Page 101 of No Merciful Corruption

“I…” He folds his hands in front of him and looks out unto the garden. “I don’t say it often but I’m very proud of you—of the work you’ve done.”

Unsure of how to react, I merely smile at the compliment though I’m not sure where it came from.

“After all these years it’s still very difficult to come to terms with this…this concept of having something for the sweet and simple pleasure of it. I’m a weathered old man and yet inside me lingers a little boy who fears being without.”

Abuelo has rarely, if ever, spoken of his childhood. At least with me. I sit straighter in my seat intent on listening as he shares a part of himself he keeps closely guarded.

“I am glad. That you and Alejandro will be able to enjoy life without having to fight to live it.”

His unexpected moment of vulnerability emboldens me to ask. “You know, I always wondered.”

He looks up from his folded hands to meet my gaze.

“Narvaez Enterprises made you a titan. You sat at the helm of a massive, powerful enterprise and yet your mentality, the way you see the world, is still so small. All your attention is focused on this one city when you have the rest of the world at your fingertips.”

“Because it wasn’t always this way.”

“But it is now. Has been for decades.” I say. “Alejandro’s never even touched the corporate side of the Enterprise until now. Don’t you find it strange? He’s set to inherit a company he doesn’t fully understand because he’s spent the majority of his adult life pouring all his energy into keeping control over a city you don’t even need..”

Abuelo remains pensive, his eyes revealing nothing. They’re bright and blue, not quite Diego’s, and not quite Allegra’s. Yet you can still tell they get their blue from him.

“Did my grandson ever tell you why I chose Barcelona?” he asks.

“Vaguely, many years ago.”

“My great-grandfather was born in 1862, the son of a baker and a seamstress. His name was Ildefons Narvaez Rovira but everyone called him Rovi.” He smiles fondly. “When he was twenty years old, he bought a third-class ticket on board a Spanish steamship that would take him to Cádiz and later Puerto Rico. From Puerto Rico, he sailed to Cartagena where he traveled wherever the work took him. He spent five years wandering aimlessly through Colombia in search of a fortune he would never find. He did, however, encounter my great-grandmother on a coffee plantation. They married and he decided to stay but he always dreamed of coming back home.

“I never cared to hear stories about his golden childhood in Spain. To me it was a far-off place; a fantasy from my ailing Abuelo Rovi’s imagination. I loved my life and had had a golden childhood of my own. I was one of seven children, you know. The middle brother. By the time I was thirteen, half my family was dead and I was responsible for a brother in a wheelchair and another brother and sister who were too young to write their own names. So I fled to Barcelona where my father’s youngest sister was and where I knew my siblings and I would be safe.”

“How did your parents die?”

“Murdered. My elder three brothers as well.” He doesn’t elaborate and I don’t ask. “My desire for safety became an obsession. Obsession morphed into fear. I clawed and scraped my way to the top but when I finally got there, nothing truly changed. I feared we’d one day lose the roof over our heads and the meals on our table. I feared losing my siblings, my wife, my children. Fear propelled me to dangerous heights and I paid a high price for my sins. First, I lost Lisandro. And then I lost Aurelia a few years later.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about your wife before.”

“There are some losses too painful to bear. I must bear hers in silence.”

“What was she like?”

“My Aurelia?” His eyes brighten at the sound of her name. “How does one describe a sunset to the blind? Or the sound of music to the deaf?” He shakes his head. “You cannot. Some things in life can only be experienced. My wife was one of them.”

I smile, unsure of what to say.

“Mi Aurelia era única.” He tells me.

“How did she die?”

“Cancer. It crept up on us.” He replies. “One moment she was fine and the next, she was suffering from migraines, dizzy spells. By the time they found the tumor, nothing could be done and she chose to die with dignity.”

A moment passes and I remain quiet.

“She had the most beautiful hair—like a fountain of ink spilling over her brown shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were dark like coffee beans. In certain lights, Diego resembles her the most of all our grandchildren, save his cousins Belinda and Arias.” He looks out over the garden. “She was spirited—like you. And a dancer like Karina. She ate her apples the way Lela does, without the skin, and wrote poetry. She was…the loveliest thing I had ever laid eyes on. Radiant, joyful, willful, and strong. Yet even with all her beauty, she had a temper like a Hell storm.”

I chuckle a bit. “Did she?”

His eyes widen a bit as if remembering. “Aurelia had a mouth and a right fist like a man. I underestimated her once and never again.”

“How long has it been now? Since she passed?”