Antonio Gala at home. His secretary’s memories

I know this for a fact. I’ve heard Gala say it many a time. And he didn’t do it unconsciously, he did it consciously. He’d been working extremely hard (especially as a playwright) and really needed a break, because he wanted to make the leap into novel writing (in fact, all his novels, starting with the first one, El manuscrito carmesí, have been partly written at La Baltasara). He’d been living in Madrid for years, on the corner of Calle Macarena and Calle Triana. He’d distanced himself from some people, but he wanted to be more isolated to be able to work, to read and write and, especially, to feel calm (he has always hoped for calmness over happiness). As he used to say: “I want to lose myself in myself”.

And a few people had talked to him about Alhaurín el Grande as a good place for that. Then one day he dreamt with the name (Alhaurín)… and that’s when his voyage began, first in the area called Huerta del Jorobado, for about two years and, then unexpectedly and by sheer chance, he ran into the estate, that had been abandoned and on sale for some time: the gates were like a full stop. And that’s how it happened.

The only way to fully understand it is by visiting La Baltasara. There you see how seductive it is and understand why he was smitten with it. In fact, I remember that whenever we went for a walk on the estate, he’d stop somewhere special and say: “I’m so glad I bought the estate. It’s so beautiful.” Of course, I could only agree with him, because he was absolutely right. However, one must remember that when he discovered it, it was completely different to what it is now, but he saw its potential.

Not too far from the centre, for the bare necessities; not too big or too small, for privacy. As he used to say, it was and is only 25 Kilometres away from everything: from the seaside, Malaga, the airport, Marbella… And he was right. He turned it into what we see today, but it took lots of effort, work, tender love and care. It was summer 1992 when I first visited it and, of course, I was impressed and in awe, especially as I headed down Cuesta de los Valientes street towards the house. I’d like to add that one of the most amazing things of this estate is its sunsets, which Gala has poetically described in many of the articles he wrote there.

Yes, indeed, but especially after planting the cypress trees. That’s when it most resembled Tuscany. Or maybe he did it (planting the cypress trees) for that very reason: to remind him of Italy and resemble Tuscany even more. We must remember that he lived some time in Florence when he was running an art gallery there.

Apparently, he didn’t know that she was an actress at first. I think he didn’t want to believe it at first, because he was cutting ties with the theatre in some way. He thought it was one of the many nicknames given to families in villages: Los Baltasaro. Then he thought she was a good witch who helped him find his way to the estate. But when he signed the deed and realised that it was the new name of the estate (it was called El Naranjal at first) and then he found out that she was an actress in the Golden Age, he was convinced that he’d been brought to La Baltasara unconsciously. So trying to distance himself from that world he’d walked right back into it. In fact, he never got to leave the theatre, as here he wrote his five last comedies: La Truhana, Los bellos durmientes, Café cantante, Las manzanas del viernes and Inés desabrochada.

I remember the spring and summer of 1993, when his novel La pasión turca came out. It was the first novel he dictated to me in the autumn and winter of 1992, here at La Baltasara (at the time he was still writing weekly articles for El País and daily articles for El Mundo). It was launched the next spring and readers went crazy, on San Jordi Book Day in Barcelona and at the Madrid Book Fair: the queues were endless. We had to bring in security to deal with the amount of people who wanted a signed copy. It was pretty hectic. I think that, after El manuscrito carmesí, it’s the novel with the highest number of editions. In fact, it was the biggest-selling book for months.

I also remember 1996 as a very special year. That was when he invited over (surprisingly, as he barely ever did) the editors from the Planeta publishing house because they’d finally persuaded him to publish his poetry (in fact, Planeta doesn’t publish poetry) after insisting for ages. I remember the “boss” telling the editor: “you’d better publish this book or I’ll fire you”. But it was published. That was Poemas de amor. I can’t even remember the amount of editions it’s had and they keep coming.

Tricky question about a tricky person. Tricky in the way that he’s a very exacting person: first of himself and then, of course, of everyone else, especially me, as I’m so close to him and in charge of all sorts of matters.

But on the other hand, I have travelled to many countries, as I’d accompany him on all his trips, especially for book events. In fact I’m just remembering a book tour across five countries in Latin America: in 21 days we changed time zone three times. I’ve also met great people and important figures. Some of them became, I’m not sure I’d say friends, but more than acquaintances (for example, I especially remember Terenci Moix, because we’d always pay him a visit when we were in Barcelona; or Concha Velasco, whom I met in the autumn of 1992, at the Seville Expo exhibition, and then coincided with on many other occasions; or the great actress Mary Carrillo, who was very fond of me. And so many others).

By Gala’s side I’ve learnt to read looking out for typos, mistakes, etc. I can’t help it. It comes with the job. In fact, some of the young writers and non-writers of the last class of the Antonio Gala Foundation for young creators chose me as their editor and called me the “philology police”. And, as I usually remind people, I’m a man of science!

But, above all, he makes me laugh a lot, which is very important. He’s one of the persons with the greatest and best sense of humour I’ve met. And he has a very smooth sense of irony that spares no-one or anything.