Letters to a Stranger

  ‘Really? I had no idea,’ I said in surprise, turning back to the table.

  ‘He came to town as a student long after you’d left, so how could you have known? Anyway, he never completed his studies but he opened a car body repair shop with money that his parents left him. He’s thirty-two years old and should really have moved out ages ago. I don’t insist though. It helps, actually, to have the three hundred euros he pays for the room to cover my bills. He’s a very solitary fellow.’

  She broke off to take a sip of coffee. I was listening attentively, trying to catch any hidden meaning behind her words.

  ‘He doesn’t have a girlfriend? That’s rare for a man of his age.’

  ‘I think he was seeing a girl, but nothing serious. In all honesty, it’s nice to have a man in the house at night, the way things are these days.’

  ‘I can understand that. Teresa . . .’

  ‘Yes, my dear?’

  ‘Why did you leave to go and live on your own?’

  ‘Well, you girls were getting older and you each needed your own room. When I lived here I slept in your room. Your mother didn’t like it’ – her gaze darkened with the memory – ‘but it was just what I had to do. Anyway, I was always here at daybreak to wake you and I didn’t leave until after you went to bed, if you remember. You two have always been my life. I clean and iron for three households, but . . . I don’t know what I’ll do with myself when you sell this house – I’m going to feel so lost . . .’

  ‘Then it’ll be your turn to rest, Teresa. It’s high time for you to take more care of yourself.’

  ‘Are you going to stay here much longer?’ she asked, clearly wanting to know.

  I had a feeling her interest in my answer lay far beyond her own feelings of loss at not being able to return to the house every day.

  ‘I don’t know yet. It depends on how long this whole process is going to take with winding up the estate. I’ll most likely leave when everything’s settled and the property’s up for sale – in addition to taking care of certain other matters I didn’t expect to find,’ I added vaguely, although she knew instantly what I meant by ‘certain other matters’. ‘I guess I’ll have to come back one more time to sign the papers, but it’s possible I may not even have to stay the night in Madrid then.’

  ‘The house in Marbella has been up for sale for years – I’m not sure if you knew. It’s handled by an agency that takes care of the cleaning and gardening.’

  ‘No, actually, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘I thought maybe the solicitor had told you. I’m sure he will the next time you see him. I don’t even want to think what it would be like over there . . . After what happened to Bodo . . . He and your sister lived there almost all year round. In the end, your mother didn’t like to go back there, as you can imagine. You know how she couldn’t stand gossip. So, when your sister left, she decided to sell it, but in the current recession . . .’

  Considering her usual discretion, she was mighty talkative this morning, so I took advantage of the moment, taking mental notes of everything she said. ‘You know, I don’t understand how they could have blamed the gardener for Bodo’s murder if they never found the body. What grounds did the police have to accuse him?’

  ‘I don’t know much about that. When she was on her own again, your sister moved back in with your mother for a few months, but they never talked about it. All I know is that witnesses said they saw the lad taking the body out from the house in Marbella that night . . . And someone else claimed to have seen him down at the marina on Bodo’s personal yacht. Everything pointed to him. Besides, if he were innocent, why would he go on the run like he did? But what do I know, darling? I only heard bits and pieces, and—’

  ‘Maybe he just felt trapped – that must have been a really difficult situation for a young guy like him to handle.’

  ‘I don’t know about that . . .’ she said in response, but I could tell she knew more than she was saying. Lying did not come naturally to Teresa, whatever my wider suspicions. ‘If all the evidence the police collected pointed to him doing it . . . There had to be something to it, didn’t there? You shouldn’t pay so much attention to those letters.’

  ‘What do you know about those letters? What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, love, nothing. You know I’ve always been the one to take care of the post, that’s all.’

  ‘I know. In fact, you were always the one doing everything – all my mother did was watch television, read her magazines and go out with her friends. What kind of empty life was that,’ I blurted out, unable to hold back my bitterness.

  ‘That boy never stopped writing since he left; you probably saw from the dates on the letters. When your mother opened the first one and realised it was from him, she didn’t bother opening the rest. It was only natural, considering what he’d done,’ she explained, as if trying to downplay the importance of what was, to me, a crucial matter.

  She seemed very nervous and kept fidgeting with the knot of her scarf.

  ‘There’s just something fishy about this whole business . . .’ I shut my mouth abruptly, realising I was on the verge of voicing my suspicions to absolutely the worst person – someone who had blamed Saúl because she could never allow the implication that Alberta or Yolanda might have had something to do with this filthy affair. I could have told her that this was all nonsense, that it was absurd that my mother, if she’d known Saúl’s whereabouts and truly believed he was guilty, would not then have informed the police. On the other hand, why wouldn’t she have passed on the letters to Yolanda? I felt compassion for Teresa, recognising that her innocence and lack of awareness were leading her inadvertently to indicate the probable guilt of the women she was trying to protect. She stared at me now, increasingly anxious, waiting for me to finish my sentence.

  ‘So if my mother and Yolanda didn’t talk about it, which doesn’t at all surprise me, how did you find out what happened?’

  ‘People talk, they find out about things, and I think it also came out in the newspapers.’

  ‘But you don’t talk to people or read the newspaper?’

  ‘My cousin’s boy was already living with me when it happened . . . He told me about it.’ I noticed that she regretted bringing up her relative again. ‘I was interviewed too.’

  ‘You too? Surely not . . .’

  ‘Yes, but this all happened so long ago, my love. Why bother digging it all up again?’

  ‘Well, for me it’s like it only just happened. I’ve been completely oblivious of all this over the past however many years.’

  ‘I have to get going. I was planning to make you something for lunch, but—’

  ‘There’s no need – Teresa, you really don’t have to worry about me. I know how to take care of myself.’

  ‘I know you do, but I don’t mind doing it,’ she replied, an unhappy look on her face. Then she stood up and started to clear the table.

  I looked around but the basket was nowhere in sight. ‘Where are the letters?’

  ‘I took them to your room when I went to make your bed, while you were in the shower. I’ll get all this cleaned up and then I’ll have to go. There’s so much ironing to do.’

  Downing my second cup of coffee, I watched as she cleared the breakfast dishes away, realising that over the past few days the image I’d always had of our housekeeper as loving and humble had faded away. During the nineteen years I spent with her, I had never once had the slightest suspicion that her sweetness and devotion might be hiding a dark side. She always represented the light for me, the only truth among all the lies. The few happy memories I’d brought to London with me were all in connection with her. Maybe I’d just been deceiving myself because I desperately needed to believe that not everything around me was filthy and awful, and so my mind had protected itself by clinging on to an illusion in order to preserve my sanity. Teresa had always remained my final hope. Now I wondered if she’d just been the best part of a bad situation. Unless my instinct
lay way off the mark, the new Teresa would end up as the real surprise of my return, but what if I was wrong? I felt terrible.

  I spent the whole day reading and thinking, letter after letter. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but the more I came to know Saúl, the kindlier I felt towards the whole of humanity. That true love of his, his integrity, his unshakeable commitment to the woman he adored, even though she never answered him – it all seemed unutterably noble.

  Over the course of the morning I read through the letters from June, July, August and September of 2002. All of them, one after the other, described an unwavering passion that seemed only to grow with time and absence. I pretended they were addressed to me, that I was his beloved. Right then my emotions were so raw and I was so desperate for love myself that I didn’t mind picking at the leftover crumbs of the disastrous love affair he had shared with Yolanda.

  It sounded as though the reason that had made him go into exile had now taken a back seat, and that the pain of having lost Yolanda far outweighed the torment of his delicate legal situation. In all of his letters he begged Yolanda over and over somehow to get in contact with him, to give him hope, a reason to go on living. Five months of writing to her, five months with no response, and this lad from Lake Crescent still held on to his fantasy as tightly as he had on the very first day.

  After reading each letter I felt the burning desire to write again to the email address in Boston that his friend Dylan had arranged, but then I looked back in the basket and saw there were still eleven years of unknowns, and that his life might be completely different now, not to mention that I still hadn’t had a response to my first email. He might be married, have children . . . Maybe he was even happy with his family, who knows, even if he had kept on fanning the flames of his youthful passion through his letters. Maybe he had fallen in love again but kept on writing to Yolanda out of mere habit. He must have grown up and matured. Surely he would be able to fall in love again – he might even love two women at the same time.

  I checked my phone again to see if there was an email from Boston. Nothing.

  Captivated by his letters, by this love that I had made my own, I even forgot to eat. It was Aris, wandering back and forth between my room and the kitchen, demanding his lunch, who finally broke the spell.

  At half past three in the afternoon, before making myself a ham and cheese sandwich to give me strength, I read the first letter from October.

  Olympic National Park

  7 October 2002

  Hello, my love,

  As always, the first thing that comes to mind when I start a letter to you is to ask how you are, and why I haven’t heard from you yet. You have no idea how my imagination runs wild when I think about that, nor how painful my thoughts are.

  It’s my birthday today. I’m twenty-one. I remember it not as the day on which I came into the world, but because exactly one year ago today I was reborn: it was the day we met. Do you remember? I do, perfectly, in every detail, as though it had just happened. I was hoping to hear from you today, but the hours have flown by and there’s still no word from you.

  My mother called me. Dylan gave her my number after much insistence on her part. Even though I asked her to give me time and space, and promised I’d visit when I felt ready and the police had stopped looking for me, she couldn’t resist. I wonder if she, with the knowledge of everything that’s happened to me, got in touch so I wouldn’t feel so alone on a day like this? So what’s going on with you? Has something happened that’s stopping you? I don’t even want to think about that. My mother’s really worried about me – she’s trying to convince me to turn myself in, sure that by now they must have found the real murderer and that, even if not, the two ticket stubs would clear me of all suspicion. But I made you a solemn promise – I swore I wouldn’t come back until you yourself had told me everything was all right. Either way, crossing the Atlantic on a fake passport is in itself a very serious crime in this country. My mother has offered all her savings to hire a good lawyer; she’s convinced that proving my innocence would be a lot easier than I think. She’s also said it’s been months since she stopped getting calls from the inspector in charge of the case. It seems like he’s given up trying and no longer believes it’s possible that I’m living in the US. Dylan dreams up much less orthodox ways of getting me back to Spain. He says I could go back the way I came, on a false identity, and that if I want he’ll look into it for me. They’re both worried – they can see I’m not happy.

  I spoke with my mother for over an hour. She even bought a new phone to call me on, so no one could trace the call via her normal one. She’s dying to know where I am and wants to come and visit me, but I’m afraid they’re still watching her and might follow her. What torture it is, living this way, especially for the people who care about me. Because in reality I’m not tormented by my lack of freedom, but by not being able to be with you. I could live hidden away from the world for all eternity as long as I was with you.

  I’ve spent most of today thinking about the morning we met. It was the best birthday gift I could ever have received. I rang your doorbell to offer my services as a gardener and you opened the door. You were wearing that sheer gossamer dress from Ibiza that showed off your golden skin and your long, glossy hair, with the hint of a tiny floral bikini peeking through the white fabric, and a body as beautiful as it was tantalising. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. ‘The garden is all yours,’ you said before I’d even finished introducing myself. ‘You can start work today.’ You walked me through the garden, and my legs were trembling. It was love at first sight, for the first and only time in my life. That same morning we ended up making love in your bed, the bed that you shared with your husband. What madness – what wonderful, glorious madness! And how clumsy I felt, making love to a goddess like you.

  I would give the rest of my life to relive that moment just once – I think I’ve told you that already. Nothing life can offer will ever compare with the six months of love that we shared. Fate has been so hateful and cruel to us . . .

  Take care of yourself, my sweet darling, and in so doing you will be taking care of me.

  Saúl

  While I nibbled my sandwich in the kitchen, the six-month-long relationship between Saúl and my sister was becoming clearer. Yolanda had already decided to get rid of her husband when she opened the door to Saúl, who appeared at exactly the right moment. How had she managed to get him accused as the likely killer? It was something I was more than ready to find out.

  Suddenly, a wave of fear washed over me. This house I was living in – this house that was now practically mine – had for forty years and until only a few days ago been the domain of the most evil woman I had ever known. For a few moments I seemed to sense her presence, which began with the scent of her perfume, floating on the air from the kitchen into the hallway and through into the garden. At first the gusts were far apart, slight, barely noticeable, but then they started to become more constant and more intense. Every hair on my body stood on end like never before, while my body shook violently from head to toe. The air started to cool and my temperature dropped to freezing. The thick smell, somewhat sweet and musty, that flooded the kitchen held an unmistakable warning that I had no trouble in understanding: Stop prying into the past and snooping around in my house. I’m still here and I won’t rest until you get out. I knew she was there, watching me. The air became dense, unbreathable, as though her ghostly presence were infusing the whole space around me.

  Sweat broke out as I started to panic, and drained of all energy I tossed my sandwich aside. Aris stared intently at the centre of the room, as if someone was standing there, right in front of him. Yes, the cat was looking at her and I swear I could see the hatred in his eyes. He stood rooted to the ground, defiant, ready to strike, as though he wanted to defend me. My sweat turned icy and I began to shiver.

  As soon as I was able to move again I went back to my bedroom, terrified, sure that I’d just had a supernatura
l encounter like the ones you read about in books. I’d always been so sceptical about anything beyond the five senses. I’d even mocked people who believed in the paranormal, thinking they were con artists or folk who’d lost all touch with reality. Looking back, I no longer recall this particular event as a supernatural experience, but rather as something arising from my subconscious as a result of the powerful odours overwhelming my senses. The same goes for similar events I experienced over the following days. These episodes did however make me feel closer to all those people who talk about similar terrifying experiences, and I can now fully attest to how intense they can be.

  Although the whole incident lasted no longer than ten minutes, it took a long time afterwards to recover and return to my senses. As soon as I was physically able, I logged on to my laptop to look up a hotel, so I could get out of this house before I lost all the confidence that I’d struggled to build up in myself over so many years in London. Just as my heartbeat was slowly returning to normal, my phone rang and I was finally wrenched out of my troubled state.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Berta, it’s Alfonso,’ he said, and I recognised again the strange way in which he pronounced his Rs.

  ‘Hi, I’m so happy you called. How’s it going, Alfonso?’ The ‘I’m so happy you called’ was a tad too much, but he had just helped me come back into the here and now.

  ‘Good, good, everything is underway. I called you to set up a meeting. How about tomorrow: same time, same place?’

  ‘No problem. I don’t really have anything fixed; I’m not staying long in Spain and the days seem interminable. Have you come across anything?’

  ‘I’ve got access to some of the legal documents and I’ve made a few calls. I must admit, I’m intrigued. This is a very interesting case. I’m sorry – I suppose it’s all rather sad for you.’

  ‘I can’t wait for you to tell me what you’ve found out. Wild horses couldn’t keep me from our meeting tomorrow.’