The First Cathedral

By Mariano Ruiz Guasch

Diego Vázquez, professor of history at the University of Compostela, travels to Cartagena to the funeral of his former friend and thesis tutor Jaime Fuentes. There he meets Sonia, daughter of the deceased, who gives her some books That Fuentes was working with at the time of her death.

When he plans to return home, at the train station, Vazquez is caught by a thief, who takes his books, forcing him to file a complaint and stay another day in the city.

A second robbery, this time in the late professor's home, will lead Vázquez and Sonia to resume the investigation left unfinished by his father, rebuilding the last week of Jaime Fuentes' life with the help of his personal agenda.

The indications and riddles left by the former tutor will lead you to visit different archaeological remains of the city of Cartagena, embarking on an adventure full of mysteries and conspiracies, where you will discover that history is perhaps not as you have been told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Aug 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071564103

Book preview

Prologue

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The sun fell like lead on the asphalt and reflected upwards as if it were a metal bottom. Jaime Fuentes walked with some haste through the port of Cartagena. He walked down the street at a brisk pace and sweat was beginning to leave dark marks around his armpits, on his shirt, and on his back. He pulled a perfectly folded handkerchief out of his trouser front pocket and sought support on the concrete wall of the National Museum of ­ Underwater Archaeology to catch his breath. He wasn't there for these trots anymore, it was said. He looked right and left and went back to the road.

Despite the appearances, of all the modernity of the 20th century, there were past facts that had not healed. One ­ believed that, at the moment, no one knew that it was about to be ­ uncovered, and that it would certainly turn the known history of the foundation of Spain upside down. But no, the important thing was to get to safety, not think about it and relax, feel the sound of his steps, the firm pulse of your heart...

He took a seat again, this time on a bench. He put his elbows on his knees and held his forehead. The thick hair of his youth had already disappeared almost completely and the drops of sweat pearled the slightly tanned skin of his clear forehead. He turned his sight suddenly and his gaze crossed a tall, dark-clad individual. He wasn't sure, but he thought he'd seen him before. He was convinced that he was followed, that his discovery was one of the most exciting events ­ of recent years, perhaps the entire history of Cartagena. And he was also aware that many people would be ready to wear anything so that it ­wouldn't come to light. So that individual he had just seen could be a simple ­pedestrian, or he could be a mercenary.

He got up again and walked faster. This time he no longer ­ got involved in hiding so much. He was going around town hitting the sidewalk, mistreating it, as if the cobblestones were to blame for not being foresighted enough for his daughter Sonia to accompany him. If his wife still lived... he was sure she would have advised him. She would have reassured him in his research, to serenade them, to pose them in the solitude of the office, in front of the ­computer. In the face of any finding, she would have suggested a tea and ­ a restful sleep. Then, with a clear mind, ­he moved away from the feverish moments of investigation, he would have gone out in peace, he would have been informing his colleagues, the different associations...

It was too late for that, no doubt. Irene had been dead  for years and Sonia had her life and he didn't want to bother her with the squats of an old teacher who misses the treatment with the students, the small academic quarrels, the debates and the bitter controversies with the co-workers. Not even Vazquez, his dear disciple, with whom he has not yet come into contact, knew anything about it.

Suddenly, that whirlwind of thoughts made him bump ­ into a passerby. The man lost his glasses and nerves and mouthed some improper insult that Professor Fuentes overlooked. Sweat had begun to perch on his eyebrows and his heart danced wildly on his chest.

He kept walking and as he looked back, he had a terrifying vision. It only lasted a moment. He couldn't even fix his face well, but it seemed to him that, above the average height of passers-by, he was flying over the sharp, pale face of the black-clad individual he had seen before. Yes, now he had no ­ doubt that he was being followed. Then he came to the Town Hall Square and waited there, in that central and busy place of the ­city where he would feel safe.

Just as he was turning around the Congress Palace, he had ­ had the first warning. A puncture tore his shoulder over his left arm and at that moment he was certain of the danger in his mouth. His tongue was dry, and his eyes were watery. He recalled ­ his GP's words and felt in danger. A real danger, not a latent one, possible, like that of its ­ pursuers. He took his hand into the top pocket of his shirt, where he always poured a tablet of Nitroglycerin. But there was nothing there. Lightning swept through his mind. And he stopped instantly. His heart was beating insistently, but with an irregular force, as if it had forgotten the rhythm of the melody and was in the middle of a jam session with strangers. Again, he searched his trouser pockets, and his shirt, but nothing. He had lost his lifeline.

A passerby stopped in front of him and asked him if he ­ was well. In the face of his silence, he looked for him. But he had her already lost on the floor, with all his efforts destined to think about where his pills might be. He did not notice how his legs loosened and his body fell, accompanied by the inexperienced hands of the pedestrian next to him, who helped him sit up on the ground. His sight was lost in the sky, through the faces of those who stood to help him, through them, getting to see the ­ stale blue that the intense midday light was trying to hide. Gradually, the whiteness flooded everything and erased the faces of the people and the sky, and reached the edges of his field of ­ vision, expanding with silence, turning off all the senses. Just before, a second earlier, he thought again of his wife Irene, Sonia, his daughter, and Vazquez. Then that nothing white and uniform ­ contaminated it all and took with it any sign of life. Then nothing. Nothing took over everything.

I. Encounter

Diego Vázquez had never been to Cartagena. As he arrived, he observed the rugged, whitish, limestone landscape, with frightening vegetation that had barely gotten wet, reminding him that it was a long way from the Atlantic freshness of the city ­ in which he lived. Although he liked swimming in the sea and sunbathing on the beach, he preferred the freshness of Santiago de Compostela in summer. Besides, the reason for his arrival was not too cheerful.

In any case, it felt privileged to be able to visit Cartagena, the Roman city already mentioned by the Greek historian Polybio. Famous for its port sheltered between ­ mountains, its five hills, and its Roman theater, it had undergone a great transformation in recent decades, in which it had opened to tourism. Until then, the city had been dedicated to industry and mining, sheltered in that corner of the stretched peninsula towards Cape Palos.

The inner light of the car reflected his own image and forced him to make a great effort to appreciate the landscape beyond the glass. Bordering the outskirts of the city, after a last curve, the contaminated land of an old factory gave way to the platforms of the station and, a few meters ­ further, its majestic modernist building, built by Victor Beltrí at the beginning of the  twentieth century, when Cartagena lived its maximum ­ splendor thanks to the mines of La Union, a few kilometers from the city.

The train was twenty-five minutes late. He opened the fine leather briefcase, where he wore a change of clothes, and kept the pocketbook which had served as a distraction for much of the way. He chose a crime novel, which focused less on background, but on action in the plot, which forced events to push the characters to act or die. He did not see himself as a man of action and the death of his former teacher had made him suddenly feel ­ tired.

He tried to take that feeling out of his head and, without wasting time, he went outside the car. The damp, warm breeze struck his face. The sun was already low. He stretched out his shirt and he loved a couple of teenagers in love who seemed to re-connect after a long ­ time, although perhaps, at their age, it would mean a week. A little further, a mother who kept the last outbursts of maturity expected her child to be uneasy. She looked left and right, until a stout man, with a bag in a shoulder bag, stood in front of her and gave her a hug. No matter how old you are as a loving mother; you will always be the child who can't tie your shoes. Together with her, a couple of brothers, men and women, waited silently for their parents. Each wore a sour face when they were not spending their best moments, but they could pretend­ when the parents arrived, who wore wide straw hats and made them take them off immediately. Meanwhile, Diego Vázquez was walking towards one end of the station, which was clearing as if that were a brief act that was repeated at every entrance of Madrid's Altaria. He felt like a spectator because no one was going to pick him up. As in so many situations since he had ­ resigned, he was alone. Completely alone. 

He left the platform behind with hugs and kisses and crossed

the empty hall of the station. On the street, a newly renovated promenade welcomed tourists. He looked both ways and saw only two taxis at his stop. He caught one of them, and said, St. Lucia Cemetery, please. 

The taxi driver grinned by pursing his lips at his companion, ­ and tore off in the vehicle, a white Peugeot 407. Its interior smelled like a mixture of tobacco, plastic and cheap air freshener that was heavy. To reach the cemetery, they first went down the Cuesta del Batel, leaving the right the Wall of Charles III and the university campus. After a roundabout, the taxi left behind the city and the dock.

The taxi driver stared at the passenger through the rearview mirror from time to time, to confirm that he was still there. The station's voices alerting potential customers and responding taxi drivers overlapped over the current tunes that sounded in the background. At one point, the taxi driver turned off the radio and the voices were hollowed.

To hell with it, he said, they don't play anything good on the radio anymore.

Vazquez had not spoken to anyone for so long, that he felt the words as something distant, strange to himself, and did not just take the compass of his lips, that they were fluttering in ­unison in the central rearview mirror. The taxi driver seemed eager to find topics of conversation that would avoid silence, but in the face of Vazquez's taciturn attitude he gave up.

We're here, he said as he approached the cemetery's entrance portal. Then he stopped the vehicle. If you wish, I can wait for you here.

Vazquez looked around and saw no trace of other taxis there. He thought of how bleak it is to be left alone in a ­ strange, disoriented city, not knowing what to do or where to go.

Thank you. I appreciate it, he answered at last. He looked at the hour on his watch. I won't be long.

I’m sorry for your loss.

After saying goodbye to the man, he went through the large iron gate doors that were open and set out to locate the person he had gone to that place for. He climbed the soft hillside down an old cobbled walk of wide slats, with large ­ pantheons on the sides. In other circumstances, he would ­ have had to admire the different constructions and their typologies, to analyze the surname of those who rested there, but due to the time it, he pressed his step in search of his destiny. His only ­ pre-occupation was to arrive on time.

He immediately spotted the first people, who were whispering in the distance. Among those present, he was able ­ to discern the coffin, polished and shiny wood. Just behind, a tall, thin young woman often carried a white handkerchief to her face. Her face was whitish, perhaps highlighted by the large dark glasses behind which she concealed the tears, and the black dress that surrounded her neck. She had a slender size and not even the sadness overshadowed her natural and beautiful features. The fleshy lips, carmine color, surely suffered the effect of being bitten. She kept her head down, her eyes centered on the coffin. Occasionally, she would look up and make a slight smile, thanking someone for their presence. Most of those present were young, which showed the preaching of the deceased among his students. When the priest finished saying a few words, two operatives lowered ­ the coffin to the bottom of the dug hole. She was about to cry as she took a small ceremonial shovel and tossed in dirt. The pebbles and rubble on the wood sounded like broken glass in the middle of the night.

Then one of the two operatives, the youngest, ­ filled the hole with dirt. When people began parading towards the exit, Vazquez slowly approached. That woman must certainly have been Sonia, the daughter of the late Professor Fuentes. She stood still, as two bright grooves emerged behind the smoky glasses and ran through her face.

He didn’t dare come any closer at that moment of ­ personal recollection. Even the sun tried to show its respect and retreated while the cemetery clerk, who had already ­ mined his work, said goodbye to those present. With a fragile appearance and short mane, Sonia was a young woman who had not reached her 30s. She still remained in front of the tomb for a ­ while, as the sky began to acquire the yellow and orange ­ nuances of the long summer sunsets. When he wanted to realize it, there were only the two of them left in the field. Vazquez began to feel a little ridiculous, but he always respected his duel. He knew that those were the hardest moments in a person's life, especially when death came suddenly.

Sonia then took off her sunglasses and said goodbye to her father one last time. For the first time since she was doing it, she ­ looked up. She was surprised to notice his presence and walked towards him.

I thought I was alone...

I'm sorry about your father, he was quick to say Vazquez, as he approached her with his hand outstretched.

Thank you. You must be....

Diego Vazquez, he interrupted to avoid an awkward moment. He was sure she had too many things in his head to think about who she had communicated the news to and who didn't.  Professor at the University of Santiago de Compostela. You called me, remember? We don't know each other in person.

Oh, yes! Of course. Professor Vazquez... You don't have a Galician accent... how exactly did he know my father?

Although I work in Compostela, I'm from Valladolid, so I don't have an accent. James Fuentes was the tutor for my doctoral thesis. We met in Madrid.

In Madrid? That's a long time ago. And yet you've been able to come... fifteen, twenty years later?

That's right, Vázquez confirmed. Then I went back to Com ­ postela. I understand he went back to Murcia.

Sonia was visibly upset.

He retired two years ago.  He was just beginning to enjoy his retirement...  And after these words she remained silent.

Surely, she came up with many other things, such as that life was unfair, that life is over and nobody realizes it, or others of the sort. But she didn't. Instead, she threw a look­ directly at him, in which she told him that she was sorry for him, too. Vazquez was moved. That woman, in the middle of her ­ tense pain, also understood that her father was not only her ­ father, and that he felt her loss, that she recognized the journey of more than a thousand miles to attend the burial of a person he had not seen for a long time, who he had once met and paid deep ­ respect.

Maybe I shouldn't have called. I'm sorry if you've been upset.

Don't worry, he said, and then he hurried to ­clarify his words. I held the professor in high esteem. James was a model for a lot of researchers like me. If I'm here, it's because I'm so sorry for your loss. Your call really overwhelmed me.

While they were talking, they had not stopped walking at a slow pace, and now they were at the outside door of the cemetery. On the footpath several relatives were waiting next to their vehicles. Someone opened a door and kept waiting.

Are you staying tonight? Sonia asked. If you want, you can stop by my father's house tomorrow and checkout the documents he was working ­with.

He hesitated for a second, but his intuition told him to accept the invitation.

Whatever you want.

Tomorrow at the Plaza del Icue. Do you know where it is? At noon.

Vazquez held his hand out to say goodbye, but Sonia came up and kissed him on the cheek, as she squeezed his shoulder.

Thank you for coming, Diego, she said in a warm tone.

She then got into the vehicle. When the car ­disappeared from his sight, Diego Vazquez stared at the deserted street, as if the trail persisted in his retina.

As he walked towards the taxi, he could not help but think of her, the impression so strong that that woman had made of overwhelming fortitude. Professor James Fuentes had never told him about his daughter, so when she called him the day before informing me of her father's death, he was surprised by both the call and the actual death itself. If this had been another person, he might have apologized for not being able to go. Vazquez didn't like planes and the prospect of such a long journey could have finished taking away his desire. But part of his personality ­ as a teacher had been forged thanks to James. He ­ also owed him about warning him of the vacancy of Compostela and the opportunity that, over the years, had become his life, his passion. 

Despite the many hours of travel from Santiago de Compostela, including a transfer to Madrid, he had not booked a hotel. Although he had a mobile phone with internet, the truth was that he hardly used it and was not at all familiar with it. Thus, he had no choice but to let himself be advised by that prudent and talkative taxi driver, who was pleased to help him and to ­ receive a good tip.

The hotel that