Letters to a Stranger

  ‘Did you say five hundred euros a day?’ I asked, as though I hadn’t heard him properly.

  ‘That’s right. And that’s in addition to all the additional expenses resulting from the investigation, such as third-party services, travel, fees for documents, bribes . . . Naturally, I won’t be able to give you a receipt for some of this. You need to understand that in my profession there are jobs I can’t bill you for and you’ll just have to trust me. You should also be aware that if I wanted to cheat you, it wouldn’t be too hard for me to forge the receipts.’

  I listened to him as he talked, more and more taken aback at it all, even speechless.

  ‘Moreover, you should know that I am completely anonymous and independent in my work. I’m not on the National Business Register or recognised by the Home Office, so if this investigation ends in a trial, I couldn’t stand as a witness, and some of the evidence I uncover might possibly not be admissible in court. I don’t know if you understand . . .’

  ‘More or less . . .’ I answered, although in that moment I could make neither head nor tail of anything that might happen in the future.

  ‘Well, that said, if you still want me to work for you, we can get straight down to business.’

  ‘The truth is that I don’t really know what to say . . . If the investigation goes on too long, I don’t know if I could still pay you. It’s not easy getting hold of that kind of money from the bank.’

  ‘I can tell you from experience that if a detective can’t get the information he’s looking for in two to three weeks at the most, he’ll probably never find it. Anyway, you’re at liberty to call a halt to my services any time you want.’

  ‘Well, in that case . . .’

  ‘I forgot one very important detail: I work on a cash basis only, so every time we meet you’ll have to pay me for the days I’ve worked up to that time. It’s your choice.’

  ‘But . . . I really don’t know you at all. It’s hard to make a decision like this so . . . so quickly . . .’

  ‘Señorita de Castro, the information you need has nothing to do with me. In fact, I doubt that any detective with good judgement would let his client know more than the essentials about him. Let’s meet again in two to three days’ time so you can see whether you feel my services are worthwhile before you’ve committed too much money.’

  I was surprised that he called me ‘Señorita’ so confidently, and so obviously took it for granted that I was single. ‘Well, you’ve convinced me,’ I said finally, staring him straight in the eye, trying to find in him all the confidence I needed. ‘So . . . you have a deal, Señor Salamanca.’

  ‘Great. I’m all ears – tell me your story and what you need me to find out. Tell me everything you remember, as clearly as possible.’

  ‘I really don’t know where to start.’

  ‘How about at the beginning?’

  ‘Well . . . all right. I came back to Madrid a week ago after living in London for fifteen years. My mother died on the ninth of this month – Monday of last week.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ he said politely.

  ‘Thank you. The fact is, my mother’s solicitor only needed me to be here to deal with her estate . . . The whole time I’ve been away, I haven’t spoken with her once, nor with my only sister. I was nineteen when I left . . .’

  ‘Go on. Why did you leave? Would you like another beer?’

  ‘No thanks, I’d rather have a coffee.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ He called over the waiter, who was keeping an eye on the terrace from behind the restaurant door. ‘Would you bring us another plate of salad, a small portion of omelette, a beer and a coffee? Go on, please.’ He gestured, urging me to continue.

  I was suddenly struck by the way he pronounced his Rs, almost with a German accent, that was somehow familiar to me.

  ‘Do you have time? This could take all afternoon,’ I asked him, remembering that we only had two hours; we’d already been out on the terrace for half of that.

  ‘I’m completely at your disposal. I need to earn my first wages: two hundred and fifty euros for the half-day.’

  For a moment I’d forgotten how expensive it would be to work with him, but swallowed hard and went on.

  When I’d finally finished telling him my story, enough time had passed for the inquisitive detective to have four more beers and smoke half a pack of Chesterfields, while I had two cups of herbal tea after the coffee. Every now and then he interrupted to ask me a question or take notes in his little book.

  ‘I think that’s all of it,’ I concluded. ‘So what do you think about my crazy tale? I can imagine it seems far too bizarre to be true.’

  ‘At this point in my life and after so many years in the business, I’ve seen and heard it all – more than most people could ever imagine. The only thing you haven’t told me is why you want to look into all this now, after so many years.’

  ‘When I came back to Spain to deal with my mother’s estate . . .’ I stopped short, wanting to be completely honest, especially with myself. ‘Well, when I came back I was sure that the time and distance had wiped away all the pain of my past. I thought I’d been reborn – but the truth is that the fifteen years away were no more than a long intermission. I can’t go on without knowing the full truth, not this time. And besides, the letters from that poor, love-struck man . . . I feel like I’m the only one who can free him from his torment. I’m sorry, maybe I’m explaining too much . . .’ I apologised, realising that my confession was too personal to share with someone I’d only just met.

  ‘Don’t worry: on the contrary, all the information you can give will be useful. But just remember this – you’ve only read a few letters and still have several years left to get through. It’s possible that after so much time, this person no longer wants to come back to Spain at all. In any case, he’s a fugitive from justice and won’t get off easy for that crime.’

  ‘I can imagine . . . but his last letter was dated only a few weeks ago – that doesn’t seem like he’s forgotten what he left behind.’

  ‘Berta, I . . . can I call you Berta?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I need to see those letters as soon as possible,’ he said, scratching his head with the cigarette between his fingers, making me nervous that his thick hair would catch on fire.

  ‘I’ll bring them next time we meet. But this guy left without knowing anything of what really happened – they’re the letters of a heartbroken man who knew less of what was going on than anyone else involved.’

  ‘I might be able to extract information that even he didn’t see was important. It would be interesting, for example, to find out who helped him escape. If he was really under that much suspicion from the police, he wouldn’t have been allowed to leave the country, so I imagine someone had to furnish him with a fake passport. In fact, he probably wouldn’t have been able to leave the police station on his own, considering he was a primary suspect. Whoever helped him would have known he’d be recognised and they acted very fast – probably already had the documents ready as he left Spain the same day. He may have written something about this in his letters; it would be a good place to start if we want to get to the bottom of all this. If he really is innocent of everything and so naive, who helped him get out of the country?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. It does seem like he must have been helped by someone who didn’t want a trial to take place.’

  ‘And you? Who do you suspect?’ he asked me, obviously realising that in my mind Yolanda was behind everything.

  ‘My sister.’

  ‘I see. I think that’s enough for today. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything of interest. In the meantime, be discreet – don’t tell anyone about this, not even your mother’s housekeeper, OK?’

  ‘OK. I’ll wait for your call.’

  We shook hands amicably and said goodbye. I think we got on well right from the start. Although I felt a little foolish for entrusting all my family secrets to a c
omplete stranger, my instincts told me that despite his appearance he was an honourable man.

  I went to the grocer’s next. My stay in Madrid was going to be longer than anticipated, and I needed to stock up the fridge and larder accordingly. I ended up buying completely random things, because my mind was absorbed in other matters. I couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation I’d had with the detective. I went back and forth between feeling brave for finally telling someone all the things that my family had covered up for so long, and feeling completely stupid. In London I was a successful businesswoman with a comfortable life – why didn’t I just forget all this and go home? But amid the jumble of my thoughts and doubts, something like a thrill ran through me: I wanted to go home and read more of Saúl’s letters. He was winning my heart through his words, beyond the time and space that lay between us, or maybe it was just an avid need to know more, like when you’re stuck into a really good novel and want to race on to the next chapter. I couldn’t be entirely sure.

  Back at home, I made a sandwich under Aris’s watchful gaze, lucky to be able to count on his gentle, peaceful company in this house of mystery and intrigue, which was feeling so increasingly hostile. I ate my sandwich in two bites, impatient to get back to Saúl’s letters. The basket was still in the kitchen where I had left it this morning, after finding them in the garden where Teresa had saved them from getting wet.

  With a sudden jolt, I realised how easily my mother’s employee came and went through what was now my house. Perhaps I’d underestimated her. Alfonso’s advice made me think that possibly I trusted Teresa too much. After all, she’d been loyal to her mistress her whole life long, rather than to me – she cared for my sister and me as if we were her own daughters, but for some reason she worshipped my mother. Knowing how much I hated Alberta, must she not then see me as an enemy?

  I decided to read in bed, so, after taking a cool shower, I grabbed the bundle of letters that remained for 2002, and went to my room with Aris and Neca.

  Olympic National Park

  25 May 2002

  My love,

  How are you? I’m getting through as best I can. I try to distract myself, take long walks when there’s time, play a little poker now and then with Dylan and his friends, and that’s about it. Between this and my work at the dock, my days are passing and I endure your absence.

  There’s still no word from you . . . Dylan says you haven’t written to the email address I sent you. I simply don’t know what to think, but I have a bad feeling that you’re not getting my letters. Maybe your mother’s keeping them from you, and I can’t say I blame her. I can imagine how much she must hate me, considering all I stand accused of . . . I can’t bear to think that you don’t even know I’m writing – maybe you even think I’ve forgotten you? Never – you hear me? Never!

  I’ve finally started painting again. After facing that defiant blank canvas a hundred times, finally I picked up my brush and managed my first stroke of paint on the surface yesterday. For now, I’ve set myself the straightforward project of simply trying to capture what I see through my window, though I can hardly do justice to such beauty. You cannot imagine how incredible the lake looks in springtime. I admit I find it hard to concentrate. I see you everywhere: emerging from the water like that afternoon we spent by the sea in Marbella, atop the mountains even, in the eternal grey skies . . . and you’re the one and only thing that inspires me.

  I’ve been obsessed with the idea of coming back. My life has no meaning without you. But Dylan is convincing, saying I wouldn’t even get past the first security checkpoint at the airport with the fake passport I brought over from Spain, and reminding me that by now half the world is out looking for me. I remember all too well how abrupt it was, how your lawyer dragged me out of the police station after the line-up and less than three hours later we were saying our farewells at the airport . . . It was as though you’d known all along I would be identified by those witnesses, and everything was set up all ready for my flight . . . There has to be some way back.

  This has all been so unfair and ridiculous . . . We were about to tell the whole world we were in love, were planning your divorce and a life together without having to hide from anyone, and right at that moment your husband disappeared. No matter how often I mull it over, I still can’t understand how the police found evidence pointing to my having killed him. Sometimes I think it could all have been a warped plot on your husband’s part, but . . . I don’t know. Maybe he found out about us and took it as an opportunity to plan his own disappearance? I think I remember you telling me he had some legal issues with his business. Yolanda, think about it – it would have been a perfect move on his side, and I was an easy target. But maybe I just have too much time on my hands and too much time to think, and I’m starting to talk nonsense.

  Write to me, Yolanda, for God’s sake. Just end this uncertainty that’s becoming the torture of my days and nights.

  With all my love,

  Saúl

  It was a very revealing letter, full of love and despair like the others, but with two interesting facts: on the one hand, I was saddened to learn that Saúl couldn’t return with the fake passport that had brought him to Washington State, which confirmed what the detective had guessed earlier that day. On the other, the notion that Bodo might fake his own death to escape the law was not that far-fetched, though I really doubted Yolanda would have been in on something like that. Plus, knowing that she’d been the one who’d urged Saúl to leave and the one who’d made all the arrangements, she must have had a powerful reason.

  No, this innocent and loving man couldn’t hurt a fly. It was becoming more and more clear to me that he was the innocent victim of my sister’s dark magic, and, who knows, maybe that of my own father. I shuddered – all this was lurid in its madness.

  I read two more letters before switching off the light, both of them messages of despair, appeals for help. They were the cries of a lover torn apart by his grief.

  I had never thought that this kind of passion could exist beyond fairy tales and the ramblings of mad poets. I was so sure that no one could ever reach such heights that I hadn’t even bothered wishing for that kind of romance for myself. But knowing now of its existence, I realised that I’d forgotten that humans are a duality, that man does not live for bread alone and that falling in love can be far more intense than any material achievement. Perhaps I’d never experienced it precisely because I’d never believed in it. But what about Yolanda? Did she herself deserve that privilege? I understood now that loving someone without a soul was like playing music to a cockroach, and was convinced that my sister had never appreciated how from millions of other people she had been singled out to experience a love beyond all compare. The irony of fate and its capriciousness seemed overwhelming.

  I picked up the photo from the lakeside and gazed at it until I fell asleep. I dreamt of him, of course; probably because he was the only masculine presence I had close to me right now, and I was still a young woman with unmet needs of my own.

  Chapter 9

  Thursday, 19 June 2014

  A loud noise from the kitchen woke me. I tried to go back to sleep but the sun was streaming in through the window. Aris stirred restlessly at my feet, his movements threatening to crumple the letters that I’d read and left open on the bed the night before.

  While getting washed and dressed in the bathroom, I felt slightly uneasy for the first time since my arrival, knowing that Teresa was roaming freely through the house. This morning I was not glad to know that I wasn’t alone. The housekeeper who for nineteen years had seemed the epitome of tenderness and devotion suddenly cast shadows that disturbed me with how little I really knew of her – what she was thinking, what she did when she wasn’t in the house, anything about her own life and home . . . but I was starting to suspect that she knew absolutely everything about the three of us, even more than I knew myself. I tried to shake off these dark thoughts and compose myself so I could greet her without a
cting suspiciously. I found her sweeping leaves on the terrace.

  ‘Good morning, Teresa. What a beautiful, peaceful day. You’re so lucky you get to enjoy this climate all year round.’

  ‘Hello, darling. Did I wake you? I’m so sorry – I dropped a glass on the floor . . .’

  ‘It’s fine – I’m glad to be up a little earlier than over the last few days. Besides, I slept really well and it’s worth it to see this lovely morning.’

  ‘I’ll have some breakfast ready for you in a minute,’ she said, setting down the broom and getting ready to go in the house.

  ‘You don’t need to, Teresa, I can do it.’

  ‘But I’d be so happy to—’

  ‘Teresa, I can do it myself, OK?’ I interrupted, more sharply this time.

  She picked up the broom again to hide her unhappiness at my response.

  I was sitting down in front of a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee when she came into the kitchen to empty the dustpan.

  ‘Put that down, Teresa. Sit and have a cup of coffee with me.’

  ‘Sweetheart, I have so much work to do. I have the ironing waiting for me over at Carmen’s house later on . . .’

  ‘If you have all this work, I really don’t know why you insist on coming here. There’s no need – I don’t have much for you to do while I’m here.’

  ‘It’s for the garden, really. I want to care for it until you sell the house. It won’t make a good impression if it’s—’

  ‘Come on, it’s still early,’ I said, fetching her a coffee cup. Facing the worktop, with my back to her, I ventured a question, trying to find out a little more about her life. ‘Do you live alone, Teresa?’

  ‘Mostly. The son of my cousin lives with me, technically speaking. He’s been paying me for years to rent a room, but he’s out every day and when he comes home at night I’m usually asleep already. It’s like living on my own. He doesn’t give me any trouble or offer any company either. If it wasn’t that I do his laundry . . .’