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I remember the old elevator leading to the director's office was made of wood and it had a wedge in the back that rubbed a bit against the wall. The director was going up with me and he heard a noise, clack, clack, clack, and asked, "what's the matter here?" "Well, the thing is that the elevator …" "It needs to be fixed quickly. I'll give the order." The elevator mechanics came by but they couldn't do anything. There was always something wrong. In order to stop, the elevator was fitted with brake blocks. In fact once at the Velázquez entrance, in the elevator, which was the largest one, Queen Sofia was coming down with her parents and the retinue. There were quite a few people in the elevator but I knew how the brakes worked and said to myself, "Let's see where we end up." Down we went, and I always released the lever so the brakes could kick in about 30 cm before reaching the bottom. I tried it this time but it kept going, down to the pit underneath. When we hit the bottom, the queen asked, "What happened?" I said, "I'm sorry about this. I'll open the door and then you can come out one by one." I had to give each one of them my hand. It wasn't much of a step up, but enough for the queen to have to boost herself out while I held her by the hand and pulled up, and she said, "No problem. Nothing to worry about." Then the concierge came around asking what had happened. I told him I had pulled on the brakes beforehand but the weight had taken us down to the pit anyway. It often happened.
He began to work at the Museum as an elevator operator, then as a guard and finally, from 1997, as a carpenter for the Museum, which was his true profession.
Interview recorded on December 19, 2017
