VALLS WAS BEGINNING to suspect that he had imagined it. The visions faded, and he was no longer sure whether he’d dreamed about the woman who had come down the stairs to the door of his cell and asked him whether he was Minister Valls. At times he doubted that it had actually happened. Perhaps he’d dreamed it. Perhaps he was just another wreck of humanity rotting in the cells of Montjuïc Castle who, overcome by delirium, had come to believe that he was his gaoler and not who he really was. He seemed to remember a case like that – Mitjans, his name was. Mitjans had been a famous playwright during the years of the Republic, and Valls had felt enormous contempt for him because life had given him everything that he, Valls, had longed for and had been unable to achieve. Mitjans, who like so many others had been the object of his envy, had ended his days in the castle, no longer knowing who he was, in cell 19.
But Valls knew who he was, because he remembered. And as that bedevilled David Martín had once told him, one is what one remembers. That is why he knew that that woman, whoever she was, had been there, and that one day she, or someone like her, would return to free him. He wasn’t like Mitjans, or all those other wretches who had died under his command. He, Mauricio Valls, would not die in that place. He owed it to his daughter Mercedes, the person who had kept him alive all that time. Perhaps that was why, every time he heard the door to the basement open and footsteps coming down the darkened stairs, he would look up, his eyes full of hope. Because this could be the day.
It must have been early morning – he’d learned to tell the time of day in relation to the cold. He knew there was something different, because they never came down so early. He heard the door and heavy footsteps. Slow footsteps. A figure materialized in the dark. He carried a tray that gave off the most delicious aroma he had ever smelled.
Hendaya left the tray on the floor and lit a candle that he placed in a candlestick. “Good morning, Minister,” he announced. “I’ve brought you your breakfast.”
Hendaya pushed the tray until it was close to the metal bars, then lifted the lid covering a plate. A vision appeared: a juicy fillet steak in a creamy pepper sauce, with roast potatoes and sautéed vegetables. Valls could feel his mouth salivating and his stomach turning.
“Medium rare,” said Hendaya. “Just as you like it.”
On the tray there was a basket with small bread rolls, silver cutlery, and linen napkins. The drink, an exquisite Rioja, nestled in a Murano wine glass.
“Today is a great day, Minister. You deserve it.” Hendaya slipped the tray under the bars.
Valls ignored the cutlery and the napkin and grabbed the piece of meat with his hand. He shoved it into his toothless mouth and began to devour it with a ferocity he didn’t recognize in himself. He wolfed down the meat, the potatoes and the bread. He licked the plate until it shone and drank that delicious wine until there wasn’t a drop left in the glass.
Hendaya observed him nonchalantly, with a pleasant smile, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “You must excuse me: I ordered a dessert, but they haven’t delivered it.”
Valls pushed the tray to one side and grabbed the metal bars, his eyes fixed on Hendaya.
“You seem very surprised, Minister. I don’t know whether it’s because of the festive menu or because you were expecting someone else.”
The pleasures of the feast were beating a retreat. Valls slumped down again in the far end of the cell. Hendaya stayed where he was for a few minutes, leafing through a newspaper while he finished his cigarette. When he was done, he threw the butt away and folded the paper. Noticing that Valls was looking intently at the newspaper, he remarked, “Perhaps you would like some reading material? A man of letters like you must miss his daily reading.”
“Please,” Valls implored.
“But of course!” said Hendaya, walking over to the bars.
Valls stretched out his remaining hand, a plea on his face.
“In fact it brings good news today. To tell you the truth, it was when I read it this morning that I thought you deserved a proper celebration.” Hendaya flung the newspaper inside the cell and headed up the stairs. “All yours. You can keep the candle.”
Valls fell upon the paper and grabbed it. The pages had got all tangled when Hendaya threw it, and it took him a while to put it back in order with a single hand. When he’d managed to do so, he drew the candle closer and skimmed over the front page.
At first he couldn’t make out the letters. His eyes had been confined to that place far too long. What he did recognize was the full-page photograph. It was a snapshot taken in El Pardo Palace. He was posing in front of a large mural, wearing the navy pinstripe suit he’d had tailored in London three years before. It was the last official photograph Mauricio Valls’s ministry had distributed. The words emerged slowly, like a shimmering image underwater.
Spain has awoken in shock at the news of the immeasurable loss of one of its favourite sons, Don Mauricio Valls y Echevarría, minister for national education. The tragedy happened late last night, when the car in which he was traveling with his driver and bodyguard crashed on kilometre 4 of Carretera de Somosaguas, on his way back to his private residence after a late meeting in El Pardo with other members of the cabinet. The first reports suggest that the accident happened when a tanker truck, travelling in the opposite direction, punctured one of its wheels. The driver lost control and swerved onto the wrong side of the road, crashing against the minister’s car, which was travelling at high speed. The tanker was carrying a load of fuel, and the crash caused a huge explosion that was heard by residents in the area, who immediately informed the authorities. Minister Valls and his driver died on the spot.
The driver of the tanker, Rosendo M. S., from Alcobendas, passed away before emergency services could resuscitate him. A huge blaze resulted from the collision, and the bodies of both the minister and his bodyguard were badly burned.
The government has called an emergency meeting of the cabinet this morning, and the head of state has announced that he will issue an official communiqué later in the day, in person, from El Pardo Palace.
Mauricio Valls was fifty-nine years old, and had devoted over two decades to serving the regime. His loss leaves a big void in Spanish letters, on account of both his work at the head of his ministry and his distinguished career as publisher, author and academic. Senior officials of all the public institutions and the most renowned figures in our letters and culture have visited the ministry to express their condolences and mark the admiration and respect Don Mauricio inspired in all those who knew him.
Don Mauricio Valls leaves a wife and daughter. Government sources have informed us that the funeral chapel will be open to all members of the public who wish to pay their last respects to this universal Spaniard, from five o’clock this afternoon in Oriente Palace. The editorial board and the entire staff of this newspaper also wish to express the same profound shock and grief felt by all at the loss of Don Mauricio Valls, a shining example of the highest levels to which a citizen of our country can aspire.
¡Viva Franco! ¡Arriba España! Don Mauricio Valls: ¡presente!