It was a few minutes after five in the afternoon when Lola, Fernando and Pedro’s faithful dog, moved nervously, restlessly, agitated by that animal instinct that only comes with death. Minutes later, Fernando Delgado died accompanied by Pedro and his closest friends. Immediately we arrived, in the incipient darkness of the afternoon, many of us who felt admiration for the one who granted us his generous friendship.
Journalist, writer, citizen committed to the core with enlightened values ??and democratic radicalism, Fernando Delgado’s vital scaffolding was supported by firm letters and a beautiful voice.
He recited syllables with a radio cadence that gave him a unique personality. He presented and edited the most literary News Newscasts. He received us, every weekend, in a living room that looked like the garden of his house: full of light and calm. His articles were a stronghold of critical consciousness in those leaden years when many others were silent. He gave us twenty books and a Planeta award that catapulted him to fame, but to a fame that neither made him proud nor alienated him. And perhaps that was the most admirable thing about Fernando: his natural simplicity.
One night in 2015, in the heat of an unforgettable dinner, he generously accepted to be part of the change in the Valencian Community. His speech in the Cortes on that June day – a mullion of recovered decency – was a symbol of the power of the word. I will never forget that moment. Nor will I be able to forget his greatest gift: introducing me to Francisco Brines, his bosom friend, and being the accomplice of our friendship. There is a poem that Paco dedicated to Fernando. It is titled The Why of Words. Among his verses, the poet writes: “Man believes that nothing is superior to man himself: neither the greatest misery, nor the greatest greatness of the worlds, since everything is contained in his desire.” Desire beat in Fernando until his last breath.
It was an autumn Sunday when I hugged him for the last time. We ate, we drank, we laughed. Above all, we loved each other. Because Fernando loved a lot and showed it like no one else. Maybe that’s where his charisma lay. And in his intelligence, and in his fine humor, and in his goodness. Fernando exuded peace. Also security. Like the one transmitted by a father. In fact, Fernando was a bit of a father to all of us who felt safer within his embrace and his watery gaze, so full of life.
When I received the news yesterday afternoon, I couldn’t define exactly what I felt. Sadness, without a doubt. But also an ineffable mystery. The reason for words, wrote the longed-for Paco. The words necessary to not lose your life. To grow old with some memory and some clarity, the poet said. Fernando brought us closer to all of this.
As soon as I found out, I left for his house in Faura, half an hour from Valencia. Another Sunday, but in winter. On the horizon accompanied the almond trees, sparkling white and pink in this sweet February. Almond field, I thought as I looked out the window. And Max Aub came to mind. And his eternal phrase when he saw so many defenders of democracy go into exile. “These that you see now, broken, battered, angry, flattened, unshaven, unwashed, filthy, dirty, tired, biting, made a mess, destroyed, they are, however, do not forget it, son, do not forget it, no matter what happens.” Whatever happens, they are the best of Spain.”
That was Fernando Delgado: simplicity, commitment, dignity. The love of a bitch. The smell of an almond tree. The best of Spain.