Under the Spanish Stars

by Alli Sinclair

  She stepped through the door, not sure what to expect. Abuela slept peacefully, the fading light of day casting a grey shadow over her. Tiptoeing to the side of the bed and quietly sitting on a chair, Charlotte lightly held her grandmother’s hand, practising the speech she’d rehearsed in her head during the long, long hours she’d had to think on planes and while waiting at airports for connections. Figuring out what to say to Abuela had also been an excellent way to keep her mind off saying goodbye to Mateo. Although she’d tried to insist on making her own way to the airport, he’d done a great job at convincing her to let him drive. She’d checked in her bags, complete with the purchased art supplies, and she and Mateo had shared an awkward goodbye. There were so many unspoken words between them and neither were entirely sure what this departure meant.

  ‘Abuela,’ Charlotte whispered, feeling a little woozy from lack of sleep. Perhaps she would have been better having a shower first but looking at Abuela now, more ashen and thin than the last time she’d seen her, Charlotte knew coming straight to the hospital was the right decision.

  ‘Mm?’ Her grandmother pried one eye open then the other. Wide-eyed, she clasped Charlotte’s hands in hers. ‘Oh, my dear girl. It is so nice to see your beautiful face.’

  ‘And yours as well, Abuela.’

  ‘Tell me, did you have success?’ She moved to hoist herself further up the pillow, but didn’t have the energy. Charlotte helped her grandmother get comfy, then sat down again.

  ‘Don’t you want to go back to sleep?’

  ‘My girl, the amount of sleep I’ve had in this hospital is more than I’ve had in the last ten years. Tell me all and do not spare any details.’

  Charlotte launched into how she met with the university professor that led to Mateo and their search for the story behind the painting. She deliberately left out her foray into flamenco dancing, picking up the brushes again and her romantic liaison with Mateo. Charlotte wanted to keep these experiences to herself until she had a chance to process them now that she was back on home turf. Abuela kept silent and nodded as Charlotte spoke of the discovery that the artist behind the painting belonged to the Giménez clan.

  She studied Abuela’s big blue eyes, her perfectly coiffed hair—despite being bedridden—and the deep lines on Abuela’s face, evidence of a life well lived, secrets and all. Was telling her about the question behind her parentage the right thing? What if it brought on another heart attack and this one was fatal?

  ‘What’s worrying you, dear? You look like you have the weight of your world on your shoulders.’ Abuela patted Charlotte’s hand and guilt swept through her.

  Charlotte bit her lip, wishing she could wave a magic wand and make everything okay. All the crankiness her grandmother had shown since the heart attack appeared to have disappeared and she seemed her usual self. The last thing Charlotte wanted was to be the cause of yet another setback to Abuela’s health—mental and physical.

  ‘I have lived a life full of ups and downs, my dear child. Nothing surprises me these days. Just say what you need to and we will deal with whatever it is that is troubling you.’

  ‘It’s not me, Abuela. It’s something I learnt about you. Well, your father and … the painting.’ Maybe she could twist the story away from what she’d learnt. Maybe—

  ‘I sent you to find the truth, but it appears you got more than either of us bargained for. Tell me, please.’ Her large eyes pleaded with Charlotte.

  She caved.

  ‘I met Señora Blanco Alves—’

  ‘Valery? She’s still alive?’ A flicker of happiness flashed in her eyes. ‘Tell me, how is she?’

  ‘She’s lovely and appeared healthy and happy.’ Charlotte paused, wishing she could back-pedal.

  ‘How on earth did you find her and why?’

  ‘Mateo knows her and … it all ties up with what I have to tell you.’

  ‘Ah,’ Abuela said. ‘It sounds like you two are a very good detective team.’

  ‘I guess … Valery gave me the keys to your house.’

  ‘Whose house?’

  ‘The Sanchez family house. The one you grew up in.’

  ‘What?’ Abuela scratched her head, then confusion flashed in her eyes, sending a shudder of concern through Charlotte. ‘Why did she have them?’

  As Charlotte explained how it came about, her grandmother nodded. ‘My mother was never one to leave things to chance and she was the real business person in the family. So I’m not surprised she had the foresight to put a plan in place with the house. She loved Granada so I’m sure she had every intention of returning. Obviously that never happened.’ Abuela stared into the corner. ‘I’m not shocked to find out Valery’s family were the chosen guardians.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they always stood their ground and had faith they could wait out whatever political turmoil our country was in.’ A small smile appeared on her cracked lips. ‘My mother was very close to them, especially Valery’s father.’ She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Did they …’

  Abuela shrugged. ‘I don’t know for sure but the relationship seemed unnaturally close, especially after my father died.’

  ‘That’s … interesting.’ What more could she say? Did everyone have affairs back then? It certainly appeared that way. But why would Abuela’s mother hand over control of the house and money so easily? Maybe Valery’s father had something over her. Or perhaps they really did love each other but couldn’t be together, so the next best thing was to take care of the house and money and wait for her return in safer times. This new development made Charlotte hesitate about what she needed to say because broaching the subject of Abuela’s father’s affair with Syeria seemed more difficult than ever. Steering the conversation back to the subject she’d started on, Charlotte said, ‘Mateo and I went inside the house.’

  She delved her hand into the bag to find her notebook. Pulling it out, she extracted the photo she’d carried with great care. Taking a deep breath, she quietly said, ‘We found this.’

  Her grandmother took the photo and held it gently in her hands. ‘That’s the artwork my father gave me. Who is the woman?’

  ‘We believe she’s Syeria Mesa Flores Giménez, the artist of the painting.’

  Squinting, Abuela held the photo closer then further away, studying it from different angles. ‘It’s incredible. And to think, after all these years we now know. Did you discover her story?’

  Charlotte had prepared for this question yet now, faced with the reality of the situation, words escaped her.

  ‘What is it?’ Abuela peered at her from under her long, pale lashes. ‘Do not hold back, Charlotte Mae.’

  This was so much harder than she’d expected. ‘There was talk that your father had an affair with this artist.’

  Abuela held her hand over her heart and Charlotte lurched forward.

  ‘What is it? Should I call a doctor?’ She had her hand on the buzzer, ready to press it but Abuela placed a hand over Charlotte’s.

  ‘You don’t need to worry, sweetheart. I am fine.’ Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I am not as shocked as I probably should be. The relationship between my parents was always strained. I had a hard time figuring out why they were together but that’s the way it was done back than—people married within their economic circles and the pairings were often influenced by families. They weren’t arranged marriages as such, but not far from it.’ Abuela closed her eyes for a moment before focussing on Charlotte. ‘I’m not saying having an affair was right, but the way my mother berated him over the smallest thing, I’m not surprised he strayed.’ Looking at the photo again, she asked, ‘And I’m guessing my mother’s affair with Valery’s father happened earlier than I suspected.’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘I wonder if my father knew.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I guess we never will.’ Turning her attention to the photo again, she said, ‘Perhaps my father knew her when this photo was taken. Maybe he took
the image. Maybe …’ She furrowed her brows. ‘Why would he give me this painting by a woman he supposedly had an affair with?’

  Charlotte bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘Charlotte Mae Kavanagh.’ Abuela stared her down. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Your friend Valery said that after your father died and you’d left the family she overheard your mother crying …’ Charlotte hesitated, not knowing if that was the term she should be using. ‘The Giménez clan had been in contact with Señora Sanchez, asking for money. Valery’s father told her she shouldn’t have tried to …’ Charlotte couldn’t finish.

  ‘You have to tell me everything. You’re the only one I trust to tell me like it is.’ A small smile graced her grandmother’s lips. ‘You always have.’

  Abuela was right. Charlotte was the only person for the job and she couldn’t let her grandmother down by lying or omitting the truth. Pushing out the words before she chickened out, Charlotte said, ‘Valery’s father told your mother that she should never have tried to pass off the half-gitana child, Katarina, as her own. He said …’ Finish it, Kavanagh. ‘He said your father was lucky he was already dead, because otherwise Valery’s father would have killed him for having an affair with the no-good gitana artist.’

  Charlotte didn’t meet her grandmother’s eyes, scared about what she’d see. She listened intently for a change in breathing but Abuela’s breath remained calm. Hanging her head, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Abuela.’

  ‘Dear child.’ She placed her finger under Charlotte’s chin and tilted her head up so they looked directly in each other’s eyes, ‘I suspected something wasn’t right years ago. After my brothers were born, my mother changed the way she acted with me. It was as if she didn’t know how to mother me any more. Some days she struggled being in the same room as me. It wasn’t always like that, mind you, she showered me with love when I was very young.’ She sighed, as if grappling with memories. ‘It wasn’t maltreatment as such, but when the boys were born I felt like the love she’d had for me transferred to them and there was nothing left for me. I thought it was because she only wanted boys, but if what you say is true, then I can see why she did what she did. I don’t like it, but I am beginning to understand it.’

  ‘So why would she take you in the first place? Wouldn’t you be a constant reminder of her husband’s affair?’

  ‘I imagine I would have been.’

  ‘Maybe Señora Sanchez couldn’t conceive and she was so desperate to have a baby she took you in after she found out about the affair. Or …’ Charlotte’s mind spun. ‘What if Syeria was the surrogate? Did that happen back then?’ It felt weird to be discussing these things with Abuela, but after everything she’d found out, generational barriers had come crashing down.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Abuela said slowly. ‘Remember, these were traditional times. Women back then had no rights. We had little power and had to accept the way things were. Surrogates happened. Affairs, and mistresses having their lovers babies, happened. It’s just that no one talked about it.’ She closed her eyes briefly. ‘No matter how I came into the world, my mother … Señora Sanchez did love me at one stage. And if Syeria is my birth mother then me dancing flamenco would have been like I was rubbing my origins in Señora Sanchez’s face. It would have been a vivid reminder of my father’s history.’

  ‘And that’s probably why your father asked you to keep the painting a secret.’

  Abuela nodded, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I wish he’d had the chance to tell me the truth behind it.’

  Wrapping her fingers around Abuela’s, Charlotte said, ‘I think we’ve discovered it, anyway.’

  ‘You could be right, dear girl.’ Abuela picked up the photo and looked at it again. ‘If I have gitana blood running through my veins there’s no wonder I was drawn to flamenco.’

  ‘It explains a lot, huh?’ Pointing to the photo, Charlotte said, ‘There’s something written on the back. It’s in caló and a friend of Mateo’s translated it.’

  Abuela turned the photo over, her lips moving as she read the inscription a few times, then she wiped away a stream of tears. Breathing deeply a few times, she said, ‘My father travelled a lot for work and he would be away for months at a time. On the eve of every departure he would sit on the edge of my bed and say this little poem in caló. I could never work out why. I just thought it was one of his idiosyncrasies—he had so many and I loved him for them. No one else understood his ways which is probably why we had that special bond.’ She paused, then said, ‘I’d forgotten about it until now. Where did you find this?’

  ‘In the Sanchez house in a large walk-in robe that had your mother’s clothes.’

  ‘I need a drink,’ Abuela rasped. Charlotte handed her a glass of water with a straw. After a few sips, her grandmother said, ‘I used to play in there for hours on end, pretending the small room was my castle. I had so much fun in there, and when my brothers came along and demanded my mother’s attention, my father would find me in that closet, crawl in with me and we’d read books and make up stories about the greatest adventures.’ She gave a sad shrug.

  ‘You seem to be taking this well, Abuela.’ All the stress Charlotte had endured thinking about this moment seemed to have been for nothing. How could she read her grandmother so badly? Weren’t they the proverbial peas in a pod? And if she’d gotten this wrong, what else had she misread?

  ‘What can I do? I’ve lived a full, interesting life. When you get to my age, dear Charlotte, you will find almost nothing will surprise you.’ She tilted her head to the side. ‘The relationship with my mother … Señora Sanchez … disintegrated when I was young. I’ve lived most of my adult life without a mother figure, so really, it doesn’t upset me as much as you probably think it would. The only thing that saddens me is that I may have a whole other family out there who I will never know. Please, tell me what you know of the Giménez clan.’

  Casting her mind back to the visits, Charlotte smiled, a feeling of warmth enveloping her. ‘They’re very close knit and there’s a strong sense of community.’ Visions of Cristina flashed before her. ‘They are protective of their own and they cling to their traditions, ensuring they’re passed on through the generations. They also don’t speak about the past, which made it difficult to garner a lot of information. Mateo was the one who introduced me to them. He isn’t a relative, but they treat him like family.’

  ‘This Mateo has featured heavily in our conversation.’

  Charlotte knew exactly where her grandmother was headed and she wasn’t too keen to travel down that road. ‘He’s just a very helpful friend I made.’

  ‘Bah!’ She waved her hand in the air as if swatting a fly. ‘You like him, don’t you?’ Despite her ill health, Abuela managed a wicked wink that made heat rush up Charlotte’s neck and cheeks.

  ‘I …’ What was the point in lying? Abuela would extract the truth anyway. ‘I may have fallen just a little bit.’

  ‘I venture to say you have tumbled from a great height. Look at you, all happy and floaty. It is good to see this trip to Spain has done you wonders.’

  ‘But I went for you, Abuela.’ Charlotte fiddled with the hem of her T-shirt.

  ‘Yes, you did, but it appears we have both benefited.’ She patted her granddaughter’s hand. ‘I need you to return.’

  ‘What? I just got off the plane! It takes almost two days, Abuela. Two days of travelling to get from here to there!’

  ‘But if you get on a plane now and arrive in Spain quick-smart you’ll reverse your jetlag.’ She cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘It doesn’t work that way, Abuela.’ Charlotte flopped back in the chair. ‘What about work? Dad will be on my back if I don’t go into the office. There’s only so long he can deal with me missing—’

  ‘Have you told him you are home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then turn around and get on the next plane back to Granada. You’re young and healthy, your body can deal with it. Flight hostesses�
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  ‘Flight attendants.’

  ‘Fine … flight attendants do it all the time. I’ll deal with Ian when he gets back from his trip. He won’t argue with me, I’m his mother.’ She proceeded to have a fake coughing fit. ‘I’m ill, remember? And Steve and Heather will keep their traps shut.’

  ‘You and Mum seem to be awfully chummy.’

  ‘Illness makes people reassess their relationships. It puts a different spin on the world.’

  This, no doubt, was the closest to a compliment her mother would ever receive from Abuela.

  Her grandmother coughed again, although this time it seemed real. ‘Stop living your life for others and go out there and find your own.’

  ‘I did!’ She crossed her arms and frowned. Abuela always had the knack of bringing out the six-year-old in Charlotte.

  ‘Then keep doing it.’

  ‘But you’re ill, Abuela. I should be here helping you get better.’

  ‘I have too many people fussing over me already. Knowing you are in Granada doing things I can’t makes me feel a whole lot better and gives me a reason not to give up. Do not argue with me.’ Her tone sounded light but held an undercurrent of seriousness that convinced Charlotte she would only lose this argument. Finding a smile, Abuela said, ‘Be a dear, and pass me my handbag.’

  Charlotte did as requested and waited for her grandmother to find whatever she was looking for. Eventually she pulled out a ziplock bag that contained a tattered envelope. She indicated for Charlotte to hold out her hand then placed the plastic bag on her palm.

  ‘I have carried this with me for decades. It’s a letter I once wrote for someone I cared for deeply and I guess I never parted with it because it reminded me of my youth. At the time I wrote this I was too afraid to give it to him and I hesitated for so long that in the end I missed my chance. Since then I have tried to find the courage to deliver this, but going back to Spain fills me with dread. Plus my body is too old and withered to make that kind of trip. But you, my beautiful girl, can go back and put this on his grave. I am afraid I don’t know where he is buried so you will need to ask your Mateo to help you find it.’