Just Gone

Just Gone

Alfredo Acle Tomasini

Just Gone

D.R. © Copyright 2016 Alfredo Acle Tomasini

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Original title: Griten que ya partí

Translated from Spanish by Helen Mandri

Any enquire in regard with this book could be addressed to:

alfredo@acletomasini.com.mx

www.acletomasini.wordpress.com

To the memory of Renward García Medrano

True friends are those who,

throughout the course of life have always

kept extended their open hand towards us

Chapter I

The luxurious long black car drew up as usual, right in front of the ornate wooden door with wrought iron incrustations. However, this time, unaccompanied by the inevitable escort vehicles of bodyguards with their intimidating faces leaning out of the windows, because the businessman Ramiro Castillo, had asked them not to follow, to prevent them knowing his destination. His only companion was Jacinto, his driver, in whom he had absolute confidence. He had cultivated this loyalty through many years of favors to him and his offspring to assure his unconditional assistance.

The unexpected visit surprised the residence security guards who did not immediately open the gate as was customary when they recognized the car, when he would normally be admitted immediately, so as to be kept waiting as little as possible. Castillo felt uneasy at this unusual delay as he was aware of his vulnerability and felt extremely insecure while waiting in the street.

Jacinto cracked open the window waiting for someone to speak to him through the intercom on his side. It took a while until a voice was heard from the guardhouse. The reflective film over the windows transformed them into mirrors preventing one from seeing who was speaking and how many people were inside.

—What can I do for you? —said a high-pitched voice that was difficult to hear because of background noises.

—Sorry, I didn’t hear you —replied the driver.

—What can I do for you? —repeated the same high-pitched voice but even higher, revealing an accent from the north Mexico.

—Tell him that I am coming to a meeting with Dr. Monterrubio —Castillo told his chauffeur.

—Don Ramiro Castillo is coming to a meeting with Dr. Monterrubio.

The rustling sound of the intercom ceased. And as nothing happened for a minute or so, Castillo wondered if he should wait a little longer, or simply leave and seek refuge elsewhere.

Fortunately, a small door that was part of the main gate was opened by two security guards whom he had seen before. Both had military haircuts and wore civilian clothes with out-of-fashion suits and ties. The suits were tight fitting, making it obvious that they were carrying guns at the waist.

The tallest and slimmest of them stood at the gate, while the other, shorter in stature but with noticeably bulging muscles produced by many hours in the gym, went to the driver's side, more to peer inside the vehicle than to be heard.

—We don’t have any meetings scheduled and besides the Doctor is not at home —the guard and owner of the same squeaky voice with a northern accent heard over the speaker, told Jacinto.

Castillo waited a few seconds before taking the initiative. He lowered the armored window so that the guard could see him, which to his relief brought about the desired effect, because as soon as he recognized the face of the wealthy and still powerful businessman, his gestures and attitude went from a dour mistrust to show a rather submissive courtesy.

—Excuse me, Don Ramiro, but nobody warned us you were coming, and we also thought it odd to see your car unescorted. The fact is that we’re all fucked up with this thing of the President.

—Don’t worry —replied Castillo to the guard with feigned affability, —it is understandable that we are all very upset and maybe that's why they didn’t tell you of this sudden meeting I arranged with Dr. Monterrubio —he said, showing his mobile phone to let him know that he had just spoken to the owner of the mansion.

Convinced that he was doing the right thing, the security guard activated the mechanism that opened the gate and began walking beside the car until it stopped in the place allocated for visitors. He opened the door for Castillo, who felt a little more relaxed once he was within the walls of the residence.

—Don Ramiro, I'll take you to the library to wait while the doctor arrives —said the guard pointing an arm towards the front door.

—Are there any other rumors besides the President's death? —Castillo asked, trying to find out if the guard knew anything about the warrant for his arrest that was announced in the media shortly after the news of the death of the President.

—In fact, I don’t know much Don Ramiro. My wife sent me a message telling me that he had died; just that. Besides, we are not allowed to use our mobile phones, or send messages, even less to listen to the radio or watch TV. We only use the telephone in the guardhouse for emergencies or when they call us with instructions.

—How can they control that? —questioned Castillo.

—There are cameras recording twenty-four hours what we do in the guardhouse —the guard replied as they walked along the long passageway to a mahogany door leading to the library.

The guard went ahead to open the door and with a servile gesture, invited the unexpected guest to enter. He waited for Castillo to take a seat before offering him something to drink, which Castillo declined.

—Well, I’ll leave you here then Don Ramiro, the Doctor shouldn’t be long.

§§§§

Magda read aloud, but stopped when she noticed the day-shift nurse, Jasmine, standing by the door of the room listening.

—Come in Jasmine don’t just stand there.

—Excuse me, Ma'am, I did not want to interrupt —replied the nurse, who, as soon as she entered the room began performing the routine checks and annotations. Magda rose to change position and approached the bed, because she wanted to caress Sebastian’s cheek as she felt the need of that physical contact.

—Why do always read that novel, Ma'am? —Jasmine asked, while carefully and methodically checking the probes, cathodes, solutions, drips, oxygen mask and the connections to apparatus where his vital signs were recorded.

—I have often asked myself the same question —said Magda, surprised at the girl’s curiosity.

—Do you think he hears you? —the nurse asked candidly. But, sensing that she might have been imprudent, she tried to explain.

—Forgive me if I’m poking my nose into something that doesn’t concern me, but I and several of my colleagues have wondered that.

—Don’t worry. —replied Magda, who liked the girl’s liveliness and professionalism, so that the friendly tone of her response gave the nurse the confidence to continue with her comments.

—The truth is Ma’am that you read real nice —said the nurse coming closer to the armchair to which Magda had returned—. When I hear you, I get completely caught up with what you are reading; I don’t know if it's because of the intonation of your voice, but I feel I would like to stay with you to see what happens next in the story. So much so, that I’ve asked my sister to buy me the novel at the bookstore underneath the place where she works, just as soon as I get paid at the end of next fortnight.

The nurse, who was anxiously waiting for an answer to resolve her doubts, had to settle for Magda's silence, since she was lost in thought, as she gazed with melancholy at Sebastian’s face, with whom she had shared her life for the last twenty years without any further formality than the desire to be together. They never thought of marrying even when they knew that he would lose consciousness.

The elongated silence made Jasmine think that she should leave, but just as she was about to go, Magda turned to her.

—To be honest, I don’t know if he hears me when I read, and I am not quite clear why, despite my doubts, I keep reading this novel to him instead of talking to him on a topic he liked or play his favorite music. Maybe it's my imagination or a hunch, but I sense that when I read it somehow, we connect, and this is something I want to keep feeling while he is still alive.

The nurse, noticing an expression of profound sadness in Magda's face, crouched in front of her and clasped both her hands in hers. She could not hide the fact that she was more intrigued than ever as she began to ask.

—What is it with this novel, that gives you that feeling? Was it his favorite?

—No, Jasmine —she replied quietly and affably —it was by no way his favorite. But since we first read it, we relived many situations about which we had mixed feelings. This linked us to it in a strange way, because we never liked it as a novel, but nevertheless, we would reread some parts to talk about them again.

—I don’t understand Ma'am —said Jasmine perplexed, because her enquiries had raised further questions, which ended up baffling her even more.

—How old are you Jasmine? —asked Magda. —I ‘m going to be twenty-six this January —said the nurse with a mischievous gesture.

—Imagine, you could be my daughter! Well, the important thing is that you were very young when all this happened, and I don’t expect that you will remember any of it, unless your parents told you something.

—That couldn’t have happened Ma’am, because I was orphaned when I was very little; I lost both my parents in a car accident, so me and my brothers were raised by some uncles in a little village that had a grocery store in San Luis Potosi. After that, I came to Mexico City with another aunt and I studied to be a nurse. But what do you want me to remember Ma’am? —asked the girl curiously.

—Nothing, maybe it is not important to tell you about this now.

—Tell me Ma’am —insisted the nurse, somewhat frustrated by the lack of answers. However, Magda looked pensively at the bed, not showing the slightest interest in continuing the conversation.

—Jasmine —she said, rising—, I think it is time to turn him over to massage his back; I’ll help you if you like?

§§§§

When sitting hunched forward with his head bowed and his legs drawn up, Ramiro Castillo seemed shorter than he was. In those surroundings, any kind of smallness was emphasized by the overwhelming size of the library that housed more than five thousand volumes all around its perimeter on two levels. They were communicated by catwalks with handrails and stepladders of polished mahogany, which accentuated the grandeur of the bronze candelabra suspended from a long chain right in the center of the huge room. This illuminated the shelves while at the same time spreading a warm light, stretching in a wide circle throughout the room where the sofa, on which he sat, was placed symmetrically between two wingback chairs. These were set around a carved wooden table that had once been a door, on which rested, among silver and glass ornaments, a bookstand holding a closed original first edition of ‘The Origin of Species’ by Darwin published in 1859.

Interestingly, this was the only book that was at reading level, because the four surrounding walls were arranged in a monotonous order more suitable to a rather poor taste museum. It included recessed tables, shelves and pictures containing photos with Presidents and sovereigns of other countries and several Presidential Cabinets, diplomas certifying his appointment as head of various ministries and as Mexico's Ambassador to Brazil, honorary decorations from various governments, university diplomas and gifts received on official visits.

The wide space between the walls and the center of the library where the armchairs were situated, allowed any visitor, whether regular or occasional, to use the inevitable waiting period before being received, to walk around and examine this strange gallery in detail. It expressed a blatantly egotistical person that might impress someone who valued that kind of thing, created from superficial incidents but not showing any true individual merit.

Prominently placed in this egocentric gallery was a diploma from a little-known American university, where Mr. Marcos Monterrubio was credited with having obtained a PhD in Public Policy; a degree he believed distinguished him from others. This was why, as soon as he acquired it, he required everyone to address him as Doctor.

In the confusion of the moment, the first thing that occurred to Ramiro Castillo was to take refuge in Marcos Monterrubio’s house. He was still trembling. That day everything had happened too fast. In just a few minutes, his mood had changed from euphoria to profound frustration. For a moment, he was sure he had made it, when he learnt of the death of the President, so that once this obstacle was removed, he could continue his plan to recuperate his capacity to maneuver in such a way as to still influence things to his convenience. This objective more than justified the risks he had had to take.

But just as he began to relax with the certainty of his mission accomplished, he experienced the unexpected disappointment of realizing that the final objective was only half achieved. In a split second, his satisfaction turned into anger. He was so irate that he practically went out of his mind, particularly as he suspected that someone had betrayed him. However, he could not even vent his anger because he had learnt at the same time as everyone else, that he was wanted for fraud and money laundering, so he had no choice but to run for his life, looking for somewhere to take refuge and to give him breathing space to assimilate things and think more calmly of what he should do.

The economic strength afforded by politics had made him forget what it felt like to be insecure, and when that feeling persisted for some time, he fell into a deep depression which accentuated the usual mistrust he felt toward others, to such an extent, that it would be not be an exaggeration to qualify it as paranoia.

Fate had cornered him several times before, especially at the beginning of his business career when he had been more impulsive, less cerebral and was not fully aware of the unwritten rules of the system. Nevertheless, however difficult the circumstances he had had to face, he had always been able to get up and start again. He was proud of these achievements, but he enjoyed them in complete privacy; only on his own, for he would have never confessed to anyone, the absolute despondency and desolation he had felt when at his lowest ebb. Moreover, he would never admit the number of times he had been scared to death, knowing that his fate might depend on others whom he had misjudged, or had not known how to deal with, even less how to woo them over to his side.

So, if there was anything that Ramiro Castillo had learned from his failures, it was the importance of creating networks to share interests, risks and, benefits with which to galvanize complicities. Therefore, he considered it essential to have solid information on all those with whom he associated, or about those who might be useful, or even represent an obstacle.

To that end, he decided to invest time and money in gathering what he called his «Key Information». He started this task in a rudimentary way to begin with, but improved it as his success in business permitted him to hire several specialist investigation companies, who performed some good work for him. Later, for reasons of confidentiality, he decided to work with only one company whom he considered to be the best, since it seemed their consultants, as they called themselves, knew how to combine the finest techniques in their field with an absolute lack of scruples, permitting them, as they boasted in private, «to know everything about almost everyone». Except, and perhaps as a measure for their own safety, they emphasized, half-jokingly and half-seriously, that they did not poke their noses into matters related to drug trafficking. They did not play in this league, because they knew that to pry into those regions might lead them into alleyways from which they undoubtedly would never reappear.

Every one of the personal files that the consultants transferred to Castillo electronically, contained several sections: individual reports, biography, career, circle of friends ranked by proximity, financial position, marital relationship, properties, psychological profile, health, status of family members, social network activity, photographic archives, analysis of performance and speeches.

The content under the title of each section initially appears to be limited to a mere listing of facts and cross references, but on a closer inspection of the first section, headed Individual Report it becomes evident that these are merely pointers to processes of sophisticated analysis, through which every aspect of everyone had been scrutinized.

The preparation of the dossiers was a time-consuming process because it depended on the availability of information. In some cases, it was easy to obtain, but in others it only came in a trickle, because of the time needed for the complex investigative procedures. However, Castillo realized that he should be armed with the same kind of patience as a resin collector who slits the bark, sets the pot and waits for it to drain. At the appropriate moment, he could decide on which content, and how much to use, before taking the next step.

He maintained that this information furnished him with the greatest power when it was related to people, because in that way, he was able to predict their behavior and eventually at the right moment, influence their decisions, attacking their most vulnerable points. This meant that effectively, he controlled their will, at least temporarily, particularly if they had already received something from him. Therefore, in these cases, he added a section to the files the consultants had given him called «Personal Account», in which he recorded by date: the amount given, either in cash or in kind, its purpose and the way the resources had been conferred.

Thus, items could be found in that exceptional auditing ledger, ranging from, what Castillo called ‘perks’, such as paying for plastic surgery for a female Senator, or the tuition fees for a Magistrate’s son at a university in the United States, to depositing funds in tax havens to win contracts, concessions, votes in Congress, court rulings in their favor or to purchase something that the government was selling that interested him. Besides their dossiers, it also included the names of some of the executives working in rival companies and information on their plans. These he would use as inside information later, to contest them in the market and even, in some cases, to facilitate their purchase.

These personal accounts were essentially a perverse auditing system for debts and credits unrelated to economic transactions but to favors given or received. Castillo maintained that their settlement always weighed in his favor, so that he could make use of them at his convenience. This was one of the reasons why he decided to take refuge in his principal partner, Marcos Monterrubio’s house.

§§§§

The diagnosis regarding Sebastian’s state of unconsciousness was not conclusive, because the first physician, who attended him, without more detailed studies of brain activity, had not wished to commit himself to defining its precise scope. Besides not recommending them, he suspected that the loss of consciousness was simply the effect of the terminal illness he was suffering and a symptom that was likely to accentuate as the illness progressed.

The reality was that until then, even unconscious, Sebastian could hear what was happening around him, but not always, and not everything. Sometimes he heard voices clearly, but sometimes they were barely audible, but he could not distinguish if they were far away or, if those speaking were deliberately whispering, to prevent him finding out anything. Despite this, they were the only link to his environment, because he was unable to open his eyes and had lost almost all feeling in his body. Nevertheless, even somewhat awkwardly, he could distinguish when they touched and moved him.

He still had the capacity to remember and think, although not always with the same coherency, because his mind ranged from total unconsciousness to periods when he was more lucid. This coming and going, in addition to being exhausting, he considered a cruel fate, because every time he sensed he was beginning to fade, it usually ended in a dizzy spell as though falling into a deep well, when he thought that it would be his last breath and he could finally rest. So, when he recovered and realized he was still alive, it was not a joyful experience, because it meant he returned to a body where his spirit was imprisoned and the likelihood of the fall from that imaginary cliff would undoubtedly happen again, without knowing if it would really be the last time.

Enough! Why don’t they let me go? It’s not my life they are prolonging, but my agony. If for me, they have been long gone from my life, why have they come back now? Damn the moment when Magda called them. I don’t know what they want, or what they hope to achieve with all this. Maybe they think this is a way to redeem themselves. But if that is so, they are doing it at the expense of my pain. They order, give directions and pay, because for the latter, they have plenty of money to afford everything; the analyses, clinical tests, doctors, nurses, medicines and damn machines that won’t let me die. These are the ones who are living for me.

Where is it written that when a person loses consciousness, life ceases to belong to him and others may dispose of it as they please? Where is it written that they should lengthen a suffering of which they do not experience, and lengthen the end to a point of extreme indignity, but which paradoxically, makes them feel relieved, believing that this is a way of exonerating their actions and omissions? What a way to clear their consciences! Why not reverse the roles? Hypocrites! Oh, what is it that they want? I don’t understand.

Magda is right. The novel makes me more alert; I even regain some energy when I hear it, although I don’t know how she can tell because I have no control over my body. Possibly, there are parts of me that respond to stimuli that I am not aware of. Maybe it's my eyelids, my fingers or a gesture, if my face can still show some expression, despite these damn tubes that hurt my throat and I’d like to tear this mask off because I have the sensation of plastic seeping into my skin.

I don’t understand why this happens. I know the novel by heart because I read it several times, and on countless occasions I raised the same questions about it, which in most cases had nothing to do with reality but responded more to the imagination of those that questioned me, as if they were waiting for my answers to transform their fantasies into facts that indeed occurred. «Think whatever you want», I’d say, or I resorted to ambiguity as a shield to avoid controversy or reveal things that were only mine because I was the only one who really knew. I know the subtext, the facts that were not reported and the dialogues that were spoken, which did not always correspond to the scenes and polished speech described by the author, with the intention of encouraging her readers to devour the pages right to the end.

I never wanted to talk to Amanda Toro despite her repeated attempts. She began by sending me e-mails almost daily. Then, taking advantage that I participated in a Congress held in Queretaro, she addressed me personally, but I managed to evade her insistence that we meet in private. Later, when she realized that my refusal was final, she tried to change my decision through close friends, even once using her female tactics, she tried to converse with Magda with the pretext of discussing a project of a book on orphans of the drug war. But realizing this was a trap, Magda reacted negatively and paid no attention. It soon became clear to both of us, that the greatest risk in talking to her was that she could use the encounter to legitimize her work to others once it was published, without even giving us the opportunity to read a draft before sending it to the printers, which I am sure she would never have accepted.

It was obvious that after talking to me, Amanda would try to tie up loose ends and look for the hidden connections of events that were slowly leaking into the public domain but only partially. This created a jig-saw puzzle which combined the truth, malicious and inaccurate comments, biased explanations of many of those involved or their relatives who sought to clear their memory, and confidences that began between two and ended up being heard by everyone. Added to this, was the modification that any political event undergoes when being subjected to popular imagination, a process that, spiced by the sensationalism of the media, usually converts the trivial into something sensational, while the transcendental remains hidden in morbid pyrotechnics, until many years later historians remove the layers of accumulated verbosity and fiction to try to understand and explain what they claim actually happened.

What if I have been selfish in keep many things to myself? Naturally! Because I lived them at close quarters and suffered firsthand the virulence of those events. That gives me the right to be the first to tell them. But ever since I began to think about publishing them when I felt that the storm had subsided, I realized that before writing the very first line, I had to allow some distance in time to cool my mind and let the years sieve through the memories that were worthwhile preserving. Many years later, when I had finished writing the manuscript of my memoirs, Magda and I decided that they should be published posthumously, because I considered that my involvement in that episode had ended forever, when I typed the final full stop at the end of the last paragraph of my book.

Perhaps because of all this, when I hear Magda read Amanda’s novel, it fills me with a certain energy and anxiety. I imagine that even in the state I am, my body must secrete some adrenaline when remembering those days that marked my life, not only because of the intensity of the events that I lived and took part in, but because little details continued to catch up with me and I suspect, right up till now.

How ironic of life, that in deciding that my work should be posthumous, it should coincide with the beginning of my end, as I was to find out a little later.

§§§§

The sound of a door slamming startled Ramiro Castillo abruptly from his ponderings, which put him immediately on the alert. He began to hear footsteps and voices approaching along the corridor leading to the library from the entrance hall. Despite his girth he stood up with relative agility. He walked to a mirror adjacent to the entrance, to groom himself. As he looked at his face, he noticed the bitterness in his expression and for the first time in many years felt a loser, so hoping to compose himself and not show signs of defeat, he fixed his tie and arranged his few scarce hairs with his hands, while impatiently waiting for the handle to turn by the man who would help him.

But suddenly the sound of heels in the corridor ceased completely, which made it easier to hear the voices which were so clear that they could be heard even inside the library. Even though the dialogue was conducted in low voices, it was easy to understand what they were saying.

—Shit. Why didn’t you call me before you let him in? It’s not as if you haven’t had clear instructions to contact me if anything abnormal occurs —grumbled Monterrubio irritably.

—Sorry Doctor, but he said he had just spoken with you and you had agreed to meet here. He even showed me his mobile phone —replied the guard trying to justify himself.

—Any idea if someone saw him come in? Where are his bodyguards? There is no one outside.

—He came alone. No one was with him. I didn’t see the dudes he always comes with. That’s what threw me because I could only see the chauffer from the booth, until I went out and Don Ramiro lowered his window to say he had spoken to you.

—Do you know what the hell has happened in the last few hours in this country? —Monterrubio asked with obvious anger.

—Well of course, the President died this morning.

—Is that the only news you’ve heard?

—Yes, just that; I don’t know nothing more —replied the guard surprised that any other serious thing might have happened without him knowing.

—I don’t understand, Genaro leaves you alone for just a moment, and you lot cause chaos.

—Sorry Doctor, it won’t happen again —said the guard ashamed.

—Go back to the guardhouse and tell them that I don’t want to be disturbed until I say so, and I forbid you and your partner on the door, to mention to anyone that Don Ramiro Castillo came to this house. I hope you understand the consequences if I find out that you were out there talking about this? —reiterated Monterrubio waving his index finger to emphasize the threatening nature of his