El Escorial
Da–iel Yazlovitsky
“A thousa–d oxen carried the materials, and one hundred omens, in the form of storms, bloody accidents, and a howling, haunted dog, hung over the building as it was erected. Finally, on the great day, the corpses of all of Philip’s ancestor’s rumbled into El Escorial from everywhere in Spain.”
– The Broken Mirror, Carlos Fuentes
My friend and I who I have not seen for some time were sitting at an upscale café in downtown Madrid. His antiquated suit and mannerisms seemed like a far cry from the loud and colorful world around us. He had grown haggard since our last meeting.
His name was Vasquez and he came from the house of Ramos, a noble family that at one time claimed large tracks of the more fertile lands of Spain. But the vicissitudes of fate have slowly pulled down this house and family from the highest ranks of honor to the lowest rungs. There is even a mention at the church of La Sagrada Amelia of someone with the lofty name of Ramos getting married and dying in a suburb of Segovia; a robust farmer of the dusty La Salceda valley.
Since the degradation of his family, this line has gone through alterations. From proud prominent men and studied heirs they have devolved into speculators and ghosts of their former selves. It was my privilege to meet my friend during our childhood at the academy and later we proceeded together to attend La Universidad Autónoma de Madrid. I had always found him to be an adventuresome and entertaining colleague, even if somewhat on the wild side. His nature was one of excess and debauchery, a walking void that could never be filled. He was always plagued by the memory in his bones and ancient soul, of the antique times when his line practiced in grandeur and decadence those same debaucheries with Princes and Ministers of State.
Today, his face was lined more than ever with the effects of the sleepless lifestyle. His skin tightly pulled over his skull—the Roman nose of the aristocrat and high cheek bones. His look was one to inspire but his purpose was only one of corruption.
Usually he would speak of bets on local football matches or of real estate speculation, but today his manner was much more intense than usual—as much as his appearance seemed more desperate.
“Lorca once said”, he whispered to me, “that the Escorial is the sad place from which all the cold rains in the Earth come.
Did you know for example that El Escorial covers 50 miles with it’s halls and rooms—frigid passages and alcoves. But they all look the same, miles after miles of granite architecture. The very arcade that we sit at now was made from the same stones.
“Perhaps you do not know that I recently lost two family members. I never liked them much anyway so I didn’t tell you and only went to their funerals out of Catholic devotion. A retelling of my family history would be like a page from Garcia Marquez but I am not here to talk about ancient history.
The stories of sacrifice, torture and madness which are present in all of this country’s so-called noble blood we shall leave where they belong—in the library of El Escorial—let the monks keep those dusty tombs.
“I want to tell you about the death of my brother. I have never told anyone this before but I was with him when he died. Yes, it’s true that he plunged off the edge of the A-7 en route between Malaga and Cartageña.
If only superstitious Spain were more interested in good road conditions than having a shrine every few hundred meters. But I’m digressing...yes I was speaking to him on his cell phone at the time. He was feeling good, I think, excited about his recent acquisition of the new Aston Martin. Then all of a sudden a mood fell upon him like a dark cloud for the briefest of moments and he said quite audibly and with detachment, ‘that’s strange.’ I heard the terrible sounds of shrieking metal and bending steel. But no screaming. One would think it wasn’t out of place to scream at a time like this?
“So much for my brother. Not long ago I suffered the loss of another family member.
Only a baby, an 11-year old girl. She was riding upon a horse, a very calm black Arabian. Some thing startled the little girl. Her name was Andalusa by the way. She began to shriek and jabber about someone pointing to a clump of old trees. The horse uncharacteristically threw her off, killing the child instantly.
“Now this is where the story gets interesting,” his eyes lit into mine. “Andaluza had recently gotten a present. A broken heart pendent made of gold. Guess who was in possession of this relic up until recently...Yes my brother. And guess who possesses the other half? Myself!
You are probably wondering why I am telling you this. So let me get to the point. I have a buyer lined up who has specified that he wants the completed pendent. What powers both halves have together I will not speculate on. But judging from the power of the one-half, it must be enormous if not wholly of the purest strength. Anyhow, my poor departed sister has recently made her journey into El Escorial; rumbled home as they say. The accursed broken heart has gone with her. I wish to God that I had ripped it off her neck during the funeral. At any rate, I am asking you, my old friend, to accompany me to the necropolis and retrieve the amulet.”
We made an appointment to meet on the south-eastern slope of the Sierra Guadarrama at midnight. On one side, the savage looking mountains tower threateningly above the place and on the other, is a dreary waste of sand and rocks—lava beds of old volcanoes.
I had brought gloves and an overcoat, but the minute I entered past the palatial fa&ccdil;ade, a death-like chill pierced through my sweater to the very bones. The frost of our breath rose even though it was late summer outside. Everything inside is stone—the dread place is a giant cooler shaped like a medieval torture device. Every minute we spent walking sent shivers up my spine. I could almost see and feel figures peering at me from behind arches. And the monotony!
All 11,000 windows are barricaded—One for each virgin whose bones lie at Cologne. No sounds but the empty echo of our steps. “The laughter of ghosts,” Ramos joked.
I began to feel the hand of insanity reaching out to me; even the indomitable Ramos looked subdued.
I longed for the night to be over but here we only approached the center of the gridiron--the burial place of kings and nobles. Their gilded coffins are lined with porphyry, jasper, and agate. But this chill...The temperature of the corridors seems less chill now compared to this; the stillness is positively arctic. I shine the light around. I become aware of a soft sound that sends the hair of my neck prickling. Was Ramos not hearing it? No...probably not...he was busy looking for his sister’s name. I felt the Noseless One’s fingers upon my spine.
Ramos, without hesitation, began to pry open the smallish coffin. And as he did, I caught a flash of bright eyes from my flashlight. Small eyes, cold and hard as the stones that oppressed us all around. I shined the light in that direction but it was merely two onyx stones side by side. The heavy lid was thrown back with an echoing boom but the coffin...dear God! was empty and the gentle rustling I had heard earlier held it’s breath.
