THE MYSTERIOUS KEY

That day, I woke with a strange sensation, as if I knew that something beyond the bounds of my normal, everyday life was about to unfold. Although the alarm clock chimed at its usual hour, and I followed my customary local routines—washing and combing my hair, setting the espresso machine, warming the milk, sliding bread into the toaster, and fetching the butter and jam from the refrigerator so they might lose their chill—the feeling persisted. It was, in all other respects, the standard routine of every day.

While I was having breakfast—which, by the bye, was my favorite moment of the day—my fitband vibrated, alerting me to an incoming call. I had developed the healthy habit of keeping my phone on silent since the publication of my previous book. Since then, calls had been incessant; somehow, my personal information had been leaked, leading to a constant barrage from newspapers, magazines, and television programs. I understood that such attention was necessary, yet I found the underlying reason distasteful. They used the book as a pretext only to pry into the matter of my grandmother, Doña Juana Campos—a celebrated writer and essayist of high noble standing, who had vanished under mysterious circumstances. This weighed so heavily upon me that I opted for silence, responding only to calls I deemed appropriate, much to the chagrin of my editor. She never ceased repeating that, ultimately, “it was all publicity for your book, and that should interest you.” Initially, I had yielded, until the situation began to exact a significant emotional toll.

True it is that every writer requires a motivation to write. I still recall the words of my mentor, Francisco José Jurado, author of Benegas, when he would say… “If you lead a mundane life where everything is replete with happiness, well and good, enjoy it—but you will have nothing to write about.” Yet, that particular situation was blocking me more than it was providing inspiration. I had concluded the first stage of publicity and was simultaneously working on my second book—or rather, attempting to. Hours in the chair, a set schedule, the writer’s discipline. It truly amused me when people claimed that writing was easy, that anyone could be a writer, and that one “only had to sit down.” They did not suspect the constancy required, the endless hours before the computer screen, the countless times one writes and then deletes because the result fails to satisfy. How difficult it is to invest your dreams, labor, and hopes into something you wish for others to enjoy, without knowing if it will truly resonate. Likewise, one never knows if a publisher will show interest, or if one has simply worked for a year or two without recompense, at the mercy of the taste of a stranger to whom all expectations must be entrusted. Yet, even so, I loved this profession of mine, though I surely enjoyed the creation above all else; everything else—conferences, interviews, social media—was mere appendage. Sometimes I thought of the shyness of Mrs. Agatha Christie, and the ordeal she faced whenever she had to attend a lecture. Once, at a symposium where she was the guest of honor, a steward refused her entry because he could not believe that so timid a lady was the great writer, until an organizer approached, took her gently by the arm, and led her inside. I could not compare my writings to hers, but I certainly recognized that sensation of anxiety, of nerves before a crowd who, according to my editor, “admired me,” while I felt only as though I were being judged.

I glanced at my phone; it was a call from an unrecognized number. My breakfast was already beginning to sit ill. I set it aside, intending to investigate later. But alas… my restlessness outweighed my hunger. I decided to search for the number online; it belonged to the law firm of González Gipuzkoa. This was unsettling, perhaps connected to the feeling with which I had risen, or that strange dream that had occupied my night.

I finished my breakfast and placed a call to that number. It rang the appropriate tones. On the other end of the line, a youthful male voice answered.

—González Gipozkoa, how may we assist you?

It was a standard, protocol-driven response, surely repeated incessantly with every call. I thanked my stars I had decided against such a career; it was not for me.

—Good morning. I have just received a call from your office and do not know the nature of the inquiry. I am Elvira González Campos.

Silence fell on the other end for a time—to me, it seemed an eternity. I knew someone was still there, for I could hear a breath that seemed somewhat labored.

—You wouldn’t happen to be the writer, would you?

God help me! Another one who was going to bait me with something regarding my grandmother’s disappearance. I feared the worst; a throbbing began at my temples and a stiffness in my neck, the harbingers of my insufferable vertigo. I drew a deep breath to steady myself; I was getting ahead of the facts.

—Yes, that is I. Tell me… why have you called?

—Permit me to say that I am a great admirer of yours. Your book is fantastic, brilliant—I read it in a mere five days.

I calmed somewhat. It seemed it had nothing to do with my grandmother. “Thank you, I am glad you enjoyed it; that was my intent.” My ego felt a trifle bolstered. Nevertheless, there I sat before my laptop, without a single glimmer of what I ought to write. Nothing. The god Momus was mocking me!

—One moment, I shall transfer you to Don Pedro, the attorney,— said that voice, so full of hope, vitality, and cheer.

—Very well, I shall wait,— though I’m certain my voice did not sound so pleasant in that moment, fraught as I was with uncertainty and concern.

There was a click, followed by hold music by Bach. What a pity to employ such majestic music for a wait that, more often than not, breeds only weariness.

—Doña Elvira González Campos, we have called because we had instructions from your grandmother, Doña Juana Campos. In the event we did not hear from her within a calendar year of her last visit, we were to deliver a package to you in person—a package held here under notarial control. To effect this delivery, you must come in person, and it shall be handed over under the supervision of the Notary, Don Mikel Abanto. Therefore, what day would suit you to visit?

I was struck dumb; I had not expected this in the slightest. I could not utter a word. On the other end, they spoke again, allowing me time to recover.

—I know this must seem strange to you; it is indeed not a common situation. If you wish, we can call you again in a few days so you may organize your schedule. We know that, given your profession, it must be filled with commitments.

I emerged from my abstraction, remembering that I had a symposium in Guipúzcoa in two days. From my Córdoba, it was far indeed. Thus, I would depart for Madrid tomorrow, stay the night, and then proceed directly to that marvelous city.

I could never have imagined what that letter, left there by my grandmother, would hold for my near future. Perhaps it brought news of her, of her whereabouts. I knew the police had not relented in their search, but as the fine writer and intelligent woman she was, if she did not wish to be found, found she would not be. Sometimes she would sequester herself to concentrate on her writings, but she had always remained locatable—until now, when I was entirely ignorant of where she might be. Hence my sensitive emotional state, which frayed at the slightest trifle.

I set off for the station to catch the train, trying to discern what that letter might contain. What beautiful words had she left written? Were they penned by hand? Why did she not answer my calls, and… why had she waited a full year to contact me? The situation gave me vertigo—the true vertigo of my affliction—and I had to master it, for I had a symposium in two days. Travels often caused me instability, though I could usually steady myself with a little rest. I had been forced to adapt to certain situations and to foresee what might occur—a true nuisance, but I had to live with my enemy, “The Vertigo,” and make it my ally.

The journey to Madrid was swift and comfortable. The only thing I could not abide was the lack of respect shown by some regarding their mobile phones; it mattered not at all to them that silence was requested in the carriage. On one journey, there was a young woman who, by her conversation, surely must have been a lawyer. She spoke openly of a crime that had been committed; from what I could gather, whether I wished to or not, it was a financial crime involving a vast sum of money. she was telling another person how careless the perpetrator had been in leaving evidence, and that once it exceeded a certain amount, the penalty was severe. I found it appalling—she was broadcasting amounts, personal data, and naming the defrauded entities for all to hear. She hung up just as the train reached my destination. What a bother! I felt tempted to ask her to inform me once the sentence was passed. On another occasion, a man spoke with who seemed to be his mistress, mocking his wife’s ingenuity. I thought that the mistress was the truly ingenious one, knowing his character and believing he would not treat her just the same. Birds of a feather!

Fortunately, on this trip… no one spoke by phone. Only the clatter of the train and the occasional horn of the engineer could be heard. Thus, I was able to rest peacefully in those large, comfortable seats. I was roused from my warm dreams by the conductor and the speaker announcing the next stop; I felt a surge of gratitude that the conductor reached me before the announcement did.

I left the station and set out for the Hotel Meliá Madrid Princesa. it was near the station, close to the Gran Vía, the Plaza de España, the Prado, the Reina Sofía, and the Retiro Park. Each room was decorated in a unique, avant-garde style. I felt as though I were entering a museum of art, which put me at ease. My bags were brought up, I tipped the bellhop appropriately, and decided that for the moment, I felt well—praying it might remain so. My mind was far from clear; all my thoughts were dancing at once to different rhythms—a wild, uncontrolled orgy of the mind.

I made my way toward the Retiro Park. The Book Fair was underway—a fact I knew, though I had no desire to sign anything. On the other hand, I longed to see some of my colleagues, but that day I was not prepared for any of them to ask about my grandmother. Of course, they never did so with ill intent; the issue was the stress the whole matter caused me, compounded now by that phone call.

I disguised myself as best I could—a thick scarf about my neck, a hat, and large sunglasses. I wished to stroll, to see the Crystal Palace, the pond, and as the tango says… “Now that it has ducklings and one can even swim.” I passed as swiftly as I could before the kiosks, seeing my colleagues signing their books and our beloved readers queuing to obtain a personalized dedication—a way to feel a little closer to us writers, and to the characters with whom they had connected through words, one by one, forming a beautiful, terrible, sad, fantastic, or mysterious story depending on the genre.

I walked, shrouded in the shadows cast by the beautiful trees, toward the Crystal Palace, where my mother used to tell me she played as a child. I tried to imagine her there—perhaps with two braids on either side of her head, her small legs covered by a skirt and perhaps white openwork socks, as she scurried about with her friends. I stood gazing at that beautiful palace and, I swear to God, in a moment of reverie, I managed to see her there, with her braided chestnut hair. A faint smile touched my lips. The impact of a ball against my foot brought me back to reality; a girl was playing with her mother and the ball had escaped her. The mother approached to apologize; she recognized me, causing me both embarrassment and pride.

—Are you… Elvira González Campos? The author of The Magic Forest?

—Yes, I am,— I smiled timidly.

The lady’s face lit up, her eyes grew misty and, holding back her emotion as best she could, she stroked her daughter’s hair and looked at me.

—Because of you, my daughter’s stay in the pediatric hospital was so much more bearable. Chemotherapy and radiotherapy sessions were made just a little easier. Inspired by your book, I was allowed to paint the walls of the pediatric oncology ward. I painted lush forests, green leaves, dream-like animals and fables; I was able to make them just a little happier.

I did not deserve her gratitude; she had done it all herself, as had the parents and the little ones who fought daily against the malevolent design of cancer. I did not understand how God could permit such a thing, but who was I to understand anything?

—I have done nothing; you and your daughter have done everything. She is beautiful,— I knelt and stroked her lovely, though still pale, face. Truly, I admired that child for all she had endured at so tender an age.

—You gave me some measure of peace and inspired me to paint,— that lady deserved a great hug and far more praise than I could offer, but… that illness had taken my mother when I was still small, and it was painful for me to speak of it.

—Is this beautiful warrior well now?

—Yes, she is well now,— the mother looked at her with that gaze that only mothers possess—loving, infinite, and tireless. A gaze I missed so dearly.

She searched for a piece of paper, a napkin—anything where I might sign a dedication. That lady deserved far more than a simple autograph. Thus, I proposed that she give me her email, and I would send her a signed book and something for her daughter—perhaps a handmade doll like the ones that appear in the book.

I leaned down and gave the girl a great kiss; her name, by the way, was Alba—a fitting name for her. Both child and mother moved off toward the pond, the little girl’s attention now caught by a small white duck that quacked while flapping its wings upon the water.

It had been an eventful day, and I decided it was time to return to the hotel. For reasons I could not quite fathom, I felt a little more cheerful and encouraged—perhaps because I had the sensation of having helped someone through my book, even if indirectly. I removed my glasses; after all, the sun was setting, and I was achieving the opposite of my intent.

That extra-large bed was going to suit me perfectly. I was exhausted. That night, I would take my medication in good measure—one for the vertigo and another to help me sleep, as the vertigo would surely try to prevent it. I had the unwholesome habit of checking hotel sheets before retiring; I found everything in order and settled my body upon them. I say settled because sometimes I felt as though my spirit carried a burden from so many health issues—minor problems in the end, but they take their toll drop by drop… Still, for a moment I felt selfish. I did not deserve to feel so, for that sweet girl had already endured far more than I in her seemingly fragile frame. I managed to shake off the bitter sensation that spiritual malaise creates and went with Morpheus into the world of dreams. Sometimes people asked what my book was based upon. “Easy, friend,” I would answer, “on Arthur Conan Doyle’s tales of Selenites, on Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, on Verne and Wells.” In the end, there was almost nothing entirely original left; all literature was already created in some way and absorbed into our psyche. It wasn’t that we wished to plagiarize; it was that anyone who reads has literature woven into their very soul. And so, slowly, with those thoughts, I fell asleep.

I caught the train to San Sebastián, and from there to Guipúzcoa on the local line. They had very specific schedules, but I had timed it so that I would hardly have to wait.

At the station in Guipúzcoa, a chauffeur was waiting for me with a large sign bearing my name. Nothing caused me more embarrassment than drawing attention, but the firm in charge of the symposium wished to provide every ease and comfort to ensure I was well. I admit my behavior is somewhat peculiar. What I enjoyed most about that journey were the vast, lush, green landscapes, though the sky also shifted in hue to a leaden gray. The air smelled clean; the temperature was much like my Córdoba at that moment, though with a humidity I was not accustomed to. Beautiful landscapes my eyes were able to discover; it was fantastic, a dream—a thousand and one stories passed through my imagination. I tried to remember every tree, every blade, every scent. Sometimes I would become lost in thought, and those around me must have thought I was… as they say in my land, “empanada”—that is to say, dazed.

That fellow in the black chauffeur’s uniform, seeing me approach, smiled and asked if I was the person named on the sign. I confirmed his suspicion, he took my bags, and we headed for the car. Along the way, he asked if he should raise the partition separating his cabin from mine.

—No, please. It does not bother me in the slightest.

—Very well, madam. I asked only in case you wished to make a personal call and required more privacy.

I had no one to call—perhaps my editor, with whom I had the closest relationship, or my trainer, with whom I spent many hours.

The chauffeur glanced at the rearview mirror, observing the sadness in my expression.

—Have you been here before?

—No. And I must say it is beautiful and marvelous in equal measure.

—Paradise on earth,— said the chauffeur.

I smiled, for every person’s city seems like paradise to them; it is where you live, where you have sown your memories and longings.

—Well, I have managed to make you smile; that is good.

For a moment, that compliment made me blush. I was not used to any praise regarding my appearance. I knew not where to look. I recalled my father saying I had wonderful emerald eyes, and my grandmother saying I had very fair skin with a certain rosy tone that gave me vitality. Yet, now I had no one to tell me anything beautiful; sometimes, I needed it. I felt both grateful and shy.

—Tell me… have you worked for the company long?

—I would say since I was twenty-five.

I wished to compliment him in return; how difficult I found it to speak a word, and how easy it was to write them.

—Then it hasn’t been so long.

I caught his eyes in the mirror and both narrowed a little—he was laughing. By the way, what beautiful eyes he had! They were blue—a dark, intense blue.

—Well, it has been ten years already, but I thank you for the compliment.

The journey felt shorter than I had imagined. We stopped at the Parador de Hondarribia. It was impressive—a magnificent tenth-century castle that retained the structure of a medieval fortress, perched over the Bidasoa estuary with magnificent views of the sea. My surprise at the grand facade of that parador—which was to be my home for a few days, or so I thought—must have been evident. The chauffeur opened the door and swiftly placed my bags on the hotel’s cart. I thanked him for the conversation; I went to offer a tip, but he declined, stating his fees were covered by the company. He stood at attention with his cap removed and held under his arm. He reminded me of a soldier; it amused me. Me, as a General of the Army!

—Thank you for everything. I hope the journey to the hotel was not too tedious for you.

For just an instant, he relaxed and inclined his head.

—On the contrary, it has been a thorough pleasure. I shall collect you for the conference or any other place you wish to go; my services are engaged for three days.

—Thank you. How may I contact you?

He produced a card—bearing the name of the company and a phone number. We said our farewells, and I entered the hotel.

If the facade was spectacular, the entrance and the hall were even better, in no way disappointing whatever expectations one might have formed. Behind those thick walls lay spaces adorned with arches, coffered ceilings, spears, cannons, armor, and great tapestries hanging from the walls. An interior courtyard with green ferns—their branches cascading into the void from bare stone stairs—and small square tables with iron chairs created a cozy atmosphere, a perfect blend of solemnity and elegance.

I checked in and made my way to the room. Once there, my phone rang. I answered; it was Aitor.

—Good afternoon, dear. Would you care for a drink at the marina?

—Good afternoon. Yes, of course. It must be magnificent there.

—Shall I collect you in an hour?

I checked the time. I also had to visit the law firm and knew not how long it would take. “That sounds wonderful, but I also have an errand while I am here. Could I use the chauffeur for it?”

Silence followed on the other end for a brief interval.

—Of course, but… you come from so far and have an errand to run. Such a busy woman!

That comment did not please me in the least; there was a certain condescending tone to it. I no longer felt like dining with that fellow. However, I could not make excuses. It was a great opportunity to make myself known in those parts.

—True, I am a busy woman, and far from a simpleton.

—Oh… come, don’t be cross. It was only a jest.

That man—with his soft, seemingly fragile voice full of irony and falsehood—already sat ill with me.

—I shall see you in an hour.

I did not know what he looked like, but I imagined him stout, portly, with an air of arrogance toward everyone—one who prided himself on being elegant, though his elegance was only a perfume that failed to mask so foul a character.

I contacted the law firm and requested they see me at the last hour—around half-past eight in the evening—as it would be impossible before then, given the distance from where I was. They raised no objection, and we agreed upon that time.

I readied myself, even taking more care with my appearance than was my wont—something to do with that pleasant chauffeur. I went down, and there he was, standing by his door, ready to open mine. I settled in for the drive to the marina.

—I think you will be cold in those clothes.

—Do not believe it. In Córdoba right now it is cold; the difference is that it is sharp, not damp.

—But the wind here… I do not think you have its like in your city.

—In that you are right. Just as with the salt aroma in the air from the sea… I assure you we have none of that there.

—I thought it was always hot there.

It was clear he was trying to extend the conversation, and I too wished to speak more with him. I was beginning to feel something for that chauffeur.

—That is more an assertion than a question. When it is cold, it is truly cold; though lately there are more hot months than the reverse. An stifling, dry heat that cuts the air and makes breathing a labor. However, in April and May, it smells of orange blossom there, and majestic flowers rise up to deck the balconies, patios, and terraces.

We continued chatting in a courteous and pleasant manner. I mentioned that I had errands in Bilbao and would need his services. He glanced at me through the glass and smiled. Once again, I felt a blush creep up.

Finally, we arrived at the marina. He opened the door, and there stood that fellow Aitor. He was exactly as I had imagined; there was something about him I liked not at all. After the formal greetings, we sat down to eat. Great quantities of food were served—in the North, they ate far too much for my habit. Gildas, Basque-style hake, porrusalda, marmitako—accompanied by a local cider (sagardoa) and, for dessert, pantxineta with coffee for me. I felt as though I might burst.

The evening passed in a very formal and protocol-driven manner, leaving everything quite settled regarding the symposium—the duration of the talk and the time for questions and answers. I checked my watch and saw that time was becoming my enemy; I had to depart immediately if I was to reach the firm. I took my leave politely.

I practically ran from there as if pursued; that is to say, in great haste. He was already by his door, cap under his arm; upon seeing me, he donned his cap and opened the door.

I sat down, letting out a breath that was almost a groan. I needed rest, but it was not to be, as I was now bound for the law firm.

—If you’ll permit me to say so, you should rest so you are in full form for tomorrow.

—You are quite right, but this, my friend, must be done whether I have the will or not.

I looked out the window. We were leaving behind that small, medieval fishing village that, in other times, had held such importance and history.

—By the way, if you do not mind my asking… what is your name?

—I do not mind at all. Though do not think I tell just any client—my name is Iker.

—A pleasure, Iker. My name is…

—Elvira González Campos,— he replied.

—It’s true—you came to collect me at the station with the sign. Foolish of me; I had forgotten.

—What you do not know is that I am a great admirer of yours. The book has a very fine narrative; it is capable of transporting you to places you already know, and to others you imagine just by reading each phrase and paragraph of your story.

In time, I would realize that the forests in my book were very similar to those where he played as a child with his Aitas.

—What a compliment! I did not expect that at all.

—I am not so fierce as I appear.

We arrived at the law firm of González Gipozkoa. I looked out; it was a cold, modern building with little personality, though the city itself had its charm—they had managed to fuse history with modernity. I took the elevator and was met by a young man who directed me to a specific room. That firm was a beehive of rooms. The ambient sound was the typical classical music to make the wait seem less long, with a common room where clients usually waited. However, with me, they were making an exception.

The lawyer and the notary rose, shook my hand, and signaled for me to be seated.

After telling me the same thing they had over the phone, they handed me a sealed envelope. I signed all the necessary formal documents. I asked about the fees, but my grandmother had already settled them.

I looked at that envelope and decided to open it alone, in greater privacy, though the faces of the lawyer and the notary clearly betrayed their interest in its contents.

I was leaving that building, which was beginning to stifle me, when I saw him there, waiting with the door open.

—Where are we headed?

He had to repeat the question twice more. As I did not respond, he decided to start driving until I gave him direction. So many years of driving had taught him rules not found in any manual.

I opened that mysterious envelope. There was a missive in which my grandmother instructed me to go to the Beech Forest; she gave me the exact geographic coordinates. There was also a key—one of those that seem ancient and steeped in history. I gave Iker the coordinates, and we arrived there. It was a unique, exceptional forest of Beeches—green, lush, where the branches form a very particular landscape: the Otzarreta Beech Forest. It seemed a place inhabited by gnomes, elves, and sprites, as if one had stepped into a magic forest with trees draped in moss, perennially covered in a carpet of leaf litter and crossed by a winding stream of crystalline, tinkling waters. That forest existed, though it seemed sprung from my imagination. It is located at the eastern edge of the Gorbeia Natural Park and is called Otzarreta. It is small—scarcely a few hectares—but enough to hold a landscape that carries one to lands of dreams. And in autumn, it shines in all its splendor. We ventured into it, and I thanked heaven for being accompanied by someone from those lands. I had no idea where to walk or how to do it—and to make matters worse, I was wearing ballet flats. I passed the coordinates to Iker and, with Google Maps, we managed to arrive. It was a house of exposed stone in grayish tones, with moss about it. Its roof was dark, with the kind of tile that withstands snow and climate. I drew out the key, inserted it into the lock, and the door yielded—its hinges letting out a pained sound, a creak that suggested it had not been opened in some time.

Upon entering, I began to remember. I had been there before. I remembered the crackle of wood burning. I remembered the typewriter upon the table. I allowed myself to be drawn into the bedroom. The bed had a thick quilt whose patterns betrayed the era to which it belonged. I lay upon it, surrendering to my memories—my father drinking his whiskey before the typewriter and me playing with books I had already read, building a small house for a fictional character I had always loved: “Puck,” a phenomenal and very friendly elf. When I lay there, I felt among the clouds; it was a feather mattress that formed a little hollow as one settled in. “Oh… I loved it!”

Iker called to me; there was a note on the thick beechwood table in the parlor.

—My dear girl, I am gifting you my sanctuary of well-being—a place where you can hide, and distance yourself from Society. Your father asked me to look after it for you; I have been doing so all this time. I have remained here, far from the madding crowd, and now I have managed to write a new work. Given the expectation surrounding my disappearance, the publisher believes I should remain without word of my whereabouts until the publication appears. My dear, forgive me, but I fell into a state of anxiety and suddenly remembered this little house and made the arrangements so you might find me. Aitor knew where I was staying; he has been helping me incessantly through my daily complaints. He is not so hostile as he might first appear. I requested that he say nothing to you, despite his continuous efforts to have me at least contact you.

I began to feel faint; everything went spinning. True it is that my family has always been somewhat peculiar, but… I never thought we should go to such an extreme. Iker brought a chair for me to sit. I handed him the letter to read.

—What she has done is not right, but she is alive and, it seems, hopeful, inspired, and in love.

Behind us, the door opened, and my grandmother appeared. I knew not whether to scold her or kiss her; I chose the latter. It could not have been easy for her either. My grandmother explained that I had erased it from my memory when my father died, but upon reading my book, she found the hidden path to my memories and thought it was time for me to awaken.

I could never have imagined my grandmother living there, alone.

—Have you been here alone all this time?

—At first, yes. Then I realized I needed help from outside and I contacted Aitor—a great man, who has struggled much not to tell you a thing. I needed you to have a reality check for yourself.

I understood not the reason, but my fears, doubts, and insecurities slowly began to vanish with the passage of time. And besides all that… I had gained a chauffeur and an honorable man—my Iker.

I recalled my promise and sent my favorite character from the book to Alba, trying to contribute something of the happiness I finally and deservedly felt—I sent her the gnome Puck. In the next book, He would be the keeper of “The Key to Happiness” for whoever wished to follow him.

If in the magnitude of our thought we were to cross the threshold of consciousness, we would elevate our spirit.