By Gabriel García.
JuanCar stood out not just as the nation's most approachable royal figure in recent memory, but also as someone who craved ordinary respites from the exhausting demands of ceremonial duties and legislative endorsements. While his citizens sweltered in cramped apartments devoid of cooling systems, he departed with his entire royal household to their Mediterranean island retreat for a well-deserved break. Aboard his luxurious yacht, with his primary concern being that his grandchildren maintained appropriate distance from the numerous vacationing German university students who flocked to this haven of liberation and nightlife, JuanCar and his relatives enjoyed seaside pleasures alongside visiting members of the Saudi Arabian Royal Family who were summering in the same locale. When the Arabian guests learned that the Imperial Madrid Club was conducting its pre-season training camp on the island, they requested that JuanCar arrange an introduction to Iker Filtrillas, the veteran captain who had defended the goal for both the Imperial Club and the National Team since time immemorial. Though JuanCar typically refrained from leveraging his position for such favors, he acquiesced because maintaining cordial business relationships with the Saudis was essential for sustaining his privileged lifestyle.
"Iker, my friend, how are things?" JuanCar inquired via mobile phone just after finishing lunch on a sweltering afternoon. "Would you be available to meet with me and some Arabian acquaintances who wish to make your personal acquaintance?"
"Is this business venture so significant that you need my involvement, JuanCar?" Filtrillas responded. "Very well, come to our training camp. I'll inform the coach that I'm skipping today's session for more pressing matters. The advantage of being guaranteed starter status, you know."
"Iker, this must remain confidential—absolutely nobody can know," JuanCar cautioned. "Don't even think about mentioning this to your journalist friends. Our respective followers have already had enough of our schemes, and there will come a day when they won't forgive our manipulations!"
"Relax, JuanCar, I won't breathe a word about this... What would I gain? It's not like it would guarantee me another couple of years as the undisputed starter!"
At the appointed hour, Iker Filtrillas posed for numerous photographs with the Saudi Royal Family members under JuanCar's watchful eye. Once the Arabian guests departed to meet the rest of the squad, JuanCar seized the opportunity to share something he had been eager to announce:
"Iker, I have wonderful news for you: next year my son's Foundation will award you an exclusive Prince of Asturias Prize in recognition of your outstanding career."
"Fantastic, JuanCar, you have no idea how thrilled I am!" Iker exclaimed with genuine emotion. "I haven't felt this elated since our 2010 World Cup triumph with the National Team! Actually, no—I haven't been this happy since they dismissed that Portuguese dictator from the Imperial coaching position, securing my lifetime starting role!"
"I can only imagine, champion..."
"Seriously... Can you believe there are people who actually preferred that individual—who prohibited my journalist friends from boarding the team plane, who insisted on fielding players based on current form rather than past achievements, who spoke countless languages and had built championship teams everywhere he'd worked—over me? I'm the ideal son-in-law for practically every mother in this country, I've been an idol for countless teenage girls, and I deserve permanent starter status as the captain who won the 2010 World Cup!"
"I won't deny that individual was problematic, Iker, but as a club supporter I would have preferred not having to present my namesake trophy to our crosstown rivals again after they defeated the Imperial at our own Santiago Bernabéu stadium in the final. It wasn't the first time I endured that indignity, but it was particularly unpleasant... If I'd known, I would have sent my son instead to experience some disappointment for once!"
"I also wished we'd won that final, especially since the Portuguese coach had been ineffective and I had assumed command at the start of extra time. Can you imagine the praise my press allies would have heaped on me if we'd secured victory in that final with me leading the team? I wouldn't just be considered saintly—I'd be divine! Though that evening wasn't entirely terrible; you can't imagine what my beloved Saritísima did for me after the match, being such a devoted supporter of our crosstown rivals..."
"You're lecturing the master here..." JuanCar laughed. "But don't leak that detail to your journalist friends, understood?"
JuanCar felt a strong kinship with Filtrillas. Both men cultivated approachable, down-to-earth public personas that endeared them to legions of devoted admirers, both had maneuvered to place certain women from their inner circles into influential positions that benefited their respective pursuits, and both had weathered difficult periods in the past: the goalkeeper faced a coach who refused to guarantee his starting position based solely on past accomplishments; JuanCar dealt with scandals involving his son-in-law and daughter's entanglement. Fortunately for both men, their carefully crafted reputations remained essentially unscathed.
"You looked rather bored when you brought the League trophy to La Almudena cathedral..." JuanCar observed, shifting away from past troubles.
"How could I not be with the archbishop's tedious sermons!"
"But these are necessary performances. I've mastered them by now. Can you believe that despite having signed three separate abortion laws into effect—and you can be certain there'll be a fourth—the Episcopal Conference still considers my reign exemplary?"
"You're the master of pretense, JuanCar..." Filtrillas praised. "Who do you think taught me how to simultaneously convince my supporters that I'm the club's greatest defender while maintaining my close friendship with Xavi 'The Humble' Hernández from our crosstown rivals? Oh, if you only knew how we mock them! What fools they are, killing themselves to defend our team while I live it up with my friends from the rival club, funded by their purchases of my jerseys and the products I endorse!"
JuanCar departed the Imperial training hotel once the Arabian guests finished photographing the entire squad. He bid his good friend Iker a cheerful farewell and returned to join his wife and "secretaries" at the island royal residence. He spent the remainder of the day sunbathing while admiring the distant blue Mediterranean visible from his summer palace. When evening arrived, it was time to fulfill family obligations, and he sat down with his loved ones for dinner.
"Wait a moment..." JuanCar said with alarm after they'd been cutting into succulent Argentine steaks for fifteen minutes. "Where is Froilán?"
Like idiots, everyone began glancing around as if expecting to spot Froilán standing in the middle of the room or beside a window. When it became obvious he wasn't present, one of his other grandchildren revealed the truth:
"He went out partying with his friend Corinna."
"Boy, don't joke with me!" JuanCar exclaimed while raising his hand to slap the impudent grandchild. "Where is your cousin?"
"Grandfather, it's true, he left with a German woman he met this afternoon at the beach."
"This boy is foolish," JuanCar muttered while taking bites of his steak. "What does he think, that we're the House of Windsor where you can go carousing with unknown women? He's destroying our good customs! What happened to the respected Bourbon monarchy that kept mistresses discreetly? I certainly don't recognize this tabloid monarchy!"
And before the astonished gazes of his daughters, son, sons-in-law and daughter-in-law, but especially under his spouse's contemptuous stare, JuanCar continued devouring his Argentine beef as if nothing had transpired.
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