philosophy professor at the University and lived in a finer quarter than the media. He was handsome and was kind of famous by this. His girlfriend adored him, his friends too, he was worth listening and had a liking for poetry, being Kavafis his favourite, of course. He even had a friend passionate for cars who drove Luis’s car as chauffer sometimes at unusual times and to places unexpected disinterestedly. I went on doing same things I did before; that is, going to wait for my girlfriend Maravillas at the Official Tourism School, meeting some old friends, looking for a job, reading the newspapers, clear it is, going to the movies, but I had no money and had to work somewhere if I wanted to pay my expenses, not trusting in the least in what I could get from whom was my supplier of notes: Fernando Cotoner y Cotoner, Royal House Chief’s brother.

            I had been introduced to this Fernando at a kind of posh public house very near to Cerebro discotheque, where very well known people used to go to. One of Luis’s friends had whispered to me this Fernando was brother of the Royal House Chief. Once we were introduced I sat down on a low chair at a table and this Fernando sat down too beside me. At once I noticed he was interested in talking to me. We exchanged some words while others were talking at the table. This Fernando asked me my telephone number and I did instantly surveyed the situation, saw there wouldn’t be any problem, took my pen from my jacket’s inner pocket, broke up a piece of the newspaper I was carrying and wrote my house’s telephone number on the piece under the table hiding what I was doing. When this Fernando asked me if I needed a pen I gave him the piece of paper with my house’s phone number on it under the table. Nobody took heed of the manoeuvre. We came out from the kind of posh public house and crossed up the street to go to Cerebro discotheque. I breathed happily inwardly on knowing Fernando wasn't going to stay for long. I remember I had a moment to myself to be proud of what I was doing and thanking my good luck. Luis introduced to me some people. Fernando said goodbye and was gone. I enjoyed it standing by the counter and watching people talking, drinking and dancing. Then someone among us commented I wore the same clothes the son of the duchess of Alba wore. I could see then a lonely and bored type at the corner of the counter wearing grey trousers and blue jacket, the shirt also like mine, white with blue stripes and white collar. Well, I said, I am not alone, I am with friends, and not waiting someone comes up to talk to me or to pay my drink, my clothes don’t smell of money, are clothes that didn’t cost much, my shirt is my girlfriend's present, besides it turns out I am feel like inviting my friends, so you all can ask for whatever you want. What’s your name? asked a man in his forties who had joined us and was beside me. Leopoldo Barge, I said and stretched hands with him. The man’s name was Manuel Ordaz and was History professor, lawyer and antiquarian, expert in painting. I saw how the body of the son of the duchess of Alba had shaken up almost violently when I said my name.

            Next day Maravillas came with me to my place to make love and we were at it when the telephone rang and it was Fernando Cotoner. Maravillas suspected something strange in my voice; I didn’t know if laughing openly or keeping silence about it, so bizarre was his telling me on the phone. I said to him I would meet him up at his place after he told me the address. Maravillas asked me who it was and I told her who he really was but not my intentions. That day I don’t know what else I did at my place, probably some errands for my mother. I went to Maravillas School to pick her up and read the newspapers before, as was my habit by then, at some place close to the School. That day we went to Cafeteria Prado, opposite to Museo del Prado, and we were talking when Gonzalo Costales Lozano, my college mate appeared and came to us to greet me. I introduced him to Maravillas and I began to tell her again the story of the gun Gonzalo had taken out pointing at me in the classroom during a Physics examination when Gonzalo interrupted saying he had to go, he was gone and I told Maravillas for the second time how funny it had been. By night I came across José Antonio Rivero, another old classroom mate at another college I went to in Usera, Colegio Latino, and told him about Cerebro and people I saw there. At first he didn’t want to come with me but he later accepted. We went to Cerebro at Princesa Street and when we reached Cerebro’s entrance door the porter didn’t want to let us go inside. I asked him why not. He told us we were minors. I told him immediately: Was I not a minor yesterday when I came inside with Fernando Cotoner y Cotoner? He remained still and I took advantage to go along the corridor with José Antonio to the stairs leading to the discotheque. I pointed out to him the people I knew from the day before, the son of the duchess of Alba in his place, his elbow leaning on the counter, a famous photographer with her camera, wife of a known rock singer sprang from poor quarters in Madrid, some others José Antonio could see he knew too, but I was at this when I realised José Antonio had run away and I run after him.

            Next day I went to Fernando Cotoner y Cotoner apartment at General Perón Street. I had been investigating at home about the Cotoner family and found out they had established in Majorca Island when the voracious Bourbons after a war in Spain took over the power, and they had had their own army in former times. When I got to the apartment this Fernando showed it to me. In the sitting room he had signed photographs of the Queen of England and such and such, of the duke and duchess of Kent, and of Juan de Borbón, father of the later dummy King of Spain, Juan Carlos. He told me his brother was Royal House Chief. We spoke. I wasn’t interested in meeting people he was talking to me about. I told him plainly I had no job and needed money if I wanted to be independent or to live with my girlfriend. I told him I needed 25.000 pesetas for some payments I was obligated to cover and debts I was obligated to respond of. He said to me it was all right, and then took out his wallet and gave me 25.000 pesetas I hurried to put in mine. I laughed uncontrollably and it made him go red in the face. He offered me the apartment keys and I took them thanking him and saying too it was necessary for me to have a place I may go to whenever I want. Well, please, he said, don’t invite anybody and don’t let anybody come in. Yes, sure, don’t worry about that, I told him. The apartment’s terrace had a view of the complete General Perón’s Avenue with the Congresses Palace and Santiago Bernabeú’s stadium at the end of the Avenue, each building at opposite sides of Paseo de la Castellana, main artery of Madrid’s city.

            Next day he rang me up and I told him I would go to the apartment at six or seven. I went there and he was in. I told him I had to take a shower because I didn’t have time to take it at my place and I had to hurry to pick up my girlfriend, that I needed another 25.000 pesetas. I undressed in the room nearer to the bathroom and took a shower. When I finished I opened the door and this Fernando told me with my wallet in his hands I had yesterday’s 25.000 pesetas yet. I told him who was he to inspect my wallet, that I had spent yesterday’s 25.000 pesetas in a present I had bought for Maravillas and that the 25.000 pesetas I had in my wallet Maravillas had given them to me for me to buy whatever I wanted to, that I was still in need of another 25.000 pesetas. He begged my pardon and gave me the money.

          He insisted in introducing to me very well known people and in going to elite places with him and one day I went out with him to a semi clandestine casino where I saw many personalities surrounded by luxurious environment, ambiance and manners high life style, expensive clothes and pedantic hilarious murmurs. After my visit to this semi clandestine casino I said to myself I had seen enough. I despised the place and the people, and loathed it standing there not expecting anything save be freed of such aberrant pedantry running away or else waiting an old comrade appearing and carrying out a revolutionary action in which I may be of help. When this Fernando told me he had gone with Falange’s members to beat up attendants at a Popular Front’ assembly during the II Republic I swore to myself I would someday made him pay for it, but at that moment I didn’t say anything. I left him take a picture of me naked when I came out from the bathroom after I took a shower. He showed me the photo next day and I could see myself naked and at both my sides the signed framed pictures of butcher Queen Elizabeth, birds in the head Duke and Duchess of Kent and diner and roulette chips Juan de Borbón and the King and Queen of Spain.

            Maravillas Official Tourism School was close of this Fernando’s apartment that now I may use the way I wanted. So some days I went from the apartment to the School on foot. Most of days I sat down in a terrace just beside the School’s building, by then in fact back street of the Ministry of Tourism, or I went to other pubs or cafeterias to wait for Maravillas while I read the newspapers. One day I did this, and on my way to read the newspapers somewhere near to the School I went by the Congresses Palace where PSOE’s militants Congress was taking place. Franco had died and the false socialist party would take advantage to strut in power. Actually, on TV news at night I saw their leader Felipe González addressing his people saying things like this: ... We have to leave apart the revolutionaries, the extreme left wing, our compromise is not theirs, is different (clapping of hands)..., we have to come to agreements with other national big parties (clapping of hands)..., to accept the rules of the game (clapping of hands). Next day I did go again from the apartment to the School on foot passing by the Congresses Palace and saw some people standing by. I made use of my eyes to make them understand. I knew already PSOE’s government would leave the poor and the workers aside.

            One day I was in the apartment sitting-room watching a documentary about wars on television. I had been caught up by the images of First and Second World’s Wars. I had focused on the scenes: terrestrial, air and sea big battles, bombardments, soldiers surrendering. Then they spoke about the bombardment of Guernica and I saw the Condor Legion squadron approaching the town of Guernica. By what I could see the massacre was horridly cruel, the bombs over Guernica destroyed the town completely. I understood many things then: why some people, politicians and journalists spoke about Guernica mentioning they were only a few people dead because of the bombardment; why Picasso had drawn the Guernica; why I was sweeping on hearing the voice saying the bombardment of Guernica had been a chemical weapons test of the Germans and Italians with the approval of cruel shit Franco.

            I had really abused as much as possible of the apartment. I had invited already some people I knew to have something to drink in the apartment. I can’t remember everything I did with the apartment, but I remember Macarena, a girl I was meeting since not long. She asked me whom the apartment belonged to, because she saw the photographs of these so distinguishable personalities. I told her. Later, near to her place I asked her if she was a fascist, for she suggested me we may come in and have something to drink at El Latigazo, very exclusive place close to La Zarzuela Palace, residence of the dummy King of Spain and his family, and she had told me the King of Spain himself used to go there often. Of course, I had told Macarena in the car at El Latigazo front façade it would be the last place I would come in if the King himself was nosing about.

            I invited a billiards friend who was an artist playing. I invited a guy to have some joints. I invited a man I had known in the corner of Velázquez Street with Goya Street. He was trying to make himself understood asking people in English the way to El Escorial seated at the steering wheel of an old Mercedes Benz. I went to him and spoke in French and some words in English. I told him I may go with him up to the place where the motorway to El Escorial started. I got on his car. He dressed elegantly. Realising I didn’t speak well no language apart from Spanish he spoke to me a universal language consisting of choosing the words to make yourself understood using several languages. He gave me his card. I read Randolph Pearson. He told me he was a citizen of the USA, of Yemen’s origin. He told me also his company was one of the most important companies in the USA and he was very well known in his country. We got to Arco del Triunfo, where the motorway has its beginning. I had doubted if going to sleep at my parents, going to sleep to the apartment or accompanying Randolph to El Escorial. Truth is I was interested in talking to him, for he had said to me he didn’t like capitalism at all even being a suspicious citizen by his wealth. I asked him if I could sleep at his place in El Escorial, and as he told me I could we started our journey and I started to read some selection of news from my newspaper. We had a sixty kilometres talk about politics mainly. On passing by Villalba, forty kilometres from Madrid already, I told him my brother Arturo lived there although it was too late. He dressed old fashion but had certain original aspect. In his Tirol’s hat he had a plume of some kind of plant. When we arrived in El Escorial we went straight to his apartment. I was very tired. I saw a bed and asked him if I may lie down on the bed. He told me of course and I fell down face upwards on the bed. Don’t worry, I understand you are tired; sleep and rest that I won’t bother you, he said to me. I was very tired indeed but opened my eyes and looked up at him to say thanks when I saw a big and old sword on the wall just above my head. I reacted suddenly asking him which the sword was it and to whom it belonged. I had incorporated a little on the bed and seeing him going to take the sword from the wall, I stood up and let him do. He told me the sword was an old Yemen’s with many historical deeds. I said to him I wanted to know more and he told me he belonged to an old Yemen’s royal family and that his people do not elect kings or governors from royal families but among the wise men and women for whom they feel in communion with and know will do well for them. He asked me if I would do all I could to help Yemen’s people to defeat their enemies when he had put the sword on my lips to be kissed. I kissed it and said I swear it.

            I slept in the apartment and next day we came to Madrid in the morning. I told him the address and appointed him at this Fernando’s, for this was away on a trip. I went home and later I went to Fernando's to wait for Randolph. To my surprise stupid Fernando was in the apartment and it was nearly the time Randolph had the appointment with me. I didn’t have time to think when I saw Fernando. The door’s bell had rung up. I wanted to open the door but Fernando was closer and he opened it up. Randolph looked at us both and I told Fernando Randolph was a friend of mine. Fernando said what’s this and I had to say to my Yemeni friend I would meet him up another moment. He went away saying sorry and I supposedly had to explain things to this Fernando, but I didn’t want to, so I said to him I would give him back the apartment keys and I did it later when we were going in a taxi along Paseo de la Castellana. He had asked me in the taxi if I wanted to keep the keys with me.

            I had met a football referee I invited later too to Fernando’s a day on which Real Madrid played versus English Derby County in Santiago Bernabeú stadium. He had said to me he was going to see the match in the box. When the time came we went on foot from Fernando’s to the stadium. He asked me once more if I wanted to go with him to see the match from the box. I thanked him and told him I didn’t want to and he came into and I stood up newspaper in hand at one of the stadium’s entrance doors. It was the European Cup of Leagues Champions and the score in England had been four-one for Derby County. I tried to come into the stadium after I heard the big celebration of first Real Madrid’s goal.  Impossible, they wouldn’t let us come in because we were many the ones who wanted to come in. Real Madrid had to reassemble a four-one and it was more likely then. A little after this it was heard another big-big celebration when Real Madrid scored the two-nil. We tried again but they wouldn’t let us come in. I went on standing up by one of the entrance doors and after a time we heard the big-big-big celebration of the three-nil. Real Madrid had reassembled the play-off. But some time after we heard a lament from Real Madrid supporters because Derby County had scored. The score was then three-one. There were only less than ten minutes left to the end of the match. Real Madrid had to score to draw the play-off. It was then that they let us come into the stadium and I went running to the entrance door the porter had told me I could come in through. I reached the south grade and had a look at the ambience. The south grade was full of fascists singing and cheering up and waving their flags with their peculiar nauseating style. I reacted immediately: You are shit! I shouted up to them. There were murmurs of disapproval among them but nobody moved a finger. Yes, you did hear well, pure shit! I shouted later. The murmurs were of people horrified. I could also hear the rumours of the people in the stadium. I asked shouting: What do you believe? Do you think I can’t hear the people rumours coming from the grades knowing something is happening to you? Rumours from the grades and complete silence beside me among the fascists. I was doing and saying what I wished to and had been encouraged by the cheering up of all the stadium spectators.

            The score was then three-one, so Real Madrid had to score still one goal to draw the play-off, and if so there would be an extension of thirty minutes divided in two of fifteen each. There was only seven minutes left to get a four-one and draw the play-off. How lucky Real Madrid will be! I exclaimed aloud, and went on in the same style: Amancio will fall down in Derby County’s area and it will turn in a penalty! There was a noisy encouragement cheering from the grades and complete silence among the fascists. Amancio had the ball and was running towards Derby County’s area. I said as loud as possible: You see? There he goes! He is going to fall down and it will be a penalty! As always, Real Madrid winning a match at the last minute thanks to an unjust penalty! Actually, Amancio had entered Derby County’s area, tried a dribbling and a defender touched him and the referee pointed out penalty. All people at the stadium celebrated the penalty and was heard an immense applause; for Amancio above all, I knew. I asked the fascists: How is it you don’t celebrate penalties? What for you come to the stadium then? Nobody replied, they seemed defeated and had given up the waving of their flags. What happened then will be remembered forever. More than three quarters of the spectators began to chirp imposing complete silence. I took advantage of it when Pirri was going to kick out the penalty and shouted at the top of my voice: Live the poor of the world! Live Classes Struggle! Let’s shoot up all these filthy fascists who are the henchmen of the ones who exploit our brothers and sisters and think we will not rebel being submitted and cornered in miserable and abandoned quarters!

            Pirri scored the penalty and the celebration exaltation and enthusiasm made everybody happiest less the fascists I was beside to. Don’t you celebrate goals? I asked the fascists shouting again. There were murmurs from the fascists and an enormous applause from the spectators. Real Madrid had tied the match and little soon the referee whistled the end. An extension of thirty minutes in two of fifteen each had to be played. Players rested on the grass field and stretched their muscles and drank water waiting the first half of the extension to start.

            I stood in the same place, beside the fascists, and there was a boy who jumped for joy suspiciously often, I had realised. Santillana was another player very well known by his skill to score with his head and right legged, but I guessed he would be the one to score the five-one and I said aloud: Santillana will score a goal with his left foot! Actually, Real Madrid players did a move in Derby County’s area and the ball went to Santillana and he kicked out the ball and scored the five-one. Same thing happened again: the boy jumped up for joy while the fascists kept mute and humiliated and the boy shouted: God! God! God!

            The match finished and people began to come out, the fascists in silence with their heads bent down. I stood on waiting for the boy to pass by me. When he was beside me on his way to the way out I asked him if he wanted me to accompany him because there were some fascists yet, although a few near to us. The boy said to me: Thanks. Don’t worry, I have seen enough, no one can with us. And entered the tunnel jumping for joy and shouting: God! God! God! Nobody can with us!

            I went to Boccaccio discotheque and met Manuel Ordaz, the History professor, lawyer and antiquarian, expert in painting I had been introduced to in Cerebro. He came to me and stretched my hand. We talked. I had realised he was very esteemed by everybody. It is not usual someone takes with him a newspaper when going to a discotheque, he said. The truth is I am focused on events happening in Spain, yes indeed, I said to him. Manuel asked me what kind of policy I would like to be ruling in Spain. I told him in Spain and in all the countries of the world a social communist policy, a Democratic Republic would be the ideal. When I saw you in that place with the newspaper I knew you were someone, let me say, different. In Cerebro, I said, we were introduced to each other in Cerebro discotheque. Well, the first time I saw you it was at that place before we went to Cerebro discotheque and we were introduced to each other. I looked up at him half smiling and said at once: As a general rule I read the newspaper every day. You sat down and Fernando Cotoner sat down too beside you, he said. Have you met him up since then? he asked me. Well, I have, I said. He told me he had been a Falange’s militant during the II Republic, so I keep in mind something yet. My father was fired by the nationals during the war, Manuel said to me.

            Not that day but another I went to Boccaccio discotheque too I met up Manuel again and he invited me to go to his place, which was very near. We talked more intimately and he told me about his father’s fusillade and I told him about the massacre of a multitude of Africans I had seen on a flat screen when a child at my parents house in the village. Do you say flat screens? What are flat screens? Yes, I said to him, two gigantic flat screens.