The screen displays the name of Javier, and for a fraction of a second, we imagine it exactly as it must be at this precise moment: sitting behind a glass desk, his watch of luxury sparkling, his jaw tense with indignation, always convinced that indignation is synonymous with power. Outside, Madrid is cold and bright, from those winter mornings that give the city a sharp look. Inside, the papers are already in order, the buyer’s lawyer has already countersigned, and the house of La Moraleja is no longer his home in the legal sense of the word.
Your lawyer, Teresa Morales, drags the last page to you.
“You can answer now,” she said.
You pick up at the fourth ringing, not out of obligation, but because timing is part of the lesson. No sooner have you pronounced a “Hello” that Javier explodes in the loudspeaker, furious, out of breath and half unbelieving.
“Who the hell is my home? »
You tend your chair and take a look at the copy of the property transfer deed that dries next to you. The old kraft paper package containing the restored watch rests on the corner of the table where you left it, bumped in the fall, always sealed, retaining more dignity than your son has ever had all night. You speak calmly, as you did on construction sites when the young men took the noise for authority.
“They’re the new owner’s representatives,” you say. “Try not to keep them waiting. »
Silence strikes the line like a slap in itself.
Then comes the denial. He says that this is not possible. He says there must be a misunderstanding. He says Sofia calls him from the hallway because a man in a navy blue coat and a locksmith have just given him a package and asked him for access to the service gate, and that two private security guards are standing at the entrance, like dead croque-dead in custom suit.
You let him talk until his own panic makes him stupid enough to ask the question you knew he would ask.
“What right do you sell my house? »
That word, my God, almost makes you smile.
You’ve spent years seeing him, through this house, becoming a worse version of himself. The marble entrance hall, the imported oak flooring, the cinema room, the wine cellar, the illusion of effortless success, all this began to act on him as flattery on weak men. This made him forget that owning does not mean living, that money without memories turns people into decorative objects in their own lives.
“The same right I had when I paid for it,” you say. “The same right I had when I had it registered at Inversiones El Mastín. The same right I had yesterday, when you hit me thirty times in a property that never belonged to you. »
He’s being silent.
No remorse. Just stunned enough for the truth to eventually impose itself on him. One would almost hear him go back the last five years in reverse, looking for error, the invisible line drawn in the sand, the moment when his father ceased to be a refuge and became the one who built his future. When he takes the floor again, his voice is more serious.
“You wouldn’t do it. »
“I’ve already done it. »
Then you hang up.
Teresa doesn’t ask you if everything is okay, because women like her know that asking this question to a man like you too early is a waste of time. Instead, it hands you a file with the pragmatic grace of someone who, for twenty years, has been watching the wealthy families discover that the papers are not a matter of blood. Inside are the notices of revocation of the residence permit, the minutes of the meeting of Inversiones El Mastín approving the sale, the confirmation of the deposit of the buyer and the formal notice in case Javier decides to do his own on social networks.
The sale itself had lasted less time than it took your son to choose a birthday jacket.
The buyer, a discreet family office representing a widow of Salamanca, had been interested in property for months. She wanted discretion, speed and no public announcement. You wanted a definitive transaction, a balance of power, and a transfer without a hitch, finalized before noon. From your first call at 8h06, everything has been chained naturally, as often when the job well done is based on competence rather than ego.
At 8h23, you called the administrator of El Mastín.
At 9h10, the house was listed internally.
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