Known Truth, Appreciated Lie
I
“Asta la Noche!” were the last words, Maria heard her husband say. Then he left the apartment and went for work.
She still stood in the kitchen, preparing a snack for their two children before they would leave for school, when he rushed down the stairs of the apartment building.
Jose Miguel was late again when he left the house. Too nice were the moments he could spend with his family in the morning. The time together during breakfast was the only moment to ask his children, Marta and Juan, about happenings at school and how they did spent there off time after they came home. And when did he have the time to enjoy Maria’s home made tortillas for Breakfast.
It was 7.24 am when Jose left the house through the entrance door, turning right on the sidewalk,
Walking to his car he parked the evening before a street down from his house.
That evening he returned home late, after a long meeting in his office, discussing the security procedures during the upcoming opening of a museum in Madrid, which would be attended by the Royal Family. It was late and he did not find a spot to park his car in front of the house he lived.
Now he rushed down the street, closing the buttons of his uniform. His mind still focused on the breakfast he just had. He could still smell the fresh coffee, hear the children’s voices. But he had to remind himself that he was running late.
7.26 am, in 30 minutes he had to be in his office. He turned left into Calle Pedro Barreda and crossed the street. While walking the last meters to his Seat, he reached into his uniform pocket, taking out the car keys. He unlocked the door, entered the car and placed his case on the seat to his right. Then he reached to the door handle and pulled the door to close it.
It was 7.28 am when Jose Miguel Reques put the keys into the ignition and turned them to the right. He thought about his wife Maria, his children Marta and Juan and about ……
You could hear the explosion through the streets of Madrid.
II
It was one of these normal mornings, on one of these normal working days for the people of Madrid. And like every morning, this one too was a special one for Mark Russell. He loved the city since he came here the first time about 6 months ago.
He left the hotel, which stood in the Calle Gran Via and made his way down to the Plaza del Sol where he usually took his breakfast in one of the cafés.
Of course, the breakfast at the hotel would have been for free and the variety more pleasant, but he loved to watch Madrid waking up during the morning, having a Café con Leche, a fresh pressed orange juice and a Spanish Tortilla. It was a routine, that started with leaving the hotel, buying the International Herald Tribune at a newspaper stand at El Corte Ingles and ended by finding an empty seat in one of the cafés.
No he sat at one of the tables inside, nearly leaning against the window that faced the Plaza del Sol, sometimes looking into the newspaper, sometimes watching the people, who passed by the café on their way to work or too, trying to find an empty seat in a café.
The Herald Tribune, an international paper published by the Washington Post and the New York Times, was the only Morning lecture Mark cared about. And if he would not be able to find an issue of it in the morning, coffee, juice and tortilla wouldn’t taste as good and the awakening of Madrid would not be interesting to him at all. And this rule did not exist for Spain only.
The way of reading the newspaper was too, a never broken routine. Starting with the last pages, he worked his way through the latest results in sport, then through the financial part, then through the headlines of the worlds news.
This morning, the sports pages didn’t give away anything interesting, even the hockey season was in mid term and the European Soccer leagues had half of their season games played.
Microsoft had been sued again and the stock markets all around the world were undecided in moving up or down.
The world news didn’t mention anything worth reading, besides some election results of some third world countries. And one article about the now 18 month long truce of the ETA, the Basque group, fighting for an independent Country. What a blessing for Spain. Euskadi at askatasuna hadn’t launched any attacks since 18 months. No people killed by car bombs. No business buildings destroyed. It seemed, that the mass protests in the cities of the country had their impact on the Basque fighters. Perhaps they realized now, that there would be a peaceful way of, that of peaceful words instead of bombs, to get an independent Basque country, or at least, some way of independence. Not really a political way, but one of communication.
Mark ordered another coffee while he observed the busy place in front of the café. The sun sent its first rays through the streets of Madrid. More wasn’t possible, to high had the Madrilènes built their houses at that part of the city. Only in a couple of hours would the sun shine fully onto the Plaza del Sol.
The waitress brought him the coffee and the bill. He paid with a 2,000 Peseta note and emptied the obligatory bag of sugar into the cup of coffee. Mark stirred the coffee while reading an article about the “Dry Foot/Wet Foot Policy” of the American Government to prevent further Cuban immigration when suddenly an explosion …….
Without moving his head, Mark looked at the people who just seconds ago were rushing across the Plaza. Now it seemed like somebody pressed the Pause Button of a DVD Player and one could look at every single person standing on the Square. But it wasn’t a DVD Players picture. People stood there, frozen, shocked, and in fear. One could see the horror in their faces. They looked at each other, wordless asking, who now, after 18 months of truce, was the first victim, again.
Mar Russell shook his head in disbelieve. He folded his newspaper, sipped a last time on his coffee, got up from the table and left the café. He looked at his watch, it was 7.29 am.
In front of the café, he entered a taxi whose driver obviously still stood under shock. He didn’t even hear Mark entering the car. Only when Mark touched the drivers right shoulder, the man recognized his presence. Mark leaned back in the back seat and said “Calle Nuñez de Balboa. El Embachada de Canada por favor!”
