Letters to a Stranger

by Mercedes Pinto Maldonado

  Coming out of the bathroom, I noted the welcoming smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting along the corridor. Having Teresa around certainly did have its advantages, I had to admit. I found her in the kitchen, washing up the whisky glasses. It seemed like a good opportunity to bring up the matter of Alfonso and ask her to come with me to our next meeting.

  I stared down at the glasses, the water streaming off them into the sink, and kicked off the conversation. ‘I had someone over last night.’

  ‘It seems like it was well needed. I’m so glad – you spend far too much time alone,’ she answered, wiping down the worktop.

  She seemed a little nervous, but not at all interested in who’d come over. Actually, Teresa never seemed much interested in the private lives of those she lived with – it was one of the many virtues that had kept her working for my mother for so many years. Either way, I was going to tell her. ‘His name’s Alfonso Salamanca. He’s the detective I hired.’

  She stopped what she was doing to look me straight in the eye. She didn’t appear altogether surprised at the news. ‘So what’s all that about then?’

  ‘Well, I just really need to know the truth. I’m not planning on leaving until I’ve figured it all out.’

  ‘It happened a long time ago, my dear . . .’

  ‘Precisely, and now it’s time to straighten everything out and move on with our lives,’ I replied casually, pouring cat food into Aris’s dish. ‘By the way, we’re going to have to agree on which of us gets to feed this chubby little fluffball. I reckon he’s gained weight since I’ve been here.’

  ‘Oh my, you’re right,’ she declared, looking at him. ‘Well, I’ll leave it to you then. I can see you two have been getting on well.’

  ‘Teresa . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ she said, turning back to her cleaning.

  ‘Alfonso, the detective – he wants a chat with you. Would you mind coming along with me next time we meet?’

  ‘Come on, darling, what on earth would I have to say to a man like that?’

  ‘Please, Teresa. What would be the harm in it? If you say no, I’m going to think all my suspicions were justified,’ I begged her, distractedly smearing butter on my toast.

  ‘I’ll do it for you, if you really want me to . . . But I can tell you right now that I have absolutely nothing to say that you don’t already know.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll let you know when we’ve got something arranged.’

  She seemed uncomfortable, restless even. I was more and more convinced that she was hiding something important from me, though I couldn’t see her being guilty of anything per se. Maybe in an effort to help the family, she’d lied about something or held back information that was critical to the case. I could rather believe in her potential complicity than in her own guilt, based on her inclination to protect those she cared about at all cost. Sometimes I thought she had some secret motive for coming to the house every day, besides helping me out and keeping me company. But then, on the other hand, I had no doubt that her love for me was sincere. I was so confused. It would be good to see her with Alfonso, and find out how she’d hold up against his questioning; he was very experienced at this type of thing. I was sure he’d be able to draw something out of her that I would never have managed on my own.

  While she was busy sweeping the outdoor terrace, I checked online for the nearest locksmith, one who was prepared to come to the house sometime after four o’clock to change the locks on the outer doors of the house, and the front and rear gates. Afterwards I checked to see if there were any messages from Boston, and then answered some work emails. I also sent private messages to Mary, Emily, Brandon and Harry via Facebook. I didn’t tell them much, just that I was all right and that as of now I didn’t know when I would be returning, due to some official business keeping me out here. Mary replied instantly, saying that if she could come to stay, she’d love to spend a few days in Spain so I could show her Madrid. I logged off without answering, to think about what I might say to her. I could only respond with a kind but reasonable refusal without giving too much away; for the time being, my past was mine alone.

  Going into my room to put a few things away, I noticed through the window a mass of heavy clouds threatening to cover the sun. I was looking forward to reading more of the letters, but for this I wanted the utmost privacy, which meant waiting for Teresa to leave. I placed Neca on the pillow when I made the bed, showing her fresh scar. I was afraid Teresa would come in and notice it, so I tucked her between the sheets as if she were a sick little girl and then smiled to myself – because in a way she was.

  I didn’t have long to wait before Teresa’s departure. I was just folding the letter that I’d fallen asleep with the night before when she popped her head round the door.

  ‘OK, sweetheart, I’m on my way to my next job,’ she said, glancing across at Neca.

  ‘All right, Teresa – well then, have a nice day.’

  ‘Look how snugly you’ve tucked her in . . . I bet she’s lovely and cosy.’

  ‘Well, I saw the clouds moving in,’ I said, trying hard to smile and play along with her little joke. ‘I’ll call you to set up our meeting with Alfonso.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’ She left, obviously displeased by my parting words.

  I was about to sit down in the kitchen in front of my second cup of coffee for the day and a few more of the unread letters when the landline rang. Why hadn’t the lady of the house ever invested in a darned cordless phone, considering how big this place was?

  I picked up the receiver, standing as far away from the sofa as the cord would allow. A clap of thunder rattled the windows, along with my insides. Very timely.

  It was Julia, the lawyer from Ramón’s firm. I let out my breath when I heard her voice, recognising it right away because it was strangely husky for a woman. She wanted to know if I was home this morning, because the person doing the house valuation had had a cancellation and wanted to come by at noon. Thank goodness – there were still two hours ahead of peace and tranquillity.

  In the next two letters, Saúl told Yolanda (or rather, he told me) how beautiful the beaches were in springtime, fringing the forests of Olympic Park down towards the Pacific. Exhilarated, he said that the good weather had allowed him to steal away part of the incredible beauty of that landscape, to capture it on canvas. ‘Seeing the wonders of this vast land all around me almost feels like the first time I held you in my arms, with the same burning desire to stop the clock, to live or die forever, irrespective of which, out of pure unalloyed joy. It’s so gloriously different, wanting to die from sheer happiness, from wanting to die solely in order to end the suffering,’ he said.

  Destiny is so crude and unfair, shunting us humans hither and thither according to its whims, pointlessly, mercilessly, into futile situations, far from the true path that could afford us genuine happiness. Right then nothing seemed as excruciating to me as envy – the scorching desire for something that another person possesses but fails to appreciate. Yolanda had inspired a depth of love and passion that most women can only dream of, but she didn’t have the sense to appreciate such a gift. I, on the other hand, who had wanted nothing more in my entire life than a little affection, had to settle for experiencing it through love letters addressed to another woman and thus prove, burning with jealousy, that it exists – although not for me. I was almost thirty-five years old and my dream was drifting further and further away, as though dragged off by some ghastly and invisible current.

  The letter from 5 June plunged me into the depths of despair.

  Olympic National Park

  5 June 2005

  Hi, Yolanda,

  Well, it’s happened: I finally slept with Nadia.

  Maybe I shouldn’t tell you that, but the thing is I just can’t any longer imagine that you’re actually reading my letters: I’ve lost any expectation of that and don’t sense you at all on the other side. The paper I’m writing on acts as a confessional where I can pour out my fears, my ho
pes and my sins without thinking about who might be reading – or rather, I’m supposing there’s no one there to make me do penance to absolve my guilt. This way I don’t have the shame of having someone actually listen to my ramblings – it’s like writing to myself and sorting my life out at the same time. What utter rubbish – of course, I’m getting my comeuppance for whatever I’m supposed to have done. Is there any greater torture for a sinner than to know true love but then lose it forever before even waking up? I don’t think so.

  It happened when we were down on the beach . . . I was consumed in my latest painting and she was frolicking in the waves. Suddenly, she slipped into my field of vision, and right on to my canvas. I can’t say why, but I simply couldn’t stop looking at her. The sight of her moved me, possessed me. And what she’d been trying to get from me with her endless caresses, entreaties and light touches, suddenly rose as if by enchantment. (Darling, if you’re reading this and it hurts, please don’t read on.)

  (Yes, someone who loved him was indeed reading and hurting, but that someone kept right on.)

  Worn out from all her running and leaping through the crashing surf, she lay down in the sun. I hadn’t noticed until that moment but her skin tone was a perfect match to that of the fine-grained sand on the glorious beach. Lying there under the intensely blue sky, she looked as though she was etched into the very fabric of the earth, the faintly drawn outline of a promising design, as gentle and modest as she was sublime. She had no idea that the man who had been sleepwalking for the last three years was finally growing aroused at the mere sight of her.

  Knowing she was quite unaware, oblivious to how her beauty enhanced the whole scenery, I became more and more excited and let myself be carried away by the moment. She barely moved, letting me do exactly as I pleased. On her part, she simply trembled, moaned, sighed and panted, and finally released her tears into the undertow of the sea. She told me she had woken up so many times from similar dreams that she had dreaded breaking the spell.

  I don’t know. I think it must feel a little similar to the relief at finally paying off part of a debt, not to mention the joy at being able to make someone happy, even if it was just the one time, as well as proving that my manhood is still intact. On the long trip home Nadia didn’t speak once; she just drove, nothing more, and sometimes her eyes glistened with the dampness of the ocean. I know why she remained silent – a single word would have been the start of a conversation that would remind her, once again, that it had all been just a beautiful fantasy.

  I would give anything to be able to love her in the way that I love you, but then she would have to be you, or at least the woman I believed you to be.

  Yours, held fast forever in the love that we shared,

  Saúl

  This letter was hard for me. On the one hand, I fully identified with Nadia. I was her, I was on that beach, in that dream, and I felt the same agony that it would all collapse in a single breath like a castle built on dry sand. I too would have let him take his pleasure, lying there as still as a statue, my whole body on fire but fearful of putting him off. On the other hand, it seemed so wrong that Saúl should feel burdened with such guilt for the simple fact of having given himself to a woman who loved him so greatly . . . I could have screamed until my throat was burning. Of course I wished him all the happiness in the world with that girl – I preferred her a thousand times over my sister and he deserved to be happy with her – but my jealousy lay like burning coals in my chest, and their relationship meant the end of any hope where I was concerned. When Saúl fell in love, it was forever – although anything was better than him living out his days trapped in the treacherous clutches of my sister Yolanda. Imagining the two of them in that landscape racked my heart with pain.

  I was still on that beach in my imagination when the entryphone rang.

  The man who arrived to value the house was a brusque fellow, quite unpleasant even. His impeccable dark-grey summer suit looked made to measure, teamed with a gleaming pair of expensive leather shoes. He was good-looking and no doubt very photogenic. Polite but rather sour, he made me feel as though he were doing me a huge favour at his own expense.

  I showed him around the property, from attic to garden. He measured everything with his laser meter, examined the walls, doors, windows . . . taking notes of it all on his tablet, completely ignoring my presence as though he were annoyed I was there. For some reason, he didn’t ask a single question, as though he were quite capable of finding everything out on his own and wouldn’t in any case lay any worth on my answers. Satisfied eventually that he had all the information needed for each room, he then went out to inspect the exterior of the house in great detail, again taking measurements with his laser meter and recording copious notes. He finished his painstaking assessment at last and turned off his device.

  ‘That’s it, ma’am. Goodbye,’ was all he said.

  Despite his speed and efficiency, it was after one o’clock by the time he left and getting on for lunchtime, which today was a pasta salad and fruit. The cupboards were nearly bare and I’d have to do another food shop.

  After the meal, I decided I was ready to unlock the chest of drawers in Alberta’s bedroom. The key had been staring me in the face from a small bowl on the kitchen counter for some days now, but each time I saw it I told myself it wasn’t the right time. Not that I wasn’t curious – the problem was my actually daring to go into her room.

  Crossing into her territory was like entering a dangerous and forbidden place. Even stepping across the threshold, I felt as though she were watching me, her gaze scrutinising my every movement, hovering, cold and spectral, over each object and in every corner. And that goddamn smell . . . It was as if she were breathing her very soul into me, taking over my entire being. I reverted back to the girl who would sometimes peek into her mother’s room with absolutely no intention of actually going in, only to take a quick look from the outside – the girl who had stood in this very same corridor, breathless with fear. I was never someone to pry, and in that I was like her and Teresa, never in need of going to places that were off limits. I only did it once, but that was at Yolanda’s instigation. I myself never had any interest in my mother’s secrets – the one thing I wanted from her was some small sign of real affection, towards me or any other person. I simply wanted some form of evidence to convince me that she was a normal mother. It wasn’t hard for me to respect her privacy, and I was never tempted to cross into what I saw as the very gates of hell itself. But I was no longer a child and she was not here, and this was not a matter of idle curiosity but an act of bravery on the part of a mature adult. I decided to breathe through my mouth and that did the trick.

  The key Teresa had found did indeed open the drawer. As it slid open and I saw what was inside, I let out an inadvertent cry: ‘Oh my God, it’s the treasure of Ali Baba!’ Before my eyes lay a booty that even the most hardened pirate would have coveted, the delight of any treasure hunter. Of normal size for such a drawer, the interior was divided into five compartments of various dimensions: one for watches, another for pendants and necklaces, while the next one was full of bracelets, and then two smaller ones for rings and earrings, respectively.

  I didn’t touch a thing – I couldn’t: fingering those jewels would have been like plunging my hand right into her heart and resurrecting the monster. This treasure was cursed, accumulated over decades through the most contemptible feats of betrayal and artifice. Besides, my stunted sense of curiosity hadn’t grown over the past years. I slammed the drawer shut, locked it and left the room as fast as though it were ablaze. Only then could I finally breathe through my nose, and I went to rinse out my mouth, which felt as stale and dry as her jewels.

  Having poured myself a glass of water and washed my face and hands most thoroughly, I made a pot of coffee to get me through the rest of the afternoon. My thoughts kept turning to Teresa. I didn’t know how much she had been involved in the wicked acts of my mother and sister, or why, but I did know that h
er unwavering integrity was more than proven: it would have been so easy for her to empty out that drawer and live like a queen for the rest of her life. She could have left the items of jewellery that Yolanda and I would have recognised and we would never have known that anything else was missing. So, if it wasn’t for personal ambition, what other reason might she have to stay silent? I was tired of all this deception, of all the secrets and lies, and disappointed that even Teresa was somehow tangled up in my mother’s unscrupulous doings. I hoped to high heaven that Alfonso could find the source of her motivation and, if possible, before I’d had to pay him the entire inheritance I hadn’t even got my hands on yet.

  Suddenly it dawned on me that I would also need to get a valuation for all the jewels in the drawer, and then notify Ramón so he could pass it on to my sister’s proxy. I was sure it hadn’t been accounted for in the negotiations, and I shared the quality of integrity with the loyal Teresa. I would have to tell them about it. All of a sudden I felt quite overwhelmed again – there were too many surprises, too many unknowns, and I would far rather spend my time getting to know Saúl better.

  The letter from 25 July came with a gift – a photo of Saúl at Ruby Beach, standing in front of the sea with his arms spread wide, as though he were trying to touch the only cloud in the sky above him. The breeze ruffled his long hair, which seemed to dance on the glossy paper. His only item of clothing was some loose-fitting jeans, which barely hugged him around the middle. His long, slender and muscular torso . . . Oh, he was so young and lovely . . . Once again, I was unable to see his face – it was as though he would rather show Yolanda his relationship with the world than himself. God, I fancied him! It had been nine years since that photo was taken; he must be thirty-two by now. I fantasised about being with him.