King Lear

They called Francisco Ramirez King Lear for a reason.

For one thing, his preferred mode of inter-city travel was private plane. In the early 2020s he’d bought one of the last Learjet 75s produced, and it wasn’t cheap. In fact, he liked to flaunt his wealth, which derived from his business: he was the undisputed king of drug traffic in South Texas.

One of his daughters had come up with the nickname. If it had been anyone else, it may not have stuck, but Concepción – Concha – was the youngest and his favorite, so he took it on board and over time got to like it, mainly for the association with her.

He had two other daughters: Graciela and Renata. The three were by different women, none of whom were his wives. They were no longer a part of the household.

King Lear was proud of what he called his ‘girls’, though Graciela and Renata were in their thirties and Concha in her late twenties. He was aware of his mortality, especially given his area of activity, and had spent the last few years preparing them to take over his empire if or when the need arose.

Graciela, the eldest, and Renata took to the task with relish. They were extremely fond of the trappings of great wealth – the elite mansions, luxury cars, designer clothes. And they were very competitive. King Lear had made it known that he intended, before he died, to distribute his interests evenly among the three daughters. Of course, he suspected that both Graciela and Renata might have other ideas; he had trained them well in the machinations of the cut-throat drug world.

Concha, on the other hand, seemed little interested in the family’s affairs, preferring more cerebral activities; she was a great lover of the arts, especially the theatre, from where her father’s nickname derived. King Lear understood her desire for a more independent life, but he didn’t like it. Nor did he like her reluctance to kiss the ring – something that her sisters were more than willing to do.

It was the day before King Lear’s 70^th birthday, and the four had gathered for dinner in the family mansion in Olmos Park, San António. The servants were busying themselves clearing the table after a sumptuous meal that had included Gulf lobster, flown in specially for the occasion.

When the servants had left the room, King Lear lit a Cuban cigar and sat back in his chair with his eyes on Concha, who had hardly said a word all evening.

“What’s wrong, Conchita?” he asked. He tried to put tenderness into his voice, but the underlying tone was of anger.

With her head lowered, Concha traced shapes on the linen tablecloth with a finger.

Graciela grunted, exasperated.

“Typical! The spoilt brat had to spoil the evening, didn’t she?”

Concha’s jaw muscles clenched, but she said nothing. Renata copied her elder sister’s grunt.

“Cat got your tongue?!”

All three women jumped when their father slammed his fist down on the table.

“Spit it out, godammit!” he hissed. He loved his youngest but sometimes his patience wore paper-thin.

Concha raised her face; her eyes were steely hard.

“I love you, father, but I need to know something – something that has been preying on my mind for many years. Perhaps this might be an appropriate occasion to ask.”

The others exchanged perplexed glances. King Lear shrugged.

“Go on.”

Concha coughed to clear her throat and took a deep breath.

“What happened to my mother?”

There was a moment’s pause before Graciela and Renata burst out laughing.

“You stupid little girl!” Graciela scoffed. “Didn’t you know? She was a whore! All our mothers were. They left after daddy paid–”

“Graciela!”

King Lear’s voice boomed across the table, echoing through the silence that followed.

“Conchita, you know that she left us of her own free will. She wanted her independence. Who was I to stand in her way?”

Concha narrowed her eyes.

“But is that what really happened, father?”

King Lear paused, inspecting his cigar, and in that instant Concha knew the truth at last.

“Of course, my darling. Now, let’s have no more of this kind of talk.”

“Indeed, father!” Graciela piped up. She clapped her hands loudly and through the doors came the glow of candles atop a large, two-layered cake, carried in by a servant. He placed the cake on the table in front of King Lear.

“Make a wish, father,” Renata squealed.

The old man thought for a moment, then blew out the seven candles, his gaze fixed all the while on his youngest daughter.

The women sang him an out-of-tune Cumpleaños Feliz, with Concha mumbling the words through gritted teeth. King Lear cut the cake, passing each piece to the servant, who placed them in front of the daughters. Then the servant opened a bottle of champagne, poured it into flutes and served them on a tray.

“To father,” Graciela said, lifting her glass.

“To father,” Renata repeated.

Concha said nothing and simply raised the glass to her lips. The three others did the same.

Lighten up, for God’s sake! Graciela mouthed across the table. Concha shook her head gently.

“Now,” King Lear said, laying down his glass and forcing a smile. “About tomorrow…”

*****

The Learjet's silver body gleamed in the morning sunshine. At the steps stood King Lear, with Graciela and Renata on either side, and on either side of them, two bodyguards. The old man looked at his watch.

“That Concha!” Graciela hissed. “Always has to be the center of attention.”

A man in pilot’s uniform came to the cabin door.

“Sir…?”

“Okay!” King Lear said with an enthusiasm that he didn’t feel. “Come on then, girls. Next stop, Acapulco!”

“Yeah!” Renata shrieked and jumped aboard, followed by her sister.

King Lear gazed across the tarmac for several moments before climbing up the steps, the bodyguards bringing up the rear.

As soon as they were airborne, Graciela opened a bottle of champagne, the sisters drinking again to the health of their father, who smiled thinly, turned to the window, and watched the clouds. Within minutes he’d nodded off, dreaming of beach holidays they’d had as a family when the girls were still young, everyone playing and laughing.

He was woken by Graciela, shaking his shoulder.

“Wha––?”

“It’s her,” his daughter said, handing him a phone.

He wiped a trace of drool from the corner of his mouth before putting the phone to his ear.

“Conchita?”

“Hello, father.”

“Where are you? Why––?”

Concha interrupted his question.

“Listen. I left something for you under one of the seats at the back.”

King Lear got up unsteadily and made his way towards the tail. He found a wrapped present the size of a shoebox with an envelope tucked under the ribbon and brought them back to his seat.

“What’s that?” asked Renata, ignored by her father.

“What’s this?” King Lear said into the phone.

“It’s for you,” Concha said. “Open the envelope first.”

He did. It was a card. On the front was a painting of a mother and daughter. King Lear opened it and read his daughter’s handwritten message.

As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.

“What does this mean, Conchita?”

“Goodbye, father.”

Down below, a small town was in the middle of a fiesta, the townsfolk in the main square dancing to mariachi music and sending fireworks crackling into the sky. Beyond the fireworks, another, much bigger flash added to the display.

Concha lay by the pool at the family house. Stretching and sighing, she put the phone down and picked up a margarita, a slight smile playing on her lips.