The Telling Room: A Tale of Love, Betrayal, Revenge, and the World's Greatest Piece of Cheese (42 page)

“He was really stirred up,” said Julián. “While he’s usually so friendly, he was extremely unfriendly. It was clear he’d just come to give his little talk—his speech—and get out. I said, ‘Why don’t we get everyone to sit down and find a way to harmonize the situation and move on?’ And Ambrosio said, ‘It’s too late, there’s nothing for us to talk about.’ In that moment there wasn’t some deep moment of reflection on my part—and perhaps that was a miscalculation. Dealing with people with big problems every single day, I think maybe my alarms didn’t go off. I didn’t first think that there was some bigger problem between Ambrosio and me. I said to myself, ‘Okay, everyone has problems, I deal with problems every day, we always work them out, we’ll work this out.’ ”

But that’s where Julián had been wrong. They hadn’t spoken again, and now nearly twenty years had passed. “There was one more coming apart which probably served to piss off Ambrosio the most,” Julián acknowledged. “The actual sale of the company.” Again, Julián painted himself as an adviser more than a player. If anything, he’d lost one of his biggest clients, a Spanish bank, for refusing to go after Ambrosio as the bank tried to recover its money from defaulted loans in his name. “But the truth is, I brought all of these Páramo de Guzmán investors to the table, and I couldn’t just walk away,” Julián said. With Páramo de Guzmán on the verge of collapse and “the banks descending like wolves,” everyone wanted to protect their interests, so they formed a new company and bought the cheese operation.

“They make the sale, and this new company, they renegotiate the debt, and sit down with all their creditors and say, ‘We’re gonna pay
this, and that. We’re gonna pull some money from here, and there.’ They hired me to be secretary of the board of directors. What is that? It’s their lawyer. But this is where Ambrosio got the idea that I’m the guy who ran off with the company.”

Surely it wasn’t all altruism, was it? I wondered whether Julián could understand how Ambrosio might have gotten that impression, how he might have drawn certain conclusions when he found his best friend on the other side of the fence.

“No, impossible,” said Julián sharply, his open palm meeting the table for emphasis, “because he’s not ignorant. He knows that the secretary of the board isn’t the owner of the company, he’s an adviser. Okay, probably he would have preferred not to see my name associated with the company, but you’ve also got to stand in my shoes. The last investors, who put up their half million each? They’re in this mess because I brought them in. Because I did Ambrosio’s bidding. So I had an obligation when both sides came to me and said, ‘You be our financial guy, because we’re in trouble.’ I brought these guys to the table, so I couldn’t just abandon them. Imagine if I’d said, ‘No, I can’t help because I have this history with Ambrosio.’ That’s not their business. Also—
this is my job
. I make a living doing this.”

At that moment I found myself, despite myself, being persuaded—and feeling something unconscionable, really: that maybe, just maybe, Julián possessed his own kind of decency, daresay honor. “This was about the sale of a company that Ambrosio hadn’t been a part of for a year at that time,” he said. “And no one made any money from this. The banks got all the money.”

Julián wasn’t done yet. He seemed to be revving up. I had never forgotten—for it was so hard to forget—one of the central dramatic scenes of the Ambrosio narrative, the Judas betrayal in which he and Julián crossed the plaza in Roa, going to sign the final agreement with Pedro and Teodoro, the conspiracy to steal his cheese already supposedly in place with Julián’s active collusion, and Ambrosio turning to Julián to ask if the contract protected him, and receiving the devious assurance that it did.

“Totally false,” said Julián now. “I wasn’t there. I had one lunch with Ambrosio and Pedro—Teodoro wasn’t even there—that’s it. But look, at that moment Ambrosio was in an extremely desperate position. He needed money. He’d just returned from Bilbao, where he was trying to talk up some other economist, and he wanted other people to buy in. This whole tale of him wanting to keep the company like it was his pride and joy, bring in some investors but be protected, was never the case. He wanted out.”

Julián continued. “It’s important to go back if we really want a snapshot of who Ambrosio was in that moment. He considered himself ruined, and he was ready to give away the company in exchange for having his debts erased. And therefore, he didn’t want to—nor could he—put any conditions down.”

The whole affair didn’t come as a surprise to Julián either. “Look,” he said, “I just told you he once bought a million worms to put in his garden for fertilizer. And you know what he forgot to do? He forgot to put a plastic tarp at the bottom of the worm pit, and they all escaped.”

The story was meant to illustrate how Ambrosio the Discombobulated couldn’t, or wouldn’t, connect the dots. Julián had more proof. “How many trees are there in Guzman? Twenty, thirty?” he asked, his aggrievement aroused now. “When Ambrosio was eighteen, there were four trees in one of his family vineyards. He had to cut down these four trees, and he said he was going to go out and buy this giant chain saw. The chain saw was going to cost more than what the wood was worth. Our friends said, ‘What are you doing? You don’t need this chain saw. Invite us to a
merienda
up at the
bodega
, and beforehand we’ll each come with an ax, and we’ll cut down the four trees.’ Nonetheless, he bought it and cut the four trees down, and the chain saw never got turned on again.”

Julián pushed himself back from the table, slightly jostling a couple of errant
quicos
from their silver tray. “
That
is Ambrosio.”

Here was Ambrosio the profligate son, afflicted by some sort of attention deficit disorder. Here was Ambrosio the creative soul who’d
given birth to Páramo de Guzmán but whose mind, when confronted with gnarly details, turned to Swiss cheese. Here was Ambrosio the genius marketer but haphazard CEO, and Ambrosio the flamboyant friend and wasteful dreamer. Here was Ambrosio, who still possessed the innocence of a child although he was very much an adult, looking at the proverbial stars as he slipped on sheep shit. But if Julián’s story was true, then why had Ambrosio turned so vociferously on his best friend, the one who had played only a peripheral role while suggesting a solution for keeping Páramo de Guzmán in the hands of its creator?

“I don’t have an explanation for this,” Julián said. “It just seems like Ambrosio launched this huge battle, and he made me the responsible person.”

Had Julián felt physically threatened?

“Was I ever afraid, physically, for my being? No. Never. You know, I crossed paths with him in the courthouse, and he’d say ‘Hello’ to me. Not in the most friendly way, but he’d say,
‘Hola.’
But you train yourself not to be afraid in life in general.”

Hadn’t he heard the stories about the candle, rope, and knife in Ambrosio’s trunk? Hadn’t he heard that Ambrosio planned to torture him to death? Julián didn’t flinch at the question, but his eyes widened. “Umm—I never received any direct threats, but it started with
columbria
, this spoken slander that would reach me through other people in our circle.” He offered an example. “In Aranda there was an attorney on trial for heading a prostitution ring and smuggling cocaine. In Spain they won’t mention the name of someone who’s been accused of a serious crime until they’re found guilty. So it just said ‘Attorney X.’ Eventually the rumor going around was that
I
was this attorney, and later on I found out Ambrosio started this rumor.”

Julián detailed another incident, before the first bankruptcy hearing, when Ambrosio had called an impromptu press conference in a café in Aranda, during which he announced to the local media—and this included reporters from the radio station owned by Julián—that Julián had stolen Páramo de Guzmán from him. Julián had been in
his office at the time, and taped it. It was, he said, the only explanation he had from Ambrosio for the end of their friendship.

“Look, I’ve known him since he was a kid,” said Julián, “and when he used to talk about other business failures of his, this was his thing: justifying. But with this big one, with the cheese, instead of just saying, ‘I made a mistake again, I messed up,’ and just accepting responsibility, he had to say, ‘Somebody pulled a fast one on me.’ Now, if you’re saying, ‘I’m a smart guy; I’m not an idiot,’ who can you blame? And Ambrosio says—and this is a direct quote—‘Who can betray your honor? The person who’s closest to you, your best friend, that’s the definition of betrayal, right?’ ”

Although he had not spoken to him in twenty years, Julián mimicked Ambrosio’s exact words now. And though in our time together Ambrosio had called his blood brother a slew of names and alleged certain inflammatory character flaws, Julián seemed to be describing Ambrosio’s weaknesses only to explain his character, and did so without brio or satisfaction. As Julián laid out the evidence, his Cuban friend never indicated that he was listening, never moved except for the drawbridge-lowering of his mandible to emit those leonine yawns.

Here Julián shifted in his chair—and winced. “Everything comes and goes,” he said. “Problems come and go, even slander and perjury, but losing Ambrosio’s friendship is the thing that still hurts the most.”

The statement sat for a moment on the table. Julián took a long sip of beer. Having spoken in a voluble stream, he fell silent, eyes downcast. I posed a hypothetical: What if Ambrosio walked in right now? What would Julián do or say? The Cuban’s eyebrow inched up, and his eyes scanned the door sleepily.

“Listen, I’d offer him my hand,” said Julián, “and I’d say, ‘I know that everything you said about me is a lie. But if you ever need anything from me, I’m here for you, it’s obvious.’ ”

Julián choked a little on those last words, and I said something I wasn’t sure about later, for perhaps I’d betrayed Ambrosio’s trust, or my own allegedly objective place in the order of things. But Ambrosio had recently sat across from me shedding real tears, and here sat Julián
seemingly trying to keep his own pain at bay. “When Ambrosio spoke of you last,” I said, “he became very emotional, remembering all the time you spent together.”

“I can tell you the same,” said Julián. “He was one of the best friends I ever had, and he’s one of the people that I continue to appreciate.”

He pressed his lips together, fumbled for his phone. It was suddenly so immediate, inescapable. “We all make mistakes,” I said without thinking, not even sure what I meant.

“But what did Ambrosio
say
?” Julián wanted to know.

I was trying to remember the exact words in the café that day a month earlier, after I’d seen Julián for the first time. “It was hypothetical,” I said. “He said he didn’t want to go on like this.”

At this Julián sat up as if plugged into a wall socket, eyes glinting. “Is that what he said—exactly? Tell me what he said,
exactly
.” It was strange to have Julián’s full attention like this—and a little heady, too, for here I was, finally needed by Castile to right the wrongs of its past. I didn’t want to overreach my authority. “He said—I
think
he said—that if you had this conversation and there was some reconciliation, it could be forgiven.”

“Hold on,” said Julián, “let me see if I understand, because for me this is very important: Are you saying that he’s willing to talk to me?”

“Reading between the lines—I think, yes,” I said. I couldn’t speak unequivocally for Ambrosio, but it was true, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what he’d said in his distress? That this all needed to end now? And wasn’t this what I really wanted, for it all to end now, and what I needed, too, an ending of some sort, in order to find a way to end my book? A murder, a reconciliation, a climax, a denouement, something dramatic and fitting, definitive and final that made it
a story
.

Julián looked stunned. “I have two things to say, and then probably need to ask a question, if you don’t mind.” I nodded, put out my open-palmed hand to signal that the floor was all his, since the moment seemed to require something theatrical on my part.
Please
.

“Okay, years ago now,” said Julián, “I sent Ambrosio a message on three occasions. Once via one of Ambrosio’s cousins and once via a client
of Ambrosio’s. And then once through another attorney who’s a good mutual friend of both of ours. To the first two, Ambrosio’s response was the same: ‘There’s nothing for us to talk about.’ With the third, Ambrosio passed along a new number, but said, ‘Don’t trust him. You’re a lawyer, he’s not trustworthy.’ So under those conditions, even though I didn’t really feel welcome—I called once. Asun answered the phone, and said Ambrosio wasn’t there. I said, ‘Okay, tell him I called.’ And he never called back. The gates weren’t really open, so I never tried again. But of course, if there were an opportunity now, it would cost me nothing. As I told you, I’d meet him anywhere, anytime.”

What if it could be finagled? I could imagine the scenario, in the telling room, some wine and chorizo on the table, the awkwardness at first, a chilly distance, an opening gambit, some random chat—about shared friends, or the fields, some innocuous point of interest. Would it be Ambrosio who spoke first, muttering,
Dime
? Tell me. Then it might begin. The conversation for which they’d waited two decades, the crux of the matter. I could imagine one talking while the other listened, and then the other explaining his side. Or would Ambrosio take offense at Julián’s version, would it be a call to arms? Then would they quarrel? Would it trigger an ancient anger? And what then? Perhaps, knowing the delicacy of the situation, they wouldn’t discuss it at all. Having seen each other again, with all those memories in the balance, they’d agree to let bygones be bygones. In the best-case scenario, they would embrace—and then would come the flood of relief on both sides, the freedom and eventual joy of being set loose from the past, of having put an end to the cheese affair.

“I always felt that Ambrosio had this desire for reconciliation,” said Julián, “but you know, on some level, it became impossible after he built up his legend, this History of the Betrayal of the Best Friend. To reconcile would essentially undermine the very legend of my betrayal. But now I’m beginning to suspect that time is undermining the legend of its own accord.”