ENTRY 18
I’m back home. I’m completely exhausted. The trip home was awful, unbelievable. Lucullus is back. I’m going to sleep for a long time. Today I saw them kill a man at the airport. I don’t feel like writing.
ENTRY 19
Yesterday was really hard. Today’s no better. When I got home late last night, I was completely broken emotionally. It all started at the El Prat Airport on Sunday afternoon. The tense calm on Saturday had turned into hysteria. By the time my taxi pulled up to the airport, all hell had broken loose—long lines of people shouting and pushing, exhausted children sleeping on piles of luggage while their parents tried to get a ticket to anywhere.
My flight was scheduled to leave an hour after I arrived at the airport. It was one of the last flights out of Barcelona. That same night, El Prat would be closed due to the state of emergency. Everyone who wanted to fly out of Barcelona was there. The problem was that the authorities wouldn’t issue a ticket to anyone who didn’t have proof he was headed for home. There weren’t enough tickets for everyone. That was clear. Panic had seized the crowd. There was constant pushing, screaming, and racing around.
I made my way to the counter as best I could through a mob of hysterical people crowded together at the ticket windows. When I got to the counter, losing my coat along the way, I realized that the friendly counter clerks had been replaced by soldiers. Believe me, they weren’t smiling.
I presented my ID card and the ticket I’d bought four days earlier. They told me I’d better head directly to the gate “for my own safety.” That’s when I noticed that a couple of the soldiers who’d impressed me so much when I first arrived in Barcelona were now standing at my side. For a second I thought they were going to detain me.
Then I realized that people were closing in on me, eyeing me, watching me like wolves. I had something they didn’t: a plane ticket. After hours and hours of tension and struggle, any one of them was desperate enough to try to get the ticket from me. Those armed soldiers at my side parted the crowd as we headed for the gate. I felt dozens of eyes on me. I looked down. I couldn’t meet their eyes.
Where the metal detector would normally be was a line of national riot police, in Kevlar helmets and body armor. Behind them was another line of civil guardsmen, armed with machine guns and wearing balaclavas. It was a horrible sight. A crowd was huddled in front of the row, pressing to get to the gate. The crush was incredible. When I reached the gate, two officers stepped aside to let me pass. They took me to a small room where searches are normally performed. An army medical officer asked for my ID and examined me while his assistants rifled through my carry-on. Although I’m a lawyer, I didn’t protest. Where would that get me? It didn’t seem like a very smart idea.
The doctor asked a lot of questions. Did I have a fever? Dizziness? Had I been out of Spain in the last month? Had I visited Zaragoza, Madrid, Toledo? Had I been bitten by an animal lately? Had anyone attacked me? I was about to say he was attacking me, but one glance at his face convinced me to keep my mouth shut.
As I left that room, that horrific event happened. In the front row, trying to get to the departure gate, was a guy in his forties, curly gray hair, unshaven, in a rumpled suit. He looked like an executive. He was very agitated, nervous, and red in the face. He looked like he was out of his mind, like he’d done more than one line of cocaine.
The crowd suddenly pressed forward, and panic broke out. The front row fell to the ground and was trampled by the people behind them. The line of riot police broke. Just then, the guy slipped through and ran to the gate. The civil guardsmen on the second line tried to stop him, but they couldn’t reach him. Someone shouted, “Halt!” The guy ran down the corridor toward the plane and salvation. There was a burst of machine-gun fire. Red flowers bloomed across the back of the man’s suit, and he collapsed. Hysteria erupted—screams, cries, shouts, shots in the air. The situation was out of control. One of the soldiers grabbed me by the collar and dragged me on to the plane while the rest of his unit formed a line behind us, retreating under the pressure from the crowd.
As I passed the body, I stared at his face. He was dead. Dead. I’m 100 percent sure. The soldier beside me stopped short. Unfazed, he pulled out a pistol and shot the body in the head. I was absolutely terrified. Why did he do that?
They shoved me toward the door of the plane, at the far end of the jetway. Very jittery flight attendants urged me to hurry in. The plane was packed. There were even people standing in the galley. Everyone was really on edge. They only relaxed when they shut the door and started to roll down the runway. As we started down the runway, the guy next to me whispered that there were only three more flights after ours. After that, El Prat would be closed for God knows how long.
I didn’t say a word the entire flight. When I thought about what I’d just seen, I had to run to the bathroom. I couldn’t stop throwing up. Hell, the soldier had blown the guy’s head off right in front me!
Nobody handed out masks during the flight. I guess they didn’t think it was necessary anymore. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
When I got to Santiago de Compostela, the scene was the same as in Barcelona, but on a smaller scale. In the parking lot, a guy offered me his car in exchange for a flight to Zurich that was taking off in an hour. Our values have certainly changed.
I listened to the radio as I drove home. The situation is chaotic. More nuclear explosions in China. Are they trying to stop the epidemic with bombs? Or the carriers of the disease? Who knows. America is at DEFCON 1, whatever that means. Riots in Madrid, Valencia, Barcelona, Seville, Bilbao. The world’s out of control. All the TV networks report that Spain could declare martial law within hours. No news from Russia. In Germany, in a statement broadcast three hours ago, Angela Merkel said, “Dresden is lost.” Evacuation orders in Paris, Reims, and Marseille. In Italy, the carabinieri are ruthlessly taking a suburb of Naples. The world is shattered, and I still don’t know why.
I picked Lucullus up and went home. This morning I called in sick. They said not to worry; the courts are temporarily closed. Only the military courts are open, and then only to try looters and anyone violating the curfew. I slept most of Monday. When I got up, I made some coffee and sat down in front of the TV. I’m writing this with Lucullus purring in my lap. I don’t have a clue what’s going on.
ENTRY 20: AT THE GATES OF HELL
It’s official: we’re fucked. At three this afternoon, the king came back on TV and announced that martial law had been declared all across Spain. The curfew is still in place from 10:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m. Anyone caught on the street between those hours risks being shot, clear and simple. Travel between regions is prohibited, and the army is setting up checkpoints on all major roads.
Fifteen cities have been declared areas of risk. No one is allowed in or out of them. All the cities where there’ve been outbreaks of the epidemic are on the list, along with nine more. Madrid and Barcelona are among them. I hope my sister moved up their plans and has already left the city. Fuck.
For now, Pontevedra has escaped the carnage, but who knows for how long. Ferrol and La Coruna, about a hundred miles away, are “areas of risk.” They’re cut off—in theory. But a friend who lives in La Coruna just called
