Letters to a Stranger

  Even if my desires were realised, the actual reality would probably never be as magical as what I’d imagined. The most beautiful love affair has to be the one in your dreams, the one that relies completely on yourself, constructed from your own needs and desires, with no contradiction or any obligation to fulfil the wishes of the other party. And that is quite different from what actually happens, when you’re subject to someone else’s opinions, to the normal trials and tribulations of life, and to the necessity of surviving as sensitive souls in a harsh world. I pondered then that if I’d already been so intensely happy loving the ideal man and tasting the fruits of paradise all by myself, what more could I possibly want out of life? I was convinced that this unique romance with Saúl would be eternal and incorruptible so long as it remained mine and mine alone. Was that true, or was I just consoling myself because I was as obsessed in my own way as he was, and had no alternative? Did I harbour some deep and long-buried fear of facing life as a couple because of the bizarrely consistent absence of a stable male figure while I was growing up at home?

  Sitting at the wheel, crossing national frontiers in the middle of the night to fulfil a desire all of my own, I felt like one of those princesses I’d read about, believing myself to be more in love than anyone else in the whole wide world – except that no prince would come to rescue me, because my story existed only in my head. Yes, I felt important, proud of my actions, of having for once been capable of doing what I really wanted – me – with nobody’s say-so or by-your-leave. It gave me an incredible sense of satisfaction to serve as the eyes of my beloved in a place where the law prevented him from going and, who knows, maybe when I got back to Madrid I would dare to write and tell him all the things I’d seen and felt. Above all else, however, the most powerful thing driving me forward that night on that black and lonely road was the knowledge that I was getting closer and closer to his final paintings.

  Leaving Bordeaux, I stopped at the first service station I found open at that hour. I will admit that getting out of the car in that desolate lunar landscape, all my resolve regarding my decision and the bravery I’d been feeling since I left home quite deserted me, along with my confidence and sense of pride. Noting the unusual cold and solitude, I debated with myself as to whether I should continue, suddenly aware of how crazy this all was, and how vulnerable a woman alone could be in a place this empty in the early hours around dawn. Whatever the case, I needed to refuel, get some coffee and buy water and something to eat for the rest of the trip, as well as go to the loo and stretch my legs.

  I went into the shop just beyond the pumps, and picked out the necessary items: bottles of ready-made coffee and water and a bag of dried fruit. The drowsy lad at the till knew a bit of Spanish and charged me for the items as well as fifty euros for the petrol to fill my tank – it was too early for him to leave the shop at this hour and serve me out there himself. Going to the loo, however, seemed like a mission too far. It was one of those service stations where you have to ask for the key to the loo, which I reckoned was probably tucked away behind the building – and my courage only went so far. I was going to have to find somewhere else to go.

  As I left, I noticed a BMW parked a few metres away with the driver inside, smoking, as though he was waiting for something or someone. But why? Who on earth might he be waiting for at this hour and in such an inhospitable place . . . ? My body tingled with pins and needles as I walked back to my car. I started filling up with my fifty euros’ worth of petrol, shaking so much I could barely hold the apparatus; if the nozzle hadn’t been so firmly pressed into the opening to the tank, the potent mix of fuel vapours and the cigarette of the man in the BMW could have spelled disaster. I stared fixedly at the meter, trying to hide my terror – the digits had never clicked through so slowly in my life. Around me was the night, as black as pitch.

  I didn’t wait for the whole fifty euros’ worth to go in; my ears buzzed with the sense of danger. The smartest thing to do would be to get out of there as fast as possible. As I pulled out of the exit, the BMW started its engine. I’d planned my route to Paris, but, seeing him in my rear-view mirror, I pressed my foot down hard on the accelerator and, as soon as possible, pulled between two huge lorries in the slow lane up ahead, hoping to obscure myself from view. We were driving through a densely wooded area, and a string of signs came up ahead, pointing to side roads. Veering off sharply down a single-track lane that seemed particularly tucked away and obscure, I wondered at the same time if I’d just taken a path that would lead straight to my death – at least on the main road my pursuer hadn’t dared approach me any closer without putting his own life in danger or risking another driver calling the police. I was sure he hadn’t seen me exit, however, and hoped this little track would lead to some house with a turning space so I could head back to the main road. If I hadn’t managed to shake him off, we’d otherwise end up face to face. This lane was barely wide enough for a single car.

  The narrow route did indeed lead towards an old farmhouse, where the crunch of the tyres on the gravel and the headlights shining on the puddles must have alerted the owner, because before I could turn the car on the small patch of flattened earth in front of me, a man in shorts and a T-shirt appeared at the front door, pointing a shotgun in my direction. Now even my mind was quivering with fear.

  I had two choices: get out and explain to the farmer that I’d taken his road by mistake, or speed up and turn around, and likely come face to face with my pursuer. It was like having to choose between death by gunshot or torture at the hands of a psychopath. Impulsively, I chose the first option, without even thinking – there wasn’t time for it. I rolled down the window and put my hand up in a gesture of peace, repeating over and over, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .’ At that moment, a woman stormed out and snatched the gun away from the man with obvious anger. She came up to the car, looking quite friendly.

  ‘Ça va?’ she asked me in French – was I all right?

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I kept saying, as if I couldn’t remember any other words from the dictionary. ‘I took the wrong turning . . .’

  ‘You are Spanish?’ she asked this time.

  ‘Yes, from Madrid,’ I answered, a little calmer now, seeing that she understood me.

  ‘Spanish and very brave. What is a woman like you doing at this hour on these roads?’ she said in heavily accented Spanish, although I could understand her all right. ‘Come on, you need something to drink. What a scare this husband of mine gave you. He sleeps with that shotgun since he was mugged two years ago – and don’t worry, it’s not loaded,’ she explained with a small smile.

  ‘Well, thank you very much, but . . . I don’t know if I should . . .’

  ‘Come on, come in for a moment and relax. You’re in no condition to keep driving now anyway.’

  I couldn’t help wondering whether the car that was in pursuit of me would be waiting around some bend in the road, although not, of course, too close . . . Or maybe it would be lying hidden among the trees with the headlights off? I decided it would be a good idea to accept the kind woman’s invitation.

  Stepping out of the car, my legs could barely support my weight. Instead of looking at my hostess, I kept my head twisted back towards the road, scanning the darkness in vain. She seemed to understand that I was on the run from someone.

  ‘Bernard!’ she yelled, calling her husband so loudly that in the silence of the night its echo resounded to the heavens. I could only assume that the driver of the BMW would have heard it too.

  ‘Oui?’ came her husband’s voice from inside the house.

  ‘Va voir sur le chemin s’il y a une voiture.’

  I understood what she’d told him: to go down the lane and check if there was a car. This woman certainly had her head screwed on.

  Her husband did as she asked and, while the good woman made me tea on a stove that looked like something out of the Middle Ages, along with everything else here, he went to check out the path tha
t connected his house with the main road.

  I was trembling so much in my chair that, amid the silence and with no one else around, it made a rather irritating non-stop rapid knocking. The woman folded a piece of paper and stuck it under the shortest leg of my chair.

  ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘Shh . . . Don’t you worry – calm yourself, you’re safe here. There’s a loaded shotgun in the cupboard,’ she said, trying to reassure me. She introduced herself over the cooling but unidentifiable tea. ‘I’m Alice, and you are?’

  ‘Berta,’ I managed to say.

  ‘So what happened to you, Berta?’

  ‘Someone’s been following me since I left the petrol station where I tanked up a while ago. All I could think of doing was to get between two lorries to hide from him and then take the first exit off.’

  ‘Are you sure you were being followed?’

  ‘Yes, I wasn’t imagining it. So, anyway, I took the road that led here, to your house. Are you sure your husband hasn’t been gone for too long?’

  ‘Don’t worry, ma chère, he knows how to take care of himself. You’ll see – he’ll be back in no time,’ she answered, not very convincingly.

  Unless I was wrong, he had in fact been gone for a while now. The little lane wasn’t that much of a stretch off the main road, and, however slowly you were going, it surely couldn’t take more than ten minutes to get to the end and come back? It had already been over a quarter of an hour. We both started to worry now, so Alice decided to join me in a relaxing cup of tea and we sat quietly for a couple of minutes, until finally we heard the sound of an engine against the racket of the dawn chorus. Alice let out a deep breath after peering through the window.

  The two of them talked for a while in French and then Alice explained that her husband had indeed found a car hidden along the road in a clearing among the forest brambles. It was facing the road with its lights off, waiting. The driver got the fright of his life seeing Bernard get out of the truck with his shotgun pointing at him, scowling. According to him, the man left in a hurry, pulling out of his hiding spot so fast that he almost ran him over. Apparently he was bouncing about like mad because of the ruggedness of the terrain, and his paintwork must have suffered because he didn’t even try to avoid the brambles and branches of trees that overran the path on all sides. Bernard followed him on to the main road and for quite a way further, to make sure he wasn’t coming back. That was what had taken him so long.

  After hearing the woman’s translation, I told her, ‘I have to go. He knows I’m here and he’ll definitely be back.’

  ‘Do you know this man?’ Alice asked me in bewilderment and curiosity, realising that there might be a background to everything I’d been through.

  ‘I’m not sure, but he could be a . . . Could you ask your husband what he looked like, please?’

  I understood Bernard’s description before Alice had even translated: tall, thin and under forty.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I murmured, after hearing the account of his general appearance. ‘I know who he is all right.’

  ‘Well, you’d have to be either mad or desperate to follow someone in the middle of the night all the way here from Madrid. We women really ought to lock ourselves away and have a long hard think before accepting any man’s offer of marriage,’ she declared, assuming this fellow was my husband. I didn’t correct her: this wasn’t the time to get into a long, drawn-out conversation.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I really have to go. The longer I wait before setting off, the more time he’ll have to turn around and come and find me.’

  ‘You’re right – it’s best you go as soon as possible.’

  The husband interrupted our conversation to say something to her and then Alice told me, ‘Bernard will guide you to a different road – follow it to the end until you get back to the main road, just over an hour away.’

  ‘Thank you – thank you so much. You saved my life, both of you, and I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough . . .’

  ‘Hurry up. No time for that now.’

  ‘Can I go to the loo first?’ I asked, a bit calmer now. Feeling more reassured now that I knew I was going to be escorted on to a different route, I finally realised that my bladder was fit to burst.

  I drove behind Bernard for an hour and a quarter along a narrow road. When we got back to the A10 he stopped to say goodbye and wish me ‘bonne chance’. All I could say was ‘merci’, over and over.

  It was getting light now. If my strength didn’t fail me and I didn’t run into any other setbacks, I would only make a quick stop in Tours to get petrol and then drive on all the way to Paris without resting.

  The highway was getting busier (more light, so more people) and I felt much safer, although I didn’t let my guard down and constantly checked in my rear-view mirror for the BMW. Sometimes I even relaxed a little, remembering my reasons the day before for setting off on this trip.

  It was nearly eleven thirty in the morning by the time I arrived in Paris, and an hour later I’d checked into a room at the Hotel Albert. I collapsed in bed with the feeling that I’d made a very stupid mistake that could cost me dearly, but after a while I was able to think more clearly. Now at my destination and apparently out of danger, I could see with sudden clarity what had brought me here. Only twenty days had passed since my life had been turned upside down – nothing at all compared with the thirty-four years I’d already lived. It had taken a mere twenty days to transform me into someone I hardly even recognised, all starting with Teresa’s call on the ninth of this month. Ah, my beloved Teresa . . . How could I have known then that just a few weeks later I would stand grieving at her funeral? ‘Berta, my love, it’s so wonderful to talk to you again. Darling, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this but your mother has passed away . . .’ My heart had skipped a beat, but not from the news of Alberta’s death. I’d contemplated my mother’s demise many times in fact without the slightest tremor – fifteen years away with no contact can help a lot. No, it was more to do with my emotion at hearing the voice of my sweet nanny and family housekeeper.

  Since my arrival in Madrid, the secrets of my mother’s and sister’s lives had begun to reveal themselves to me day after day, as though I were trapped in the pages of a mystery novel – one where the suspense had been ratcheting up to my increasing dismay and disquiet the further I had gone along with the story. I started to understand that the independent and frivolous Berta had been living an enormous lie over a fifteen-year respite. My past had been waiting for me patiently all along. Coming back had been total catharsis in just three weeks – a liberation, a powerful rebirth – after confronting the Berta who had been hidden away under lock and key in the attic of my mind, under the false conviction that she would suffocate and wither in there. Exactly as my mother had locked away those letters at the end, with the same absurd certainty that no one would read them and that Saúl would continue to be the only party found guilty in the dark plan hatched by her favourite daughter.

  It’s funny how a handful of words can hit their mark to such great effect: they just need to be written from the heart and reach the right person at the right time. The years that had passed since they were written were irrelevant, and nor did it matter that Saúl had a new life now, full of hope and expectation. I was the one who had gathered up the sincere love he had felt and the profound pain he had suffered. It was the Berta I’d hidden away in the past who needed to read his letters in the right place and time. Only three weeks had been enough to make me realise that, of all the lies of the past, the most ridiculous had been the one I’d told myself – the one that had turned me into a robot with no feelings, something I would never have understood without the letters of that man from Lake Crescent. I was here now to prove it, that what I had felt when I read his letters was not some mirage. I had travelled all the way here to meet him, the Saúl who had awakened me to the world of emotions, who had taught me that to live without feelings is no more than mere survival.

&n
bsp; This fresh emotion made me forget everything I’d been through the night before and finally realise how long I’d gone without food or checking my phone. I’d decided to put it on silent when its pinging woke me in the morning, and went out now to find a decent cafe. I ended up walking for miles, because all I could find near the hotel and gallery were clothing and shoe shops.

  It was a gorgeous morning, so I picked a table on an outdoor terrace and ordered a delicious sandwich and a Coca-Cola.

  I had eleven missed calls on my phone, all from an unknown caller, probably Alfonso, along with eighteen WhatsApp messages from a number I didn’t recognise, and twenty-seven emails. None of them from Boston. I logged on to the cafe’s Wi-Fi to start with the messages – all from my detective: ‘Berta, the police have proof that Pedro Vidal killed Teresa and they’re looking for him. Know what that means? They’re opening an investigation. If they go down that road, it’ll lead to Bodo.’

  That was the first of many.

  ‘Call me on this number when you can. We need to talk.’

  The next: ‘Berta, I’m starting to worry – you’re not answering my calls. Tell me where you are and I’ll come and find you right away.’

  They were all like that. He’d left the first message before our conversation – that was the news about the case that I hadn’t let him tell me. I was hugely happy that the authorities had finally discovered what a villain Pedro Vidal was: this man who had beaten my beautiful Teresa to death so viciously – the aunt on whose goodwill he had relied for so many years. I only hoped they’d be able to arrest him as soon as possible. It was wonderful news, but didn’t require my presence in Madrid, at least for now, which was reassuring. The other messages had been sent a few hours after I’d left – he must really have wanted to know how I was doing. He did seem anxious at not hearing from me, so I decided to call to put him at his ease.

  ‘Oh, Berta, I’m mighty relieved to hear from you! Where are you? Are you all right?’ He didn’t even give me time to say hello. When he saw my name on the display he just picked up and started firing questions at me.