Tilepadeion E-Book

Joaquim Casal

• Herausgeber: Milenio Publicaciones
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Narrativa
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 250

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The explosion was extremely violent. I saw a flash and was blown off my feet. All around me, it was raining stones and sand, a cloud of dust and smoke. Immediately after the explosion, total silence. I was knocked out; I'm not sure how long I lay there on the ground. When I sat up, my left arm was hurting. I felt something wet on my face and touched it: my hand came away covered in blood. I rested my back against the wall beside me and tried to calm down. While I was recovering, a van braked a few metres from me. Two men got out and came running towards me. They spoke to me, but I couldn't hear them. I had gone deaf; all I heard was a buzzing noise. They helped me up and into the van and we headed to the offices. I saw that the side wall of the pumping station had been destroyed. A fire was spreading over the dry grass towards the stream.

Leseprobe

Original title in Catalan: Tilepadeion. Sé què penses.

© Joaquim Casal, 2015

© d’aquesta edició: Pagès Editors, S L, 2015

Sant Salvador, 8 - 25005 Lleida

[email protected]

www.pageseditors.cat

Primera edició: juliol de 2015

ISBN: 978-84-9975-639-4

DL L 924-2015

© Of the texts: Joaquim Casal, 2018

© Translation: Lucille Banham, 2018

© Of this Edition: eMilenio, S. L., 2018

San Salvador, 8-25005 Lleida

www.edmilenio.com

[email protected]

First Edition: december 2018

ISBN (epub): 978-84-9743-857-5

Printed in Bobalà Graphic Arts, Ltd.

www.bobala.cat

Any form of reproduction, distribution, public communication or transformation of this work can only be done with the permission of its owners, unless legally established otherwise by the law. Please refer to CEDRO (Centro Español de Derechos Reprográficos, www.cedro.org) If you need to photocopy, scan or make digital copies of fragments of this work.

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1. THE EXPLOSION

The explosion was extremely violent. I saw a flash and was blown off my feet. All around me, it was raining stones and sand, a cloud of dust and smoke. Immediately after the explosion, total silence. I was knocked out; I’m not sure how long I lay there on the ground. When I sat up, my left arm was hurting. I felt something wet on my face and touched it: my hand came away covered in blood. I rested my back against the wall beside me and tried to calm down.

While I was recovering, a van braked a few metres from me. Two men got out and came running towards me. They spoke to me, but I couldn’t hear them. I had gone deaf; all I heard was a buzzing noise. They helped me up and into the van and we headed to the offices. I saw that the side wall of the pumping station had been destroyed. A fire was spreading over the dry grass towards the stream; a man was running towards it, dragging a hose behind him. Guilt washed over me: I had caused the explosion that had half demolished the building and started the fire. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about it. My entire body hurt.

Suddenly, though, a feeling of success, triumph, invaded me. An overwhelming feeling that I had never experienced before. I had done it! It had seemed impossible, but I had done it! Where the Russians, British and Americans had failed, I had succeeded! What did it matter that the pumping station was half demolished compared with that?

The van braked sharply, bringing me back to reality; we had reached the office block. Young men in orange overalls, students on a fire-protection course, surrounded the van. They helped me down attentively. A young woman dressed in white ran up, she said something to those who were helping me, and they accompanied me to the first aid room. Two other men came running up to me and said something. I still couldn’t hear anything, only the background buzzing. It was a strange sensation: there were all these people around me, moving around doing things frenetically, but I was in total silence.

They took me into the building and laid me on a narrow bed. The young woman, who was clearly a nurse, began to clean my face with a wet gauze. The coolness did me a lot of good. I heard a distant voice ask, “Has he broken anything?” and another voice replied, “I don’t think so, he can walk.” Then the young woman spoke to me.

“Can you hear me?” “Can you hear me?”

I told her I could, but very badly, as if she were far away. Just then, Mr. Vidal, the head of the testing ground came in; he looked very worried. I heard him ask “What happened?” I thought of the pumping station and my stomach dropped. Then he started talking anxiously with the manager of the fire ground.

Slowly I began to feel better. After cleaning my face, the nurse asked me if I could move my arms, to see if I’d broken any bones; if it hurt I had to tell her immediately. I could move them easily, although my left arm was hurting me a lot. I sat up and told her that apart from the head wound, which was making me feel bad, and general pain, I was fine.

“You’ve got a cut on your forehead. It looks worse than it is. I’ll disinfect it now and bandage it. Are you up to date with your tetanus jabs?”

I told her I didn’t know. In fact, what was worrying me increasingly was not tetanus or the wound on my forehead, but how to explain to Mr. Vidal that I had caused the explosion. But before I could open my mouth he started speaking.

“I’m very sorry about what has happened, Mr. Barnes. It seems that the explosion was caused by a cloud of petrol vapour. Yesterday we found out that the tank had a small leak. It must have got bigger. This morning the tank was scheduled to be emptied and the crack repaired. We should have closed off the area, but I’m afraid it wasn’t done. I’m very sorry about what has happened. We’ll take care of everything, any treatment you need, don’t worry.”

At first, I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but suddenly I realised: he thought the explosion was his responsibility: a petrol leak in one of the tanks had generated a flammable cloud, which had exploded. Then I remembered that there had been a strong smell of petrol when I passed the pumping station, but I had thought nothing of it.

It was clear, at least to me, that the explosion had nothing to do with the leak. But after hesitating for a moment I realised, not without a slightly guilty conscience, that I should accept this explanation, as it resolved the entire problem for me. Rebuilding the pumping station would be easy for them, whereas for me and my department it would’ve been a very serious problem. And thinking about it, there had been a smell of petrol, so there must have been a leak in the tank. And that isn’t something you can leave to chance: it should have been sorted out immediately. In any case, that area of the fire ground should have been closed off so that nobody could get into it. Considering all these factors, I decided that the petrol leak version was fine; there was no need to get involved by giving unprompted explanations.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Vidal. These things happen. The cut on my forehead is just a scratch, and apart from that I’ve just got a few bumps and bruises that I’ll have forgotten about in no time at all. Don’t worry, I’m fine, really.”

I could see that he was relieved. He insinuated that, if I agreed, it would be better not to inform the administration about the accident.

“In fact, if you’re fine, we could say that it’s as if there were no accident at all, don’t you think?” he said.

The truth is that I really didn’t want there to be an investigation into the explosion either; the less said about it, the better. I told him I totally agreed, and noticed how he relaxed immediately.

“How on earth can the cloud have ignited? Were you smoking?”

It was the manager of the fire ground who was asking me.

“No, no. I don’t smoke. I’ve no idea, I was walking and suddenly...”

“It must have been a spark of static electricity!”

Mr. Vidal agreed. I hesitated a minute, but then concurred: yes, that seemed the most likely reason.

Meanwhile, the nurse had finished dressing the wound.

“Get up slowly and let me know if you’re OK,” she said. I got up.

“How are you? Do you feel alright?”

I assured her that I was totally fine. My left arm still hurt me, but, apart from many bruises all over my body, I was alright. I had a bit of a headache, but I could hear perfectly. The nurse had kindly brushed my jumper and trousers, to get rid of all the soil and bits of dried grass. Mr. Vidal offered to take me back to Barcelona, but I told him that it wasn’t necessary.

“Are you sure? Are you well enough to drive?”

I assured him that I was absolutely fine and could drive without any problems. I thanked the nurse for her care, and said goodbye to the fire ground manager and Mr. Vidal. He reiterated:

“Mr. Barnes, if you have any problems, please call me immediately and we’ll sort it out. If the university people want any clarification, tell them to get in touch with me. In any case, I’ll phone Professor Fontcoberta now to tell him what has happened.”

I told him again not to worry, I was alright, and I went to get my car.

There was nobody in the car park. I sat in my car for quite a while, thinking. It had clearly been successful. An extremely powerful explosion, much stronger than I could’ve imagined! And with only half a litre of petrol. Incredible. Extraordinary efficiency of the blast wave. I couldn’t believe it, it seemed impossible!

I’d have to calculate the efficiency. I’d heard the fire ground manager say to Mr. Vidal “Half the windows are broken in the extinguisher block”. Perfect! I have a map of the testing ground, so I can use the distance to this block to find out the strength of the explosion and its mechanical efficiency. I decided I’d calculate it as soon as I reached the office.

I started the car. My arm was bothering me, but I could drive without any difficulty. My shoulder and back also hurt. Clearly, the next day it was going to be even more painful. But none of that was important compared to the success of the test. I was sorry about the damage caused, but what could you do. That was science for you. Luckily, nobody had been hurt. And, fortuitously, the explosion had been attributed to a petrol leak. It could easily have been caused by that. In fact, the area should have been completely closed until the leak had been repaired. It wasn’t my fault they hadn’t done that. Well, this way they would learn to be more careful about safety. In short, it had all been a success!

SHEDARAK I. A SPECIAL PROFESSION

He looks thoughtfully out of the window. It’s an overcast, cold and drizzly day, the fog is almost covering the castle. Shedarak thinks, once again, that maybe it’s time to move to a warmer climate, one where he can see the sun he misses so much.

He looks around him. His flat in Princess Street is small, but cosy. It’s well-furnished and comfortable, in the city centre, with an unobstructed view of the castle and the Scott Monument. He’s happy with it. Edinburgh is an interesting, pleasant city. He likes the Scottish. But, unfortunately, the climate is terrible: rain, fog, snow, cold, more rain, a sky that is frequently leaden, and a rather timid sun in the summer. He can’t get used to it.

He stops looking out of the window and sits down again in front of his computer. He reads the message that he’s just received again:

Subject: Device

From: Malakian <[email protected]>

Sent: Sat, 17 February 2013 15.21:10

To: Sky <[email protected]>

The first design is finished. However, some technical capabilities should be discussed and redefined.

Another meeting is needed.

Malakian

The message is certainly laconic, but it has sufficient information and is clear: a first version of the device is ready. But some of its features need to be redefined, and that requires another meeting.

The device he’d ordered from Professor Malakian three months ago is almost ready. The Professor has kept his word and has finished the job before the deadline, but he wants another meeting. Shedarak wonders what on earth he wants to “redefine”. He will have to go and see him, the sooner the better. He smiles: he will just have to take a short break in Athens. At least he will see the Mediterranean sun there. It is a perfect excuse to get away from the rain and the fog. If he can, he will leave tomorrow. He types on his computer, finds the British Airways website and begins to check available flights: from Edinburgh, to Athens.

He is neither tall nor short, rather slim, around forty years old and dressed with discreet elegance. His face is inexpressive, he doesn’t tend to show his feelings, although in certain situations he can try and put on a friendly face. He is perhaps a little dry and distant in his dealings with others, but he is aware of this and for some time has been working to improve it, though he suspects that he is rather unsuccessful. He is educated, clever, observant, patient, a good psychologist without having ever studied psychology, calculating, risk-taking when necessary but without ever losing his composure; he has all the qualities required for his profession.

A profession that, in fact, he had never planned to take up. It all began when he was still very young, two years after arriving in the United Kingdom. An engineer from a rival company had offered him a substantial amount of money to obtain detailed information, including temperatures and times, on the thermal treatment of composite parts produced in the company where Shedarak worked. The owner of Shedarak’s company was exploitative and treated his employees badly. Shedarak had developed a dislike for him from soon after joining the company, so it was easy to accept the offer without much thought.

It hadn’t been difficult. He knew one of the workers who produced the parts. A good man, but rather fond of drinking. An invitation for a beer on Friday after work; the first pint was followed by another, and another, and another, until, after Shedarak had admired the excellent work on the parts, the worker explained the entire process in detail. The next morning, Shedarak had handed over the information to the engineer, and pocketed a handful of pounds in return.

Two months later, he’d carried out a similar task for the same engineer. This time, the target was an electrochemical surface treatment, kept by the company as top secret. Shedarak also managed this without any problems, as he gained direct access to the information. After this, the engineer had proposed a more complicated task, in another company.

This represented a major change, but Shedarak was beginning to enjoy the job that paid him much more than the normal salary someone like him could earn. He’d accepted. This time it’d taken him longer, but he’d had a stroke of luck: he knew a secretary who worked in the company. Jane, a cheerful, rather crazy woman was part of a group that he’d gone out with a few years before. Things had not gone too well for her. Now, a single mother, she was going through a bad patch and needed money. It was not hard to convince her, with the promise of more than generous compensation. Two weeks later he had the information.

From that time, his profession was decided. He left the company and continued to work for the same engineer. Gradually, he made more contacts and gained clients. It was all very discreet: it wasn’t in anyone’s interest to talk more than necessary.

He gradually moved from industrial espionage into the weapons industry, although it was a circumstantial, unplanned change. He’d never suspected that this world, in which vast amounts of money moved, existed. Once he’d specialised in this sector, he inevitably came into contact with various country’s espionage services. He gained a good reputation through two successful operations, and his number of contacts increased. This had taken place many years ago. And in all the time since then, he’d never failed.

Along with this change in focus, his income had shot up. But an element of risk had also appeared. In recent years, he had been embroiled in some frankly dangerous situations that he only just managed to get out of alive. With increasing frequency, he thought that he couldn’t go on like this indefinitely and would have to change career sooner or later.

Now, after booking the plane ticket for the next day, he wonders again if the time has come to retire. In fact, he’d already been promised a job, pending an interview, that he’d accepted in advance although he didn’t really know what it involved. He is a professional and will have to do it, and afterwards… well, he will see. Maybe the time has come for a change in life.

He shuts down his computer and thinks about whether to eat at home or in a restaurant. It is raining outside, but his fridge is almost empty. He grabbs a coat and hat and leaves his flat. It is cold in the empty street. There are no taxis in sight. Resignedly, he turns up the collar of his coat and walks quickly down Princess Street, under a gentle, but constant, drizzle. Without a doubt, the climate in Scotland is a disaster. Terneki plioha! The damn rain!

2. LAIA

My name is Adam Barnes. I’m twenty-nine years old and I’m from Santa Barbara, California. The son of a Californian father and a mother of Spanish ancestry. At home, from an early age, I’d heard stories about Santander, the Picos de Europa and Spain. My grandmother spoke Spanish and I half learnt the language from her.

I studied chemical engineering at the University of California, Irvine. At the end of my degree, I worked for three years in industry. First in an oil refinery in Texas, but the work was very routine and after a year I was bored of it. Then another opportunity arose in an engineering company specialised in fire protection systems. It was an international company and I worked all over the place for them: Texas, California, Alaska, but also Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Qatar, Indonesia, and some oil platforms in the North Sea.

Although I found this field quite interesting, after a while the work again became a little too routine for my liking: even though no two systems were the same, they were all similar. Initially, I was excited by the travelling, but I soon discovered that travelling for pleasure and travelling for work are two different things: for work there was no time, I went from meeting to meeting and refinery to refinery, hotel to hotel and airport to airport. The airports were the worst: the security checks, the hours spent waiting, the queues.

So, when Bill, a friend who’d studied with me at university and now worked at the University of California, Berkeley, told me his department had announced a call for applications for a doctoral grant, I jumped at the chance. I was interviewed by Professor Anderson from the department of combustion that had organised the call. He liked my curriculum and I was interested in the research project that’d just been started by the team I’d join. So, I went to Berkeley to do a PhD.

My thesis was on smouldering combustion, an exciting topic that’s vital in soil decontamination and certain types of fires. I learnt a lot about combustion and about fires and fuels in general. In fact, the research was related to the fire studies that I had done in my work as an engineer, which made things a lot easier.

Berkeley is a wonderful university, with a very pleasant campus and plenty of activities. And the atmosphere in the department was congenial. We were a talented team: young people, who wanted to work hard and have fun. The director was Professor Anderson, a highly intelligent man. It was a pleasure to work with him. We often had long conversations, sometimes about life, at other times about combustion and fire and the problems that arose in my thesis. Back then, I had no idea how useful this knowledge would be to me in the future.

And then, of course, there was San Francisco. I loved San Francisco: the streets, the trams, the Chinese quarter, the wharfs, and the people and atmosphere in general. I went there frequently, particularly on weekends. I also went on trips to other parts of California with people from the department; we had a wonderful time. The three years and a bit it took to prepare my thesis were an amazing time that I remember fondly.

Maybe it helped that during that time I went out with two girls from the university. I was with Linda, who was studying economics, for almost a year. I really liked her, but after a while, I don’t really know why, our relationship began to cool and in the end we broke off. I was a bit upset by it, but then I met Betty, who was studying geography, and we had a very passionate relationship for a year. But then she finished her degree and had to go to New York. We decided we’d get over this obstacle, but distance and time ended out relationship. I buried myself in the thesis, and made a final effort to finish it.

It was a good thesis, though I say so myself. As a result of the research, five papers were published in international journals that raised my self-esteem to undreamed-of levels. The day I finished the doctorate, my parents, friends and colleagues from the department came. We celebrated. I’d become a doctor!

At the end of my PhD I couldn’t decide whether to stay on at the university – I’d been offered a place that would enable me to start an academic career – or go back into industry. I liked university life, and had discovered that research was fascinating. But teaching classes was not my thing. I didn’t know which path to take, but then I met Laia. And that changed everything.

I met her one Sunday at midday, while I was walking on Fisherman’s Warf. I saw a slim, attractive, dark-haired girl who seemed to be a quite lost in thought, just in front of the entrance to the Liberty boat. She was looking at the boat opening times. I went up to her.

“It’s closed right now, they’re having lunch,” I said to her.

She turned around and looked at me.

“Yes, I can see now. Thanks!”

And she made a move to leave. But, after seeing those black eyes and that pretty face, I didn’t want her to just leave like that.

“They open again in the afternoon.”

“OK, thanks.”

“Sorry, I was just wondering, where are you from?”

“I’m from Barcelona.”

I’d spent a few hours in Barcelona once on a stopover, there’d been a problem with the plane and I’d had to spend the night there.

“Barcelona! What a wonderful city! I loved it!”

“Oh, really?”

I noticed a little irony in her voice, and thought I should introduce myself.

“My name’s Adam Barnes. I’m Californian. But on my mother’s side I’m half Spanish.”

She gave me her hand.

“I’m Laia.”

The ice had broken. We walked along while we chatted. She explained she’d come with a grant for four months to take a literature course. “But mainly to improve my English,” she added. I insisted that she spoke very well. She looked at me again with that slightly ironic expression and said thanks. I remember I said I don’t know what in Spanish and she laughed; I guess my accent wasn’t all that good. It was lunchtime and I asked if she wanted to eat something in one of the restaurants on the wharf. She accepted.

It was a lovely lunch. After talking for a while, she asked me what I’d seen in Barcelona and what I’d liked best, and I confessed that I’d only been there for around eight hours and had hardly seen anything apart from the hotel and the airport. She laughed. I found her laugh extremely attractive. We talked a little about everything: Barcelona, California, Berkeley, which was where she was taking the course and where I lived, my family and my Spanish grandmother, my thesis, what she was going to do when she returned to Barcelona in three months.

After lunch I went with her around the war ship. Then, we walked along the wharfs for a while. Sitting on a bench facing the sea, I asked her if she liked California.

“Yes. Your country is very beautiful,” she said. And then, I don’t know why, I sang that verse of Woodie Guthrie’s song:

This land is your land, this land is my land,

from California to the New York islands,

from the Redwood forest to the Gulf stream waters

this land was made for you and me.

She was moved and asked me:

“Do you love your home?”

I told her I did. And then she said:

“I love my home too. It’s a small nation, smaller than California, but very beautiful: Catalonia.”

She said it in such a way, with such passion, that it touched me. So I asked her to talk about her home.

“Barcelona is a really beautiful city, famous for its architecture, especially its modernista buildings. And Catalonia is wonderful. It has a very wild coast, the Costa Brava, on the Mediterranean Sea. And mountains, the Pyrenees, which are not like your Rockies, but are also very high. The landscape is very green, though it’s drier in the south. We produce very good wines and have a lot of industry. We also have good universities and excellent sportspeople. And a football team that is known throughout the world, Barça; in recent years it’s won the Champions league, the main competition in Europe, on several occasions.”

She stopped talking and looked out to sea lost in her thoughts. Did she miss her home? While I watched her, I thought I’d like to get to know Catalonia.

After walking a little longer, we went back to the university together on the BART, the underground train that connects San Francisco and Berkeley. I accompanied her to her residence hall, chatting all the way. I decided I really liked her and must see her again. I found the way to do this immediately:

“Listen, the day after tomorrow there’s a party in my Faculty. You’d enjoy it. Do you want to come?”

She agreed. And that’s how we started to go out together.

We saw each other almost every day. I was no longer in a hurry to leave Berkeley. We spoke in English because Laia wanted to perfect her skills, and in Spanish, which was good for me. I began to learn a little Catalan, as I realised it was very important to her and I wanted to impress.

In my department, I helped a friend set up his experimental equipment. Then, Professor Anderson offered me a job for a few months on a short research project for a company, which was also about combustion. That gave me an excuse to stay on at Berkeley while Laia was there, so I accepted straight away. It wasn’t arduous work; it was well-paid and gave me plenty of free time.

They were three incredible months, enjoyable, relaxed, passionate. In fact, everything went extremely fast: after two months we decided to live together in my flat. Life was good. In the morning, we left together, and I accompanied Laia to her faculty. On the way, we stopped for a coffee near Sather Tower. Then, I went to the laboratory and worked until mid-afternoon, when we met up again. We’d walk around the campus or attend the talks or meetings that were always going on. We often went into San Francisco to the cinema, to see an exhibition, or to do some other activity out of the many on offer in the city. We ate out or more often in the apartment. Laia was a good cook. I thought I was too, and wanted to show her. Instead of the Cuban-style rice (rice, tomato sauce and a fried egg) and grilled steak that I was used to making, I tackled more complicated dishes. But after burning a quiche in the oven and making an inedible paella, Laia suggested with that charming irony she sometimes used that it might be better if I just helped in the kitchen. I accepted and didn’t burn anything else from then on.

Three incredible months, yes. The problem was that they went so fast. Suddenly, it was time for Laia to leave. Her literature course had finished, and she had to go home. The separation was getting inexorably closer. Almost unconsciously, we tried not to think or talk about it, but the spectre of separation was increasingly present. Until the time came when her flight was the next day. Both of us were downcast; it seemed terrible that we had to separate, now that we knew each other so well and got on so brilliantly. Laia in Barcelona and me in San Francisco! With nine or ten thousand kilometres between us, what would we do? I was convinced that our relationship was nothing like those I’d had previously with Linda and Betty. This was different. I didn’t want to lose Laia at all.

“I’ll come to Barcelona. If you want me to, that is.”

Her face lit up and excitedly she said yes, she’d love me too. But then she was serious again.

“And what will you do there?”

The question took me by surprise. What would I do in Barcelona? I hadn’t thought about it, but I came up with the answer immediately.

“I’ll work as an engineer, I’m sure to find work; there are fire protection companies all around the world. Or I could look for work in the chemical industry or in an oil refinery: I’m a chemical engineer. Or better still I could do research. How many universities are there in Barcelona? Are there any engineering schools?”

That same day I looked into universities in Barcelona. Four of them had chemical engineering departments. What’s more, one of them had a research group wor