Letters to a Stranger

  ‘Great. Berta . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t forget to bring the letters.’

  ‘Oh, well . . . it’s just that . . . there must be hundreds of them, and I’ve only read a small fraction so far.’

  ‘That’s fine. Bring me the ones you’ve read and we’ll talk about the rest later.’

  ‘OK, that sounds good.’

  ‘One more thing – remember I only take cash. Sorry to be so mistrustful, but that’s the business for you.’

  ‘No problem. A day and a half – that’s seven hundred and fifty euros, right?’

  ‘Exactly. I have a few other small expenses, but nothing much. We’ll take care of those next time. Until tomorrow then. Good night, Berta.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Alfonso.’

  I knew I needed to get over my fright, and make use of the time until my meeting with the detective to read as many letters as I could. No one could appreciate them as much as I did, but I was sure Alfonso would discover a lot by reading between the lines, and they’d be more useful in his hands. Besides, time was against me, especially when it came to my bank account. But I still didn’t want to give him the sealed letters – I wanted to be the first to know what they said, and what if he lost them or they were stolen? They were so valuable to me. By now I was opening them, in fact, as though they were addressed to me personally. In some ways they were: they had waited for years to be read, and I was the one to do it. It hurt to think I might miss a single word.

  I decided to be organised and take notes, in case the letters weren’t returned to me. Getting started gave me new energy, and I stopped brooding on the incident in the kitchen. I dug through my bag for a pen and the notebook I’d been carrying for months without ever using, and set down all the information I’d learned so far: Saúl’s new phone number, the discovery of the two ticket stubs, the email address Dylan had provided, the call from his mother and his date of birth, which was the same day he’d first met Yolanda. Considering how many letters I’d read already, this wasn’t a whole lot to go on. If these letters went missing, however, at least I had enough information to get in touch with him and offer clues to the investigation, though for now it was all filed away in my mind. Imagine if I could talk to him, or hear his voice . . . or what if he emailed me in return? My heart was suddenly racing.

  And so I kept reading, this time paying close attention to any facts that might be useful for my investigation. I don’t know if I was just so moved by his words of love for Yolanda and had lost my head, but I couldn’t find much else that was helpful.

  Tucked in the envelope of the letter dated 1 November, I found another note, this one addressed to my mother.

  Dear Doña Alberta,

  I have been sending these letters to your house for months, hoping that you were passing them on to your daughter Yolanda. Maybe you refuse to give them to her because you believe I’m a murderer. Well, I’m not – I had nothing at all to do with what happened to your son-in-law. I only ran because I was about to be arrested. My one crime in this world is loving your daughter more than life itself.

  Please, I’m begging you, please give her my letters if you can, because I need to hear from her.

  If on the other hand she herself is choosing not to respond to my letters of her own free will, please disregard this note and accept my warmest greetings.

  Saúl

  His blind faith in Yolanda was such that he could find no explanation for her lack of response other than the potential blunder or fault of the intermediary. Objectively speaking, the truth was that he wasn’t really wrong. What he could never have imagined though was that he had been used in the most contemptible way, and that even though the letters had arrived at their destination, no one had bothered to open them. Saúl mattered to Yolanda only as much as the rest of the world did: in other words, not at all.

  Before reading the letter that went along with this note, I was plagued by doubts. What if I myself was simply obsessed, carried away by my own painful memories, and had lost all objectivity? Was I really cleverer than the police, who had spent months investigating the case? Of course I wasn’t, but then – Yolanda . . . It takes years of practice to gain skill in any discipline, not to mention having been born with a certain predisposition, without any kind of title to certify it, and as far as manipulation and scheming were concerned, my sister had no rival – she was up there with the best of them. I was quite sure she was controlling this young man, the love-struck and naive Saúl, and that his guilt had seemed quite obvious to the police. It was natural I should have misgivings because this whole affair was just too crazy for words. Even so, I had an advantage over the police: I knew both mother and daughter all too well, and they couldn’t hoodwink me as easily as they did the rest of the world.

  Now that I’d conquered any doubt, I kept on with my reading.

  Olympic National Park

  28 December 2002

  My dear Yolanda,

  If my letters are reaching you, you’re almost certainly wondering why it’s been so long since my last letter and you’re probably concerned as to why. Believe me, I know how that feels. I’ve been very sick, but don’t worry, I’m feeling much better now. Apparently I caught some odd virus, which turned into bronchitis. Four weeks ago Dylan found me half-unconscious when he came to bring me my shopping. I had a terrible fever all that night, it seems. He didn’t stop to think, but carted me off to the nearest hospital. I was forced to tell them the truth when they asked for my personal details, so I wouldn’t be surprised if the police come for me any day now. I’m guessing Interpol has been on the hunt since I left Spain, but I’m not sure. I have no idea how widely they can search and how much of the world’s data they have access to. In any case, it’s done now.

  I’m writing to you from Dylan’s cabin – he and his girlfriend Carol have been taking care of me until today. The three days I was in hospital, my mother didn’t once leave my side. Dylan called her, because at one point they feared the worst and he thought that nothing else mattered. But I came back from the brink of death – the doctors said it was a miracle. He didn’t think it was a good idea for me to go back to my mother’s house where I grew up, so he brought me to be looked after by him and Carol in their cabin. The police might still be keeping an eye on my mother’s place, especially now that I’d revealed my true identity to the hospital. Anyway, it’s been a long time since they bothered my mother. It’s all speculation on our part, in any case, and the truth is we have no idea if they’re still looking for me, or how the authorities might even handle a case like this.

  I don’t want you to fret, my darling, I’m fine now. Tomorrow I’m going back to my own cabin and I’ll leave these two in peace. Anyway, in a few days they’re going to Seattle to celebrate the New Year with friends. They insisted I go with them and I finally agreed. Although I’d rather stay here, I don’t want to be a complete drag.

  I don’t know how I’m ever going to repay Dylan, and I don’t just mean the hospital bill, but his constant generosity since I first came. He and Carol send their regards – they’re right here in front of me making dinner. Dylan wants me to give you a message: ‘Write to this poor bastard before he loses his mind.’ You see the reputation I have here, and they still want to take me to a New Year’s party? Don’t worry, we’re only joking around. I’d love for you to meet them, and they’re really looking forward to seeing you over here. That day will surely come – there must be a reason for all this happening.

  I love you, my precious girl. Happy New Year. I hope that all your dreams come true this year and that we can finally be together again!

  Saúl

  I wrote down in my notebook that Saúl was admitted to the hospital nearest to his cabin for three days between the end of November and the beginning of December in 2002. These details might just prove of some importance in the investigation.

  Then, without having eaten dinner, I curled up in bed thinking about him. Saúl was the o
nly thing of Yolanda’s that, without her knowing it, I wanted to snatch away with all of my might. I wanted him so much more than I wanted Alberta’s inheritance, which mattered very little to me just then, and only because it meant I could fund my investigation. I was beginning to like him so much it scared me. I dreamt of him that night, both awake and asleep, and he was always right beside me. I dreamt that all his words of love were meant for me. Just before I’d gone to bed, I marvelled again at the photo of him. Even though his back was to the camera, I could almost see his face. He didn’t even know I existed but I felt like I knew him, and so much better than Yolanda had ever done. There was no doubt about it – I was falling in love with him.

  What I felt that night was completely foreign, something from another world. A delightful tingling sensation ran through me from head to toe. It was such a complete feeling of joy that I’d have laughed in the face of death at that moment – I would have died of sheer happiness. Part of me knew we’d never actually get to meet, and that my love for him would remain hidden from the rest of the world, but that didn’t make it any less real to me.

  I knew it was crazy, but I didn’t want to give it up for anything. I didn’t want to lose that feeling but to experience it to the utmost, revel in it with every fibre of my being. I was willing even to risk all I’d achieved over many years of struggle. Nothing – not my work, not my independence, my flat in London, my friends . . . absolutely nothing in my life made me feel the way I did now, falling in love with Saúl. I never could have imagined I could feel this much. Without his letters, I would have lived my life in happy ignorance, convinced that I had everything I could possibly want. His words were a wake-up call, and suddenly they were the only things that mattered.

  And so I fell asleep, finally touching true happiness.

  Chapter 10

  Friday, 20 June 2014

  The muffled sounds running through the pipes told me that Teresa was out watering the garden. I was annoyed, my privacy invaded. She no longer felt like family, although I still wasn’t sure exactly why my feelings for her had changed so much.

  I peeked out through the curtains and there she was indeed, holding the hose, washing down the terrace as though it were hers. In all fairness though, it belonged more to her than it did to me, and maybe that’s what bothered me so much: not even part of the family, Teresa had had my mother’s respect and trust, and maybe even her affection – something I had never had. This house was more hers than mine because she had never left it, not even during the most difficult times. Beneath the apparent detachment she showed for what was legally now my property lurked a certain sense of possession that didn’t go unnoticed, and that bothered me immensely. I’m not sure if the fifteen years apart had changed her or me, but she no longer seemed the same person as the one I remembered from my childhood.

  I really wanted some coffee and toast and was starving from not having eaten in so long, but just didn’t fancy her company this morning. I tidied my room a little and locked the door with some suspicion when I left. I took a while washing and dressing in the bathroom, giving her time to finish her work, but it was no good and finally I gave up. Emerging from the bathroom, I saw her heading across the hall to my room. She was about to turn the knob on the door when I spoke. ‘Morning. Don’t worry, Teresa, I’ve already straightened my room.’

  ‘Oh dear, you quite startled me!’ she exclaimed. She hadn’t expected me to be right behind her. ‘Good morning, darling. I was just going to change the sheets. You know we always change the sheets on Fridays in this house.’

  ‘Yes, but the person who made the rules is gone. Don’t worry about it. I’ve already made the bed and I’ll change the sheets tomorrow,’ I retorted with authority, wanting to make it crystal clear that I was in charge of the house now.

  ‘But I have to load the washing machine with all the towels and—’

  ‘I’ll do it tomorrow, OK?’ I interrupted decisively.

  Her face changed instantly, noticing the coldness with which I was treating her. She let go of the knob at last and turned around. On her way to the kitchen, she took off her apron, ready to leave.

  ‘I’m going to the market to buy some fresh fish in a little while. Do you want anything?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’m not planning on eating here today. I have plans at El Espejo. Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘There’s freshly made coffee ready,’ she said, hanging her apron behind the kitchen door and picking up her bag.

  ‘I can smell it. Thank you.’

  ‘See you later, love.’

  ‘Bye, Teresa. Have a good day.’

  I didn’t like her ‘See you later’. I didn’t want her to come back and rummage about in my house while I wasn’t there, but I didn’t have the guts to tell her not to return that day. I still wasn’t completely sure whether my intuition about her was right, or whether the aversion I was starting to feel towards her was all in my mind.

  I got fresh water and food for Aris and made myself a wonderful breakfast. Then, all ready, I began to read as much as I could before leaving. I wanted to bring Alfonso as many letters as possible. I went back to my room and, so I didn’t waste time when handing over the letters, delved back into Saúl’s past, specifically into 2003.

  He was excited about his painting. The letter from 15 February had a photo with it of one of his pastel sketches showing the landscape as seen through his window, a view of the lake and the surrounding tree-covered mountains, but two things about it caught my eye. One, the artist had drawn himself working at the easel, once again with his back to me; two, a pair of beautiful eyes gazed up at him from the waters of the lake, full of passion and sweetness. They were Yolanda’s eyes, only the sparkle and innocence they exuded were not at all like her; they were simply a product of the imagination of an artist in love.

  Suddenly I had an almost uncontrollable urge to rip up the photo. The image was palpable proof of my sister’s utter bewitchment of this innocent man. I was overcome with rage, helplessness, resentment, thoughts of revenge . . . It simply wasn’t fair. Once again her cruel tricks had got her what I’d been searching for my entire life: someone to really, truly love me. When the maelstrom of emotion had subsided, I thought it over more carefully. Maybe I wanted Saúl because he had been hers, just like I’d always envied her clothes, her slender figure or the privileges my mother granted her.

  His drawing was exquisite, magnificent. I imagined how powerfully seductive it must be in close-up. I fantasised about seeing the painter in the middle of his creative process, in his cabin, captivated by the lake. I could make him out better in this second photo: quite tall and slim, but strongly muscled. In his right hand you could see a stick of pastel moving towards the paper, which he’d fastened to a drawing board with pins. The hand was large, bony, slender, dark . . . noble. There in close-up you could see better his thick, straight, chestnut hair, which must have been cut because in this image it no longer fell below his shoulders.

  I wished with all my strength that he would turn around. In a single second, with just one glance, I would have been able to learn so much . . .

  Olympic National Park

  8 February 2003

  Hello, darling,

  It’s almost Valentine’s Day and I can’t stop thinking about our time together, the only time fate has allowed us to enjoy. I don’t know if you’ll remember . . . I was mowing the lawn. That morning your husband (those two damn words kill me, ‘your husband’) decided to work from home and our plans were ruined. But you thought of something even better. I tremble at remembering the note you handed me while you were asking me how the rose bushes were doing, so he didn’t suspect a thing. ‘Today is Valentine’s Day and no one can stop us from having our date. Meet me at the Don Carlos hotel in two hours. Tell the people at the front desk your name and they’ll bring you to the room,’ said the note. Word for word. You swore he hadn’t, but I still think your husband saw us, and he was the person who took the note from my
sweatshirt when I took it off and left it on the table in the garden. It doesn’t matter now. What does matter is that you gave me the best day of my entire life. I close my eyes and I can still see you . . . Jesus Christ, you were so beautiful! I still recall so vividly the touch of your skin, smell your perfume, see your smiles and hear your whispers of love and pleasure. A wonderful shiver just passed right through me, remembering every detail.

  Today it is I who want to surprise you. Would you like to know what I’ve painted for you? It’s your eyes. I don’t need to look at photos of you to paint them – I see them everywhere, constantly. I can’t forget them, I can’t, and I don’t know if I want to. Forgive me, my love, but this isn’t a day for sadness.

  The owner of the local art gallery, a friend of Dylan’s, came over a few days ago to look at my paintings. You won’t believe it – he bought one! I’ve sold my first work! It seems quite incredible to me. It’s been like a breath of fresh air and a reason to endure the long, cold days of this winter, which feels eternal. He asked how much I wanted for the one I painted for you, but I told him it was a gift for someone and he picked a different one.

  When he got me alone, Dylan told me that if he asked me how much I’d like to sell them for, I could name my price without any worries. It seems this man is not just an amateur collector – he knows very well if something is really worth it. He gave me five hundred dollars for one with ducks in the foreground and the lake in the distance. Well, actually the lake’s in the background to everything I’ve painted so far.

  I think Dylan told him I’m on the run from justice, because before he left he said he’d have a think as to how to get round my situation so he could show my work in his gallery. He seemed really interested. I’m so excited, Yolanda. I’m sure you can tell by my words. Knowing my work is appreciated helps to ease the pain of your absence.

  Happy Valentine’s Day, my love!

  Saúl

  It filled me with joy to see that he had recovered some hope at least; because he deserved it, because in some way he was already part of my life, and especially because it meant that not everything was lost and Yolanda hadn’t managed to break him after all. I was sure that over time the wound would heal, and Saúl would waken from his impossible dream. My sister was not the woman he believed her to be, and even if he went back to Yolanda, their life together would not in any way resemble what he’d imagined.