I wasn’t going to write this.
I wasn’t going to write anything to you, ever, on account of the fact that you were dead and, more importantly, kind of a terrible person. But then you showed up yesterday. In a dusty civil registry entry from 1946, wedged between a grain merchant and a dentist with three surnames and a questionable moustache.
Clarence Joseph Travers, born Toledo, Ohio, died Madrid, Spain. No known spouse. No children listed. Which we both know is a lie.
You fathered at least one illegitimate child with a woman named Estrella, and I say “at least” because I’ve just now discovered Estrella had a sister named Luz who signed one of your hospital forms. So. That opens… doors.
I should hate you. I do hate you. You skipped town in ‘53 with the family silver and a pension cheque that wasn’t yours. My mother never spoke your name without adding some kind of violent verb. You weren’t just the black sheep, you were the one who walked into the barn with a can of petrol and said, “Let’s make it interesting.”
But here’s the thing: I found you.
Not the legend. Not the cursing shadow who ruined Christmas dinner in ‘68 by mailing us a postcard from Morocco that just said “STILL ALIVE. C.”
No. I found the man. On paper. In ink. Official, unemotional, badly stamped ink.
And suddenly I’m not as angry as I should be.
You were in Madrid. You died in Madrid. And now so help me God, I’m living here. Renting a one-bedroom flat with a broken intercom and a neighbor who plays flamenco remixes of ABBA songs.
Did you like it here? Did you speak Spanish? Did Estrella? Or Luz? Was there a third woman whose name started with fire or electricity? How did you get buried under a false name, and why does the cemetery list you as “Carlos J. Traves” with one ‘r’ missing and the middle name of Julio?
I want to slap whoever wrote that down. And then I want to thank them. Because now I know. Now I have a trail.
There’s a whole line of you, probably, walking around this city. I may have passed one of your grandkids on the escalator at Callao station last week — dark eyes, crooked grin, something weirdly familiar in how he shoved his way through the crowd like the world owed him space. That was you. That was so you.
I should hate you. I don’t. I just want answers. And I’m tired of yelling at the walls.
So I’m writing this. Because even if it’s mad — and God knows it is — it’s mine. My version of the mess. My part in the story.
I’ve started carrying a notebook labeled “Clarence,” just to keep the facts straight. Date of birth. Migration record. Scandalous rumour. Eyebrow shape. Anything that might explain how a ghost of a man could still have such an effect on a slightly hunched, arthritic 67-year-old who eats toast with too much butter and cries at silent films.
You were a bastard, Clarence. But you were my bastard. And now that I’ve found you, you’re going to have to deal with me being part of your story, too.
Yours in perpetual disbelief,
John
(Madrid, 2025. Mildly losing it, fully committed.)