The World Without Love Letters

By Roberto Sánchez Ruiz

An dystopian narrative told through a critical and ironic voice.

A gripping tale that brims with action and suspense.

In the aftermath of the rise and fall of social networks, we find ourselves in a monotonous, dreary era devoid of surprises, fiction, and influential figures for popular culture.

Our every need is delivered to our doorstep without request, carefully measured, censored, and filtered by the sole provider known as the Great Supplier.

The world is governed by Kyría, the central hub of Supreme Intelligence. Among the mere 66 individuals worldwide who still possess the ability to read and write manually is Javier Nanclares, a worker within the intelligence services bureaucracy. Nanclares is entrusted with a peculiar mission. Alongside Eva Dahl, a Social Sciences doctor with ties to the Norwegian Royal Family, he is deployed to Barcelona, the bustling capital of the Southern Quadrant of Europe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ROBERTO SÁNCHEZ RUIZ
• Release date: Feb 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224702626

Roberto Sánchez Ruiz

Roberto Sánchez is a Spanish radio journalist. He is the author of the novels Líneas cruzadas, Noche en vela, Asesinos de Series, Salvarás a mis hijos, Quienes manejan los hilos, Sentada al borde de la cama, El Mundo sin cartas de amor,  Solos o en compañía de otros, and the series of book-game mystery stories, La Noche de los Detectives, (Playing Detectives) which originated from the program Si amanece, nos vamos, which he created and directed for 18 years on Cadena SER. What they have said about Asesinos de Series: «It provides a disturbing perspective on the mix between reality and television fiction, with unexpected twists and surprises worthy of the best script».- Carles Francino «An entertaining and very curious novel in how it weaves its plot with fictional series». - Adivina quién lee.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Being a spy is highly overrated, or so Nanclares tries to convince himself. The romanticized notions surrounding this profession are far from the harsh reality he has come to know, especially when people tend to equate the humble foot soldiers of the intelligence services with glamorous figures like Agent Smiley.

Yesterday was an uneventful day at the office. There was nothing to keep him occupied. However, on the morning of his fifty-second birthday, Nanclares receives a message that stands out from the usual routine. Without hesitation, he disposes of it after confirming the coordinates; it's his own home. A troubling sign.

The party's over, he muses. Perhaps it's time for him to retire from active duty.

In a matter of minutes, an undignified moped arrives, heralding its presence in a less-than-subtle manner. For the past thirty years, Nanclares has been discreetly picked up by a car, always at a different location previously designated. This time, however, the approach is anything but discreet. The moped's loosely hanging dynamo coil reverberates with each bump against the asphalt, drawing attention. Such unorthodox and eccentric tactics are sometimes employed in the world of espionage, though it has taken Nanclares a lifetime to become accustomed to these peculiar charades.

Javier. Javier Nanclares. That's his codename, engraved on the envelope handed to him by the motorcyclist. Before parting ways, the motorcyclist courteously greets him with a warm Good morning. Efficiency and politeness are trademarks of intelligence operatives.

With that, the motorcyclist departs in the same manner they arrived: riding their blue moped, accompanied by a nondescript self-introduction: I'm a romantic who loves motorcycles. The rider's helmet is equipped with a tinted visor, which always remains down, denying Nanclares any glimpse into their eyes during that seemingly delicate moment when crucial documents change hands. Yes, spies are not immune to emotions.

Javier Nanclares is remarkably young, too young to be retiring. Yet, if that were the decision, Nanclares knows he shouldn't make a fuss. If he were more detached and analytical, as the manuals of his trade often recommend, he would recognize that he's leaving behind nothing more than a mundane civil servant position: a faceless worker who spends endless hours in front of a computer, stationed in an undisclosed location, meticulously sifting through mountains of data and dossiers.

Nanclares resides in some corner of this vast planet, on the fringes of what is commonly known as the Western world—an advanced, developed society with all its trappings. Anywhere but New York, for that is not his domain.

And so, Nanclares's story begins.

Chapter 2

Javier Nanclares crossed paths with Yolanda during a trip to New York. The moment he laid eyes on her and heard her self-introduction —I'm a lover of cinema and my dreams are like movies,— he couldn't help but feel that if he were to find a romantic connection during that organized singles vacation, it would only be with her.

Yolanda spoke with a unique mannerism, barely parting her lips. Her teeth were slightly uneven, each seeming to face a different direction—an atypical characteristic in these modern times. It felt like encountering a vanishing breed.

She reminded him of a classic actress, Andie MacDowell. Although, when one hears the name, the first image that comes to mind (for those who know her) is a lush mane of dark, curly hair. In contrast, Yolanda sported a tousled, copper-colored haircut. Yet, in Javier Nanclares' eyes, she exuded a certain aura reminiscent of Andie MacDowell—an intangible quality that only he could perceive. After all, who has enough memory to recall the details of an actress like that?

MacDowell belonged to a bygone era when films were uniform and experienced in two, or at most, three dimensions. It was a time when characters required flesh-and-blood actors to bring them to life. Oh, how ridiculous those movies seem now! Bordering on the pathetic. They were mass-produced, catering to the general public, much like novels and other works of fiction until the turn of the century. These narratives were standardized, serving anyone willing to consume them, irrespective of their personal rhythms, the present moment, their education, mood, or the amount of time they had available. It was a simplicity lacking nuance.

Interestingly, this became the starting point of conversation between Yolanda and Javier, a topic that fostered a connection and a certain camaraderie.

My children, for instance, scoff and refuse to believe the stories I share with them, she casually revealed.

Ah! So, you have children?

It was already implied, as one doesn't openly disclose such information without some context. There are subjects where one cannot afford to be vague or dishonest. It's not like claiming to have visited the Norwegian fjords when all you've done is watch every documentary on the World Channels. That kind of fabrication can occasionally slide by unnoticed; after all, one fjord is akin to all the others.

Yes, I have two children.

Sons, perhaps?

Yes, of course! Christian and Alfred. They've navigated the challenges of puberty and are now in their thirties. Almost fully grown.

It wasn't a matter of Yolanda overstating her age, suggesting that with only 25 years under her belt (just 25, she emphasized!), her boys were excessively reliant on their mother. No, it was simply due to Javier Nanclares consciously disregarding the prophetic signs that were already beginning to manifest. Had he not been so smitten, he would have seen it coming, even if he were the roughest and most unrefined of individuals, lacking the most minimal sensitivity.

Chapter 3

He makes a feigned attempt to glance at his nonexistent watch. It's a reflex he has performed countless times, forgetting that he discarded it long ago. He tossed it away when he realized that if it could be synchronized via satellite, it would continuously provide accurate information about his whereabouts. The message he received was crystal clear: Absolute discretion regarding the meeting location. Quite absurd to formally announce his exclusion from active duty. No, it couldn't be that. Until he hears it from his superiors, he won't allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

The young lad appears for the second or third time, dressed like a 1940s hotel bellboy in a red and gold uniform, complete with a worn-out cap. He scurries back and forth in the corridor. On another occasion, he merely cracked open the door, signaling with an outstretched palm, Hold on, we're on our way.

He must know who he is. That's why he refuses to reveal his face.

Who knows what legends he may have heard about me. He probably regards me with the same esteem as people in ancient times regarded the devil. Javier ponders this unfortunate consequence of our time's lack of reading. People create and accept stories reduced to a single phrase. And that headline circulates out there, spreading from mouth to mouth for some time now.

Once again, the youthful bellboy emerges, wearing a childlike expression. He still avoids making direct eye contact. It's simultaneously evident and absurd... He lifts his gaze, as if addressing a large audience, scanning the room as if to say, Is there a doctor in the house? However, the words that come out of his mouth are:

Nanclares? Javier Nanclares?

You couldn't get any more ridiculous than this! There are only four seats, and Javier is the sole occupant in a lobby spanning acres, befitting the grandeur of the host. After all, he is at the headquarters of La Central, where everything happens, where the strings are pulled.

Nanclares? Javier Nanclares? he repeats, staring into the distance, even though Javier is practically at his feet. Javier resists the urge to slap him across the face. Oh, how satisfying that would be! Yet, he still retains a hint of sanity, the rational part that emerges victorious. Assessing the consequences calmly, he realizes that succumbing to the temptation would only further tarnish the already precarious reputation he might have. If they don't remove him from circulation, they may choose to reprimand him. Perhaps as a sorcerer.

He doesn't refrain from defiantly brushing against the doorboy. In doing so, he notices the boy's heart racing and even perceives the rattling of his bones with each step he takes in front of him, as he leads him towards the tribunal table.

He has already deciphered the code in the boy's bio: I prefer to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. That alone is enough for Javier to take him for a bombastic ghost, a fool.

For a moment, he believes that the doorboy's legs will eventually break, and from the ground, he will plead for mercy. He will apologize for the rudeness of not making direct eye contact, offering himself up for execution if that's what it takes to settle the perceived offense. My destiny is in your hands, he imagines the doorboy whimpering. But it's just a flight of fancy, a projection he dares not prolong for fear of it becoming a distressing reality.

He is abruptly pulled out of his reverie by something he thought he saw in the distance of the room, to the right of the table where the three men in gray suits are seated, emanating a cologne that overwhelms even from kilometers away. A door has just been slightly ajar, and he could swear he saw four hurried shoes rushing through it as if to say, Come on, let's go before we're caught. It was a back that seemed familiar, one of the troublemakers who had made his life impossible: the children of Yolanda, his last partner. Twenty-seven-year-old children. The ungrateful bunch! —not to use the outdated term bastards— could they have been capable of testifying against him?

Chapter 4

There he stood, facing the tribunal of the three men in gray.

Perhaps he would have to disclose the truth about Yolanda. And what was even worse, explain it all. The past and the aftermath. And to make matters worse, he would have to testify standing up, as he understood that such appearances were typically conducted in that manner. Nanclares despised speaking, and that was another reason why he had succumbed to the seductive allure of that woman. Because with Yolanda, one thing was certain: they shared an unparalleled intimacy. In the realm of intimacy, she was his match. They had experienced a sexual connection that went beyond boundaries and surpassed expectations. Despite his previous deprivation, Yolanda had fulfilled his desires and satisfied his hunger. There was no need for elaborate words or romantic gestures with her. It was as if they had an unspoken understanding, an unbreakable bond. But due to social conventions, they had never reached the level of divulging personal details such as their respective origins. They had never taken that step in their relationship. Nanclares had always lived with the uncertainty of not knowing where Yolanda hailed from. They never shared a home for more than two and a half years, and their communication was limited, almost formal.

However, without confirming the veracity of the information regarding her background, based on his knowledge of human nature and anthropology, Nanclares would wager everything—his very essence—that Yolanda was of Nordic descent. It was as if her presence emitted a subtle Nordic aura, or perhaps even Basque.

Basque? Why do you believe that? inquired the official seated on the far right, identified by the number 27022 on his digital badge. Would a Basque woman name her children Cristian and Alfred?

Nanclares responded with conviction, as if he had rehearsed his answer:

I can think of no better way to shield oneself from exposing what one wishes to keep hidden.

Do you think Yolanda had something to conceal? I mean, more than what is typically kept within the bounds of our personal lives, the same member of the panel probed further.

With those words, Nanclares was inundated with a torrent of memories, as if an internal movie projector had suddenly been activated. Images flickered in his mind, reminding him of the countless individuals whose files he had diligently compiled over the span of thirty years. Each file represented an hour of work, eight files per day, two hundred and twenty working days per year. He had dedicated his life to ensuring that no secrets eluded the watchful eyes of the intelligence agency, all in the name of national security.

He had been recruited by the Kyria when it became evident that the impending collapse of social networks—brought on by apathy and saturation—would plunge society into profound darkness, severing the connections that defined us, leaving us oblivious to one another. It was a time when we had bared our souls, disclosing every intimate detail of our lives, leaving nothing left to reveal.

Do you know why we've brought you here, Nanclares? One man asks as he rises from his seat. It's the Chief. It's evident. His voice exudes confidence and determination beyond what one would expect based on his appearance.

Actions, not words; Facta, Non Verba, he carries it as his motto.

He sits in the center. For a moment, he hesitates, unsure whether to exit to the right or left to approach Nanclares. Opts for the latter. As he walks, his posture becomes slightly stooped, instantly regressing the ten or fifteen years he had gained through his commanding voice.

Have they reported me? The former spy instinctively points towards the door at the back, where he thought he had seen Yolanda's children leave.

They? The three officials turn their heads towards that exit. Ah! You mean Yolanda's children? They exchange knowing smiles. No, not exactly. Could they accuse you of something?

They are capable of anything. Those two monsters, you never know.

We're interested in you. They merely served to confirm what we already knew from other sources.

Are you the ones who have been pursuing me?

They exchange glances once again, this time with a more serious expression.

"No, please! Why would we need