THE EMAIL TALE - a E-F Viñuela novel -
***** The Email Tale *****
***** Chapter II *****
For a moment - Pablo - watch down the prairies, the herds by the trails slowly returning to the stables, to the farms where they would spend the winter months protected, and heated.
The daylight quickly being lost. The cold began and the snow could surprise them at any moment. Not far away on the border you could see the Adirondak the USA mountains drawn, printed like a blue spot against the last clarity of the afternoon for an autumn already almost finished.
Again Québec was preparing for another long winter, mist rose from the lake of two mountains. Green from cypresses and pines was the only color left, maple trees drawn like a high skeletal on gray and black was only left.
From far away you could hear the sound of the continuous rumor
coming from the trans Canadian highway extending its black
asphalt pattern towards the western side.
He came down the hill with a steady pace, stabbing his walking stick in the dry leaves covered by the shade of the pine trees,
at that hour no one was on the routes of Saint-Lazare.
A truck drivers hideaway was located there with giant trucks parked on either side of the road and a Resto Bar behind a huge sign of neon signs with glass partitions where you read - at intermittent light reflections - that one was, more or less, in the only blue bistro for a travel companion to Greek islands...
Inside, a mirror covered the entire wall high above the counter with a giant tv screen perpetually connected with vacation places, golf tournements at all hours, showing remote spots where sailboats floated over blue peaceful coves.
When I was about to set foot on the doorway, the cell phone sound start, so I walked to an armchair near the counter and start answering the call...
But before I go on ahead with this story, to be understood needs to be explained that for a few years I had not heard about this person, although in the past I heard a lot of gossip about him, but then I never personally saw him, nor his voice or on online, so the only I could do was trust that this call was really a guy calling from the Netherlands
All this started like a game, with a sort of complicity that was set by our friend Casimiro de Montrond, an agent from Europol, whom I bump into in a family reunion at Felipe Camps place during one of those rare visits from Agent Montrond to Montréal, because at that time he was still living in Iceland.
So at that time Monrond asked Felipe Camps that if one day it arrive in Montréal a strange fellow, telling that he was a 'guy from the netherlands' and asking for help, it means he was really in a crisis situation, and needs help.
But then to identified himself, inevitable ! he had to use a weird or curious phrase:
"I bring a message from your aunt, Doña Alma Errante"
Only then they could accept that was something of
extreme urgency. But at the same time they had to ask him something, a sort of a password :
"How old was doña Alma Errante" ?
In the answer was no possible mistake, she was for ever 100 years old each year on december 31st .
At that time, Montrond said, - with that slyness that characterized him.- that it was a household tradition in his familly living for ever.
-You don’t know me, I'm Dutch but I live in Istanbul, - said a voice with a cutting spanish accent - and also a slight german sound.
He explain that he was at Montréal International Airport
calling from a telephone booth. It was 7:30 p.m. and it was at the arrival hall on P-E Trudeau Airport customs, but was in his transit to continue to Salt Lake City in the States.
Now he needed someone of confidence to get him to Montréal, for remove an envelope from a UPS mailbox in downtown. That shouldn't take more than an hour and then need return to the airport because the flight to the US was at 02:30.
Casimiro de Montrond gave him this number, no name, simply tell someone that had a message from doña Alma Errante mentioning that it was related to the Europol investigation of the Bach's cantatas.
Suddenly Pablo became immersed in his memory going back
to that summer when took place the first encounter with Montrond at Felipe Camps home to discuss an investigation about the famous Bach cantatas.
Outside the bistro a reflection of the neon still blinking and inside the giant screen still showing golfers in Las Vegas.
From the 'portable' the echo of noises, broken voices coming out of loud speakers at the airport.
-Okay, okay, I understand, but then, tell me ! identify your self,
how old was Doña Alma Errante on December 31th?
(to be continue...)
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