The Madrid Trumpet Affair

By Richard Esteves

Mike Atxaga, a 28 year old musician from New York City, goes to Europe for the first time to carry out a list of tasks left to him by his recently deceased grandmother, and also search for an older brother who mysteriously falls off the map for years at a time. His voyage leads the reader through a cultural tour of Madrid, Basque Country, and Paris with a backdrop of music and gastronomy. During his explorations he encounters a sexy flight attendant, a Nigerian saxophonist, and a myriad of other colorful characters who reflect Spain during times of economic crisis. A labyrinth of clues are weaved together as Mike becomes tangled up in an assassination with global ramifications, sending him on the lam, looking for answers, and not knowing if he has anyone left to trust. A journey of tapas, jazz clubs, parks, and old man bars evolves into a suspenseful tale of desperation and political chaos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Esteves
• Release date: Sep 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370785810

Richard Esteves

A family trip to Madrid and Lisbon in 1999 gave me the thirst to explore Europe more profoundly. For the next several years thereafter I returned with a backpack and a Eurail pass for two to three months at a time. After sampling the culture in predominantly, but not limited to, Mediterranean countries, I eventually moved to Madrid. While teaching English as a foreign language to professionals, I have been digging into the history, culture, architecture, music, and gastronomy of Spanish culture through journeys throughout the peninsula.My first book, The Madrid Trumpet Affair, was written with the objective of giving the reader an informal tour through Madrid, among other places, where descriptions of the sights, smells, sounds, and tastes evoke the essence of Madrid and Spain during the current era where economic crisis, immigration, and political turmoil are all coming to a head. Music is fundamental in the novel, featuring an eclectic variety of jazz, Latin jazz, Spanish coplas, flamenco, Cuban son, and other selections from the Americas, Africa, Europe and beyond.

Book preview

PART 1

Sketches of Spain

United States Senator Jake Higginbottom was found brutally murdered in the early morning hours in Paris. He was the victim of a violent attack which has investigators scrambling to piece together the clues. The Oklahoma Senator was a rising star of the Republican party and one of the favorites of the GOP for his hardline positions. Higginbottom had been rumored to be in the running for Secretary of Defense or State assuming the surging Republicans took the next Presidential election. At the moment, no terrorist group has claimed responsibility for the murder, although questions about Al Qaeda's involvement have come to the forefront. The Senator was fatally bludgeoned with a trumpet.

French resident of Senegalese nationality Zeyna Diouf was also found at the scene and was rushed to a local hospital. Her current state is critical.

***

It was mid-July, five weeks earlier, during times of crisis. Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean a flight attendant gently tapped the shoulder of the passenger seated by the window in the last row of economy class. His eyes were glued to a pocket size Moleskine notebook, his ears were covered with headphones, and his mind was miles away from seat 34A. Slightly startled, he jumped at her nudge, as if awoken from a dream. He had been hypnotized by John Coltrane's Live at the Village Vanguard, adrift in thought. Snapping out of it and removing his headphones, he looked up at a pair of chocolate brown eyes and a warm smile. Would you like something to drink, sir?

Sure, a cup of coffee, please.

You must be reading something quite interesting, I had been standing next to you for a good minute without you noticing me.

Sorry, I'm looking over some notes I have for my stay in Madrid. Are you a Madrid native by chance?

Yes, all my life.

Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?

Not at all, do you need some sightseeing ideas?

Not exactly, but more or less.

Let me finish collecting the rubbish, and I'll be back in a few minutes.

He had the slightly scruffy appearance of many young American travelers, wearing faded jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, Chuck Taylor sneakers, and a New York Yankees hat that had gotten use since the the World Series years of the late 1990's. Yet with his Mediterranean looks and fluent Spanish, he could easily pass for a Spanish native.

The New Yorker sipped his coffee, hoping to ease the exhaustion and put his thoughts in order. Within a few weeks his life had been turned upside down. The death of his grandmother, the person who raised him most of his life, was still fresh on his mind. In addition to dealing with the funeral arrangements, he had to sell, donate, or store what was left of their possessions and move out of the no longer rent-controlled apartment in New York's Upper East Side. Furthermore, there was the frustration of trying to track down his older brother Ace. With him he had his prized trumpet, a large backpack of clothes, his grandparents' ashes, and a list of tasks she had left him to carry out.

She came to the U.S. from Spain with her husband in 1958, never to return again. Mike sometimes wondered why she had never visited, nor shown any interest in doing so until recently. Perhaps sensing death looming, she knew a final opportunity would slip away if she didn't go soon. They had organized a trip for September, under the belief that she would be in better health by then.

Naturally, returning to Spain couldn't have been a priority. The responsibility of raising two orphaned grandchildren had fallen on her shoulders. Nevertheless, their apartment maintained an air of Spain between the Spanish coplas she would play on the record player and the culinary delights she prepared for her grandsons. Mike supposed a longing for Spain and the trip they were supposed to take was what compelled her to make her final wishes a list of tasks for her grandson to undertake on his first journey to Europe.

The overhead lights were turned off in the cabin, as most of the passengers were dozing off or gazing at the screen on the back of the seat in front of them. The curvy flight attendant took the empty seat next to him. So what would you like to know, sir?

Please, call me Mike.

Hello Mike, I'm Rosana, and for someone who has never visited Spain you sure have an accent of a born and bred Madrileño.

That would be to my late grandmother's credit. I grew up speaking Spanish at home, and she grew up in Madrid. She passed away a few weeks ago and my life has been a bit of a whirlwind ever since. Unfolding a map of Madrid, he asked which neighborhoods she recommended for him to stay on a budget. It's my first time to Spain, and I haven't done much research. I've got a list of things to do, places to visit.

May I look at your notebook?

Absolutely.

This is in three different languages. she commented as she leafed through a handful of pages.

My grandmother used to switch back and forth from Spanish to English depending on the topic or situation. There are some place names in Basque, but she also had a habit of using the Basque words for different foods or dishes. My grandfather came from San Sebastián.

You have some interesting tasks here, although I think your grandmother just wanted to make sure you kept a full stomach.

You know how grandmothers are.

How long will you be staying in Madrid?

I'm staying for a month initially, and as you can see in the notebook I'll be going to San Sebastián and Paris. However, I've got an open-ended ticket so I've got plenty of options. Really, I'd like to explore Spain, and Madrid seems as good a base as any. I'm also trying to find my brother, who I believe is somewhere in Europe.

You believe?

Yeah, long story. He shook his head as he pulled out a few business cards which his brother had left behind in between the pages of a book the last time he was home more than a year earlier.

The flight attendant took them, I've never heard of this one, but El Schotis is out of business. It's a pity, they had the best tortilla in the city.

Their whispered conversation continued, as Mike asked about the music scene, restaurant recommendations, other advice which wouldn't be obvious for a first time tourist, and anything else that couldn't be missed. You can write directly on the map, he requested. While she gave her pointers and advice he admired her tanned skin, shoulder length wavy dark hair, and luscious brown eyes, but tried not to seem obvious. He had the sensation the attraction was mutual, but wasn't sure if that was his normally sharp instincts or wishful thinking.

One last question. Would a pretty Spanish flight attendant accept an invitation to a Madrid café from a visitor from New York? Blushing and feebly hiding back her smile, Rosana got up without saying a word and returned to the flight attendant station.

Mike leafed through the New York Post. The front page story was Hugo Chavez ranting about imperialist Yankee swine while speaking at the UN, agitated over a growing political movement to invade Cuba. With little interest he turned the pages through more details about the ongoing stalemate in Congress, the President being accused of being soft internationally, and the usual Middle East tensions.

He barely got to the back page story about a possible Yankee blockbuster trade to bring Albert Pujols and Clayton Kershaw to the Bronx before Miles Davis' Shhh/Peaceful from the In a Silent Way album lulled him to sleep.

Attention passengers, kindly return your seat to the upright position and...

Mike tried not to be obvious as he watched the pretty flight attendant approaching, checking that all was in order for landing. Excuse me sir, please put your tray table away. she uttered in a professional distant manner, as she discreetly set a slip of paper onto his Moleskine notebook. Quietly she leaned toward Mike gesturing for him to move up his seat and said, I'll have a few days off next week if you'd like to invite me for that coffee. A momentary glance into his eyes and she disappeared into the back.

***

Groggily exiting the metro at Puerta del Sol, the morning sun burned through his sunglasses. He slowly wandered about taking it all in as Tito Puente's Golden Latin Jazz All Stars were blazing through New Arrival on his MP3 player. Women carried El Corte Inglés bags, animated protesters chanted against cuts in social programs, and tourists flocked around the Oso y Madroño statue taking photographs. In the center stood the equestrian statue of Carlos III, also known as the Mayor King for the numerous works undertaken in Madrid during his reign. Mike remembered his abu telling him about the Times Square of Madrid being elbow to elbow with Spaniards eating twelve grapes during the New Year's eve countdown. The famous Tío Pepe sign overlooked the official center of Spain, sub-Saharan immigrants wore neon colored Compramos Oro vests, and buskers worked their shtick, who included various Disney characters and a fat bullfighter. A sombrero wearing mariachi band played, and Mike thought what a novel way to further confuse Americans about Spanish culture.

After consulting the map and getting his bearings, he started up one of the narrow streets going into the Huertas neighborhood in search of a cheap shithole to call home for the next month. A dilapidated sign, which looked as if it had neither been changed nor cleaned in half a century, stated Rooms, Zimmer, Chambre along with Englisch Spoken written on the bottom. When he entered the ramshackle third floor walk-up, he was greeted by a tired old woman walking down the hall with her arms full of bed sheets to go in the wash. She hollered to her husband to handle the newcomer. The owner, showing no signs of any knowledge of Englisch, was more than happy to negotiate a discounted long term stay, so long as it was cash up front. Mike took the room at the end of the hall which consisted solely of a single bed, a wooden chair, and a sink. It had one window looking out on an interior patio, the contents of which were laundry quickly drying on the clotheslines. A shared bathroom in the hall looked clean but unchanged since before the transition to democracy. His grandmother had left him a comfortable amount of money to go along with his own savings, but Mike preferred to spend it in ways other than on a room in which he would sparingly spend any waking hours.

Instead of giving in to sleepiness, the trumpeter took a hot shower and went to the streets to take in the atmosphere. Around the corner in Plaza de Santa Ana restaurant staff were setting up tables and chairs in the square, toddlers frolicked in the small playground under the watchful eyes of chatting mothers and grandmothers, and delivery trucks unloaded kegs and crates of beer and soft drinks. In front of the Teatro Español stood the statue of Federico García Lorca, the poet who was tragically murdered by Franco's troops during the civil war. At the opposite side of the plaza was a statue of Calderón de la Barca, a prolific 17th century playwright. He kept wandering the neighborhood until he found a café smelling of hot breakfast and unapologetic decadence.

The bartender, a man who looked devoid of emotions, made eye contact with Mike. "Un café con leche y un pan tumaca, por favor." While waiting he scanned the walls admiring several old framed sepia photographs of Madrid in the early 20th century, including women washing clothes by the Manzanares river with the Almudena cathedral in the background and another of the construction of Las Ventas bullring. Minutes later he indulged in a steaming cup of coffee and a toasted baguette drizzled with olive oil and smothered in crushed tomatoes. He couldn't help but think of his abu, as this was the breakfast they'd often have together while starting each day.

Three old men sat at a table in the back room sipping their coffees and fresh squeezed orange juices and discussing whether Mariano Rajoy or Angela Merkel really governed Spain.

How many decisions do you really think he's made? I'm telling you, he's not painting a bathroom in Moncloa without calling Berlin.

Another pensioner at the table chimed in, What I don't understand is his rhetoric. He claims that we've got no choice in any of these macro-economic financial matters. If not, then why did we elect him? Just to follow some unchangeable plan and not offer anything else? Is that the best we have? A marionette being controlled by a German?

Mike grabbed a stool and thumbed through the various Spanish newspapers lying on the bar, part of a routine he would maintain on a daily basis. He'd often get up and come straight to breakfast while the early rush of guests were occupying the bathroom, then return to the hostel to shower and perhaps grab his trumpet. The newspapers were a good way to get a feel for current events, culture, and also find out about the live music scene. The headlines revolved around the sky high unemployment rate, political corruption cases, and Real Madrid negotiating the transfer of Dutch striker Robin Van Persie.

Mike took one last look at his map before folding it up and putting it in his back pocket. By Rosana's recommendation, any visitor's first trip to Madrid should begin in Plaza Mayor, advice she said was more or less the norm for practically every city, town, or village in Spain. He cut back through Plaza de Santa Ana and into the adjacent Plaza de Angel where he saw Café Central, drawn to it by the poster in the window advertising the jazz band playing that week. Mike entered, picked up a pamphlet with descriptions of the monthly shows, gave the place a look, and went back to the street. He continued towards Plaza Mayor at a snail's pace, looking in windows, checking out restaurant menus, observing the people. Upon entering Plaza de Benavente, he noticed a suspicious increase in women of various ages in high heeled shoes lingering around. Further down homeless people gathered while a pair of dogs laid on the ground next to their belongings. At first glance it appeared the dogs were cleaner than the owners, and undoubtedly soberer.

He entered Plaza Mayor through the Arco de Gerona, one of the nine entryways, and was immediately impressed by the sheer size of it. An NFL football field could fit inside it. Constructed in the early 17th century, through time it has been the venue of bullfights, concerts, and public executions during the Inquisition. Terraces with dozens of tables waited for patrons on each of the short sides of the plaza, as sharply dressed waiters greeted passing tourists politely offering a prime seat in the plaza. Mike saw a fat Spiderman bantering with a group of visitors, one of several buskers which included a headless sailor in uniform, a sitting woman who looked like she was covered in mud, and human statues of a biker and a snowboarder inexplicably frozen in mid-air. The statue of King Felipe III on a horse presided in the center of the plaza. Enclosed by one continuous four story structure, it was painted red except the north side which had elaborate colorful figures and scenes interspersed between windows. Mike walked back to the perimeter to take a lap. The ground floor was lined with restaurants, tourist shops selling soccer memorabilia, postcards, fridge magnets, and abanicos, the traditional fans women use to bear the long Spanish summers. There was a shop selling quality boinas, along with other varieties of hats, priced anywhere from five to two hundred euros in the front window. Mike went through each of the nine arches exploring the inlets to the plaza. Numerous shops were dedicated to stamp and coin collecting. Others featured military collectibles, or porcelain figurines. The smell of fried calamari sandwiches periodically crossed Mike's nose. There was a Museo de Jamón that was more to Mike's taste than most museums. Scaffolding lined the south side of the plaza, and Mike chose to walk under the arcade below it. A few homeless men were curled up on large pieces of cardboard, a stark contrast to the bright eyed tourists walking about. The wooden boards covering the windows and entrances were littered with unimaginative graffiti scrawl. Mike winced as the unmistakable stench of urine found his nose.

Glancing at the map again, Mike left the plaza through the Arco de Toledo and descended the ramp until he saw a little old man, happy as can be, doing a dance, singing flamenco style, keeping the beat with his cane tapping on the square metal plate he was standing on. When people passed by and looked at him, he pointed with his cane to the little basket for tips. Mike left him a coin. The man continued with his moves and gave him a one tooth grin. He hooked a right and was drawn to a place on the left called La Revuelta. Any time a food serving establishment was that full it had to be for good reason. Not only was it full, but it was full of older locals. Mike squeezed his way in, working his way up to the bar, where all the staff looked like lifers. It was clear what to order with one look at the many small sized dishes on the bar, a tajada de bacalao, a battered and fried hunk of codfish. The chatter was at a boisterous level, with a circle of old men going on and on about José Tomás, the top bullfighter who had barely escaped death in the ring recently. An antique clock adorned the corner near the ceiling, and an old framed map of Madrid along with other classic Madrid shots provided atmosphere. The bottom half of the wall was covered in azulejos, the painted tiles so common in Spain depicting various designs or traditional scenes. As tempted as Mike was to order another hunk of codfish or three, he wanted to pace himself. He exited into Puerta Cerrada, an open area giving breathing room at the intersection of Calle Segovia, Cava Baja, and Calle de Cuchilleros.

Mike turned up Calle de Cuchilleros and passed tourists posing for group photos in front of Restaurante Botín, the oldest running restaurant in the world. Others entered much more interested in digging into roast lamb or suckling pig than a Kodak moment.

A man stood outside Restaurante Luís Candelas dressed exactly as the legendary bandit from the early 19th century on the sign, with a red vest and cummerbund over a protruding belly, and toting a rifle.

Just up the street were more places Rosana had marked on the map, in particular the several mesones of various themes. These are inn style taverns which have preserved their stone architecture and dark ambiance, and look as if they should be full of mercenaries and conquistadores. There was the Mesón de Boqueron, Mesón de Tortilla, Mesón de Champiñón, Mesón de Guitarra, among others. Mike spent the next few hours indulging in draft beer and noshing on tapas, soaking up the ancient atmosphere, chitchatting with the other tourists and wait staff who were eager to keep the tables full of drinks and food.

Feeling not quite full and slightly buzzed Mike took a walk through the Mercado de San Miguel. The iron structure was a traditional market where fruit, vegetables, meats, and fish were sold in the past, but had been remodeled to double as an upscale meeting place for people to sip on wine and pick on tapas. Japanese tourists snapped photographs while others jostled their way to the next stall or hurried to claim a rare open seat. Mike took a walk through the market, enjoying the smells. Dozens of stalls offered everything from freshly shucked raw oysters and cava, Catalonia's version of champagne, to paella made in pans the size of gladiator shields to sushi and saké to croquettes or sherry wine. At each end of the market was a bar and a variety of stands offered fresh fruit, olives, pastries, and countless other products. Mike's mouth watered at the seafood booth. A woman tended the grill, as patrons pointed at chipirones, razor clams, mussels, and carabineros to be grilled and gobbled down. The variety was astounding, such delicacies as sea urchins or barnacles were available. At the next stand fresh blended juices were made to order, with or without rum. Mike found himself a glass of oloroso sherry wine and made his way towards the codfish stand. The tajada he had at La Revuelta had sparked a codfish craving. Slabs of frozen bacalao were on offer along with a variety of tapas also consisting of anchovies or herring. For a euro each Mike ordered a pair of tapas of brandada de bacalao. The tapa was a slice of bread covered with a codfish/potato/garlic spread. In the seating area a German couple was kind enough to let him set his goodies on the corner of the table. He spent the next ten minutes sipping the wine, nibbling away, people watching, and catching whiffs of the plates passing nearby.

As tempted as he was to continue the caña and tapa session around Plaza Mayor, he continued down Calle Mayor. Just past the Mercado de San Miguel he encountered Plaza de la Villa, a square lined with historic buildings from the 16th and 17th centuries. One of which was the Casa de la Villa, which housed City Hall from 1693 to 2007 until the presiding mayor made the half billion euro move to the Correos building at the Cibeles roundabout. Just off the plaza there was a small shop run by nuns selling pastries, marmalades, and cookies.

Continuing down Calle Mayor he approached La Almudena, the 19th century neo-Romanic cathedral. He walked down the side of it to a park where the oldest manmade remnants of Madrid stood, an Islamic wall from 860 to 880 AD, when the Moors controlled much of Spain. He sat on a bench in the park, oddly empty, thinking about his abu, about her talking about soon enough strolling through Madrid, evidently overly optimistic about her health.

Mike walked back up and past the cathedral, where there was a massive square with tour groups wandering about. Just opposite the square was the Royal Palace. A man with an accordion played by the long queue waiting to pay admission to the Palacio Real, an enormous edifice with over three thousand rooms, designed in the same style as the palace at Versailles, France. In front of the Royal Palace was the Plaza de Oriente, with an equestrian statue of King Felipe IV gracing the center. Shrubs and benches lined the paths in between a row of statues of the twenty Gothic Kings overlooking each side of the perimeter. There were artists, mostly caricaturists, a girl selling handmade jewelry, and a trumpeter with an amp playing Miles' So What. Mike dropped a coin in the case and veered his attention to the Teatro Real, the opera house where Plácido Domingo often performed. Next to it was the terrace of the posh Cafe de Oriente where tourists and locals alike enjoyed snifters of Spanish coñac or soft drinks. Having gotten the initial sense of the tourist hub, Mike wandered up towards Plaza Ramales, built above the supposed location of 17th century painter Diego Velazquez' remains. Zigzagging around the small alleys he encountered a mishmash of upscale wine bars, Spanish and Arabic restaurants, and shops stopped in time where guitars and violins were still made by hand. He made his way down to the pedestrian street leading into the Plaza de Isabel II, Calle Arenal, on the opposite side of the opera house from the Royal Palace.

Young tourists zipped by on segways, and an old couple sat against the wall, the man playing guitar and the woman singing. He came up to the Iglesia de San Ginés, which rang a bell, but he couldn't remember why. It held