Bay of Secrets

by Rosanna Ley

  She went out into the hall. He stood at the top of the spiral staircase, and she was shocked to see not the great artist she had expected but a small and wasted man of about seventy. She barely recognised him from the photos on his website. ‘Hola, Señor,’ she said. She could manage about that much Spanish.

  ‘Who are you?’ He coughed as soon as he had spoken. But he recovered himself well and stood – more erect – looking down at her. Ruby recognised a glimmer then of what he had been. It was in his stance, in the kind of aura that, despite his illness, still clung to him.

  ‘My name’s Ruby Rae. I came here because I wanted to speak with you.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I believe you painted my mother many years ago.’

  ‘Your mother, eh?’ He frowned. Muttered something she couldn’t understand. ‘What do you want then? What can I be expected to do?’ He was shaking his head.

  ‘I’m trying to find her.’ Ruby looked up at him.

  He sighed heavily. ‘What was her name? No, do not tell me, I do not remember names. Come up, come up.’ He beckoned her up the stairs.

  ‘I saw a portrait of her on your website,’ Ruby said as she climbed the spiral staircase. Her words seemed to echo from the stone walls. ‘I just want to talk to her, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, that is all, is it?’ She was level with him now and Enrique Marin was looking her up and down, appraising her.

  Ruby stood tall. The man was old enough to be her father – older – and yet he was undressing her with his eyes and making absolutely no bones about it. Could you call that artistic licence? Whatever. He simply didn’t care.

  ‘She had long blonde hair and blue eyes,’ Ruby said. ‘I can show you the picture.’

  ‘No need, no need.’ Slowly, he walked along the landing, wheezing as he went, beckoning her to follow him. ‘Come with me.’

  They entered a light, airy and magnificent room with windows on all sides. A studio, Ruby realised immediately. An art studio which was full of canvases, easels, and trestle tables loaded with paints and brushes and other paraphernalia. Automatically, she walked over to the window. From here she could see the ocean, the lagoons, even that lighthouse. ‘It’s amazing up here,’ she breathed. A bird’s-eye view.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  He sounded impatient. And why was there no need to show him the picture, she wondered.

  ‘Here she is, si?’

  Ruby spun around. Enrique Marin was holding a canvas. It showed a woman – Laura – sitting on a flat rock on the beach. She was wearing an indigo sarong and a loose cream blouse. Her legs were bent, she was leaning back slightly on her hands; her hair was blowing in the wind. She was staring out to sea, and she looked as desolate as the scene in which he’d painted her. Laura … ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s her.’ She turned to him. ‘How did you know?’

  He shrugged. ‘You have her look.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Noticed it straight off.’ His eyes were black and sharp as flint. ‘I loved painting that girl.’ He let out a harsh cackle. ‘I’d paint you too if I still had the strength.’

  Ruby thought of Andrés. What would this man say if he knew that his son had got there first? Andrés hadn’t painted her, no, but he had sketched her portrait as they sat on Golden Cap. And even Ruby could see how Enrique Marin had recognised her. There was a resemblance between them; she could see it from this picture more than ever before. Like a stranger, she thought again. Like a stranger you’ve always known …

  ‘You never sold this one?’ Ruby asked him. After all, an artist generally sold his work if he could.

  He shrugged. ‘I made some prints. Call me a sentimental fool, eh?’

  Somehow Ruby couldn’t quite see him as either. ‘Can you tell me anything about her?’ Ruby asked him. ‘Do you know – is she still around?’

  He shrugged. ‘I knew nothing about her even then,’ he said. ‘Apart from her sadness and her bone structure and that she could keep still for hours.’ He laughed again, though the laughter turned into a rasping cough that seemed to come from deep within him. ‘Why should I know anything more? I did not care. What was important? To talk or to paint, eh?’

  Ruby saw what he meant. Even so. There must be something.

  ‘She was a free spirit though, that one.’ He chuckled. ‘I do not know if she is still here on the island. But I liked her.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Yes, I liked her.’

  ‘And that’s all you can tell me?’ Ruby asked him. It might be a dead end, but at least she now knew for sure that Laura had lived here – once. Talking to someone who had known her, who had painted her, was helping Ruby get more of a feel for her too.

  ‘Si.’ He moved with some difficulty towards the other end of the studio. ‘I keep all my old sketches and roughs. Some of the originals too. An artist’s prerogative, eh?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Ruby smiled.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘What do you do, hmm? Are you as free as your mother?’

  ‘Not really. I’m a journalist. And I play the saxophone. Jazz.’

  He stopped what he was doing and stared at her for a long moment. ‘Ah. So that is what you do?’

  She nodded and he resumed his sorting through the stack of paintings.

  ‘Your mother, eh?’ He nodded. ‘So do you want to see the rest, hmm?’

  *

  Ruby said a quick goodbye to Reyna Marin, who examined her face as if she were looking for the answer to some question, squeezed her hand and said, ‘Come again, Ruby, please.’

  Then she left the Casa Azul, and pulled out her mobile to call Andrés.

  It had been a revelation. She had talked to the father. And now she wanted to talk to the son.

  ‘Ruby.’

  At least he had answered. ‘Hello, Andrés,’ she said.

  ‘So you are there?’

  Ruby got to the end of the street and turned right according to Enrique’s directions. ‘Yes, I’m here,’ she said.

  She heard his exhalation of breath. ‘And is it the place?’ Though he sounded as if he already knew.

  ‘Yes, it’s the place.’ She thought of the lighthouse she’d seen in the distance. The bay with the turquoise water and black volcanic rock. ‘But I have no idea if she’s still here.’

  ‘People come and people go,’ Enrique had told her in his gruff voice. ‘Some people stay here for ever. This place – it gets you. Here.’ And he had thumped his chest.

  Had Laura stayed for ever? Enrique hadn’t seen her for thirty years, he told Ruby. But in a place like this, that didn’t mean a thing. Most of the time he was in his studio, he said. He spent time in Rosario too. He didn’t go to the sort of places Laura would go. Not any more.

  ‘And where are you going now?’ Andrés asked. He sounded very cool and formal. She wished he was here so that she could grab hold of him and make him tell her what he really felt.

  ‘To the convent,’ she said.

  ‘The convent?’ He sounded surprised, as well he might.

  ‘It’s a strange story.’

  Enrique had told her about a nun called Sister Julia who lived at the convent just outside the village. He told her how to get there too. It wasn’t far, he said, a few kilometres, that was all. ‘I met her,’ he said. ‘More than once, I met her.’

  ‘Yes?’ Ruby was confused. What could that have to do with Laura? She couldn’t imagine Laura having any kind of relationship with a nun.

  ‘She is old,’ Enrique said. ‘But she knows things.’ He tapped his nose.

  ‘Things?’

  He had shrugged. ‘They have records there at Nuestra Señora del Carmen. They know where people can be found. And Sister Julia – she is interested in children; their mothers, their fathers … ’ His voice tailed off into a cough.

  ‘So you think—’

  ‘Just talk to her.’ His shoulders slumped and he waved her away. Ruby realised she was being dismissed. ‘Talk to her.’ For whatever reason, it had
seemed important to him.

  ‘Who told you to go and see a nun?’ Andrés asked.

  Ruby braced herself. ‘Your father.’

  ‘Ah.’ He sighed. ‘You’ve seen him then.’ He sounded resigned.

  ‘He’s ill, Andrés.’ Ruby took the long straight road out of town as Enrique had directed. It was lined with date palm trees and had a couple of rundown bars where men were sitting outside drinking beer. ‘He’s very ill.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He could be dying.’

  ‘I know that too.’

  It was Ruby’s turn to sigh. She didn’t want to think that this man she cared so much for could be so cold towards his own father. But what was she supposed to think? He knew Enrique Marin was suffering from lung cancer. He knew he might not have long to live. What could he have done that was so bad that Andrés wouldn’t at the very least come back and see him one last time before he died? ‘But you’re still not coming over?’ she asked.

  There was a long pause. Ruby passed the new supermarket and headed out towards the windmill as directed. The land was brown and arid, the mountains in the distance soft and dimpled.

  ‘Why did he want you to go and see a nun?’ Andrés asked.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ All that talk about children and parents. It was a bit odd. But it made sense that they might have records at the convent – although Laura was not the kind to allow herself to be recorded in that way. Ruby remembered what she’d apparently said to Vivien about labels and not registering Ruby’s birth. A free spirit? A hippy? What was her mother really like? Would she ever have the chance to find out for herself?

  ‘Did you tell him you knew me?’ Andrés asked.

  ‘No.’ He probably wouldn’t have talked to her if she had.

  ‘And my mother. How is my mother?’

  ‘Why don’t you come and see?’

  Silence.

  ‘And did my father tell you anything else?’ Andrés asked.

  ‘Like what?’ She wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  She heard him sigh.

  ‘He didn’t tell me what happened between the two of you, if that’s what you mean.’ Ruby exhaled. His secret – whatever it might be – was safe.

  ‘I did not mean that,’ he said. ‘I meant … ’ He hesitated. ‘Never mind what I meant.’

  Ruby gave up. The man was infuriating. ‘So how’s it all going with the exhibition?’ she asked instead.

  ‘I’m ready,’ he said.

  Ruby thought of all those sketches Enrique had shown her – of Laura, on the beach mostly, over a short period of time, he had said. Her sadness and desolation were almost tangible; Enrique had expressed her emotions so vividly in his work. 1978 … 1979 … After Laura’s mother had died. After she had gone back to England. And after she had given her baby to Vivien. Had she regretted her decision then? Had she wished that she had never given Ruby away? So many sketches – it was almost as if he’d been obsessed with her.

  ‘And when the exhibition is over … ’ Andrés said now.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then it is over,’ he said.

  Ruby stared gloomily out over the campo towards the mountains and the windmill. How had she come to get so involved with such an annoying and inscrutable man? But when he said it was over – was he talking about the summer exhibition? Or was he talking about their relationship? Ruby realised that she didn’t have the foggiest idea.

  CHAPTER 40

  ‘Why are you here, my child?’ the old nun asked Ruby in perfect English.

  ‘I’m looking for my mother.’ It was simple as that really.

  But the nun gasped – as if she had said something quite shocking.

  How could it be shocking to be looking for her mother?

  They were seated in a little room off the foyer of the convent – Ruby and the old nun, Sister Julia. She seemed as ancient as the hills. She wore a simple white habit and a heavy crucifix around her neck. Her face was wrinkled as a dried date, but her eyes – although milky and faded – held a startling wisdom. She obviously had a good command of the English language too – perhaps she had studied it when she was a girl?

  ‘Your mother?’ Sister Julia seemed overcome. She put a hand to her mouth and her eyes widened, almost in disbelief. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said. ‘Oh, my dear.’ For a few moments she was still and silent, just staring into space. And then she seemed to collect herself and come to.

  ‘Sister?’

  ‘Shall we walk?’ She rose to her feet, looking around her, almost as if she didn’t want anyone to hear their conversation.

  Which was ridiculous, obviously. But …

  ‘It is a lovely day.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Sister. We can walk.’ Everyone here seemed to want to walk somewhere with her. And it really did seem rather paranoid. Only, why on earth would this old nun not want to be overheard?

  They passed through the cloistered arches of pale crumbling stone. Ruby noticed a small bell tower attached to the chapel on a stone buttress. And outside, she could see some chickens and goats in a pen, and a garden with vegetables and almond trees. The allotment was surrounded by low dry-stone walls made up from what she now knew to be the volcanic black rock of the island.

  They walked out through the arched gateway, turning left at the sandy track and heading towards the brown mountains. Sister Julia might be old, but for her age she was quite sprightly.

  ‘Who sent you to me?’ she asked as they walked away from the stone buildings of the convent.

  ‘Enrique Marin.’ Would she know who he was? Nuns probably wouldn’t have much to do with famous artists. ‘The artist – from the village.’

  ‘Ah.’ But Sister Julia nodded. ‘He is the only one to whom I have told the story.’

  ‘The story?’ Ruby was confused. Was there a story that concerned Laura? And if so, how did this old nun know it was Laura she was interested in, since she had only just left the house of Enrique Marin? He couldn’t possibly have already told her. Nuns didn’t use mobiles or even landline telephones – or did they?

  ‘There is something about him.’ Sister Julia paused for a moment and looked out towards the mountains. ‘Something that compels.’

  This was true – Ruby had felt the same. She followed the nun’s gaze and saw that dark clouds had gathered there at the peaks, although the rest of the sky was clear blue. All she could see was desert and mountains; in the distance the ribbon of the ocean. ‘He is a charismatic man,’ she agreed. And so was his son – though in a very different way. She sighed.

  ‘Indeed.’ Sister Julia turned to face her. ‘It is in the eyes, I believe.’ Her own eyes twinkled and Ruby caught a glimpse of the young woman she must have once been. What had made her take vows and enter the sisterhood, she wondered. Had she always lived here on the island? Or had she once had a different sort of life?

  But she agreed with her about Enrique Marin’s eyes. They bored into you – almost as if they could see into your soul. What had Laura made of him, she wondered. Had she too succumbed to his charm? She doubted that. Artist or not, Enrique Marin would never have had the Mediterranean good looks of Julio – or Ruby’s own father, whoever he might be. Another free spirit, she liked to think. Another drifter, like Laura.

  ‘What is your name, my dear child?’ Sister Julia asked.

  ‘Ruby. Ruby Rae.’

  ‘Ruby.’ Sister Julia nodded as if the name pleased her.

  ‘But that is not my mother’s name. Rae, I mean.’

  Sister Julia shot her a penetrating look that took Ruby by surprise. ‘Naturally not,’ she said.

  Why naturally not? Ruby frowned.

  ‘Of course you do not know the name of your birth mother,’ Sister Julia said. ‘How could you? It is not possible. So many things made it not possible.’

  ‘But … ’ Had she been mistaken to come here? The old nun had seemed sharp enough but maybe she wasn’t as with it as Ruby had thought. She was so old. And these nuns lived in
retreat from the world. They were bound to lose touch with reality.

  They had reached a fork in the path and Sister Julia indicated that they should take the right fork towards the sea. ‘We will not go far,’ she reassured Ruby. ‘These days I cannot go far.’

  ‘But I do know my mother’s name,’ Ruby said gently. She would walk with her a bit longer and then take her back to the convent. No harm done.

  ‘You do?’ Sister Julia turned to face her. ‘How can that be, my child?’

  ‘Her name is Laura. Laura Woods.’ And Ruby explained how Laura had been living here on the island when she gave birth to Ruby, how she had come back to England after hearing of the death of her mother, and how she had given Ruby to Tom and Vivien Rae to look after because she wanted her to have a different life.

  The old nun seemed to understand what she was saying although she remained silent while Ruby was speaking. And Ruby found her presence calming somehow.

  ‘I have a photograph,’ she said.

  ‘May I see?’

  ‘Of course.’ They had reached the cliff. It was windy but Sister Julia hardly seemed to notice. Down below them the wild sea rolled, heaved and crashed against the black rocks.

  Ruby rummaged in her bag and found the photographs she always carried with her. ‘I recognised a portrait of my birth mother on Enrique Marin’s website,’ she told her. ‘So I came over here to Fuerteventura to talk to him.’

  Sister Julia was looking at the photograph, shielding it with her palm from the wind. There was a slight smile on her face and her expression was serene. Ruby got the impression that she often came here to commune with the wind and the sea and the mountains and God. Or something. There was something primeval and raw about the landscape. You felt the power of Nature – you couldn’t help but feel it.

  ‘You must have wanted to find her very much,’ Sister Julia said.

  ‘I did. I do.’ And Ruby found herself telling her the rest of the story. About the motorbike accident and the death of Vivien and Tom. How she had put the pieces of her birth history together. ‘I’m a journalist,’ she said, almost apologetically. ‘It’s my business to investigate stories and write about things. My mother – Vivien, that is – used to say I was born curious.’