by Diana Rosie
‘Yes. He’s doing very well.’
‘Do you think you may stay a few more days?’
Alberto paused a moment, before sadly shaking his head. ‘Thank you for your kind offer, but my daughter is missing Tino. He’s her only child . . .’
Mimi raised her hand. ‘There’s no need to explain, Alberto. The wonderful thing is that now you’ve found me, you can visit again. Or I could come to visit you.’
‘Will you bring Vito?’ asked the boy quickly. The dog lifted his head at the sound of his name.
‘Of course,’ said Mimi. ‘I think Vito would like to see the sea.’
The boy nodded happily as he took another mouthful of tortilla.
‘So, Alberto, have you been a gardener all your life?’ Mimi asked.
Alberto nodded. ‘My education wasn’t good, so I took work where I could find it after the war – labouring on building sites, working on farms at harvest time. I was always happier outside. When I met María Luisa on her family’s olive farm, I learnt a great deal about agriculture. For our wedding, her father bought us a small plot of land. I grew crops to sell, and for our table.
‘Then the tourists began to arrive in the area. They bought and built villas with gardens and plenty of land, but they only stayed in them for a few months a year. María Luisa knew a woman who sold properties to the British and Dutch. Through her, my wife began work as a cleaner – looking after the empty houses and preparing them for their owners’ return.
‘And I was hired to look after the gardens and the land. Often, the villas came with many terraces of almonds and olive trees. They paid me to maintain them, and often allowed me to take the harvest.
‘Some of the families returned over many years, and María Luisa became friends with a few of them. She would show the wives the best places to shop and would learn a few words of their language. If they were interested, I would show the men how to clear the irrigation channels and check for termites in their villas’ woodwork.
‘María Luisa became good friends with one English family. They spoke a little Spanish and liked to learn the Spanish way of life. One day every summer, María Luisa would make a large paella, and we would carry it up to their house on a hill. Our two families would eat together and the children played, despite none of them speaking the same language. I made their youngest child – a little rubia – her own garden. It had a lemon tree and flowers that would be in bloom when the family arrived.’
Alberto smiled at the memories.
‘It’s interesting you’ve always worked with plants, Alberto. Have you ever worked with grapes?’ asked Mimi.
‘Only picking them at harvest time. I did make my own wine once, but even I could barely drink it,’ he chuckled.
‘I wonder what would have happened if you had stayed at Quintero’s. Papá always wanted you to help Néstor run the vineyard – just as your father helped him. But while your father was a scientist, it sounds as if you could have appreciated my father’s love of the vine. You would have been a better foreman than the lazy waster my brother hired.’
Alberto shrugged. ‘What if the war had not come? What if Néstor had given you Quintero’s? What if? We have lived the lives we have lived.’
Mimi nodded. ‘Of course you’re right. But part of me wonders if, when you lost your memory, some of my father’s words remained. He was always talking to us about plants – perhaps somehow a little of his knowledge settled in your memory. It’s a nice thought to have. It would have made him happy.’
They all sat in silence for a moment.
‘Aunt Mimi?’ said the boy earnestly.
‘Yes, dear,’ Mimi smiled at him.
‘Do you know when Apu’s birthday is?’
Mimi looked at Alberto. ‘You don’t remember your birthday?’
He shook his head.
‘Oh dear. Let me think. My father liked any excuse for a fiesta, so we would have celebrated your birthday. We were similar in age, you and I, but while my birthday is in June, I’m afraid I can’t remember yours.’
The little boy’s face fell.
‘I’m sorry – both of you.’
Alberto gave Mimi a small smile. ‘Don’t worry, Mimi. The reason we came on this journey was to find my birthday. But’ – he turned to his grandson – ‘because of this journey I have found my oldest friend. And I have found some of my memories. I remember playing in the cellars at Quintero’s. I remember the warm kitchen that always smelt of food. They’re not crystal clear; they’re a bit blurry – but they’re my memories.’ Reaching out, Alberto stroked the boy’s head. ‘And I have you to thank for that.’
Tino looked at his grandfather and smiled.
‘Wait,’ said Mimi suddenly.
As they both turned, she stood up and left the room. Vito lifted his head and watched her go, then laid his head back down, his eyebrows twitching.
The boy turned to Alberto with a questioning look and the old man shrugged.
When Mimi returned, she held an old leather-bound book in her hand. She stood in front of Alberto and held it out to him.
Before he could take it, a thin piece of card fell from the book and fluttered onto the floor, landing in front of Vito, who quickly sniffed it with his wet nose.
The boy leant down from his chair and picked up the card. Turning it in his fingers, he revealed a photo of a woman. She was young and attractive with warm, dark eyes, and although the picture was serious, a smile danced around her lips.
‘Who’s that, Apu?’
Alberto carefully took the old photo, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Alberto,’ said Mimi quietly. ‘That’s your mother.’
The old man caught his breath. He stared at the photo, bringing it closer to his eyes. Immediately, he could see similarities – the shape of her face, her nose, but, most strikingly, her eyes were just like his.
Alberto let out a short breath. The more he looked at the photo, the more familiar it seemed. As if he had seen it many times before.
Turning the photo over, Alberto looked for writing on the smudged paper. There was nothing.
Reading his mind, Mimi said, ‘Her name was Angelita.’
‘Angelita,’ repeated the old man softly.
‘Little Angel,’ said the boy.
‘I kept this to remind me of you,’ said Mimi, giving Alberto the book in her hands. ‘At first, I kept everything I could – your toys, your schoolbooks, all sorts of things. But over the years, I let them go. When I left home, this was the only thing of yours that I kept. And I have kept it all these years.’
Carefully, the old man turned the book in his hands. Its dark red cover was faded, and the gold edging of the paper only shone in patches. A tatty red ribbon hung from the middle pages. The words HOLY BIBLE were embossed simply on the front cover.
Very slowly, Alberto opened it, releasing a musty smell. An inscription was written in tidy letters on the first page.
To Alberto,
With blessings for a happy and healthy life.
From your father
Chapter Fourteen
FATHER FRANCISCO
21 July 1931
The mule’s ears twitch as it pulls the cart. The peasant beside me seems to have dozed off, but the animal plods on regardless. I’m glad for the peace to gather my thoughts.
It’s been three months since the king’s abdication and the repercussions are now becoming obvious. A Republic will soon be announced, and the country will be governed by a doctrine that separates State and Church. I, like many of my brethren, am concerned.
But for now, I can put my worries to one side, as I am on my way to visit my old friend Father Sebastián. We worked together in the city many years ago, and have been in touch from time to time, but this will be the first time we’ve seen each other in many years.
I assume he has heard of my new posting, and the recent tragic events, through the bishop. I’m unsure I can talk about it yet, but I am looking forward
to seeing him again.
Without instruction, the mule veers off the road and onto a small path. The man beside me snores gently. I consider waking him, but the animal seems to know where it’s going.
It is late morning and the sun is at full strength. My black robes and hat are devilishly hot and not for the first time I wonder who decided on black for our uniform. After all, I don’t believe our Lord Jesus wore black – he lived in a hot country too.
All around us, the land is dry and dusty. The summer has been harsh so far, and, as in my village, the people here will be wishing for some unseasonable but welcome rain. There is not a breath of wind. Apart from the regular clomp of the mule’s hoofs and the occasional bird, it is deathly quiet.
In the distance, I see a small cluster of houses and buildings. That must be Father Sebastián’s town. I realize I am looking forward to being somewhere other than my own home. I have lived in the village for only a few months, but it has been an extremely difficult time. I am pleased to be away from there for a few days.
As we approach the town, I see a few women walking towards us. I nudge the driver awake and instruct him to stop, and they come close enough for me to touch their scarfed heads. I ask them where they are going and they reply shyly that they are going home after market. They point to their meagre bundles wrapped on their backs – the week’s simple purchases. They smile at me, revealing missing teeth, and continue on their way. It seems impossible to think that the Church is so threatened by the poor.
We head into the centre of the town and past the small market, now packing up. The driver directs the docile mule up a small street behind the back of the church. We stop outside a large house and my companion points to the door. Thanking him, I let him hand me my bag as I climb down.
I pull the chain and deep inside the house I hear a bell ring. The mule clip-clops up the cobbled street. The driver looks ready for another siesta, and I imagine that he will be happy to go wherever the mule decides to take him.
The door opens and an elderly woman stands in the doorway. ‘Father Francisco,’ she says politely. ‘Welcome.’
She opens the door and lets me into the dark reception room. ‘Father Sebastián is expecting you,’ she says, leading me down the corridor. The house may be large, but it is simply furnished. Father Sebastián, like me, abhors the ostentatious homes some priests have. For Sebastián, I believe it is a question of style – his being modest and unassuming. For me, I would prefer church funds were used to help the poor than dress a house unnecessarily.
The woman knocks on the door at the end of the corridor and waits for a response. I recognize Sebastián’s deep voice instantly and I feel myself relax. The woman opens the door and there, walking towards me, is my old friend.
Portly and red-cheeked, he has put on some weight, but it is so good to see him I decide not to remark on it. He seems pleased to see me as we shake hands.
‘Welcome, Francisco,’ he says warmly. Then, ‘Señora,’ he says over my shoulder, ‘please bring lunch at your convenience.’
The woman nods and closes the door behind her. It is only one o’clock, so I am surprised to hear of eating already, but the journey has been long and I realize I am hungry.
‘How was the trip?’ asks Sebastián. He points me towards a comfortable chair.
‘Good, thank you,’ I reply. ‘But extremely hot.’
There’s a knock on the door and the señora enters with a small tray. She places a glass of water beside me and gives us each a crystal glass of light sherry before putting the bottle on the table beside Sebastián. He thanks her and she quietly leaves the room.
‘So good to see you, friend,’ says Sebastián. He smiles and raises his glass. We drink the cool, sharp sherry and pass pleasantries, until there’s a second knock on the door and the señora enters again. She carries another tray to the large oak table and starts laying out food. When she has finished, Sebastián and I rise from our chairs and cross to the table. After a brief blessing, Sebastián pours wine from a decanter, while I look at the spread before us.
‘What a generous table of food, Sebastián,’ I say.
‘I am grateful for all I receive,’ he replies, smiling.
‘And what will you do if the rumours are true and the government stops paying our salaries?’ I ask.
‘Oh, dear friend, I had to buy very little of this food. Most of it is gifted to me by my loyal congregation.’
I nod, watching him take a large mouthful of asparagus and roasted red pepper. He certainly has won the support of the area’s richest families.
Teasing him a little, I say, ‘Perhaps the Church should stand alongside the poor – make a difference where we can.’
‘Perhaps, Francisco,’ says Sebastián, easing back in his seat and smiling at me. ‘And perhaps you should have followed your namesake and become a Franciscan monk.’
‘I’m not about to give up my boots, Sebastián,’ I reply. ‘But you know this new Republic poses a very great threat to us – whatever your political point of view. It plans to stop all religious education and ban all religious processions – even the ringing of church bells.’
He looks at me, appalled. ‘No church bells in Spain, Francisco?’
‘They want change. And change is not convincing unless everyone can see and hear it. They call the new Republic “the Beautiful Child”. They’ve given birth to something they believe is a force for good. I think the only way to survive is to join them in raising their beautiful child.’
He refills his glass and swirls the wine thoughtfully. ‘How did it come to this, Francisco?’
‘We’ve been too comfortable for too long, friend,’ I reply gently. ‘We’ve become complacent and forgotten our vows. These days, the Spanish Church would most likely consider Christ a Marxist.’
‘Hush,’ says Sebastián with a laugh. ‘You will land yourself in trouble if you’re not careful.’
I smile at him. He is a good man. Mild-mannered and easy-going, he joined the Church for an easy life – as a great many men do. I do not think he is prepared for what may be coming.
‘Here, comrade,’ says Sebastián. He refills my glass. ‘Have another glass of wine with me before you join the revolution.’
It is still humid and warm despite the late hour. A fat, red ball of sun is just about to set behind the far, hazy mountains. I hear Sebastián huffing behind me and slow my pace.
‘I don’t know why you wouldn’t let us take the cart,’ says Sebastián. He pats his forehead with a handkerchief.
‘I think we both needed some fresh air, friend,’ I reply. After an afternoon of eating, drinking and conversing, we had both dozed off in our chairs. Unlike Sebastián, I am unaccustomed to drinking so heartily and awoke feeling thick-headed and slow; when he asked me to help him talk to one of his parishioners, I agreed, pleased to stretch my legs.
Up ahead is a large hacienda. It’s an attractive building, and the lines of vines alongside us are well kept.
‘What did you say the owner’s name was?’ I ask.
This gives Sebastián a moment to pause and get his breath. ‘Don Dante,’ he replies. ‘His family have had this vineyard for over one hundred and fifty years. He’s very popular in the area. He looks after his workers and is well respected by both them and his customers. I’m sure you’ll approve of him.’
I smile at Sebastián. He must think I am far too opinionated for a cleric.
‘But it is Raúl I have come to see,’ says Sebastián.
‘His son?’
‘No, his chemist.’
I turn to Sebastián with a quizzical look.
‘It’s a sad story. Raúl and his wife arrived about a year ago. Dante was looking for someone to help him improve his wine and was open to a little experimentation. Raúl was looking for a job away from the city and they became friends instantly. Dante swears he saw the value of the scientist’s contribution very quickly.
‘I believe the wife was pregnant when they arrive
d – a beautiful young woman. I rarely saw her, though. She never came to Mass in all those months. Raúl made excuses for her, but I spoke to Dante about it once. He said she had fallen out of love with religion. It was his opinion that with a little time, she would grow to love it again. She never got the chance. She died in childbirth a few months ago.’
I tut sadly, and for a while we walk in silence.
‘And the baby?’ I ask eventually.
‘Healthy and well,’ says Sebastián.
‘Excellent.’
‘But I am concerned that the father hasn’t spoken to me about the baptism yet,’ he says.
‘Do you think it has something to do with the mother’s opinion of religion?’ I ask.
‘It shouldn’t matter,’ he says flatly. ‘It’s his decision now.’
‘Perhaps he just needs a little time,’ I say.
‘After all you’ve said about the decline of Catholicism in the masses,’ says Sebastián seriously, ‘surely you think we should make every effort to bring all the children we can into the arms of the Church? That baby should be baptized – the sooner the better.’
‘And now why tarriest thou? Arise, and be baptized, and wash away thy sins, calling on the name of the Lord,’ I quote, quietly.
‘Exactly! Don’t you remember when we all worked at the children’s hospital in the city? Antonio would baptize newborns in case they didn’t survive. Most of their parents would have objected given the chance, but he thought saving their souls was more important.’
At the mention of Antonio’s name, I fall silent. This visit has, in part, helped me escape what has been a difficult time.
Sebastián notices and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘What happened?’ he asks. I realize he has probably been wanting to ask about our mutual friend since my arrival.
I take a deep breath. ‘I truly don’t know why he did it. I don’t believe I’ll ever understand, despite knowing him so well.’
Antonio and I had become friends at the seminary when we began our training. I had chosen the Church; Antonio’s family expected it of him. It was me he turned to when, as happened from time to time, he questioned his faith. He worried that he would not live up to what was expected of him. We talked about ideology a great deal, but he rarely seemed to find the answers he was looking for.