by Susan Conley
“And you know that by reading my mind?”
“In a way. For if Bécquer were in love with you, he’d have charmed you already and you’d be blindly in love with him.”
“But I wouldn’t be really in love with him. My feelings would be an illusion.”
“Exactly my point. You wouldn’t be yourself anymore, just a puppet to his will. Yet Bécquer doesn’t seem to realize that distinction. He insists he does not change the feelings for a first attraction must be there. He just pushes the victim slightly in that direction.
“Victim being my chosen word, of course. The so-called victims would call themselves fortunate, because to be chosen, to be loved by Bécquer, is an exhilarating experience. Nobody, not a single one of them has complained yet and, trust me, he has had many.”
“What happens when he tires of them?”
“They still love him for a while, I guess. But when he stops charming them, their love eventually wanes and they forget him, and thus forgive him for leaving them.
“In fact, most of them remain friends with him until he moves on. For, of course, like all immortals, he can’t stay more than twenty years in a place before his not aging becomes obvious. Then he has to go somewhere else and reinvent himself.”
Twenty years he had told me. He had lived in the States for twenty years. Did that mean he was ready to move? Now that I’d just found an agent, was he about to disappear and leave me agentless once more? He wouldn’t, now, would he? That would just be rude.
Federico laughed.
“Are you reading my mind again?”
“I wouldn’t if you were not shouting.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Anger sounds that way to me, to us immortals. Don’t worry. He’s not planning to leave. Not yet. He’s been an agent for ten years only.”
I sighed in relief. I guess an immortal, manipulative agent was, in my book, better than no agent at all. Which didn’t say much about my ethics. Maybe I shouldn’t be so harsh on Federico for reading my mind. It was not as if he could help it.
“Friends?” Federico asked.
“Friends.”
As I spoke, the car came to a stop. Through the window, I saw the facade of an imposing stone house covered in ghoulish spider webs glistening in the glow of blinking orange lights. Several jack-o’-lanterns flickered on the stairs that led to the porch.
“Oh well, here we are,” Federico said. “Let’s hope I’m wrong because if Bécquer is in love, Beatriz is going to cause him trouble.”
“Beatriz?”
“Forget what I just said, and let’s go inside and enjoy ourselves. Bécquer’s parties are always interesting. I have the impression this one will not disappoint.”
Chapter Five: The Portrait
Matt opened the limousine door for me. Although I didn’t delay, by the time I got out, Federico was already coming around the front of the car, the gravel crackling under his light steps.
“Thank you,” he said to the young man. “Please don’t forget to call the garage and ask them to tow the Mercedes.”
“I have already.”
Federico smiled. “Great. Now you better park this one in the back before your mother sees you.”
Matt glanced toward the house. “I better,” he agreed and, with a nod in my direction and a last longing stare at Federico, he disappeared inside the car.
Federico waved his hand toward the house and motioned me to go first.
Following his suggestion, I crossed the open space and climbed the stairs.
Up close the spider webs looked too perfect to be spooky and the artistic designs in the jack-o’-lanterns flanking the stairs to the porch inspired more awe than fear. An aged iron ring hung on the right side of the massive double doors that would have been perfectly in place at a Castilian noble house.
Just as Federico reached my side, the doors swung open and a woman appeared in the doorway. A woman dressed in a low cut dress with a tight bodice and a long skirt that fell to the floor.
“Here you are at last,” she said as a way of hello.
Her face was in shadow, but her voice, I recognized. It was Beatriz´s. Beatriz, wearing a dress that belonged to the mid-nineteenth century, to the time in which Bécquer had been human. Madison had been right, I realized with regret: this was a costume party.
“What a perfect choice.” Federico’s voice broke through my thoughts. “Bécquer must be delighted that you honor him so.”
I looked up, puzzled by Federico’s words. Tossing back her auburn hair that fell in waves over her shoulders, Beatriz revealed a silk blue scarf.
“La banda azul,” I whispered.
The blue scarf that Beatriz, the protagonist of one of Bécquer’s most beloved short stories, loses in the mountains. The blue scarf she goads her cousin to go find later that evening. He agrees because he loves her but does so against his best judgment for it’s Halloween and, that night, the mountains are said to be haunted by the souls of dead warriors that roam the earth trapped in their skeletal bodies. The following morning, Beatriz finds the scarf torn and bloody in her room and dies of fright guessing right that her cousin never returned from his quest alive.
Beatriz smiled. “So you noticed.”
I saw a glint of victory in her eyes as they moved up and down my embarrassingly plain, black dress. “Please, come in,” she said and moved back. “Bécquer is waiting for you.”
I breathed deeply to ease my discomfort, and was about to follow her when I felt the pull of Federico’s hand on my arm.
“Thank you, Beatriz,” Federico said. “But Carla and I are not quite ready yet. Don’t worry about Bécquer. You are so lovely tonight, I’m sure you can charm him into forgetting everybody else.”
Beatriz stared at Federico, like a tiger about to jump its prey. But Federico stared her down. “Of course,” she said, and closed the door, leaving us standing outside.
Federico smiled when I frowned at him. “I apologize. I should have realized that this being a costume party, you would feel uncomfortable not wearing one. Please, come with me.”
I hesitated. “Don’t you think it is a little too late now to go get a costume?”
“Don’t worry. We don’t have to go anywhere. A mask will do. And I know where to find one.”
I followed Federico around the porch decorated with white ghosts and black witches’ hats until he reached another door set on the left aisle of the L-shaped building.
“Are you sure Bécquer doesn’t want you to be his secretary?” he asked me as we walked.
“I told you I’m a writer. And, I assure you that organization is not one of my assets. No one would hire me as secretary. Why?”
“Because Beatriz thinks so and resents you.”
“Did you sense that in her?”
“No. I cannot sense Beatriz. I know because she conveniently forgot to tell you about the costume.”
“You can’t read her? But she is human.”
We had reached the end of the porch and Federico stopped by a side door. “It depends whom you ask,” he said as he turned the knob. “Matt is not so sure.”
“Matt?”
“Yes, Matt. From what he tells me, she is not the maternal type.” When I looked at him nonplussed, he added, “Beatriz is Matt’s mother.”
He smiled at my surprise and motioned me inside. We left our coats and my purse on the iron rack set against the wall, and then climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Crossing the door at the end of the corridor, we entered a big room furnished with a low table, a love seat with silver leaves on dark blue velvet, and an antique desk set before matching curtains that, I guessed, covered windows.
Federico asked me to wait there and disappeared, through a set of French doors. From where I stood I c
ould see that the next room was even larger and was dominated by a four-poster bed carved from dark wood. Several pillows were arranged on top of the blue eiderdown. Both the bed and the heavy wooden chest with iron reinforcements that sat at its foot were of Castilian style. That and the familiar smell of lemon and cinnamon that permeated the air made me realize this was, most probably, Bécquer’s bedroom.
Startled at the thought that I was intruding on his privacy, I stepped back and bumped hard against the low table behind me. I swore under my breath at the sudden pain in my leg, and then again at the thump of metal hitting on wood.
I turned.
Two picture frames lay face down on the table. I picked one up. It was an oval painting of three children, the eldest one formally dressed in an old-fashioned suit, the two little ones in white gowns. A boy and two girls. Or maybe three boys, I corrected myself, as I remembered young boys used to wear gowns in centuries past. I set the painting back down and took the other frame. It was a photograph, a color picture of a young man I knew well. A picture of my son.
I started, my thoughts reeling in confusion. Why did Bécquer have a picture of my boy? And not just a picture among many, a collage of faces tacked to a cork, the way Madison kept the pictures of her friends. But an 8-by-10. A picture taken with care, framed with love. Love. The word brought to my mind Federico’s conversation in the car, his conviction that despite his denial, Bécquer had a new lover.
At the disturbing image my mind had conjured, my hands froze and the picture slid through my fingers and hit the wooden floor. This time the glass shattered.
The sound broke my reverie. I shook my head. What was wrong with me? The boy could not be Ryan, just someone who resembled him. I kneeled and lifted the picture. Over a dozen straight lines diverged from a central breaking point making recognition impossible. Holding the frame in my shaking hands, I removed the bigger piece of broken glass to uncover the boy’s face.
It was Ryan. No doubt about it. Ryan smiling as he had not done at me in a long time.
I swore in anger and disgust. Anger at Bécquer for stealing my son, disgust because he had charmed him with his powers, for I knew Ryan was not gay. I had seen him fall in love when he was barely two at the sight of a beautiful girl dressed all in black. I had seen his head turn 180 degrees to follow a pretty neighbor in a too-short skirt a couple of years ago. No, Ryan was not gay.
“Carla,” Federico’s voice called from the door.
I stood. Holding Ryan’s picture in front of me, like a priest would hold a cross to exorcise a demon. I advanced toward him. “Since when?” I demanded, my voice raw with hate.
Federico’s look of concern quickly changed to alarm as his eyes fell on my hands. “Stop,” he ordered. His voice, low but firm, entered my mind, overpowering my will. I stopped.
“Please, Carla, put it down. Whatever it is that has upset you, we can talk about it in a civilized way.”
The pressure in my mind had dwindled to almost bearable limits, as his tone changed from commanding to pleading. I didn’t move.
“Put. It. Down.”
Again his voice resonated in my head with an intensity that erased any resistance. Powerless I saw my hands moving, as if they didn’t belong to me.
“On the floor.”
I set the picture down.
“The glass.” Federico’s words burned bright red inside my head.
Confused, I hesitated for a moment. Then I noticed the piece of glass I still held in my right hand and bent again.
With a speed that was not human — as if I needed a reminder of that unsettling fact — Federico was at my side and, lifting me by the waist, pushed me against the wall.
“Why did you try to kill me?”
I felt the pressure of his mind on mine. A pressure that turned to pain so that it made thinking impossible. Or lying.
I shook my head. “I didn’t.” Even in my ears my voice sounded weak. “I did not try to kill you. How could I?”
“Don’t lie to me. Remember I can read your feelings. And there was murder in your mind.”
“Bécquer — I was thinking of Bécquer. Not you.”
His eyes, glowing red, stayed on mine but, as the pressure in my mind eased and disappeared, Federico set me on the floor and took a step back. “Why? Why do you hate Bécquer? What caused the sudden change?”
Too shaken to explain, I pointed at the frame lying on the floor.
Again Federico moved almost too fast for me to see. When he came back the picture was in his hands. “Do you know this boy?”
“He’s my son.”
Federico gasped. In the silence that followed I could almost hear his mind working along the lines mine had followed.
“You think Bécquer fancies your son,” he said at last, voicing my assumption. “You think they’re lovers. That is why you’re angry at him.”
I nodded. “What other explanation is there?”
“Does your son like men?” Unlike mine, Federico’s voice was even.
“No. That is why this is so very wrong. Apart from the fact that Ryan is only eighteen and Bécquer is what — two hundred years old? He has forced him. He has charmed him to do his bidding.”
Federico shook his head. “I understand your concern, Carla. But I think you’re mistaken. Bécquer is not gay. In all the years I have known him, I was his only male lover. And, please believe me, Bécquer would never force anyone.”
“That is a lie. You told me so yourself. You told me that he charms his lovers.”
“But the attraction must be there. And if your son is not gay — ”
“Don’t play with me. I know you can control humans. You did it with me right now. You are monsters.”
Federico moved back as if I had slapped him. Taking advantage of his hesitation, I ran to the door. But when I reached it, Federico was already there, blocking my exit.
“Carla, please. Wait. There is something you need to see.”
His tone was not threatening. It needn’t be. “Do I have a choice?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Gently but firmly, Federico steered me to the desk set against the far wall. He moved back the chair and, once I was sitting, produced a key — from where, I didn’t see — and opened the top drawer.
Careful, almost reverentially, he removed a leather-bound book and set it on the table.
“Open it.”
As I did what he ordered, I realized it was not a book, but an album, its thick pages yellowed with age separated by onion sheets. Each page held a photograph of a different boy. As I turned the pages, the pictures, yellowed with age and vignetted around the edges at first, became color prints, and the serious expressions in the boys’ faces gave way to playful smiles.
“No,” Federico said, reading my mind. “They are not his lovers, but the children he has sponsored over the years.”
I looked up.
“How much do you know about Bécquer’s life? His human life?”
“I know he died in his thirties. But, of course, he didn’t. So I guess I know nothing. Only that he wrote short stories and poems published under the title Rimas y Leyendas.”
“Which, by the way, were not widely known when he was human. All his life, his human life, Bécquer struggled and failed to be recognized as a writer, but that is another story. What matters here is that Bécquer had three children, three boys. They were young when he died, the oldest barely eight.”
“The boys in the frame,” I whispered.
Federico frowned as if not following my train of thought. Then nodded. “Yes. That painting is the only thing he has of them. That and his memories.
“Bécquer loved his children more than anything. ‘Take care of my children,’ he asked his friends shortly before his staged death. And they did. They publ
ished his work the following year, and Bécquer ensured it sold well to procure enough money for his children and his wife. Still, he missed them.”
“Couldn’t he see them afterward?”
“No. It’s forbidden. The Elders, the Immortals Council, if you wish, doesn’t allow it.
“That’s why to alleviate his longing, he took care of various children over the years. Orphans as Bécquer himself had been since the age of eleven, children with artistic talents, or just children he met who needed help. He gave them a chance at life, but never interfered afterward. There was nothing dark in their relationship, nothing he should be ashamed of. My guess is that Ryan is his latest interest.”
“Ryan is not an orphan, and he’s eighteen.”
“Is he gifted?”
I shrugged. “He’s good at music.”
Federico lifted the album. “If he’s one of them, he must be here.” He passed the pages forward, then stopped. I felt his intake of breath, as he slammed it close.
“What is it Federico?”
“Nothing.”
“Let me see.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then handed it to me. “Please don’t jump to conclusions. It’s just a picture.”
I didn’t notice anything unusual at first. Yes, Bécquer was standing close to Ryan, their hands touching. But it made sense in the context as he was directing Ryan’s fingers on the strings of the guitar my son was holding.
It was a candid picture, obviously amateurish as the top of Bécquer’s head was cut off and neither of them was looking at the camera. Yet it was terribly effective at conveying the easy rapport that existed between them.
“They are close,” I said.
“It doesn’t mean they are lovers,” Federico said. But there was doubt in his voice.
It was only as I turned back the pages to compare the picture of my son with the others, that I noticed the difference: Bécquer was not in them. Bécquer was not in any of them, because his picture would have given away the fact that he didn’t age. But then, why had he kept this picture of him and Ryan?