Alberto's Lost Birthday

by Diana Rosie

  After college, we had been sent to work in a hospital in the city, where we met Sebastián. We were shocked to find just how extreme the poverty was – and the poorer the area, the smaller the church attendance. It was hard work, but at last, Antonio had found some contentment in his situation.

  He had moved some years later. A priest had passed away and Antonio was asked to take over a church situated in quite a wealthy part of town. We met occasionally after that, but I had to admit I noticed a change in him. He became distant and uncommunicative, and I sensed his demons had returned. At times, he was angry, furious with himself and with God. At other times, he was overwhelmed by remorse, pleading for forgiveness from his sins.

  The last time I’d seen him, he’d told me he was leaving the parish. He said he had requested a new post. He said his current position had made him question his faith again – in fact, it had pushed what faith he had to its limit. He thought if he could go somewhere different, somewhere that he was really needed again, it would help him find a way back to God.

  He’d been granted a position in the rural village where I now live. I promised to visit as soon as I could, but I never had the chance.

  A few months ago, I had been summoned in the middle of the night. The bishop had sent his car and I was driven to the village. The bishop himself met me there. He told me that the church custodian had found Antonio that evening. He had hanged himself.

  I sigh at the memory and say, ‘You know almost as much as I do, Sebastián.’

  ‘I only know that he took his own life, and that you have now taken over his parish.’

  ‘When the bishop arrived, he discovered that Antonio had left a letter. It was addressed to me, so the bishop had me brought to the village.

  ‘But when I read the suicide note, it revealed little. It thanked me for being such a good friend and begged my forgiveness. He gave no explanation as to why he had been driven to this terrible deed. It had simply said that he was not worthy of being a priest.’

  ‘Where was he laid to rest?’ asks Sebastián.

  ‘In the churchyard.’

  Sebastián gasps. ‘But, Francisco, it’s a mortal sin.’

  ‘The bishop wanted his body to be returned to his family. But they are wealthy with strong connections to the Church. It would have ruined them to bury their shamed son. The bishop wanted the problem to go away and I suggested that we bury him in the churchyard in an unmarked grave.’

  ‘Well, I still don’t know,’ says Sebastián.

  ‘He was our friend,’ I say gently.

  Sebastián wipes his head with his handkerchief and nods, then gestures for me to continue.

  ‘I then asked the bishop if I could stay on. I felt I owed it to Antonio. I wanted to be where he had suffered so much. And if his spirit remained in some state of purgatory, I could maybe help him.’

  ‘The devil must have been whispering in his ear to commit such a sin,’ says Sebastián.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘I don’t think we’ll ever know. Perhaps it pays to remember that we are only men. Weak and sinful men.’

  ‘If Antonio’s spirit remains in the church, I can’t feel it,’ I continue. ‘But every day I pray for him.’

  ‘May God bless him,’ says Sebastián.

  We approach the front of the house, and Sebastián leads me through an arch into a courtyard. There, a man with a round, kindly face is bouncing a baby on his knee. He beams when he sees us and stands, shifting the baby onto his side. ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he says cheerily.

  Sebastián introduces me and the man – Dante – shakes my hand warmly. ‘You are welcome. This is little Mimi,’ he says, proudly holding up the child. Sebastián chucks her under the chin.

  ‘Come inside and have a drink,’ says Dante.

  We step into the warm house, and Dante leads me through to the kitchen. There, sitting at a large table, is a middle-aged woman, her hair wrapped in a scarf. She is holding another baby.

  Dipping her head to us, she stands and carries the baby to a Moses basket, where she settles him.

  ‘Father Francisco, have you had far to come?’ Dante asks.

  I explain where my village is, and we discuss the journey for a while. Sipping the wine, I compliment Dante on its flavour.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I put it down to a satisfying blend of generations of experience and a modern approach to winemaking.’

  The door clicks open and I turn to see a young man enter the room. His face looks aged beyond its years, and dark circles lie under his eyes. He is unshaven, and his shirt is crumpled. I can only assume this is Raúl.

  ‘Aha,’ cries Dante, ‘Raúl, you know Father Sebastián, and this is Father Francisco, who is currently visiting.’

  Raúl hides his initial look of surprise with a tired smile.

  ‘How are you, Raúl?’ asks Sebastián.

  ‘Fine, thank you, Father,’ he replies. It is clear he is not.

  ‘Chita?’ he says to the woman as he walks towards the baby in the basket.

  ‘Alberto’s fine. I’m just preparing his milk now.’

  The young man picks the baby up and, holding him gently, stares into his eyes. Then he pulls the child tightly to him, his own eyes closed firmly.

  ‘Raúl?’ says Sebastián gently.

  After a moment, the man opens his eyes and looks at the priest.

  ‘When would you like me to perform his baptism?’

  A dark look passes over Raúl’s face, but he is silent.

  ‘I said, when would you like—’ repeats my friend.

  ‘I heard you, Father,’ says the man.

  ‘Well?’

  After some thought, Raúl says, ‘When I am ready to organize Alberto’s christening, I would be honoured if you would perform the ceremony.’

  There is a silence; we are all aware that Raúl is procrastinating.

  ‘Raúl, I know you’ve been through a great trauma . . .’ urges Sebastián.

  The young man shakes his head, as if to dispel an annoying voice inside it.

  ‘But,’ continues Sebastián, ‘this child is ready to be released from original sin.’

  ‘No,’ says Raúl weakly.

  ‘It is for Alberto’s salvation,’ says Sebastián with force.

  ‘No!’ shouts Raúl.

  The room is still, stunned at this outburst. Raúl buries his head into his son’s neck, clearly overcome with grief. As we watch, he takes a deep breath, smelling the baby’s sweet scent. For this moment, his world is his son.

  Awkwardly, Sebastián reaches out to stroke the child’s hair but stops himself. Instead, his gaze directed firmly at the heartbroken young man in front of him, he says softly, ‘Forgive me, Raúl.’

  Raúl looks up bleary-eyed at the priest and slowly nods.

  All of us stand uncomfortably until Dante says, ‘Father Sebastián, would you care to see our new casks?’

  Sebastián gratefully accepts the invitation, and handing his daughter to Chita, Dante gently leads him out of the kitchen.

  ‘You’ve done the right thing,’ says Chita to Raúl.

  I pour him a glass of wine from the bottle on the table and pass it to him. He takes it with a suspicious glance towards me.

  ‘There is no rush,’ I say. He is clearly surprised by my words and he nods gratefully at me, but just as he is about to respond, Mimi hiccups and vomits milk over herself and Chita.

  ‘I’ll have to change her again.’ The woman sighs, walking towards the door.

  As she leaves, Raúl smiles. ‘She’s always doing that.’

  I smile back at him, glad that the mood has relaxed.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Fine,’ he replies.

  ‘I imagine you’ve said you’re fine a great deal over the past few months, when you really aren’t.’

  Raúl looks me in the eye before returning his attention to baby Alberto.

  ‘Sebastián has told me of your situation and I am sorry for your lo
ss,’ I say to him. After years of being a priest, these are words that come easily. But I feel for this man. He looks as if the life has been sucked out of him.

  He shrugs and I can see he believes that my words are well meant but insincere.

  ‘I recently lost a very close friend,’ I say. ‘I have never been married, but I understand the pain of loss.’

  Raúl looks at me.

  Reaching for my satchel, I pull out a book. It is a Bible. In fact, it is Antonio’s Bible. I have been carrying it with me since I found it among his possessions. It is beautiful in its simplicity – a dark red cover and gold-edged pages.

  ‘Raúl, this has been a comfort to me in dark times. Now I hope it helps you as it has me.’ I hand the Bible to Raúl, who takes it cautiously.

  ‘And I believe that one day you will be ready to have Alberto baptized. Please accept this gift for him on that day. If you decide not to have him baptized, please give the Bible to him when he’s old enough to read it and understand it. That way, you place the decision in his own hands.’

  Raúl turns the book, thoughtfully, before looking at me. ‘Thank you,’ he says.

  ‘Would you like me to bless Alberto before we leave?’ I ask.

  Raúl smiles down at the baby. The child responds with a gurgle that makes Raúl grin. ‘I think a blessing would be fine,’ he says.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Alberto,’ said Mimi gently, ‘do you remember anything about the day you went missing?’

  The old man shook his head. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to remember. That day had changed the course of his life. He could have been part of that comfortable family in the photo. Instead, he had been on his own, all through the years at the orphanage and then his young adult life. Until María Luisa.

  Taking a deep breath, Alberto looked at Mimi. This was why he had come on this journey. This was the memory that had been missing for most of his life. Mimi was the only person who could tell him. It had been sixty-five years. It was time.

  ‘Please,’ Alberto said hoarsely, ‘can you tell me?’

  Mimi nodded at Alberto, then topped up his glass of wine. The boy had gone to bed, and Vito was curled up outside his bedroom door. The house was quiet and calm.

  Mimi chewed her lip absent-mindedly, as if trying to decide where to begin. Alberto waited.

  ‘Well,’ she started carefully, ‘you and your father went for a drive. He had a big, old car that he adored. It was late afternoon, and you both left in the car. But you never came back.’

  ‘Where were we going?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mimi. She stumbled a little over the words.

  Alberto looked at Mimi. She shook her head and sighed.

  ‘We were playing. You, me and Néstor. There was an argument and you and Néstor had a fight. Your father came and took you off for a drive – to ease the situation.’

  ‘What was the argument about?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Childish things,’ said Mimi. She looked into her glass.

  Alberto looked at Mimi and recalled that his friend had always been a terrible liar. ‘Mimi, I’ve come so far for this. Please tell me the truth.’

  Mimi looked at him and gave a deep sigh. Reluctantly, she began to speak again. ‘Néstor was not a nice child. He was jealous of our friendship – you and me. Being a little bit younger, he was always trying to keep up with us. My parents, too, must take some of the blame. My father always wanted a boy, and he and my mother spoilt Néstor.’ Mimi took a sip of her wine, then continued, ‘He was mean to me that day. And you defended me.’

  As Alberto listened to Mimi talk, he saw images in his mind’s eye to match the words. He saw the courtyard dappled in light. He saw Néstor push Mimi to the ground. He saw his own reaction.

  ‘I hit him,’ said Alberto softly.

  ‘You remember?’ asked Mimi quickly.

  Alberto nodded. He saw Néstor sitting on the ground, blood dripping from his nose onto his white shirt. He saw Néstor say something, saw his mouth move, but he couldn’t hear the words. He sensed a rage; then he was standing over Néstor, punching and kicking him with all his strength. Then large hands grasped him and pulled him away from the boy.

  ‘What did he say’ – Alberto looked at Mimi – ‘to make me so angry?’

  She paused, unsure whether to speak.

  ‘Mimi, he said something to me. What was it?’

  Mimi breathed in deeply. ‘He said that your father was not your real father.’

  Alberto saw the scene again, and this time he could hear Néstor’s words as they came from his mouth.

  You’re a bastard.

  The old man caught his breath. He winced and closed his eyes. As Mimi watched him, Alberto rubbed his chest distractedly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Mimi, concerned.

  Alberto opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘I’m fine,’ he whispered. He leant back in his chair.

  ‘After you left, we never spoke of it again. Néstor hid in his room for days. And although my parents asked repeatedly, neither of us said a word.’

  Mimi continued, ‘A soldier came the next day to say your father’s car had been found. It had crashed and then caught fire. They gave my father your father’s papers. They were half burnt, but they were definitely his. The soldier said your father had been thrown from the vehicle and had died in the blaze. When my father asked about you, the soldier said you must have perished too.

  ‘My father wanted to go and look for himself – just in case. But the soldier said the area was very dangerous – the fighting was spreading. And he said no one inside the car could have possibly survived. My mother pleaded with Papá not to go, and in the end he agreed.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Alberto. They truly thought you had died in the car. If I’d known, I would have begged my father to go and search for you. And he would have. He adored you.

  ‘Instead, we learnt to live with the fact that you and your father were dead. Even Néstor was upset – he blamed himself. He was only a boy. Who could have known a moment of childish spitefulness would have such repercussions?’

  Alberto frowned. Memories suddenly overwhelmed him – not just the argument, but the drive with his father and more.

  Mimi reached across the table and put her hand on top of his.

  Alberto looked up at her and said, ‘You wouldn’t have found me anyway.’

  ‘What?’ said Mimi.

  ‘If you and your father had come to the car to look for me, I wouldn’t have been there.’

  Now he could see it. All of it. The memories were crystal clear, as if they’d been sealed in a vacuum and now released.

  Alberto took a deep breath and started to speak.

  ‘After the fight with Néstor, my father took me to his car. We drove in silence. We were heading in the direction of the river, where he used to take us fishing.

  ‘But then we started talking. He asked why I hit your brother. For a long time I was silent, but he kept asking. I think he knew the answer, but he wanted me to say it. In the end, I did. I said that Néstor had called me a bastard.

  ‘It was then that we missed the turning for the river. I don’t think my father noticed until we were quite a long way past it. And then he just carried on, whichever way the road took us. He just drove. And we talked.

  ‘He said that it was true. That he wasn’t my real father. But that he was proud to be the man I called “Papá”. He said he had treated me as his own son, and intended to as long as God gave him breath in his body.

  ‘Of course, I asked him who my father was. He said he didn’t know. My mother had had an affair, and it was a man she loved deeply, but he had left her. She had turned to my father then, and was only a few months pregnant when he married her. He told me my mother never spoke of the man again. She had never spoken to anyone of him.

  ‘He said he was sorry. He was sorry about the way I had found out. He was sorry I had never been able to meet my mother or talk to her about it. He said h
e hoped it would not tarnish my thoughts of my mother. He told me what a wonderful woman she was: clever and beautiful and capable of huge love.

  ‘I told him he was my papá. That I could never consider anyone else my father. He looked at me. He had tears in his eyes. He couldn’t speak, he was so overwhelmed with emotion.

  ‘That’s when it happened. A tyre burst. You remember how old that car was? We weren’t travelling very fast, but when the tyre blew, my father wasn’t looking at the road. He was looking at me. It all happened so fast. The car swerved, and although he tried, my father couldn’t regain control. We veered into the ditch, then bounced out and spun. That’s when we hit the tree.

  ‘When we stopped, Papá was lying across the wheel, and his head was bleeding. I could smell petrol. I couldn’t open the door, so I climbed out of the window. I ran to my father’s door and started pulling at it, but it was stuck. The smell of petrol was strong, and I remembered Papá had been to the village when the last fuel delivery had been made. The car had nearly a full tank. Under the battered bonnet, I could see a flicker. I knew it was a flame.

  ‘I realized I had to get my father out of the car. I was screaming and shouting at him to wake up. After what seemed like an eternity, he lifted his head and turned to me. I shouted at him to open the door. He moved so slowly I was frantic. But he reached down to the handle on the inside, and as I pulled on the door, it flew open.

  ‘Right at that moment, the front of the car burst into flames. Papá was too groggy to move, so I pulled him from the front seat and onto the road. I was still dragging him when the car exploded. The force blew both of us backwards. I hit my head and must have been unconscious for a while. I don’t know how long it was, but when I woke up, Papá was on top of me.

  ‘I wriggled out from under him, calling his name. But the moment I saw him, I knew he was dead. He had taken the brunt of the blast, and his body had shielded me. He was horribly burnt. I could barely look at him.

  ‘I think I screamed. I remember calling for help – I don’t know how long for. But the road was completely empty. We had been driving for hours, and I had no idea where we were or how I could get help.