The miller E-Book

Valeria Valcavi Ossoinack

• Herausgeber: Youcanprint
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Un luogo, l'Argentina, e un tempo, quello dei grandi mutamenti dagli anni '60 ai '90, che già da soli valgono il viaggio. Il presente di Raquel si divide tra le sue passioni: quella per i cavalli che adora e alleva nel suo ranch; e quella per il marito, un uomo d'affari spesso in viaggio per lavoro. Finché un giorno il Passato, nelle vesti di uno sconosciuto, viene a bussare alla sua porta, costringendola a uno sconvolgente viaggio nel tempo e negli spazi sconfinati, al termine del quale nessuna verità sarà più quella di prima. Perché a volte la ruota della Storia gira al contrario. A place, Argentina, and a time, that of the great changes from the '60s to the '90s. Those alone are worth the journey. Raquel's present is divided between her passions: the horses she adores and breeds on her ranch; and her husband, a businessman who often travels for work. Until one day the Past, in the guise of a stranger, comes knocking on her door, forcing her to a shocking journey through time and boundless spaces, at the end of which no truth will be the same as before. Because sometimes the wheel of History turns backwards.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Prologue

'April 1992

Friday, May 29th

Saturday, May 30th

Sunday, May 31st

Monday, June 1st

Tuesday, June 2nd

Wednesday, June 3rd

Thursday, June 4th

Friday, June 5th

Saturday, June 6th

Sunday, June 7th

Monday, June 8th

Epilogue

V.V. Ossoinack

Book title

THE MILLER

© Valeria Valcavi Ossoinack

2020, Phantom Library

ISBN | 9791220305969

© All rights reserved by the Author.

No part of this book may

be reproduced without the

prior permission of the Author.

Original title: “Il Mugnaio”, © 2019

Translation: Carole Kost

Cover photo and graphics: © Caterina Bilabini

Photo portrait of the author: © Marinetta Saglio Zaccaria

“Everything straight lies.

1.

Villa Allende, Argentina, 1958.

The sound of a car. The young boy looks out of the window.

“Xavier, is it dad?” asks the woman.

2.

July 8th, 1963.

The radio has just announced that the Unióne Cívica Radical del Pueblo party had won the election.

In the quiet town of Villa Allende, some had already gone out on the street to celebrate, despite the cold. Teresa glanced out of the window, then put the pot on the stove and called her son.

“Xavier, come and give me a hand!”

The boy closed his science book and went to wash his hands. Science was his favorite subject, especially when he studied animals: he wanted to become a veterinarian when he grew up. Horses were his passion. His father had given him one a few months earlier for his fifteenth birthday. It was an Anglo-Argentine black one that he called Diablo.

On Sundays, he often went with his friend Carlos and Carlos’ older brother, Tomás, who had taught him how to mount it. The last time he had thrown it at a gallop it felt like flying. Xavier's family did not have any place to keep it, so Carlos' brother had taken the horse to the ranch where he worked. But it was far away from home, and Xavier couldn't see his horse as often as he wanted. His father had promised that he would ask around for a piece of land nearby. Who knows, something might come up. In Argentina, if there was one thing that was not hard to find, it was land.

Arturo Illia would be the new president.

There were more and more people on the street celebrating. Some had brought wine. A man began singing "Oíd, mortales", the national anthem. But he was very drunk and didn't remember the words so he stopped almost immediately.

“Mom, what's going on?”

“Illia won.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Ask your father.”

“Will he remain this time?”

“Nobody remains.”

In Argentina, governments changed like the weather changes. It was better not to say what you thought too loudly. That was never a good idea. Someone could arrive at night and take you away. It happened to their neighbor, Juan Torres. They loaded him on a truck and he never came back.

Xavier remembered the man’s wife shrieking as she begged those men while her children cried. The same happened to Rodolfo Gatti, the socialist. When he returned home, he hardly spoke anymore.

Now, the trucks would never come again. Well, at least until next time.

Teresa looked at her watch. Her husband would be home any minute now. He taught History at the University of Cordoba, twenty minutes away. It would take him about half an hour when it was raining heavily. Her husband was not the kind of man to stop in a bar on his way home.

If anyone ever asked about Osvaldo Varela, they would say he was a good man, one who thought only of his family, books and his students. For him, son of peasants, having arrived at his position was something unthinkable. If you were born in La Cocha, a tiny point lost on the map in the province of Tucumán, almost always you died there. It had been like that for his parents and his grandparents as well.

Osvaldo was an intellectual, fond of European history. After dinner, he would often shut himself up in his study and write long letters which he then sent by airmail across the ocean. He had been to Europe a couple of times for conferences.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?”

“Just a moment.”

“Don’t stay up late.”

“No, I promise.”

“You always say that!”

Teresa pretended to believe it.

“Good night.”

“Good night, my love.”

That moment could last for hours. Sometimes Osvaldo would still be at his desk until early morning. It had happened the week before. The night had already passed when he stood up from his chair and went to make coffee and breakfast. If he could, he would rest an hour in his office in the afternoon. He would lie on the couch that was too short and too narrow for him.

Xavier finished preparing the table. He was cheerful because he had received two good marks on his classwork at school. He had his mother's facial features and his father's expression.

There were two loud shots, maybe a gun. But this was normal. They always fired when someone won.

3.

July 23th, 1963.

Everyone at Villa Allende knew it by now. It had been a couple of weeks since Osvaldo Varela went missing from home. There was no plausible explanation.

He was not one for acting irrational or letting himself go. He had never shown any strange behavior or anything that might have implied that something could happen. Moreover, politics had nothing to do with it because Osvaldo had never expressed ideas or criticism that might annoy someone. Certainly not in public, as he was a cautious man. However, he was an intellectual, and everyone knows that the military did not like intellectuals. Nevertheless, as of a few weeks ago, the junta of José María Guido was no longer in power.

There was not another woman involved, because Osvaldo Varela was a faithful husband. There was no doubt about that, and Teresa was a lucky woman. At least she had always been, but now she was desperate. She did not know where to look or whom she could ask, or even what to think. Two days after the night he had not returned, she went to the police.

They simply told her not to worry, that sometimes men just needed some air and that sooner or later they returned. Moreover, they made it clear that an adult man could do what he wanted, even leave. A man leaving his family behind happened all the time. She knew what the police did not, that Osvaldo would never have been able to do that.

That evening, Teresa's sister and her husband took Xavier home with them, to leave her free to cry and do what she had to. Besides, the company of his cousins ​​and a semblance of normal life would be good for the boy as well.

The next day she returned to the police station and the next day again. She needed to ask for help, saying that it was impossible that he would have gone of his own will. Finally, after a week, they listened to her, out of exhaustion rather than conviction. They started searching around, hoping to find his car. They went to his house and searched his papers, looking for an explanation or at least a clue. There were documents and notes scattered everywhere and some letters, which they took away to study further. There was no farewell note but no one who really knew him would have expected it: someone like him would never have fled, and less than ever he would have killed himself, that was for sure.

They also went to the University of Cordoba, where Osvaldo Varela taught, and questioned everyone who knew him, professors and students. None of them knew anything. And they didn't help.

In the last few days, they had also begun to search north, towards the Desierto de Las Salinas Grandes, but the area was too extensive: ​​six thousand square kilometers of salty desert, which was hard to search. The police did what they could with men available. It was difficult to cover miles of nothingness and on such hostile ground. The Cordoba region was large and many things were happening beyond the disappearance of an adult man, probably voluntary.

The police knew from their experience that people were often not what they seemed to be. This was true to everyone, even for Osvaldo Varela.

4.

Genoa, Italy, April 20th, 1946

The Marco Polo steamship sailed from the port of Genoa at eleven in the morning, headed for Argentina.

There were four hundred and twenty passengers on board, almost all looking for a new life. Most were running away, some from hunger and poverty and some from something else that could not be said. Among them, were also Herman and Vera Müller and their seven-year-old son.

The crossing should have lasted fifteen days, but it took two more days because of a storm near the island of Saint Helena.

5.

Sierra de Los Padres, Argentina.

Raquel loved that place. She used to go there whenever she wanted to be alone, to think or just to enjoy the wonderful spectacles of nature. It was a small hill, not even two hundred meters high, and had no name, except the one that Raquel had given it, El Refugio.

The Sierra de Los Padres was an area with a surface of a thousand hectares, west of Mar del Plata. It was a series of hills and valleys, rivers, woods, paths, prehistoric caves and a small lake. In recent years, the natural reserve had become a destination for the Marplatenses people. They could go riding here or just enjoy the fresh open air, especially on beautiful autumn days.

The Sierra do Est ranch was the largest in the area. Jorge Mendel had given it to his wife Raquel on their wedding day.

Raquel dismounted the beautiful three-year-old Silla and, sitting on a rock looking out at the Sierra, thought back to how her life had changed since she met Jorge.

It had happened one day in November, when he entered the travel agency. Raquel was quite young. She had only one friend, a girl with whom she had worked since the office opened just over two years ago.

That day Raquel welcomed the client. Jorge Mendel was a distinguished looking man, well dressed, with a beautiful voice and refined manners. One that you could not help but notice. Raquel still remembered what Jorge was wearing that day, almost ten years ago. She was that fascinated with him. He was wearing a sand-colored suit and a white linen shirt, smoked Ray Ban glasses and leather moccasins. He seemed to have come from of a film of the English colonies.

Raquel welcomed him with a little too much enthusiasm. She did not greet all the customers that way. Remembering him, she smiled to herself. They joked a little. She liked his way of laughing.

While he was looking at the brochures, she exchanged glances with her friend, Ania. Both smiled like little girls. Jorge later told her that he had noticed.

Jorge was somewhat older than Raquel. When they met, he was already a mature forty-three-year-old man, with all the charm and experience of a man of his age. She was just over twenty-eight. From that day on, they went out regularly until their wedding day, about two years after that first meeting.

Jorge lived in the Sierra de Los Padres and Raquel in Rosario. It was quite a distance to drive to maintain their relationship, so Raquel went to live with him.

Jorge gave her the Sierra do Est ranch as a wedding present. Raquel sold the travel agency, although a bit sorry to leave her work.

Her thoughts went back to when she was twenty-six. It was 1980. She had graduated and, after some temporary work, began looking for a place where she could open a travel agency.

Her father, Vicente, an executive officer at the Municipalidad, was helping her. They had been going from place to place for two weeks without luck and her father was a bit fed up. Twelve years had passed, but she remembered every word spoken that day.

"It’s no good," Raquel had said.

“Don't you like this location?” her father had asked.

“How can I not like it... it's across from the Basilica.”

“Go down to the end of the street and you come to the river.”

“I know, dad.”

The city of Rosario was the third largest in Argentina, a lively and modern city, built on the left bank of the Paranà River. To give an idea of ​​what it was like, it was enough to take a sheet of squared paper and rotate it to the right. The huge grid of roads and intersections were all the same.

“So what's the matter this time? Isn’t it big enough? Well, I think it is. It has two beautiful frontage windows and there is always something going on here. And look. There’s even a mezzanine.”

“Dad, it's too expensive!”

“I told you that your mom and I will take care of it.”

“I don’t want that.”

“Do you have a choice?”

“The bank. I could ask for a loan at the bank.”

“Yes, for a dump in the suburbs. Then who would you sell tours to? Anyway, let me tell you all about it. They claim high interests, they ask for guarantees and, if you can't pay, they end up coming to me. We will lend you the money directly. It is not a gift. When things start moving you can give it back a little at a time. So, do we agree?”

Vicente Guirao was a resolute man, and when he put something in his mind, he did not give up easily. In this sense, Raquel was just the same. But this time was different, because giving in would have meant making her dream come true.

“All right, dad.”

“Oh, Raquelíta, finally!”

“I promise you I’ll pay you back up to the last peso.”

“Sure, sure.”

“I love you.”

“Me too. Wait until we tell mom. We know how happy she’ll be.”

That evening, all three went out to celebrate. They had dinner at a very nice restaurant with a terrace overlooking the river. Her father ordered a bottle of French champagne. Angela, her mother, was a high school math teacher who absolutely doted on her daughter.

Two months later, the Viajes de Ensueño opened for business. The girls organized a small inaugural buffet, by invitation only. Everyone who was anyone in Rosario was there because her father had good connections. It was a great success and quite a few people asked for information. The brochures that she had printed were snapped up and she made the first appointments for the next day.

Raquel loved nature and everything that had to do with travel and animals. She had many books with photographs and stories. Her mother remembered that when she was a child, she always preferred watching documentaries to cartoons.

Hers would not be like just any travel agency, with the usual all-inclusive tours, or cheap ones for tourists looking for a bargain. It would have nothing to do with typical holidays. Each trip would be an experience, something exclusive, within the reach of only a few. Something to tell friends about and be envied for. Things went well in Rosario for anyone who was on the right side of power, and money was not lacking.

“Unforgettable is our destination” was the slogan of the Viajes de Ensueño agency.

6.

Alejandro was waiting for Raquel at the entrance to the stables. She respected him and trusted him. Theirs was a relationship that had lasted for years, made up of sharing work and their passion for horses. Alejandro was a taciturn, shy type. He was rarely seen laughing. Only with Raquel did he let himself go. Likewise with the horses, as if he were one of them.

As he approached, she saw that Alejandro was holding some of Parche's harnesses, the new Criollo that they were going to tame.

“What's going on, Alejandro?”

“It's not a good day, Señora. Parche seems crazy. It has not wanted to be saddled or harnessed for two days. It approaches me and brushes against me, but as soon as I try to put the bridle on, it kicks and shakes its head.

“Okay, thanks, I'm going to see it, let's take some more time together.”

“¡Este caballo es fatuo!”

“Why?”

“It's a loose cannon, it's too smart. It won’t be easy to sell it, you know.”

“Don't worry, Alejandro. If we cannot sell Parche, we‘ll keep it with us. It reminds me of my Mistral.”

“Señora, it's not a good thing that you keep thinking about Mistral.”

“I'm going to see it now,” she said.

Alejandro turned to look at her as she walked along the corridor of the stables and stroked the pendant around her neck. It was an old horseshoe nail. It was all she had left of Mistral.

Mistral was the horse she had loved most, proud and indomitable. They had grown up together. They lived in symbiosis. It had been with her since before the Sierra do Est, before Jorge. She brought it with her when she moved from Rosario, the city where she was born and raised.

She rode Mistral Indian-style, bareback without a saddle. Nobody had ever ridden it except her. One day it fell ill and died after a few months.

It took her years to recover from that loss, and she had never found another horse capable of giving her a similar emotion. Then Parche arrived.

It was a silver-gray Criollo with a majestic mane, some patches on its back like an appaloosa, with a thick tail and white shins.

Raquel came to the stall and opened it. Parche was quiet. As soon as she approached, it began to snort from its nostrils and rubbed up against her, emitting mutterings and small whinnies of joy. Raquel caressed it and the horse reciprocated embracing her with its neck.

She closed her eyes for a moment and it seemed like she was holding Mistral even though she felt guilty for that thought. Parche was not Mistral and never would be, but inside herself, she knew that it was not a horse like others. Raquel decided that the next day she would take it to the paddock with Alejandro's help, and walk it around a little. At least, put the bridle on.

If it appeared stubborn, she would take on the challenge. She had time. She would take it gently and firmly. Alejandro was right. Selling this horse would not be easy. Not because of its character, rather because she felt something special for Parche. Raquel closed the stall door and smiled, while the horse continued snorting happily. It was already six in the evening and she had to get ready. Jorge had invited her to dinner. He hadn't told her where. Only that it was a surprise. He would be home from his trip in just a few hours.

Whenever he was away on business, they would go out for dinner the night he came home. It was another way to keep their relationship alive. They had been doing this for years and never once had they missed that date. As soon as he arrived at Mar del Plata airport, he would call her from a public phone and she would ask him the same thing every time.

“Where are you taking me tonight?”

“Raquel, you're too impatient. It's a surprise. See you later darling.”

Raquel felt loved and important. That older man adored her the same now as on the first day. The surprises he spoiled her with always made her feel at the center of attention in his world.

7.

Jorge Mendel was a businessman with a solid reputation. He dealt with financial intermediation and had privileged relationships with banks and investment companies. Jorge was known to be a very capable and determined person. He lived an hour away by plane from the capital, near Mar del Plata, and went back and forth almost every day. He would often go abroad, sometimes to Europe. It was to take care of his clients' affairs and manage operations that are not always transparent. He acted discreetly, as was his character. He had access to confidential information and held secrets that were safe with him.

His name was Jörg when he arrived in Argentina as a child, immediately after the war. His parents had then changed it so that he would not feel different from others. That was what his mother told him.

He changed many cities and schools. Each time it was not easy to leave everything and start all over again. He never had time to make friends before it was time to leave. It would often happen overnight, without even giving him time to say farewell to his classmates and teachers. He could not understand the reason for all those transfers. His father told him it was because of his job. Once he even had to abandon his dog, Taquito. He cried for days.