Letters to a Stranger

by Mercedes Pinto Maldonado

  Around half past two I prepared a veal steak and salad, and just after three I looked up the address for the church of El Salvador and went to pay my final respects to my dearest nanny and housekeeper, Teresa.

  I’d chosen a discreet outfit of black trousers and a blue shirt, tied my hair back and put on some large dark sunglasses, appropriate for the warm sunny day. I arrived a little early and, after a five-minute walk from my parking spot, found the church almost empty, so took a pew near the rear to wait for the rest of the congregation.

  The hearse arrived a few minutes later, and then my darling Teresa was borne on her final ceremonial journey down the aisle towards the altar. My heart was in tatters. I presumed that the four strong men bearing the coffin were undertakers from the funeral home, as none of them had a similar appearance to her cousin, and he would hardly have dared to appear. Around twenty people followed on behind, and there she was among them suddenly, my niece who was also my sister – a beautiful little girl, quite inconsolable and the very picture of grief, walking unsteadily behind the coffin of the woman who, I was sure, had cared for her like her own daughter. The urge to go up to her and comfort her was unbearable, but it wasn’t the right time. What would I say to her – that I was her aunt but also her sister? I could have simply introduced myself as her aunt from London – surely Teresa must have occasionally mentioned me to her – but I just didn’t feel strong enough. As an aunt, I didn’t know what she might expect of me and I wasn’t in any position to offer concrete help to her.

  I was barely able to follow the sermon of the priest who was officiating at the Mass. From behind the shield of my dark sunglasses, I could scarcely take my eyes off the coffin that held Teresa’s body. It just didn’t seem credible that she was lying there, lifeless, covered in terrible bruises and the sutures from the autopsy. It seemed hardly any time since we were drinking coffee in the kitchen, Teresa with her watering can out in the garden, or cooking chicken and rice for me . . . Only a few days ago I could have prevented her tragic death, when she asked me to leave matters well alone, and I could have changed things so this pretty little girl was not now left grieving and abandoned. Tears of sadness and guilt flowed, lonely and silent, in the corner where I sat. If only, if only I could go back in time and change things . . .

  I said a prayer for Teresa’s soul and left quietly before the ceremony was over. It wasn’t even five yet when I got back home.

  Having changed my clothes, I took refuge under the old willow tree again with Saúl’s letters, unable to stop thinking about Teresa, who had been so genuinely kind and good, and, above all, about the lovely young girl who had followed her coffin, crying, her heart broken just as mine was. Her face hadn’t been clearly visible to me, but I’d seen enough of her slim figure and long, straight waist-length hair to recognise her resemblance to her mother – hopefully only in the physical sense. Fearing my spirits would sink even lower, I forced myself to stop thinking about her and opened the first letter of the day.

  Olympic National Park

  2 December 2005

  Beautiful Yolanda,

  This winter feels especially hard. I don’t even know how many days I’ve been shut up in this cabin. Every now and then I’ll open the door a crack to throw food out to the ducks. I’m terrified of the cold. I don’t know if it’s because I’m too weak or because of the medication, but I’m always freezing. Dylan tries to make me feel better by telling me this is in fact one of the coldest winters he can remember in Olympic Park. It could be . . . I just wish spring would come so I could open the window again.

  At least I can still use my pastels. Mr Baker says that all my artworks have the same magic, no matter what technique I use. I think I hear Dylan’s voice behind his words, because both the gallery owner and my good friend are trying their hardest to encourage me to forget about painting in oils for the moment so my recovery continues. In any case, he buys all my works and, as he says, they are all getting bought.

  I have good news for you: I’ve finally managed to capture the mist! At last I’ve been able to drag it out of the lake and bring it to the other side of my window – only with pastels and paper, mind you, but I’ve done it and have now recreated it seven times. Mr Baker says my pictures are causing a lot of excitement on his website, and that everyone’s wanting a view of the mist from the lake – he insists that I should sell the lot when I’ve finished the series. He wants a whole collection on the theme. A whole series . . . But I still don’t know when this grey fog will clear from my mind.

  I stopped reading. Martin Baker had a website where he exhibited and sold Saúl’s paintings!

  Naturally, I set up my laptop on the kitchen table to start searching for the website. When I turned it on, I was bombarded with messages and emails, none of them the one I’d been waiting for so eagerly, so I went straight to Google and typed in the name of the gallery. There were more than two million results for my search – endless possibilities. Without even thinking, I clicked on the first link, as nervous as a love-struck teenager going on her first date. One of the tabs I found had a list of the painters represented on the website. My fingers were shaking. I clicked on it and scrolled through the list until I came across Yosa Degui! Next to his pseudonym, in small letters, it named him as ‘The Flickering Painter’.

  A photograph of his back, sitting on the dock, very similar to the one I had, was on the left-hand side of the page, and on the right a list of all the thematic collections of the artist: ‘The Forest’, ‘The Lake’, ‘The Dock’, ‘The Harbour’, ‘The Mist’, ‘The Spring’ and . . . ‘Yolanda’. The last collection turned the magic of the moment into rage, but only for an instant; I was so emotional . . . At the bottom of the screen a banner announced: ‘An exhibition of the works of Yosa Degui in Paris, 30 June–20 July 2014’.

  I had to stop a minute to reorient myself. ‘OK, take it easy now,’ I told myself, after a few deep breaths. ‘You’re not reading about the past any more. His exhibition has this year’s date on it and it’s taking place tomorrow. I could get there if I set off now.’ I took another deep breath. The landline rang in the sitting room, but it would have to wait. I clicked on the announcement to get more information.

  From 30 June to 20 July, the final collection of Yosa Degui will be shown at the Atelier des Lumières in Paris. Twenty-two works in pastel and thirty-one in oils complete the series ‘Letters to a Stranger’, a journey through his artistic career. Visitors should note that the artist is unable to attend the opening or subsequent days of the show in person. Martin Baker will represent the artist and act on his behalf with interested clients.

  I was paralysed, I don’t know for how long, staring blankly at the tiles of the kitchen floor. Was fate playing some kind of game with me? An exhibition of his final collection would be opening the next day, mere hours from where I was now, and it was called ‘Letters to a Stranger’. I got up and went out into the garden, pacing up and down to get some air and clear my head. Was I living in the real world or in fantasy land? It wasn’t possible for someone to live untroubled for fifteen years, and then suddenly have to deal with so many shocks, one on top of the other. It even struck me that this might all be some strange kind of dream, and that any minute now I’d be waking in my own bed in London. I drifted aimlessly here and there, locked in my own little world like a madwoman.

  I could all too easily imagine that there wasn’t much left of that naive young man who’d left for the United States, his heart and soul in pieces. Nevertheless, it was clear that he had never forgotten Yolanda, or at least still treasured the love he had known. The feelings he had experienced with the first woman he had loved seemed to have transported him to such a degree of extrasensory intensity that the trauma of losing her had left him severely impaired. It was as though the cascade of endorphins that had once invaded his body had been so strong and powerful that nothing else could stimulate his senses in the same way. His only desire was to be with her.

  Maybe in the let
ters I hadn’t read yet from subsequent years, he’d managed to let go of the past and fall in love again. He was a very successful artist, and the thrill of fame and glory can change a person. The point is that he had survived Yolanda’s spell, and, at least in the professional world, he was doing quite well.

  Slowly but surely I was coming back to myself and facing reality. I had a car parked outside and enough time and desire. If this were all a dream, I was ready to enjoy it.

  The phone kept ringing and then my mobile beeped, telling me I had new messages. This was not the moment to deal with anyone else, nor was I willing to let the next development here in Madrid or in London ruin my most immediate project. What was stopping me? It was a little after five in the afternoon; I could be on the road in an hour and I could be in Paris before dawn. I had no other plans for the weekend, but, even if I had, I wouldn’t have given up the chance to be so close to the love of my life for anything in the world.

  I would have stayed online a while longer and memorised every word written about Saúl and his work if I hadn’t been in such a rush, so I just prepared for my trip and booked a hotel in Paris. My mind got to work quickly – this was no time for distractions and I didn’t give myself a second to reconsider. I still hadn’t unpacked my suitcase from the hotel, so just took out the dirty clothes and tossed in an elegant dress to wear to the opening, along with a couple of shirts. My hair still stood on end every time I realised that in just a few hours I would be so close to his art, perhaps as close as I could ever be to him.

  I called Arturo to tell him I had to leave again for a few days. Luckily, he and his wife had just got home from Teresa’s funeral. I’d been so wrapped up in my own grief that I hadn’t even noticed them there. He very kindly told me not to worry about Aris and wished me a pleasant trip.

  By six o’clock I was out of the house and ready to leave for Paris, more excited than I’d ever been in my life. I felt like a schoolgirl about to take her first trip – at least, that’s what I thought it must be like, because Alberta had actually never let us go on any school trip that lasted more than a day; she had always invented some reason to punish us so we’d have to stay home. Just another one of the mysteries she took with her to the grave.

  As I pulled the front gate to, I went back over everything I might need. I still had time. Suddenly a little uncertain, I locked the door. In the passenger seat my phone was ringing again – someone was trying their darnedest to get hold of me, calling over and over at what was a bad time. I wasn’t planning on checking my messages or missed calls until I got to Irún. I didn’t want to hear a thing until I was already far away, so that nothing important could call me back to Madrid. No! I felt I had to follow my instinct and not miss that exhibition for anything in the world, even if it cost me my life. It was the first time I’d ever thrown caution to the wind and followed my heart, and it was a feeling beyond compare. But I was guessing it was Alfonso – he was due to call around now. I decided to answer before getting underway; I didn’t want to drive off not knowing it was something important, especially if I was in danger. Sure enough, it was Alfonso.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Berta. Are you all right? I’ve been calling your mobile and your house phone. I was really worried.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was just getting ready for a last-minute trip.’

  ‘A trip? Where are you going?’

  ‘Paris. I found out online that they’re opening an exhibition of Saúl’s art tomorrow and I want to be there.’

  ‘In Paris? But . . . Saúl won’t be there . . .’

  I was surprised that he’d said this with such utter certainty.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I read the last letter, remember? He talked about this exhibition in it, and how his legal situation prevented him from leaving America. He wasn’t even writing to your sister any more – it looked more like an entry from a journal than it did a letter.’

  ‘What else did it say?’

  ‘That it would be Yosa Degui’s farewell, and that Saúl would die in Paris. That he was starting a new life with a new identity, and he had taken up sculpting. That there was nothing left of that broken boy desperate to return to Yolanda; he’s a grown man now, excited about his future.’

  ‘I want to be there for that farewell. I need to say goodbye to Saúl.’

  ‘That’s crazy – it’s madness . . .’

  ‘Crazy, huh . . . Does anything really make sense in my life lately?’

  ‘Hmm . . . Are you driving?’

  ‘Yes, I didn’t even look at flights. I have a car and enough time on my hands.’

  ‘But it’s not a great moment to leave. I have news about—’

  ‘No, Alfonso, not right now,’ I interrupted, afraid that any update on recent events would lead to a conversation that I didn’t want and didn’t have time for.

  ‘Berta, I’m still on your side. What happened between us the other night didn’t change anything.’

  ‘I’m so happy I can still count on you. Look, I need to get going, Alfonso – we’ll talk when I get back.’

  ‘OK. Be careful, Berta.’

  ‘I will. Goodbye, Alfonso.’

  ‘Have a good trip.’

  I drove resolutely and with a certain calm in spite of the situation, knowing that I still had many hours left to go and that I needed to conserve my strength. Before leaving I’d looked up the route online, and mentally planned out all the rest stops I would make and when I would arrive. During the trip, I went over and over in my mind the conversation I’d had with Alfonso just before leaving, wondering what he’d meant by having some news on the case. I hadn’t wanted to hear it – I was afraid it would be something that would force me to stay. Either way, I was sure it was nothing that couldn’t wait for my return. But more than anything, I thought about what the last letter might mean, the one Alfonso had read. Saúl was no longer that same melancholy guy wrecked by a lost love: he had changed and he was hopeful for the future. He was now a mature man who had finally turned the page of his life. He had even changed the way he expressed himself artistically, moving on to sculpting. Who knows – maybe he had a family, a wife and kids who filled his life with love? Yosa Degui, the Flickering Painter, Saúl – they would die in Paris and I was on the way to their funeral. I thought about how the passage of time changes everything and about the snare I’d been caught in, trapping me in a moment that no longer existed.

  Paying attention to the road, but mired in my reflections, almost hopeful, only now and then was I sometimes interrupted by the image of Teresa’s face, barely conscious of the hours passing. Before midnight I was crossing the Pyrenees. I was lucky not to be stopped, since I hadn’t paid for the additional coverage required for a rental car to cross the border.

  Chapter 20

  Monday, 30 June 2014

  I could sense the beauty of the landscape surrounding me, but the darkness of the night forced me to focus only on the headlights of the other cars and the immediate section of road lit up by my own lights. Surprisingly, I wasn’t too tired. The car had Bluetooth, a technological wonder that gave me the ability to play music from my phone, which had stopped beeping shortly before midnight, thank God.

  Just then ‘Hotel California’ by the Eagles came on, followed by Tina Turner, and then Eros Ramazzotti burst through the noise of the road with ‘Cose della vita’ (‘Things in Life’) . . . I’d chosen my ‘medium’ playlist – not too high in energy but also not too soothing. Maybe when I started getting drowsy I’d put on my ‘fast’ playlist. For the moment, I was wide awake.

  I imagined what it might mean to Saúl for his works to be exhibited so far from where he lived, in a city iconic for its art, and not to be able to witness such an important event – it would surely equal not being able to go to your child’s graduation. Months of work and passion, during which I knew his health had suffered tremendously, for his paintings to then be transported across a vast ocean and be shown somewhere unfamiliar, lo
oked at by complete strangers, people he would never meet, never speak to. It must in fact be even worse than not being able to attend a graduation: it would be more like losing one’s beloved child forever and never hearing back from them again.

  The title he had given to this last collection was brazenly evocative to me: ‘Letters to a Stranger’ . . . I assumed that after so many years of writing with no response, Yolanda had indeed become a stranger to him. My most recent information regarding his feelings for her went back some eight and a half years – the last letter I’d read was from December 2005. I hadn’t finished it, excited at the news that Martin Baker had a website where he sold his paintings. All the rest were still at the house, waiting for my return. In the almost three years of letters I had read so far, the romance had been evolving – for Saúl at least, who had gone through various stages: the desperation and upheaval of the first months of loneliness, then helplessness and melancholy, and finally resignation.

  I was dying to know what his last paintings were like. Would he still be obsessively working Yolanda’s eyes into every one of his scenes? As I drew closer to Bordeaux, I imagined what he might look like right now, if he still had his long hair and good looks, and I dreamt of the same thing over and over: him and me by the lake, surrounded by the mist that had tortured him so much, our arms around each other’s waists, shivering with love and happiness.