Letters to a Stranger

by Mercedes Pinto Maldonado

  ‘Here we are,’ I said, putting a tray down on the table with two generous glasses of Jack Daniel’s, along with ice, nuts and an ashtray. I was dying of curiosity.

  ‘This is a real invasion of your privacy, I know, but I needed to talk to you.’

  ‘Why not on the phone? Sorry if that sounded rude – I didn’t mean it that way. Actually, I’m glad of a little company . . .’

  ‘I needed to show you something and ask your opinion, but I wanted to do it in person. You remember the guy who followed us to the restaurant?’

  ‘How could I forget? Ever since then I can’t shake off the feeling that he’s somewhere behind me, even if I couldn’t catch sight of his face.’

  ‘I ran into him this afternoon in the lobby of my hotel. He had his back to me and was reading a newspaper – well, he was pretending to read a newspaper at least – but I recognised him all right. He didn’t see me and I managed to take a photo of him. Can you show me the one you have of the guy from the letters?’

  ‘Sure, it’s in the kitchen.’

  I went into the house and he followed me.

  ‘There’s better light in here,’ he said, fishing out his mobile. The photograph of Saúl in one hand and his phone in the other, he said, ‘Tell me – what do you see?’

  ‘Well . . . two men with their backs to the camera, one sitting by a lake and the other one reading a newspaper,’ I answered, though I had a sneaking suspicion what he was on about.

  ‘I believe it’s possible that they’re the same person. Look . . . they’re the same height, just the right age difference, identical complexion, hair colour,’ he said, listing the qualities, holding the pictures closer to my face, urging me to analyse them.

  I was stunned. Yes, at first glance they did look like the same person with a few years between them – more than ten years to be exact.

  ‘But . . . that’s impossible,’ I managed to say, after taking the phone and the photograph from him and studying the images more closely.

  ‘It doesn’t seem so impossible to me. When did the last letter arrive? Think about it – we’re a two-day trip at most from Washington.’

  ‘A couple of weeks before I came back, I think. Wait, I’ll look at the date – the letters are in this basket here.’

  I went straight to the smallest bundle at the bottom of the basket, which only had three letters in it, and took out the last one.

  ‘Right, according to the postmark it was sent on 27 May of this year, a little less than a month ago.’

  ‘That’s more than enough time for him to have come back. I need to read that letter, if you don’t mind.’

  I handed it to him, full of doubts. ‘If it’s not relevant and the letter doesn’t say anything to help our investigation, I’d rather you don’t tell me what it says. I’d like to keep reading them in chronological order.’

  ‘If you say so,’ he answered, curiosity registering on his face. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me that I should know?’

  ‘No, nothing like that!’ I exclaimed irritably. ‘It’s just a compulsion of mine to always follow a logical order in everything I do.’

  ‘Good, I hope so. Berta . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You can trust me completely – everything you tell me will be in strictest confidence. If there’s anything you think I should know, tell me.’

  ‘I’ve answered all your questions with total honesty. I don’t think I’ve held anything important back.’

  ‘Great.’

  He didn’t believe me, but he also didn’t seem to care that much, as if he knew that my not wanting to know the content of the letter was on purely sentimental grounds without any bearing on the case. He probably suspected that I was attracted to the man writing the letters and that I wanted to live his story like a novel, with the last page saved to be read at the end.

  Taking the letter from him, I snatched up the letter opener, which I kept always close at hand, sliced open the envelope and drew out another from inside, noticing once again with these two that they appeared to have been carefully resealed after opening. The second envelope, which had been inside the first, I opened with the same level of caution, handling them both like rare manuscripts of historic importance, taking the utmost care even in the way in which I cut the paper. Alfonso looked on patiently but with mounting surprise. I handed him the two envelopes without extracting the letters within.

  ‘I think it’s this one. If you look at the return address you’ll see it came from Seattle. I guess he must have moved at some point.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘By the way, I do also have something really important to tell you,’ I said, remembering the letter thief and doll assassin.

  ‘We’ll talk about it in a minute, but let me read this letter first. May I?’ he asked, pointing to one of the kitchen chairs.

  ‘Certainly,’ I answered, and sat facing him expectantly.

  He seemed very focused in his concentration and for a moment, when he turned the page over, I had the impression that he was moved by what he had read. When he’d finished, he slipped the sheet back in its envelope and handed it to me.

  ‘Well?’ I asked, disappointed by his silence.

  ‘Well, what? Didn’t you tell me you didn’t want to know anything about it until you read it in order?’

  ‘Yes, but . . . did the letter confirm your suspicions that Saúl might be in Madrid?’

  ‘It didn’t confirm it, but it’s still a possibility, and in fact it seems even more likely now than it did before I read it. I need to track down a contact who can settle this for me, although he doesn’t exactly work for free.’

  Oh . . . how tempting it was right now to read that last letter! But no, still no.

  ‘That reminds me, I owe you two thousand euros, plus the extra expenses.’

  ‘Forget about the extra expenses for the moment.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to forget about the two thousand too, at least for the moment. I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t come here for that.’

  ‘I have another photograph, but I don’t think it’ll help you much. It’s backlit and much too dark.’

  I found it among the letters on the counter and showed it to him. While he was looking at it, I got together all the letters I’d read since the last time I saw him and spoke to him again.

  ‘I’ve read these already, so don’t forget them.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said, handing back the photo. ‘You’re right, this one isn’t very helpful. Who are the other people?’

  ‘That’s Dylan – he’s in charge of the restaurant and, I think, of the local resort; he also rents out the cabins and canoes on the lake. He’s Saúl’s best friend – his only friend, apparently. Next to him is Carol, his girlfriend, and behind Saúl, that’s Nadia, the girl he’s dating.’

  ‘Was dating, Berta: this happened over nine years ago now.’

  I wondered if this clarification was taking into account the last letter he’d read. If it was obvious in that letter that he was still with Nadia, he wouldn’t have made that comment. Maybe he’s with someone else now, or maybe he’s back with Yolanda – why not? He could be in Madrid with her, I thought. I was really upset at this possibility, and Alfonso noticed it.

  ‘Shall we go back out into the garden?’ I asked him.

  ‘Terrific.’

  ‘It’s nice and cool out, and the wind’s dropped at last. You don’t know how welcome this climate is after living in London for the last fifteen years.’

  ‘Berta, do you know where your sister is?’

  ‘According to what Teresa told me, she’s in Australia, and it seems our solicitor believes that too, since they’re handling her part of the inheritance by proxy. But I can’t be sure – with Yolanda you can never be certain of anything. A few days ago, after years without us talking at all, she called me here at the house to warn me to leave as soon as possible.’

  ‘What n
umber did she call from?’

  ‘There was no number to recognise – lately everybody’s been coming up as an unknown caller. I assumed she was phoning from Australia.’

  ‘Well, I believe she’s in Spain, possibly even in the vicinity of Madrid, or at least she has been for the last few days.’

  ‘She can’t be . . . What makes you think that?’

  ‘I told you, I have my contacts.’

  ‘But if . . . The paperwork for the inheritance is being delayed because she’s delegated her powers to an attorney, claiming she can’t travel . . . That would be too twisted, though I guess nothing would surprise me any more . . .’

  ‘Yes, she definitely has ceded all powers to a lawyer, but I don’t think she did it from Australia. What’s more, I could swear that she’s never lived on that continent at all, although the strange thing is that she travels out there a lot.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I can’t tell you how – this type of information . . . I don’t exactly get it legally.’

  ‘So you think both Saúl and Yolanda could be here?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, but I can’t give you any solid facts at the moment. I need to talk to Teresa. Could you convince her to come with you to our next meeting?’

  ‘I don’t know. She doesn’t even know you exist.’

  ‘Tell her, but don’t give her more information than is absolutely necessary. It’s important that I ask her some questions.’

  ‘Since you came I’ve been wanting to tell you something that I can’t get out of my head.’

  ‘OK, surprise me.’

  ‘Yesterday, about eight in the evening, I went to take a walk around the neighbourhood and on my return scared a man in the house who, when he heard me come in, got away over the hedge at the back. He came for the letters because I found them scattered all over the lawn; I don’t know if he managed to get away with any. I also found Neca, my doll, with a knife through her chest. I think whoever it was knew very well which things are most precious to me – someone must have fed him information. Fortunately he didn’t do anything to Aris. Maybe he didn’t have time or it wasn’t what he came for.’

  ‘What did he look like? Did you see his face?’

  ‘It was really dark and it all happened so fast, I could barely make out his silhouette when he was running away . . .’

  ‘Try to remember; this is very important.’

  ‘Tall, thin, around forty years old, quite agile . . .’ Suddenly I realised that my description fitted perfectly with the man who’d followed us to the restaurant, as well as matching Saúl.

  Alfonso took his phone back out and showed me the picture of our suspect. ‘Look at him more closely – could it have been him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answered suspiciously. I refused to believe that the letter thief, the man who’d been watching us, and Saúl were the same person, but then I reconsidered and answered honestly. ‘Yes, it could have been.’

  He downed the rest of his whisky and put his phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Alfonso,’ I said, trying to get his attention, because just then I saw him watching Aris walking slowly across the lawn.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You have to find out where Saúl is. He can’t be the one who broke in here yesterday.’

  ‘He could be the very same.’

  ‘No, it’s not him, I’m sure of it. Find him and you’ll see.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’re being objective enough. It seems to me that that boy has won you over through his letters. Either way, I don’t see him in the same light myself, although nothing really surprises me any more.’

  ‘It’s not him. Something tells me this is another trap.’

  ‘We’ll find him in the end, don’t you worry. Mind if I have another?’ he asked, holding up his empty glass. ‘Only a finger. It’s about time for me to be going.’

  I poured him more whisky as he gazed up at the stars, smoking slowly as he stroked Aris. He was clearly enjoying the moment.

  ‘You may be right,’ he spoke again, setting his glass down on the table without taking his eyes off the sky. ‘Someone may have hired that young man to give false evidence at the trial. It’s possible that the man following us is the guy the witnesses thought was Saúl that night Bodo disappeared. But . . .’

  ‘But what?’ His half-explanations made me anxious.

  ‘I don’t know, that last letter . . . I have to go,’ he said, after finishing the rest of his whisky in one swallow and putting out his cigarette. ‘I parked quite a distance away to make sure they didn’t follow me. Though from what you told me, I’m not sure it matters – our man seems to know everything about you, even what you had for last night’s dinner. By the way,’ he said, standing up now, ‘rent yourself another car – living out here you’re going to need it. Besides, you never know when you might want to make a quick getaway. Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you,’ he said, seeing the change in my expression. ‘I’ll call you soon.’

  I handed over the letters, walked him to the door and we said goodbye. Immediately after that, I went to gather things up from the garden table and locked myself back in the house. When at last I climbed into bed with Neca, Aris and the rest of the letters, it was almost midnight.

  Olympic National Park

  4 May 2005

  My dear Yolanda,

  Spring has finally arrived in Olympic Park. Today it was sunny all the way through from dawn to sundown – such a luxury for me. I’m sure you can imagine what I did with so many hours of light. Nadia came along. She made lunch and grabbed the chance to sunbathe while I painted. I don’t really get why she sticks with me, just like she doesn’t understand why I keep on with my letters to you.

  Well, I have good news: Mr Baker bought another three of my paintings. This time he paid me twenty-five hundred dollars. The news is spreading throughout Washington State that there’s an anonymous painter who lives alone in Olympic Park, whose works always conceal the eyes of a mysterious girl. I’m beginning to make some real money and this, along with the arrival of good weather, has properly lifted my spirits. He told me again that he’d love to organise a show of my work, but I just don’t see how it’s possible, considering my legal situation.

  I asked Nadia to drive me over to Ruby Beach tomorrow. I’ll have to get up really early as it’s two hours away, but I desperately want to paint the incredible beaches of this peninsula. You cannot imagine the stunning contrasts of blue and green where the Pacific meets the forest. You would adore these landscapes . . .

  I’ll keep telling you about it all, lovely Yolanda.

  Saúl

  What I wouldn’t give for one of Saúl’s paintings . . . all the inheritance money I was about to receive and more. And as for taking him to that Pacific beach . . . I would give my life itself for one day by his side.

  So that’s where my reading stopped for the night. The words of the last letter had sparked all sorts of wonderful fantasies and managed to disconnect me from my sorrows. It was the perfect moment to surrender myself to the world of dreams, so I put the envelope aside, turned out the light and let myself be carried away to Ruby Beach, to stroll with Saúl by the edge of the Pacific as its foaming tides washed up on the sands, and he sought to capture the beautiful scenery of Olympic Park.

  We walked hand in hand, barefoot, taking our time as our feet sank into the sparkling froth of the surf that polished the sand, revelling in the warmth of the sun and the cool, rejuvenating breeze. The melodious back-and-forth swishing of the peaceful waves was the soundtrack to our story. We didn’t speak – no words could have been a thousand times more eloquent than how we felt in each other’s company. That’s all there was to it – we walked down the beach holding hands, like in those ads for home insurance that I liked so much, which managed to convey in seconds everything I wanted and would never have, neither with insurance nor without it.

  Imagination is a powerful thing: in your lowest moments it’s the best
refuge, where everything happens exactly the way you want it to, and you can travel through space and time in a heartbeat to be wherever you want and with whomever you want. For so many years gone past, I’d hardly given myself any time at all in which to feel lonely, always chasing after my next goal. Coming back to Spain, with no work pressure and so little to do, I realised finally that when we are born we get two lives. One of them tests us and measures us constantly against other people, demanding we do more than simply survive: it urges us to fight for the betterment of humankind until our dying breath. But there’s a parallel life in which everything is possible without the slightest effort, quite as real and vibrant as the other. You only have to give yourself a minute to enter the portal with your most cherished dream or fantasy to let the magic happen. What I felt for Saúl was so strong and every bit as real as my imagination allowed, to the point where I shivered with joy holding hands with him despite the fact that I happened to be in the single most hostile environment to love: my mother’s house. It was an extraordinary situation. In my teenage years, I used to lie dreaming in this very bed that I was the beloved princess from a fairy tale, the heroine of a thousand happy endings, but these yearnings had no real foothold in my mind because of the extreme depths of my anxiety. If there was one thing I’d learned over the years, it was sometimes to slam the door on all my fears and surrender myself completely to the world of my imagination. And so I fell sound asleep, right through till the following morning.

  Chapter 14

  Tuesday, 24 June 2014

  Someone opened the front door and my heart lurched with dread, because I knew now that another person besides Teresa and me had keys to the house. I’d have to call a locksmith first thing. I could ask Teresa to do it, but, no, this was my chance to start afresh so she would have to call me to get access to the house. Besides, I didn’t know if the letter thief had got the keys from her – not that she would necessarily have given them to him on purpose, but he might have taken them from her without her noticing. It was also possible that this was all some twisted plot of my sister’s, fearing she’d get the blame for her husband’s disappearance; maybe she’d hired the criminal to scare me and to make sure I didn’t read the letters. I had completely rejected the idea that Saúl had anything to do with it – he simply wasn’t capable of something like this. The proof was that not even the expert manipulator, my sister Yolanda, had dared ask him to kill Bodo, knowing that he just wasn’t cut out for that kind of crime. It was only the very start of the day and already I was plagued by doubts and questions.