The Blackout

By Esteban Navarro Soriano

In a small town located in northern Spain, electricity has mysteriously stopped working. Batteries, cellphones, vehicles, and even all types of machines don't work anymore. 

The government sends several agents to investigate the murder of the owner of one of the bars in town, the rape of a girl, and the suicide of the local priest. Apparently, all those deaths are related to the blackout. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Aug 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781071578858

Book preview

The Blackout

Esteban Navarro Soriano

––––––––

Translated by Ana Lucía Fábrega 

The Blackout

Written By Esteban Navarro Soriano

Copyright © 2023 Esteban Navarro Soriano

All rights reserved

Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Translated by Ana Lucía Fábrega

Cover Design © 2023 Esteban Navarro (based image from Shutterstock)

Babelcube Books and Babelcube are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

To Ester. To Raúl. To Rufus

To my family. To my home

The only mystery of the universe is if there is a mystery of the universe.

Fernando Pessoa.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

María Cifuentes pushes open the door to Larraga pharmacy, instantly hearing the creak of its old hinges and the snapping of wood. Without a doubt, that door needs to be oiled. The bell chimes, announcing that someone has walked in. From the inside of the small shop, ran by Mrs. Remedios Larraga, emanates the distinct smell of medicine. María knows that she's going to have to wait at least a few minutes before the owner walks through the thin curtain that separates the back room from the front, and presents herself behind the counter, which is as old as the pharmacy itself.

Just a moment, I'll be right there. A weak and distant voice says.

Mrs. Larraga speaks from the backroom. Her reedy voice fills the scarce twelve square meters that make up the establishment her father had founded fifty years prior in 1966, right under the house that his family inherited from the hands of members of the Francoist army. During that time, if you knew the right people, you could obtain the necessary permits to avoid meeting certain distance and population criteria regulated by law. For the past few years, Remedios ran the pharmacy alongside her husband, until he died in 2011 from cancer. Neither of her two daughters, who now lived in Madrid, wanted to work in the family business, so Remedios was forced to carry on alone after her husband’s death. The pharmacy was a reward Mariano Larraga received for being a member of the Falangist party in the past and he benefitted from owning the only pharmacy in Novesilla, which has a population of no more than a thousand people and is located in La Jacetania, part of Aragon. Mariano became the mayor as soon as the war ended. On his command, he installed a window adorned with the Francoist coat of arms in the stairs of the town hall’s first floor and it remained untouchable, even though the leftist municipal councilors had asked for its removal several times.

I’m not in a hurry, Mrs. Larraga, announces María, while she observed the modern display window with empty glass jars, their labels written in Latin.

The pine had been varnished to the point the lacquer had begun to crack, creating creases that could’ve looked ugly, but instead made it beautiful. The glass that protected it was spotless, as if a butler were always cleaning it and didn’t give soot the chance to settle on it.

María had turned fifty, and during five of those years she had to go through a contentious divorce that left her deep in a depression that she was now beginning to get out of. Getting divorced in a town like Novesilla was not easy or pleasant. It could be said that practically half of the population was on the husband’s side, while the other was on the wife’s side. Everyone is aware that a relationship blossomed between Pedro Monistrol, the owner of the muffin factory, and her. It was hard for them to let go of their respective partners, but love won and María managed to get divorced, as did Pedro; although they were still living in separate places and had decided that it was too soon to move in together. María’s ex-husband, Alejandro Sanchís, was the same age as her, and had both gone through elementary education at the same public school and were employed by the only factory that still resisted modern change: Monistrol Artisanal Muffins, founded by Salvador Monistrol in 1901. It exported their products all throughout Spain and certain grocery stores in France. María and Alejandro had twins: Tatiana and Marina, Tatiana being just a minute older than Marina. Working in a factory as divorcees, when the owner was María’s current partner, was a complicated predicament. Alejandro is a security guard, employed by Segurmesa, and he managed to get sent to Monistrol to work in the same place he lived at. After divorcing María, he asked for a night shift to avoid bumping into her.

I’m all yours, said Mrs. Larraga as she pushes the silk curtain aside. María is amazed that the curtain is always so clean, but she realizes that the fact that owner of the pharmacy doesn’t have grandkids running around the place was the most acceptable explanation for the spotless cleanliness. María pictures her two daughters when they were both four years old, running around the pharmacy and she imagines the curtain turned into an oily mess. One never finishes moving stuff around this small shop. She apologizes for the wait. My husband moved like an eel inside a giant fishbowl, but as you can see, I barely have the energy to stack up boxes. Even if they’re small, one by one they pile up. You know what they say, she says to María as she looks at her over her tiny glasses, which were attached to a gold chain hanging around her neck. Little drops of water make up an ocean.

Do you have Paracetamol? she asks, ignoring the explanations the old woman is giving her. I have constant headaches these days.

The arrival of spring. Year after year, starting on the first week of February, painkillers and antihistamines are the most popular medicines. I have to say, there’s not many left. And I can’t order as much as before, because of the expiry date. She says, realizing that María is not interested in the conversation. Everything expires. Years ago, nothing had an expiry date, not even us. She laughs at her own joke, showing off a golden tooth that matches the chain holding her glasses. But now, everything has an end date. Just one box?

Yeah, one’s enough, answers María, not questioning why the pharmacist talks about the arrival of spring in February.

I don’t think the noise from the machines at the factory is good for headaches. The pharmacist opens a drawer from the counter and takes out a box of generic Paracetamol.

Well, I don’t think it’s a headache. I would say they’re migraines. I’ll have to wait until summer for them to go away.

Of course. Although Christmas time is when I sell more painkillers. The streets are filled with dirty snow and the cold seems to penetrate the people’s bones. Here, your medicine. You’re not working today?

Yes, of course. Pedro let me go out for a few minutes to get the painkillers. She grabs the box of medicines from the counter and puts them in a bag that looked as big as a laptop case.

She knows Mrs. Larraga and she knows she would never ask her something malicious to allude to her relationship with the owner of the company she works at.

Pedro is like his dead father; Rosendo was the nicest man an employee could have as a boss. Not a loud word, or a glare.

María remembers that Mrs. Larraga had met her current partner’s father and the owner of the muffin factory, because, like people around the town said, the owner of the pharmacy was ninety years old, even though she didn’t look that old.

How much is it?

The pharmacist writes down the amount on a piece of paper.  María is not surprised, she knows that’s how she always does it. She uses a pen to write and hands it to the client. She smiles at the thought of what would happen if a Tax Agency inspector saw how the pharmacist made her scrappy receipts.

There you go. She leaves the coins on a bronze ashtray that’s on the counter, then checks her wristwatch. She doesn’t want to get back to the factory late and have to hear the rest of the workers talking about how she benefited from having a relationship with the owner. Oh, it stopped, she says, looking around to find a clock to check the hour.

There’s one over there, the old lady points at the wall behind her. It only takes 10 minutes to walk from the factory to the pharmacy.

María turns around and checks the clock, an impeccable Omega with silver hands. It says it is 9:05, something that’s impossible. She’s sure she stepped out of the factory minutes before ten. It has to be 10:30 at most.

Does it work? she asks, furrowing her brow at the coincidence that both clocks had stopped at the same time.

Mrs. Larraga observes the wall clock, and she must stand closer for her glasses to cover the entire sphere. María marvels at the old lady’s height, who reaches the clock without having to use a chair.

No, it’s not working. The battery must be dead.

Have a nice day, Mrs. Larraga, says María as she opens the door and steps out on to the street.

Right in that moment, the lights on the pharmacy’s roof go out, leaving the store in complete darkness. María has already left and doesn’t notice the sudden blackout.

Chapter 2

He woke up when the cold chilled him to the bone. The weariness he felt because he had only slept two hours that night was enough to bring back a memory that pounded on his head until he was forced to open his eyes.

That’s the reason! he said the moment he started connecting the dots of what had happened in 1946. How could I be so stupid?

70 years had flown by, but now he knew that the man had gone ahead with his project, the one he talked about whenever he sat down in the bar with a cup of coffee, dipping his muffin, the only thing that kept him fed. He looked emaciated, weak. During the months he was in Novesilla, the neighbors observed him. He looked like he had escaped from war. He sat on the same table every day and he jotted down scribbles on a stack of papers while he avoided the gaze of other clients. He had only seen him talking to someone once, the morning Mariano Larraga entered the bar. He looked at the rest of the usual clients while they ate breakfast, then headed to his table. He greeted him and sat down beside him.

How are you?

The man looked at him with sorrow.

Tired, but...

He couldn’t keep listening, they had noticed he was eavesdropping and had lowered their voices.

During the time he lived in Novesilla, he stayed in one of the houses near a Romanic 12th century chapel that was partially rebuilt when the war ended. Those homes made up a poor neighborhood filled with unkept gardens, chipped facades, and streets littered with weeds that no one cared for. He was a stranger to everyone, but the relationship between Franco’s regime and the American government was going strong, even though the UN General Assembly did not approve of the Spanish dictatorship and did not let them be part of the organization. However, in January of that same year, 1946, IBM donated 109,000 pesetas (or 650 euros) to the dictator to distribute amongst those in need. The Americans were not ready to lose an ally in postwar Europe if the regime failed.

The American wandered around town as he pleased. Everyone knew that whenever he slipped a hand inside his pocket, he would fish out a handful of a hundred pesetas bills plastered with the face of Francisco de Goya, his eyes reflecting all the disaster war had brought. Good for the money and a good neighbor, no one wondered what he was doing in Novesilla or if he was escaping from someone or from something. The scars from the recent war hadn’t healed yet and both sides of Spain were still several years away from joining back together. With time, people got used to the sound of the black Renault CV 4’s engine as he drove around the streets, just like they grew used to seeing him parked at a plaza or on the street, in front of the old house he was staying at.

But that had happened seventy years ago, and it was now that he realized what that man was doing in Novesilla.

Chapter 3

Once María has left, Mrs. Larraga tiptoes to the back of the store, searching for the meter box. She thinks that the blackout must be due to a failure in the circuit breaker. On another occasion, during winter, when she had turned on the electric stove, the lights had gone out and she had fixed it by moving a lever on the center of the meter box. For a moment, she remembers the civil war, when International Brigades bombers were near Novesilla and blackouts were frequent, while the Tupolev SB flew over the town and dropped bombs. Remedios had been eleven then, but she remembered exactly how her father begged them to not move and be silent. Her father hid his daughters underneath a Californian pine table in the salon, shielding them from the debris falling from the ceilings cracked by the bombs. Remedios would close her eyes, waiting for the moment when a bomb would finally explode against the old house and put an end to the fear they felt during the first weeks of 1937.

She uses her calloused fingers to make sure she grabs the correct lever, but she stops when she realizes it’s pointing up, which is the correct position. With her fingertips she touches the other two, confirming that they’re both upright. She steps out to the street. The February sun blinds her eyes, the day so clear she knows it’s going to be cold in the afternoon. At the square, there’s a group of women talking to a young guy riding a motorbike. Isaac is Albero’s mailman. He had stopped when the motor on his bike started failing when he passed through the houses near Bermúdez. The women circled him, asking if he knew why the lights had gone out.

Was the power cut? asks Remedios.

A few weeks before, work on the swamp had started and they suspect that the sudden blackout could be caused by earth movements created by the huge bulldozers that moved around the streets that joined Novesilla and Albanero every day.

Same over here, joins in Nicolás, owner of a bar with the same name as his.

You don’t have power either, Nicolás? asks Mrs. Larraga.

No. There’s no power in the bar or in my house, he says, looking behind him and pointing at the upper area of the bar with his chin. Does someone have some batteries for this flashlight?

What a relic. Anselmo Crispin, an old man that lived by himself in the last house of Mayor street, smiles. It’s been ages since I’ve seen one of these. It uses a big battery that’s rectangular.

I don’t know if I’ll have one at home, responds Nicolás, looking at the battery as if it were an old fossil.

I don’t have batteries, adds Gertrudis. But I can give you another flashlight.

The old woman pushes open the door to her house, located on the square, and passes through a curtain as she wanders inside. A few seconds later, she comes back holding a black flashlight, that in her hands looks like a giant telescope.

Well, this doesn’t have batteries either, she complains when it doesn’t turn on.

Let me try, says Nicolás, setting down his flashlight and the batteries he was holding on the ground. No, it isn’t working. This is all so weird; there’s no power and batteries aren’t working either.

Everyone turns to look at Isaac, Albamero’s mailman, as he keeps trying to turn on his motorbike.

C’mon! I won’t be able to finish the deliveries on time.

Nicolás opens the door to his Seat León, parked in front of the bar. The lights inside don’t turn on. He honks the horn repeatedly, but it doesn’t make a sound. He turns the key in its ignition until it can’t go any further, but the engine doesn’t even whine and the dashboard doesn’t light up.

What the hell is going on here? His cheeks turn red.

My watch isn’t working, says Anselmo Crispín, swinging his arm back and forth as if he were marching.

Mine either, Gertrudis agrees, lightly tapping her wristwatch with her fingers.

Piece of shit phone! exclaims Carmen, an eighteen-year-old girl with big brown eyes that’s waiting for her boyfriend in the crowd.

Don’t tell me your cellphone doesn’t work? asks Nicolás.

Carmen widens her eyes and stares at him as if she had seen a ghost.

It’s dead, she says sadly. Even if I press the power button it doesn’t respond.

Aurora cranes her neck, deformed by her engorged thyroid glands, to look out from her house’s window.

What’s going on? she asks to no one in particular. Behind her huge head, several pans hanging on the kitchen wall are visible.

Appliances aren’t working, says Mrs. Larraga. Neither are clocks, cellphones, cars or motorcycles.

The pharmacist has to strain her voice so everyone can hear her.

Just a moment, says Aurora, carrying her huge head back inside the kitchen.

While Carmen keeps pushing the buttons on her phone, the mailman begins to push his motorbike up the hill that links the Constitution square and the water deposit, hoping to get it to start. When he travels up Joaquin Costa street, he walks by the Silvia bar. Gerardo Jardiel, the owner, looks at the young man dragging his bike. His thin figure appears on the threshold.

Do you need help? he offers, noticing that the man is losing strength.

Don’t worry, Gerardo. He huffs. There’s something going on in town, the power is not working on houses and vehicles. Go figure, he says. Not even flashlights turn on.

Gerardo hadn’t turned on the lights in the bar yet.

What the hell? he complains, flipping the light switch. I don’t have power either.

I told you. The town has gone dark.

At the square, Nicolás walks inside his bar and tries to find any device that uses electricity or batteries. He finds an alarm clock, a calculator, and an electric insecticide sprayer.

There’s a scream that fills the sky, coming from Aurora that’s shouting as she peeks out through her door.

He’s dying, he’s dying...

Her neck looks like a balloon that’s about to burst.

What’s going on? asks Nicolás.

In his hands, he’s holding a few devices that he found at the bar, but none of them are working.

Several neighbors walk inside Aurora’s house. Lying on the floor is her husband, Feliciano. He’s appearance is grim, and his mouth contorts in pain.

Weren’t you studying to be nurse? Nicolás shouts at the open door.

Yeah, mutters Carmen, looking horrified.

Then hurry up because this man’s going to die.

It’s his heart, begins Aurora. It’s his heart that’s not working.

Must be a heart attack, suggests Nicolás, trying to move his body to lay on its side. Come, girl, he calls out to Carmen. They must’ve taught you how to revive someone in one of those classes.

There’s nothing that can be done, Mrs. Larraga says slowly, standing by the door. Her enormous figure hides the light that is coming from outside.

Carmen kneels over the body and pushes against Feliciano’s sternum.

Why do you say that, Remedios? asks Aurora.

Because I remember that your husband has a cardiac pacemaker, and those devices work with electricity.

Right when she stops talking, death erases all signs of suffering from Feliciano’s face, as if for a moment, he remembered the times when he was okay.

Chapter 4

Diana Dávila walks slowly through the long hallway on the second floor, where Ávila’s Police Academy Internal Regime office is located. She knows that if she picks up her pace, her heart will beat faster and she would breathe harder, and she doesn’t want to seem anxious in front of all the inspectors that are waiting for her. June heat makes her uniform shirt stick to her body and she feels strange wearing the obligatory ponytail as it bounces on her back. Not even her height, 5’7", helps with making the ponytail look more attractive.

In the middle of the hallway she bumps into a colleague, also a deputy inspector, who she recognizes instantly.

Luis?

Diana?

You’re getting promoted too?

He stops and gets closer to Diana to greet her. She kisses him on both cheeks.

Yeah. I’ve been here the entire term and it’s nice to go back to my student days. But, how come we haven’t seen each other before?

Luis leans on the same window as Diana, the sun heating up the glass and making the cold less harsh.

I’m on the external regime, he explains, locking eyes with his colleague. And I have skipped some classes, but exams are what counts. Where do you go?

Diana smiles as she snorts.

I practiced in Alicante, then I worked in Madrid as police and then in Murcia as an officer. You see, I’ve travelled through all of Spain. She