Letters to a Stranger

  ‘Shh, shh, easy now, don’t think about it,’ she said, picking the phone up from the floor and placing it back on the table. ‘You shouldn’t stay here on your own, darling. It was lucky I came by . . .’

  ‘I think I need to take a shower.’

  ‘You just sit there nice and quiet while I fetch you some clean clothes.’

  Before she left the room I called out to her, ‘Teresa . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ she answered, turning around. Her face was pale with shock and worry.

  ‘You don’t know how much it hurts me that things have changed so much between us. I’m so sorry that I can’t trust you like I used to. I’m so sorry . . .’

  She left the room without answering.

  Following my shower, I found Teresa in the garden with two cups of lime blossom tea on the table.

  ‘A nice cup of tea will do us both good,’ she said, looking at me with affection and sympathy.

  I walked over and took a seat while smoothing down my hair, hoping it would dry fast in the warm air. From where I was sitting I could see the basket of letters and photos on the hammock beneath the willow, a mere five metres away. I thought Teresa must surely have seen them too and felt invaded, scrutinised to the very core of my being. Neca sat in a third chair, as if she were a participant in the conversation, and Aris, seeing that I’d emerged from the bathroom, had come out for a stroll in the garden.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’ Teresa asked gently.

  ‘I told you, it’s that smell . . . I went to answer the phone and suddenly I felt dizzy, that’s all.’

  ‘It seems like there was something more. You’re hiding something from me, my love.’

  ‘That’s funny, coming from you,’ I retorted, not bothering to hide my sarcasm, after a small sip of tea.

  She accepted my refusal to talk about it and moved on to something else.

  ‘The wind’s picking up a little. You’d better gather together . . . your papers.’

  Blown by the wind, the photograph of Saúl began to swirl in circles about the lawn. I jumped out of my seat to snatch it up and once I had it safe I turned around to find Teresa holding the last letter I’d read that morning.

  ‘Stop that, I’ll do it!’ I yelled, startled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she answered, visibly wounded and almost in tears. ‘It’s just . . . it was flying past, and I caught it before it went over the ivy and into the neighbours’ garden.’

  She handed me the letter, still in its envelope. I picked up the rest of them along with the photo, then piled them on the corner of the kitchen counter. When I went back out to the garden, Teresa was finishing her tea, clearly nervous.

  ‘What do you know about these letters?’ I ventured.

  It was time to get to the bottom of this.

  ‘Me? Nothing. How would I know about your things, if you don’t tell me?’

  I knew she was lying, but couldn’t figure out why. ‘Well, it’s strange because someone’s taken the trouble to search my wardrobe and open some of the other letters.’

  ‘What’s got into you? I would never do a thing like that. How could you possibly think I might go through your things . . . ?’

  ‘They’ve been opened, Teresa, and you’re the only one besides me with keys to this place.’

  ‘You’re wrong, dear – it wasn’t me!’ she answered somewhat aggressively, truly offended at my accusation. ‘I saved all those letters from the postbox for years, with plenty of time to read them, but I would never – do you hear me? – never have put my nose somewhere it didn’t belong, nor would your mother have tolerated it. If someone really has opened your letters, you’re going to have to look for some other explanation.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry if I insulted you. It’s just that . . . This is all so peculiar . . . Do you know who wrote them?’

  ‘I don’t have to know, but I can imagine. My powers of deduction would have to be pretty limited not to . . .’

  I tried to change tack and get her on my side. I needed answers. ‘Why didn’t my mother ever give them to Yolanda? I guess you know he was writing to her.’

  ‘Yes, I know they’re addressed to your sister, though I don’t have the slightest idea why your mother never passed them on . . . But I’ll tell you one thing – after that boy left, your sister never wanted to hear his name again, and neither did your mother. It was as though he’d never existed.’

  ‘Of course – just like with all the other men in their miserable lives . . .’ I answered, thinking of Fabián and Bodo. ‘The crazy thing is that she hung on to them. Now why would she do a thing like that?’

  ‘I saved them – it was me – and I’m certainly regretting it now.’

  I was puzzled – so my mother didn’t know that Teresa had been keeping and sorting the letters for years.

  ‘That just doesn’t add up. Think about it – the day she died she had the key to that drawer hanging around her neck, and Aris had the key to the attic hidden in his collar.’

  ‘I can explain that . . .’

  ‘You can? OK, go ahead then.’

  ‘When the first letter came and your mother knew it was from the lad who was accused of . . . Well, she was furious – you can’t even imagine . . . She ordered me to burn it, burn everything that came from him. I told her she should give it to the police because it had a return address, but she, like a total madwoman, completely beside herself, screamed at me again to burn it . . .’

  ‘Go on, please, Teresa.’

  ‘It’s not easy for me to remember what happened that day. I thought she just wanted to forget everything rather than go through the ordeal of continuing the investigation, considering how hard it had all been on her—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ I interrupted, unable to hold back a malicious smile.

  ‘I think she wanted to put everything behind her rather than give that boy what he deserved. But I kept the letters in the attic, like so many other things . . .’ She looked at Neca. ‘You know that she never went up there. So then I did the same with all the other letters that kept on arriving.’ She began toying with the knot of her scarf. ‘Two weeks before you came back, I went into the sitting room with the latest bundle of mail in my hand and she asked if there was a letter from Washington State. I froze, looked through the stack I’d just taken from the postbox, and there was indeed one. She made me give it to her, and said that from that moment on she would take care of burning them herself. When I had the opportunity, I went up to the attic to see if the letters were still in the chest of drawers, and found it locked. After that, I didn’t dare ask for the key. You know how she was, always more inclined to action rather than words, so if someone disobeyed her she’d deal with it without any discussion. I thought she must have been up there and seen the others, along with all the other things I’d been saving ever since I started working in this house. I don’t know . . . I just couldn’t bear to throw away things that might have some sentimental value for you girls. I kept thinking that maybe when you were older . . . Everything she asked of me I did, except for this one thing . . . What I didn’t know was that she still hadn’t burned the letters: she was waiting for the right moment or something, I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, probably. She wouldn’t have saved them in any case – she detested keepsakes.’

  ‘Anyway, the fact is that she hid the keys just to make me ask for them every time I wanted to go up there. I had to do it the very next day, to put away some old blankets, and she let me have the one to the attic door, but the drawer was locked. I didn’t know if the letters were in there or not, and I never thought to ask.’

  I sat still for a few moments, processing what I’d just heard. I believed her, believed everything she’d told me, but still sensed she was holding back something important.

  ‘Berta . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Maybe she was the one who opened them.’

  ‘It’s possible. But then who went through my wardrobe,
rummaging through the letters?’

  ‘I think it might have been me. I did move them to hang up some of your shirts . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Teresa, I hadn’t thought of that.’

  I was devastated. I’d assumed that Teresa had been searching my wardrobe and reading my letters, but now I knew that I’d been carried away by my obsession. I was so glad we’d had this talk and felt so much more relaxed, with my trust in her renewed.

  ‘Oh my goodness, look at the time!’ Teresa exclaimed suddenly, checking her watch. ‘I hate to leave you here on your own, but—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m perfectly fine now. It did me wonders to chat with you, and with Neca keeping us company,’ I assured her, looking at my doll.

  ‘Well then, I’ll just peg out your washing on the clothes line and I’ll go.’

  ‘Leave it to me. You’re so busy with everything, honestly.’

  ‘I’ll ring you later to see how you’re feeling, darling.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  As she was leaving, she turned back to look at the garden. ‘I almost forgot – I left you some cherries in the kitchen. I saw them at the market and remembered how much you used to like them. That’s why I came back.’

  ‘Thank you, Teresa,’ I replied warmly.

  I felt confused, overwhelmed and guilty. Although I was sure Teresa was still hiding something, I was convinced of her innocence when it came to the letters. No, she hadn’t read them, but there had to be some reason she’d been saving them for years that she hadn’t wanted to tell me.

  The wind was strong, spoiling the normal tranquillity of the garden, so I hung out the damp washing and decided to move into the kitchen, where I made myself a cup of coffee. Aris was curled up in his basket; he hadn’t wanted to be outside either.

  Olympic National Park

  18 April 2003

  Hi, Yolanda,

  (I liked the opening line of this letter; not ‘my darling’, ‘my love’, ‘my beloved’ . . .)

  It’s just over a year since I left, since I saw you for the last time, since I gave you that one last kiss . . . One year already . . . I’m starting to think of our time together as the fantasies of a madman – it must be my mind protecting itself from so much pain, archiving certain memories in the musty corners of my imagination. I have suffered, and still suffer so much from your absence . . . Sometimes I comfort myself by saying I’m a lucky man, because most people never know that love such as ours can even exist. But then, of course, they don’t know either how very much it hurts to lose it.

  I nearly sold another painting a few days ago. Nadia, the girl I met at New Year’s, is in love with one of my pastels – the one with a close-up of a duck on the lake, staring at everyone who stops to look at him. She said she wanted it because it had a magical gaze. When I told her they were your eyes, she put the painting back. She says that the first painting I do without thinking of you will be the one for her. It’s very hard on her.

  Take care, Yolanda.

  Saúl

  Each letter was colder than the last. The year he’d spent alone without hearing from Yolanda was taking its toll. As he said himself, it was a matter of mental health – survive or die.

  It was such a relief to know that he was beginning to accept his loss to some extent, and have a life of his own separate from the one she’d destroyed. It seemed that little by little he was allowing himself some leverage to breathe without pain, without remembering. I could understand Nadia perfectly – what woman in love would hang a painting of her rival in her own home? Even so, it bothered me to know that she was getting this close to Saúl, but I had to accept that I wasn’t part of the space in which he lived, and not even part of his memories.

  I kept on reading. The next three letters were all composed in the same vein. In one of them he sounded excited because the weather was warmer and he could finally open the door and the window to paint: he’d taken up his oils again, once more able to use his favourite means of self-expression. He reported that the lake in springtime had a different kind of light – full of colours. The good weather was allowing him to spend many hours out of doors, painting in the fresh air. His energies were renewed and he was excited about his new projects. In all three letters his tone when he addressed Yolanda was very different from that of his early letters, when he seemed completely torn apart by his loss. It was as though he had resigned himself to it, and that although he hadn’t forgotten her in any way, his letters and messages of love seemed more like a means of release, like someone keeping a diary for therapeutic reasons.

  I was thoroughly immersed in my stranger’s life when the landline rang again. My heart lurched in my chest and then seemed to stop beating – as I walked to the sitting room it started thumping again, faster by the second. I decided to hold my nose and breathe through my mouth. I didn’t think I could bear the strong smell again that emanated from the area near the phone. I shuddered at the sight of the damp patch on the sofa from my collapse after the last call.

  ‘Hello?’ I asked, frightened.

  ‘Berta?’ said a voice I recognised, and I felt a little calmer.

  ‘Speaking?’

  ‘Good afternoon, this is Ramón Soler. I’m calling because I need a few documents regarding your mother’s two properties. You know – deeds, building regulations certificates, floor plans . . . I’ll send someone over to do the valuations as soon as I receive the documents.’

  ‘OK, that’s fine, but I’ll have to track them down. I’ve no idea where my mother would have kept such things.’

  ‘I’ll need them as soon as possible. We won’t be able to move forward with settling probate until then.’

  ‘Of course, not to worry. I’ll drop them into the office as soon as they’ve turned up.’

  ‘Perfect. Well, that was all I had to discuss.’

  ‘How is everything going?’ I asked him before he could hang up. I needed to know how long it would be before all this was settled. Not so much because I wanted to leave as soon as I signed the papers, but more because now I was thinking about how much money I was paying Alfonso each day.

  ‘Good: everything is underway. I hope to have it all settled in a fortnight or so. Don’t forget those documents.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Goodbye, Berta.’

  After hanging up, I seemed to see my mother sitting there, watching me with the cold expression of a cruel tyrant, right on top of the damp outline where I’d wet myself. I left the sitting room fast, not wanting to risk another attack like the one that morning. Aris followed close at my heels.

  It was lunchtime. I sautéed some frozen vegetables and paired them with a few turkey slices, salivating at the thought of the rich mushroom risotto we served at my restaurant in London.

  I felt quite agitated as I ate, thinking that I would soon need to brave going into my mother’s bedroom to find those bloody papers; they had to be in there. In the end it wasn’t necessary after all: while I was brushing my teeth Teresa came in, worried about me.

  ‘I’m sorry, my love, I don’t mean to bother you, but . . . I called you and the line was busy. I kept picturing you collapsed on the sofa with the phone hanging down to the floor . . .’

  ‘It’s OK. I’m really glad you came. Do you know where the documents relating to the two houses are? Ramón asked me for them.’

  ‘I think so. Hold on.’

  It didn’t take her long to track them down. She was back in five minutes and spread them out on the kitchen table.

  ‘I think this is the lot. They were in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe – I put them there myself a few days ago after finding them on the bed.’

  ‘That’s right, I remember now – I saw them when I arrived . . . I thought you must have taken them out. It’s weird that she was looking at these very papers just before she died,’ I said, untying the knot of the ribbons that bound one of the files.

  ‘Maybe she needed some of it for the sale of the house in Marb
ella?’ she answered, then held out her hand. ‘Here, I also found this key. I think it opens one of the drawers in her chest of drawers.’

  ‘Another key, eh? Do you reckon Alberta was a housekeeper herself in a past life or something? She had such an obsession with keeping things locked up, even though she lived on her own.’

  ‘I think it’s where she kept her jewellery.’

  ‘Thank you, Teresa,’ I said, placing the key next to the bowl of cherries. ‘I think I know what I’m having for dinner tonight – these look amazing!’

  ‘Good, I can tell you’re feeling better. If you don’t need me any earlier, I’ll stop by next on Monday, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll see you on Monday,’ I answered affectionately.

  I went through the files again, concluding that everything necessary for the legal proceedings was in there for Ramón. In one of them I found the architects’ drawings of the two houses. ‘Good,’ I said to myself, ‘seems like it’s all here.’ I retied the ribbons and went on to more exciting reading material, intending to drop the documents off at the law firm on Monday.

  The first letter had the same tone as the ones before: Saúl was exuberant about all the possibilities in Olympic Park with the great weather they were having. According to him, he went outside to paint at dawn, taking his materials and a picnic, and only went back to the cabin at sundown. With each expression of joy, my heart rejoiced along with him.

  I thought about our human fascination with twinkling stars that have been dead for endless millennia – that was a perfect parallel to how I felt when I read Saúl’s letters. Right now I was living vicariously through situations lost in time for many years, and yet they felt as real to me in their clarity and brilliance as those stars that illuminate our summer nights, even though they no longer exist. Right now, time itself seemed such a cruel and hellish entrapment.

  Before going to my bedroom with my two little friends, I called Brandon to ask how everything was going with the restaurant, and to tell him that I still didn’t know how long I’d be staying in Spain. This made him rather nervous, as he was getting close to leaving on the holiday he’d had booked in for ages. I insisted that he shouldn’t cancel his trip, and also asked him to move five thousand pounds from the restaurant account into my personal account, which made him even more concerned.