Letters to a Stranger

by Mercedes Pinto Maldonado

  ‘I’d really like to find out why my sister decided to leave her daughter with Teresa.’

  ‘Yes, but it would be even better to find out who bribed Teresa’s cousin into impersonating Saúl. That’s much more relevant to our ongoing investigation.’

  ‘Listen, this is all really tough for me. There’s no time to recover from one blow before I get hit by the next, and then the next. We’re talking about my family here. I had really thought that nothing connected with my mother and sister could hurt me any more, but I’m finding it hard to keep my distance. I only meant to come here for a few days max, and I was so sure of being strong, so confident I was a brand-new woman . . .’

  ‘Of course – I do have sympathy, Berta. I’m sorry if I seem insensitive, it’s just that I’m not very good with emotions. Besides, it’s my job to keep my own head clear and calm, not let myself get carried away by supposition; objectivity is essential in any investigation. So will you be coming to Marbella?’

  ‘Let me think about it. I don’t know if I’m up for any more surprises. And . . . going back to that house . . .’

  ‘Whatever you want. You don’t have to come with me – it was just a suggestion.’

  ‘Wait, doesn’t it seem a little unprofessional for your client to tag along on a trip related to the investigation?’ I asked. I’d suddenly twigged that his insistence here went beyond his passion for the job.

  He also realised that he’d been too obvious and quickly changed the subject. ‘I brought your letters back,’ he said, taking them out of his folder.

  ‘I’ll give you the ones I’ve read since I saw you last.’

  ‘No need. I don’t think I’ll find anything there to help – it’s quite obvious that guy had no idea what happened. I’m sure if you come across anything important, you’ll let me know.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I responded, taking the letters and setting them down in a neat pile on the table. ‘If I find anything of interest, of course I’ll tell you. Would you like another tot?’

  ‘No, I think it’s better that I leave,’ he said a little curtly before getting up, as if embarrassed by having made subtle advances to me.

  ‘Wait, don’t go without your money – it’s in the kitchen. Tell me what I owe you for the extra expenses.’

  ‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it – it’s hardly anything at all.’

  I went into the kitchen and he followed, ready to leave.

  ‘Berta . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re a smart and sensitive woman, as well as very attractive . . . I’m sorry, this is awkward. It’s . . . it’s this damned loneliness.’

  ‘There’s nothing at all to apologise for, Alfonso. If I change my mind, I’ll let you know. As a matter of fact, right now I’m thinking it would do me good to get away from this house for a few hours, though it’s not exactly the kind of trip I was hoping for.’

  ‘The invitation still stands, but no pressure. I’m good at working on my own.’

  ‘I have no doubt.’

  After he left, I felt mildly guilty. I think he regretted having apologised, putting his awkwardness down to loneliness and eliciting my sympathy, because he left with his tail between his legs, clearly upset that he’d let me see his vulnerable side.

  No, Alfonso was not my regular type; he just made me feel . . . a combination of compassion, fondness and respect – akin to what a girl feels for her father or towards an old professor. Nothing that could compare with the tide of emotions I felt on reading Saúl’s letters, or even with the fleeting passion that had taken hold of me in the early days with Harry, which had been more out of need and physical attraction than anything else. If I hadn’t read Saúl’s words, I might possibly have considered a fling with the detective – he did have a morose sort of appeal, bless him. At this stage, however, it was completely out of the question and my thirst could only be quenched by true love.

  During the period in which I’d lived in London, I’d instinctively built up a thick protective shell, not through any conscious process, but simply because I’d abandoned any notion of affection in my new life, convinced that this was the only way to find the independence and personal identity I sought so badly. I think that had made me reset my needs as if I were reborn, but here and now I’d suddenly been gripped once more with the same urgent need I had felt as a girl to love and be loved.

  Either way, Alfonso’s interest in me was just one more revelation in an afternoon full of unexpected shocks and surprises. I simply could not believe that my sister – someone who cared only about her own dreams and desires – had given birth to a daughter by Bodo . . . There must have been some reason other than to satisfy a woman’s natural maternal instincts, and it had to involve money. But then, on the other hand, why would she give up a large portion of her inheritance? Would she turn down the jewellery as well, when the solicitor told her about it? Did she have a motive even more powerful than money? Yes – it had to be a path to even greater riches. Teresa’s hypothesis that day at the restaurant now made a lot of sense. And where was Yolanda right now? Why would she decide to go ahead with her pregnancy, but then hand her daughter over to be raised and educated by Teresa? Putting the lives of the women in my family under the microscope was like delving into an endless underground network of interminable twisting passageways, where each step led to the maw of another gallery full of mysteries. The deeper I went, the darker it became and the more lost I felt. Every answer brought with it ten more questions, each more perplexing than the last.

  I was once again overcome with the desire to run as far as I possibly could, identical to the impulse that had driven me to London in the first place. The women in my family and everything connected with them led towards a dark and tainted realm, most terrifying to a person with a gentle and trusting heart. But I had lost my innocence now, along with any belief in heaven and places free from pain and deceit. I knew that happiness was a state of mind that could only be reached without shortcuts or running away from the task. I had left this house once already, thinking that the path I had taken would always propel me onwards, but now it turned out I was right back where I’d started. I knew now that there was no heaven to be found and that you had to make it for yourself, from the inside. Leaving again would add yet another defeat to my life, and perhaps the final blow to any hope of future happiness. I made a conscious decision to pull myself together and face things head-on – this time there’d be no easy way out to avoid the pain.

  I laid myself down in the hammock with Aris and Neca, needing to hug and touch someone or something that wouldn’t present me with an invoice. The cat’s easy presence comforted me. I envied him his simple life, with nothing to sort out and no goals to achieve beyond allowing himself to be petted. He purred with joy and curled up in my arms, leaving all the problems of the world down to me. And there we stayed until darkness fell.

  A shower, sausages and a fried egg perked me up. I was getting a little concerned at my eating habits these days, on top of my current sedentary lifestyle – I was well on the way to losing my figure and risking a heart attack. It was a fleeting thought, because then I got excited by the prospect of being alone again with the man by the lake. I made sure all the doors and windows were locked, and curled up with my letters and my friends.

  Olympic National Park

  14 July 2005

  Dear Yolanda,

  I feel the summer in my veins. My God, this amazing light, which exposes every leaf of the trees, every drop of water in this paradise, every feather of the birds, every line of the clouds in the sky . . . I’d forgotten the wonderful crudeness and insolence of the colours of nature. The paintbrush never leaves my side – it controls me and forces me to reflect on my canvas everything that catches my eye.

  I’m heartbroken that this season is all but over and I haven’t yet managed to capture half of its radiance. Since losing you I have trouble enjoying things that make me happy without thinking about when they will end. Once
upon a time I thought I had something for all eternity, but losing it taught me a painful and valuable lesson. I rejoice in the knowledge that the seasons will come round again, and will always cycle back through the tapestry of our lives, leaving us hope for tomorrow as they fade. Whereas you, on the other hand . . .

  Tomorrow I’ll go down to the dock. I want to paint that meeting between nature and something man-made with its blend of artificial and natural colours: the people waiting for the ferry with their faces full of anticipation, and their emotions as they arrive and depart; the kids on deck playing in the wind . . . I want to paint how the sea breezes dance in their soft hair. Everything tempts my brushes so long as this light remains. I feel so fortunate this summer – painting opens a door to me through which many of my sorrows can escape. I have two great loves now: the one I met in Marbella, and my art. I would paint in any case – it’s become an obsession for me, an uncontrollable passion – but I know I’m lucky to be able to make a living out of something I enjoy so much.

  Mr Baker is almost as enthusiastic as I am – he comes by the cabin two to three times a week to see what I’m working on, and slowly but surely he’s buying up all my paintings. According to him, Yosa Degui is starting to be known, and apparently the word is spreading among the art collectors of Washington State that there’s a reclusive artist who paints wonders. They’re already talking about a new artistic trend: the ‘flickering’ style – how the light vibrates in the outlines of each element in my paintings. Doesn’t this all sound so wonderful, Yolanda? Are you happy for me? Who knows – maybe this mad hobby of mine where I put all my feelings down on canvas will open up a new path back to you. I like to imagine so, anyway. My happiness would be complete if you would answer this letter, if only to congratulate me, although I’d prefer a kiss. I’m so dying to kiss you one last time – just one more time would be heaven on earth.

  Things aren’t going so well with Nadia. She’s starting to despair of me, and I can’t say I blame her. She’s suffering the burnout of someone who gives so much, yet gets so little in return. At least I can say that I never lied to her – I never promised I could love her – but that doesn’t make her feel any better, rather the contrary. She says that she would give anything if I only showed her a little love, even if it were just a pretence, even if it were just one time. All she wants is the tiniest demonstration that all her devotion has been worthwhile. That’s how miserable she feels – that even a white lie would be enough to bring her comfort. It pains me to see her suffer so, but it’s just not in my power to ease the agony of her heartache.

  The flickering painter,

  Saúl

  I felt an urgent need to write to him again, to congratulate him and send him that kiss he wanted so badly. So I did it. I got out my notebook where I’d been taking notes, and wrote my next message.

  25 June 2014

  Hello again, Saúl,

  Another letter from me – sorry for taking over your postbox one more time. I wanted to tell you that I’ve just been reading another of your letters and couldn’t resist the temptation to answer it.

  I don’t know anything about art. I never gave myself the time to enjoy it, and I’m sure if I were to see your paintings I would lack the knowledge or sensitivity to fully appreciate them. But your excitement has rubbed off on me from reading your words, and that I can certainly value. I thought, Why not? What’s wrong with congratulating this man who’s so in love with nature and with . . . with love, who lives so far away from me in time and in space. Maybe, as you’ve said yourself many times before, I’m writing into a void or to a complete stranger. It’s been many years since you sent these words to Yolanda: ‘My happiness would be complete if you would answer this letter, if only to congratulate me.’ I know an answer from me won’t bring you the ‘complete happiness’ that you longed for so much in those moments, and I’m not her, and I don’t even live in your past; even so, I wanted to congratulate you, if you’ll let me. I’m so very happy to know that the ‘flickering painter’ is beginning to savour the richness of life at last – I just wanted you to know that.

  Thank you for writing all these letters. You have restored my faith in humanity.

  Sincerely yours,

  BC

  I ripped the page out of the notebook, folded it carefully and put it on the bedside table, ready to post the following day. So long as he didn’t answer, asking me to stop writing to him . . .

  I drifted off into sleep, wrapped in dreams of walking hand in hand with the love of my life.

  Chapter 16

  Thursday, 26 June 2014

  There was still no sign of Teresa. Impatient for his morning feed, Aris roused me rather than my alarm. The house was just as she had left it, though after a mere couple of days it was already getting messy. I’d have to make a decision soon – either hire a new housekeeper or take care of the chores myself – but for now it could wait.

  Just as I was taking my first sip of coffee my mobile rang; as usual, an unknown caller.

  ‘Alfonso?’

  ‘You got it. Hi, Berta.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Listen, pack up your things immediately and find a hotel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s important you get out as soon as possible. I don’t have time to explain right now.’

  ‘But . . . just like that, without even telling me the reason why . . .’

  ‘Do you want me to book you a room in my hotel?’

  ‘Well, OK . . . if I have to go to a hotel . . .’

  ‘Great. Head directly to the Hilton, a few minutes from the airport on the Avenida de la Hispanidad – you can’t miss it. On arrival, there’ll be a room booked in your name. We’ll talk tonight at dinner, as soon as I get back from taking care of something.’

  ‘OK . . .’ I said uncertainly. I had so many questions, but it was obvious he was in a hurry.

  ‘I’ve got to go. Don’t leave it too long.’ He hung up before I could say goodbye.

  I looked at Aris. ‘And what do I do with you?’ I said to him.

  I called Teresa again, but nothing. No response. Naturally I couldn’t leave my friend and companion all on his own. Suddenly I thought of the neighbour who’d given me his card when he was taking out the rubbish, and remembered it was still in the pocket of the jeans I’d been wearing, so I left my coffee and toast and went straight to my bedroom. Yes, it was still there in the pocket.

  The name of the kindly neighbour was Arturo Caballero Iglesias, and he was a historian, indeed a professor, at the university. I rang him without any further hesitation – I was out of time and options here.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Arturo Caballero?’

  ‘Yes, speaking. Who’s this?’

  ‘Hi, it’s Berta de Castro – your neighbour? You gave me your card the other night . . .’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember. How are you?’

  ‘Yes, fine, thanks,’ I answered, not wanting to go into detail, although in all honesty I was not fine in any way, shape or form. ‘It’s just that, I’ve had something . . . unexpected come up, and I have to leave for a few days, and . . . Well, I can’t take Aris, my cat . . .’

  ‘Aristotle, yes, he’s a friend of the family. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Completely. You can lock up and leave without any worries. He’s a very clever cat and he knows us as his second home. Where do you think he goes when you’re not there?’

  ‘You don’t know what a relief that is. Can I call you from time to time to check on him? I don’t know how long I’ll be gone and I’d like to—’

  ‘Call whenever you want. It’ll be a pleasure to have Aris here for a while – don’t you worry about a thing.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. See you soon.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I didn’t waste a moment after that, but quickly cleared away the breakfast things, packed my bags and left as
fast as my nerves would let me. I was sure Alfonso had every good reason for warning me to leave as soon as possible.

  It was hard to abandon Aris, but I had the feeling he understood. I waved goodbye to him from the gate. I’d brought all the letters with me, of course, including the one I’d written, as well as Neca, who I now saw as my talisman, my lucky charm, as she didn’t take up too much space in my suitcase.

  Once away from the house, I hoped I was out of danger, so I went first to send my letter off at the post office in the Corte Inglés before heading to my new residence. Alfonso was right; I found the Hilton with no problems. My detective had good taste – the hotel was magnificent, not to mention just a step away from anywhere in the world.

  Sure enough, there was a room reserved in my name, and it took only fifteen minutes to settle in. By quarter past twelve, I was in the restaurant looking at the lunch menu. Right then my priority was food.

  I was becoming obsessed with the idea, or maybe I was just starting to realise, that my life was in danger and that they could be spying on me from anywhere in the hotel, so I watched everyone around me from the corner of my eye: the people next to me in the lift, in the corridors, in the lobby . . . Any one of them could be a potential killer and out for my blood. On arrival at the restaurant I took a moment to scope it out: it was located in a large inner atrium, with galleries running around the sides above ground-floor level, and the rooms leading directly off these. Corridors led away to further areas of the hotel from the corners of the galleries on each level. The majority of the tables could be seen by any passing guest or employee. Everything from the decor to the building itself was exquisitely timeless and elegant, while at the same time contemporary, but it wasn’t perhaps the best place in which to hide out. Partially hidden beneath the main gallery, I chose an empty table from which I could scan most of the room, but as soon as I was seated I thought it probably hadn’t been a good idea to eat there. I felt so on display for anyone harbouring evil intentions towards me . . . This time, however, my hunger won out and I ordered a salad and a grilled sirloin steak, which I gobbled down so I could get out of there as soon as possible. I don’t think I’d ever bolted my food that rapidly in my life, but I felt vulnerable, watched by a thousand malevolent eyes. It wasn’t all just in my head; I had enough reason to suspect that Teresa’s cousin could be out there somewhere, lurking among the staff and hotel guests. On the other hand, any one of us in the restaurant could also be seen from above, though I was probably the only person in any real danger. Every now and then I might be in the sightline when a guest poked his or her head out over the railing of the gallery above to look at the view, and in those moments I couldn’t help gulping down my mouthful without even chewing. After a cup of coffee, I made my way back up to my room.