Letters to a Stranger

by Mercedes Pinto Maldonado

  ‘Berta. Berta!’ Alfonso raised his voice from inside the car when he saw how distracted I was.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said finally, ‘I was—’

  ‘Come on, get in – let’s get out of here.’

  I obeyed.

  ‘Poor Teresa, poor Teresa . . .’ was all I could manage to stammer, crying inconsolably.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Berta,’ he said, trying to offer me his shoulder from his seat.

  He had all the patience in the world, waiting silently while he timidly stroked my back and my make-up stained his shirt as I cried on his shoulder.

  ‘What a day, huh?’ he commented when I regained my composure. ‘I think we should go back to the hotel. We could both do with a stiff drink. My assumption is that they’re not watching us – that bastard’s too busy trying to stay out of the way for now. He won’t bother us for a while.’

  I lifted my head to look at him, not thinking about what my face must look like so close to his after I’d cried so much.

  ‘What do you mean? Have you figured something out?’ I asked him.

  ‘I hate to be the one who has to tell you this . . . They killed her, Berta; they beat her to death. The person I had watching her house saw her cousin come out, covered in blood like a madman, and then my man managed to talk to a neighbour later, who told him how the police had found her. There’s no doubt it was Pedro Vidal. My contact can’t find him in any of his usual bars. Right now he’s highly dangerous. I think he’s off his head, and he’s involved in everything . . . We need to get to the bottom of all this as soon as possible.’

  ‘Oh my God . . . Please no! I simply can’t believe it . . . It’s just too awful! But how are we going to end it, if the further we go on, the more death and destruction we find? Oh sweet Jesus, that my gentle Teresa should have met with such a horrific death . . . I can’t believe this is really happening.’

  ‘I don’t know what to tell you. I feel your pain, but you have to be stronger than ever now if you want these bastards to pay once and for all.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘I don’t know. Right now I can’t tell you what our next step is, but I do know that it’s about time for you to go to the police and tell them everything that’s happened so far.’

  ‘And what would I say?’

  ‘What you know and what you suspect – everything you can think of.’

  ‘I will, but I’d still like to help Saúl, make sure he’s not thrown in jail. I’m afraid they might find the letters. He’s a fugitive from justice so he’s not completely innocent. I’m so confused.’

  ‘Sooner or later he’ll have to show his face if he wants to prove his innocence, and he’ll also have to pay for his escape: the two go hand in hand. Anyway, they’ll probably call on you to testify and you will have to tell the truth.’

  ‘I will tell the truth. I don’t think the police would ask me about some letters that they don’t even know exist.’

  I was silent the whole way back, sighing now and then and feeling terrible for the way I had acted towards Teresa in her last days.

  Before we went to our respective rooms to freshen up, we arranged to meet an hour later in the hotel bar. That night I needed company more than ever before in my life. I showered in minutes. In times as hard as these, I couldn’t bear the loneliness of this place, so cold and strange to me, so far from all my friends, from the people I’m sure would have comforted me.

  It was after ten on a Friday night, so the bar was really crowded, but with a great atmosphere. A nicely chosen playlist was playing ballads from the eighties at just the right volume, not too quiet, not too loud. A few couples swayed slowly on the dance floor.

  We hadn’t eaten, so the first drink had an immediate effect, and the second was decisive.

  We drank in silence, staring at the dance floor, both of us envying the couples in love who were holding each other tight, seeing up close the prelude to a long night of love. A bit drunk, my sadness and feelings of guilt were diminishing. I thought about Saúl and Alfonso thought about me.

  ‘Shall we dance?’ he asked.

  I turned around to stare at him, not sure I’d heard him right. ‘What?’

  ‘I asked if you want to dance. I love this song.’

  Diana Ross and Lionel Richie were singing ‘Endless Love’.

  ‘I’ll be a pretty sad partner, since I’ll be thinking of someone else.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m an expert at dancing with girls who are in love with someone else.’

  ‘In that case, yes, let’s dance to this beautiful song.’

  I was tired and dizzy, and I needed affection badly. Tonight I needed to forget more than ever, perhaps as much as he did.

  Two adults, both completely alone, deprived of all ties of affection, single, needy, tipsy from the alcohol, locked in each other’s arms at the mercy of a beautiful love song . . . Right then each of us was the only kindness that could be seen on the desolate horizon.

  We forgot about everything – we needed this break to be able to move forward. For a few hours all my desires and nightmares seemed no more than a pleasant, far-off dream and I could be myself, living in the present and in reality, rather than in some fantasy. The past and the future were cast aside for now: my mother, my sister, her violent deeds, Teresa’s death, my niece, Saúl . . . They all had to wait. I was hungry for affection and Alfonso had so much to give.

  At first it was a little awkward with our bodies so close together, but it passed. I rested my head on his shoulder and let myself be transported by the music and by his arms. I felt loved; I liked it, and . . . his shirt smelled so good! We danced to three songs in a row and then had a third drink before going up to his room. He grabbed me around my waist, as though I had always been his.

  We barely spoke, both knowing this was a fragile thing and that the slightest breeze could break it.

  Before sliding his key card through the door, he looked at me for a moment, gathering his courage to ask me the necessary question. ‘Berta, are you sure?’

  ‘You’re a wonderful man, Alfonso, and it takes a whole lot of guts to ask me that and risk missing out on a night of sex and passion. Yes, I am absolutely sure,’ I said in honest answer, because out of all the options open to me right this minute, he was the best – by a long shot.

  I got even more than I’d been hoping for: tenderness, patience, understanding, generosity and the most enormous pleasure. I think he did too. It was a revelation. Until now my experience with men had been limited, reduced to a couple of sporadic and unsatisfactory encounters, and to Harry, who couldn’t disassociate from his ego, even in bed. Alfonso was a good lover, skilled and selfless. At three in the morning I fell asleep on his bare chest, crying again over the tragic death of my beloved housekeeper and thinking about the strange anaesthetic effect sex had had on my pain. Before I drifted off to sleep, I remembered my friend Mary once scandalising me by confessing that she had never had better sex with her boyfriend than on the day she buried her father. Now I finally understood.

  Chapter 18

  Saturday, 28 June 2014

  The room was in shadows. Still groggy, I reached out my arm and realised Alfonso wasn’t there. I turned on the lamp and looked around: his tablet was gone, as well as his wallet and suitcase . . . The chest of drawers was open and the drawers inside were completely empty. As I sat up, about to get out of bed, I found a handwritten note on the bedside table, next to the phone.

  Hi, Berta,

  Last night, with you sleeping in my arms, I knew it was time to put some distance between us. We can’t go on like this. I found happiness with you and that is what I’m taking away with me. I couldn’t stand seeing another look of regret when you wake up.

  Don’t worry, this won’t affect our professional relationship. I’ll keep working for you and call when I have news, just like last night never happened. I hope you’ll be able to do the same.

  Oh, and I think it’s safe for you to go back home now.


  Alfonso

  He was right. If he’d been at my side in the morning, the first thing he’d have seen would have been the regret on my face, along with an apologetic ‘Good morning’ – not for myself but for the harm I might have caused him. I could taste the bitter guilt right now, in fact. I’d let myself be carried away by my own need for male company, despite knowing how much more it meant to him than to me. I remembered the usual warning against mixing business with pleasure.

  This was all too much to take in just now – too many thoughts swirling around in my brain, begging for order and coffee. Brushing my hair in front of the mirror, I told myself, ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid . . . now you’re even more alone than you were before, and all for a little bit of fun.’ I missed him – Alfonso was a good guy, a terrific companion and, above all else, a magnificent detective. Right now he was the only person in Spain who was on my side. Yes, I’d been really, really stupid.

  I had a quick breakfast in the cafeteria before stopping by my room, having decided to go home.

  I took a shower and then packed my clothes and the letters in my suitcase, looking forward to reading more of them – the only thing that could give me any comfort right now.

  At the front desk, I found to my surprise that the bill had already been settled. I remembered then that I still owed Alfonso at least two thousand euros and that I wasn’t sure I had that much in my bank account. I’d have to take out a large chunk of my savings; the investigation and my stay in Madrid were dragging on far too long.

  Before heading home, I went shopping at the supermarket, where I spent almost two hours to avoid the rush hour, and because it was the day before a holiday. Then I stopped by the bank, which was fortunately open on Saturdays. There wasn’t too much time to brood, nor could I afford it: traffic jams, queues everywhere, the heat . . . although a persistent bitterness followed me the whole day long. I had so many loose ends in my life . . . so many problems to solve and so much grief and loss.

  The entryphone rang just as I was about to stretch out in my favourite spot beneath the willow tree to get my thoughts straight and continue reading Saúl’s letters. It was Arturo, the kind neighbour, the only one I knew. He just wanted to make sure I was home, having noticed around lunchtime that Aris had left, and to offer his condolences on Teresa’s death.

  ‘I heard what happened to the woman who worked for your mother. I’m so sorry. She was a lovely woman and my wife was terribly fond of her. We’re coming to her funeral tomorrow to bid our farewells.’

  ‘It was such a tragedy,’ I answered. ‘I only found out by accident . . . Do you know what time the funeral is? I don’t actually know anyone else in her life . . .’

  ‘It’s at four o’clock in the parish church of El Salvador in Leganés – my wife found out through one of her neighbours. They were friends of a sort . . . they’d exchange plants and talk about gardening. Teresa has been so kind to us since we moved here ten years ago. It’s a real pity.’ He was polite and discreet and didn’t stay long.

  I lay down under the willow tree and my first thought was for Teresa. Imagining how terrible her death must have been with the pain of the beating she had endured, I was shaken to my core and felt my heart break in two all over again. I blamed myself for having thought badly of her, for having judged her without knowing what was going on in her private life, for my lack of insight, for not having given her the benefit of the doubt . . . I realised that, as always, her only motive had been to protect the most innocent. She had surely raised my niece as a daughter. She had done so much good in her life, but the best of all had been to give love where it was missing.

  It was all so grim and far-fetched that it seemed impossible to believe. True, my sister was devious and unimaginably selfish, but, even so, the fact that she had endured nine months of pregnancy, knowing how much she valued her body and her independence, and then gave her daughter away like unwanted goods . . . She must have had a powerful reason. Alfonso must be right – there had to be a lot of money at stake.

  I would have liked to see the girl, to talk with her, tell her that she was not alone, that I was her aunt as well as her sister . . . Well, maybe I could leave that last bit until later. I wasn’t sure if with her tender years she was ready to take in news like that, remembering how hard it had been for me to take in, even at my age. Or maybe I was underestimating the situation, and the girl knew who she was better than I did. In any case, I’d have liked to tell her that she could count on me. And I would, as soon as I found out where she was and after a few days had passed. Now was not a good time to show my involvement in Teresa’s life or with the girl – the murderer might be on the lookout. Besides, I needed Alfonso’s help with that.

  I missed my detective a lot; how easy he was to be with, his confidence, the feeling of knowing that I was with someone who had experience with cases like mine . . . I hoped there was no actual ‘curse’ as such on the women in my family like the one he’d referred to, and that he wasn’t going to disappear like all the other men any time soon. Right now I had no one else in Madrid who I could trust. I remembered last night and thought that, in spite of the sad circumstances, it hadn’t been nothing; it hadn’t been bad. It was such a shame that Alfonso had come into my life after I’d started reading the letters; if I’d known him before, maybe a romance between us could have been possible.

  They say everything happens for a reason, but I was sure the opposite was true: there’s no reason for anything that happens. It’s all chance, and the thing you want most hardly ever happens at the right time. I think most of us are constantly trying to adapt to adversity; sometimes we manage, but in most cases we settle for imagining shapes in the clouds and limit ourselves to simply making the best of whatever comes along.

  I barely knew him and yet I missed him as though he’d been a huge part of my life. He had given me so much love in just a few hours . . . I knew it was a selfish feeling, born out of loneliness and vulnerability. Since first leaving Spain fifteen years ago, I’d never needed so much reassurance and support as now, not even when I first hit the streets of London, where the language, people, climate and my financial struggles had made me feel helpless in a city that is ruthless with its weak.

  They say the home we’re born into is always linked with feelings of love, trust and protection – with happiness. For me it was the reverse: it only ever made me experience fear and desolation, just like with the word ‘Mummy’. Besides feeling bereft, I was also deeply sad and disappointed: not one single thing I’d achieved in all my years of work and effort had any value to me right then. I think what hurt the most was recognising quite how exposed and friendless I actually was – quite unable to help my situation. All I could do was wait for things to develop and maybe then come to a decision.

  This whole affair filled me with a vast emptiness and anguish, and suddenly I was no longer in the mood to read any more of Saúl’s letters. I just couldn’t stop thinking about Teresa, memories of our past times together and the grisly way in which she had met her end. By eight o’clock in the evening, I was thoroughly exhausted. The sun shone as brightly as ever, but it was black as night in my soul and I was physically and emotionally drained. I made myself a cup of tea and went to bed, to grieve over my troubles and my recent loss until I fell asleep.

  Chapter 19

  Sunday, 29 June 2014

  It was getting light outside, but I stayed in bed another hour. I was feeling ill, aching in my head and my soul. Aris was patient and waited for me.

  After a long and refreshing hot bath and a cup of coffee, I felt a little better. I was trying to figure out how to turn on the sprinklers and which plants needed to be watered by hand when the entryphone rang.

  It was a couple of police officers, who had come to ask me a few questions. They looked too young to be wearing their uniforms, a clear sign that I was no longer a girl.

  Once in the garden, the taller one started to explain. ‘We came to ask you some questions about Ter
esa Ros Villanueva. According to the report, you were at her house yesterday a few hours after her death and passed your details to an officer.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ I confirmed, starting to tremble from head to toe. What scared me most was that they might ask me something that would jeopardise Saúl. I remembered that, the day before, Alfonso had advised me to tell the truth, but I wasn’t so sure. The officer continued, while his partner stayed silent and watched.

  ‘How did you know Teresa Ros?’

  ‘She worked here for my mother for forty years – she was like one of the family.’

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘Three or four days ago. She came every day and it was really unusual for her not to come for two days in a row, so I went to her house . . .’ Suddenly I couldn’t speak, remembering that moment, and I tried to hide it, but the tears sprang to my eyes.

  ‘I see. Did you notice any strange behaviour in her in the days prior?’

  ‘No, nothing that made me suspect anything like this . . .’

  All their questions were strictly according to protocol with none of them requiring me to compromise anyone, nor did they even ask me about my personal life. They were only interested in my address in London and why I had come back to Spain. They were surprised at how close together the deaths of my mother and Teresa had been, but didn’t ask about it in any more detail. When they were done, I signed their forms and they left. I had a terrible feeling that I’d committed a serious crime of omission that might come back to haunt me in the event that they reopened the case of Bodo’s disappearance. Actually, if the young officer had delved further, I would have answered him truthfully.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through the garden, followed a few steps behind by Aris. Being close to the jasmine, the bougainvillea, the lilies . . . It was like being close to Teresa. It seemed almost cruel to me that these flowers could sparkle with such defiant strength and beauty, while the person who had tended them with such care and diligence lay in her coffin awaiting burial. Dragging the hose behind me, I watered here and there as I walked, barely conscious of what I was doing, thinking back on the questions the young officer had asked me and pouring yet more tears of sadness and despair over the lush vegetation.