by Diana Rosie
‘Then I realized no one could help my father now anyway. I sat down beside him and lifted his bloody head onto my lap. I put my arms around him and held his burnt body. I cried. I sobbed and I rocked his poor, broken body. I grieved for everything I had lost – all the family I would never know, and the one man who was truly my father.’
Alberto can see his father lying in his arms. He can feel his arms, stiff and sore. His father has been dead for some time. It’s late and the sun is sinking in the sky. With one last kiss on his father’s head, he stands and turns. He walks away from the road and into the bushes. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he has to get away from this terrible scene.
Through the bushes and across the fields the child Alberto walks. He doesn’t stop. The gorse scratches his legs, and he stumbles many times, but he keeps walking. The night becomes black and he can barely see his feet, but he keeps going.
His mind is a whirl. His father is dead. But he wasn’t his father. Who is his father? Should he go home? It isn’t his home anymore. Not now his father is dead. He has no mother and no father. He is an orphan.
He shakes his head as he walks, but the thoughts refuse to go away; instead, they shout at him, and the longer he walks, the more confused the thoughts become.
He finally stops for a moment and shuts his eyes. He takes himself inside his head. He sees his thoughts. They clatter and crash into each other. He realizes he doesn’t want to think these thoughts anymore. He doesn’t want to think about anything anymore. He screws his eyes very tight and looks at the thoughts. As he concentrates, the thoughts soften and swirl around his head. And then, quite purposefully, he sends them away. One by one, they disappear into a mist. His mind becomes blank. Now he doesn’t know what to think, what to feel.
Suddenly, he hears talking. He realizes he is near a road and he creeps behind a bush and kneels down. He keeps very still. It is a group of men, soldiers, passing by. They are talking about food. He wonders if he is hungry but can’t feel anything.
Waiting for the men to pass by, he is aware of leaves and twigs rubbing against his bare legs. He is just about to stand after the men have passed by when he hears more footsteps. He puts his head down and remains as still as he can.
Suddenly, something lands on his head. He senses more than feels his hair singeing and realizes it is a cigarette. Instinctively, he flicks it off his head. Then he holds his breath, staying as still as he can. He knows his life depends on it.
‘Show yourself,’ instructs a man’s voice. He doesn’t move. What should he do? His mind is blank. He does what he is told.
He clambers out of the bushes. He follows the orders and stands where he is instructed. With a sharp click, a flame lights up all their faces. He sees a pale man with freckles and a young man pointing a gun at him. They both wear black hats and dark uniforms.
‘What’s your name?’ demands the pale man. The way he talks is strange. He doesn’t sound the same as people Alberto knows.
‘Alberto.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I walked.’
‘Where from?’
Thoughts try to return. They force against the thin wall he has formed to keep them out. They push and push trying to get back in. Where from? they insist. Where are you from? Who are you, and where are you from?
With all the effort he can muster, Alberto pushes them out of his mind. He will not think of those things again. He will never let those thoughts back.
And suddenly the soldier is holding him. He realizes he is crying, and with a sense of relief, he collapses into the man’s body.
When he has cried his fill, the pale man gives the young soldier an instruction. The young soldier takes his hand, and as he looks up, he sees the pale soldier smile, even in the dark. Obediently, he is led away.
After a short time walking, the young man says to him, ‘Alberto, eh? What’s your second name?’
‘Romero.’ He can say that without letting the thoughts back in, but he knows he can’t say – can’t remember – anything more or else the thoughts will return.
Then more questions. Where does he live? Where was he going? Where are his family? What was he doing walking in the dark?
He has a dim memory of a car, but he says nothing.
The memory skips and he is walking again. This time he is with the one they call El Rubio. They are walking in comfortable silence.
He listens to the quiet stamp of their footsteps and the swishing of the grass as it flicks past their legs. He is enjoying each moment, concentrating on all of his senses and filling his mind with this peaceful moment.
‘Alberto, are you sure you can’t remember anything about your home?’ the soldier asks.
He finds he cannot. He tries gently to see if there are any memories, but with relief, he realizes they have gone. Completely gone.
‘No, nothing,’ he says.
‘Not even your mamá?’
Suddenly, he hears his own voice shout, Mimi! The memories bubble up again, but he stamps down on them, before they can grow.
The soldier pushes him with more questions. But he finds the more he is prodded for information, the more doors close in his mind. Everything is carefully locked away.
The soldier gives up and for a while they talk easily about his home in England, his strange accent and his sunshine-yellow hair. The Englishman tries to explain why he is fighting in the war. As he listens to talk of a battle for fairness against cruelty, he sees a boy push a girl over. He flies at the boy and hits him in the face.
He realizes he is standing still, and the soldier is talking to him. With reluctance he explains, ‘I just had a memory.’
‘What was it?’
‘I hit another boy,’ he replies.
‘Why?’
He sees the boy push the girl again, but this time she falls and falls and disappears into black. There’s nothing there. The memory has gone.
‘I don’t know,’ he says honestly.
The soldier is talking, but he isn’t listening. For the first time, he is trying to remember. He tries to see the scene where he hit another boy. But it’s not there. He tries to find something else in his memory – names, places, a home. But there’s nothing there. He has dispelled them all. It’s not quite as comforting as it should be.
Now the Englishman is talking about fighting and throws an easy punch at his shoulder. He punches the man half-heartedly in the leg. The soldier then shows him how to hit properly, how to hold his hand in a fist.
Remember this, he thinks then. Remember this moment with the Englishman – this is something to remember. This is a new memory.
Time skips by again. He is standing in a churchyard. A door is open, flooding light onto him and the soldier. They both stand in front of a priest. He is tall and bespectacled. The priest gives the Englishman a long look, turns to him, then back to the soldier.
In his long robes, the cleric steps forward and puts a hand on his head. He in turn looks to Rubio. After a moment, the man with the yellow hair smiles and winks at him. He relaxes. He is leaving one man he trusts and is in the care of another. He smiles at the Englishman before the priest leads him into the church.
The church feels safe and warm. The priest introduces himself as Father Francisco. Then, without speaking, the priest takes him to a tiny bedroom. There, he pulls back the covers on the bed, takes off the boy’s jacket and boots, and helps him climb in. Then all is black.
When the sunlight reappears, he sees another soldier. This soldier is wearing an officer’s khaki uniform. The officer and Father Francisco are having a discussion – it’s very heated; they both seem angry. As he watches, the officer spits in the priest’s face.
Fury rises in him and he sees himself running towards the soldier. He remembers Rubio’s lesson in how to hit and curls his hand into a fist. With all his might, he punches the officer’s leg. He is just about to hit him again when a hand flies towards him and strikes him across the face. He hurtles
back and falls to the ground.
Father Francisco rushes to him and kneels down beside him. The officer storms away.
‘Alberto,’ says the priest, looking into his face, ‘you shouldn’t have done that. I understand why you did, but these are dangerous times. Take great care of becoming involved in other people’s arguments. Captain García could have killed you – and just for the sake of a priest’s pride.
‘When you are older,’ Francisco continues, ‘you will understand that there are times when you should get involved, and times when it is better to stand back.’
He watches the priest wipe the spit from his cheek with his sleeve.
‘Why did he spit on you, Father?’
The priest looks at him and smiles. ‘Because I am still learning when to stand back.’
The memory flitters and stutters forward in a staccato fashion, revealing emotions and images. He feels fear as he says goodbye to Father Francisco and climbs into a soldier’s truck. He experiences an intense stab of grief as the truck passes fallen fighters and he sees the blond mop of El Rubio. He feels himself sink into a dark, deep hole and sees nothing. Then far away, he hears his name.
‘Alberto,’ says a woman’s voice.
‘Alberto.’
He blinks. He is holding a chunk of bread. The warm, sweet smell of chocolate wafts from it, and he is just about to take a bite when he hears his name again.
‘Alberto.’
He looks up and sees a young woman. She is wearing an apron, and her dark hair is tied up – she has a serious look on her face. She holds a piece of paper in her hand. It is the piece of paper on which El Rubio wrote his name.
He smells the chocolate and feels the warm bread in his hand.
‘Alberto.’
The old man looked up. Mimi sat in front of him. She held his hand tightly in hers.
‘Alberto,’ she said again softly.
Gruffly, he said, ‘I saw it, Mimi. I saw it. Everything that happened. The memories are coming back.’
‘It looks as if they are difficult memories,’ said Mimi gently.
Alberto nodded.
Mimi put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said quietly.
The old man looked at her and gave a sad smile. He lifted his glass of water to take a drink, but the glass shook with the trembling of his hand. Embarrassed, Alberto set the glass back down.
‘Brandy?’ asked Mimi.
Alberto smiled and nodded.
‘Come with me,’ said Mimi. ‘I’ll show you the collection and you can choose a brandy.’
Alberto raised his eyebrows at his friend.
‘There is no one else I would rather share these wines with,’ said Mimi.
Alberto smiled at her appreciatively.
Mimi led him out the back of the house to some stairs. At the bottom was a large oak door, which Mimi opened with a key.
‘We had this cellar built for the collection,’ she explained as she pushed the heavy door open, found a light switch and flicked it on.
The cool, stone room was lined with shelves, each filled with dusty bottles. Alberto breathed in the dry, musty air as he followed Mimi inside.
‘The ones by the door are the more recent wines, including those sent by Javier. You see this marker here? This signifies the death of my father. To be honest, I’m not very interested in the wines after that. But here’ – she waved her hand at the shelves of bottles – ‘is the wine that my father and our ancestors before him made.’
Alberto peered at the bottles but was frightened to touch them, conscious of their value.
‘There are more than five generations of our family’s wines here. Some are better than others; some have not aged well. But there are some outstanding wines. My father was always very careful to maintain the collection, and I still have the log of all the wines stored here.’
‘It must make you proud of your family,’ said Alberto, taking in the scene.
‘Yes,’ said Mimi softly. ‘Yes, it does. I’m still trying to decide what to do with the collection when I’m gone. My children don’t want it – they don’t have the historical links. And Néstor’s children are even less interested than my brother.
‘Of course, it’s worth quite a lot of money. Maybe I should just sell the collection, even though the thought pains me, and split the profit in my inheritance. I know I have to make a decision soon, but I keep putting it off,’ Mimi sighed.
Alberto nodded uncomfortably. He had barely anything to leave his children and grandchildren.
‘Now,’ said Mimi, brightening up and rubbing her hands together. ‘The brandy collection is down here at the end.’
They crossed to the deepest part of the room, where the single bulb threw only a little light, and the shelves here were densely filled with the stout bottles.
‘Our brandy became very popular locally,’ explained Mimi. ‘My father was always very proud of it, and the fact that he had expanded the business.’ She reached up and brought down a bottle. She wiped the dust off the label and showed it to Alberto.
‘This was a good year,’ she said. ‘My father really had a chance to develop the flavours. He and your father learnt a great deal from those first few years.’
‘Did you say he and my father began the brandy production together?’ asked Alberto thoughtfully. There was a memory fluttering around his mind.
‘Yes,’ said Mimi. She paused. She was remembering too: there was something significant about the beginning of the brandy production.
‘Could we see an early bottle?’ asked Alberto.
Mimi nodded and stepped to the corner of the room. There, she knelt down and wiped the tiny brass labels attached to the bottom shelf.
As she did, Alberto gasped. ‘The first brandy,’ he said. ‘I remember our fathers talking about it. It was a celebration.’
‘Yes,’ said Mimi, turning to him. ‘I remember too. The first bottle – it was dedicated to your mother!’
‘And the label on the bottle . . .’ said Alberto.
‘. . . shows the years of her birth and her death. Oh, Alberto, she died on your birthday.’
Alberto nodded, suddenly unable to speak. He reached for the wall and placed his hand on the cool stones to steady himself. After all these years of not knowing, he was about to find his birthday.
Mimi reached for one of the bottles and slid it out of its shelf, then handed it to Alberto. Holding it carefully, he stepped towards the light. Mimi joined him, standing close beside him.
Alberto blew hard and a cloud of dust surrounded them. Then he wiped his hand over the label, revealing the Quintero family crest and, in heavy red letters beneath, the words Quintero Brandy. As Alberto squinted at the faded ink, he saw words appear out of what he had first thought was a decorative flourish. It formed two dates.
At the sight of them, the old man smiled at the familiarity of his birthday.
Alberto turned to Mimi. ‘Just wait until we tell the boy,’ he said.
Chapter Sixteen
ANGELITA
16 April 1931
A sharp pain jabs me, making me gasp. But almost as soon as it comes, it is gone. I rub my back gently. Through the night, I had noticed aches, but I didn’t wake Raúl. Instead, I had watched him sleep, his kind face relaxed. He is a fine man. Often I think he is too good for me. He has integrity and honour, characteristics I fear I lack.
I pour the warmed milk into the bowl of coffee and set it on the table. I pick at a sweet roll and lean against the table – the wood feeling cool on my legs through my smock.
‘Good morning, my Angel,’ says Raúl, walking into the small kitchen. He reaches out for my hand and kisses its palm.
I smile at him. I’m lucky. He treats me like a princess, not a fallen woman.
He sits down to his breakfast of sweet rolls with honey. Slurping his coffee, he indicates for me to sit with him. I ease my enormous body into the seat next to him.
‘How are my wife and child today?’ he as
ks warmly.
‘We’re fine. I felt a little pain earlier.’ I see his eyebrows rise with a mixture of excitement and concern. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ I carry on hurriedly. ‘The women say sometimes the body practises for what’s to come. It doesn’t mean the baby’s coming yet.’
‘But it’s due soon, Angel. Should I call for the midwife?’
‘No, Raúl. Not until we’re sure. When you’ve gone to work, I’ll go and see Chita.’
‘All right. But you must send for me the moment anything happens.’
‘Raúl,’ I laugh, ‘you know there’s no point. What can you do except pace and fret? Better that you get on with your work and leave it to the women.’
‘I can’t bear the thought of you being in pain,’ he says sadly.
‘But think what the result will be,’ I say, rubbing my huge stomach. As if to agree, the baby kicks.
Smiling, I reach for Raúl’s hand and place it so he can feel the baby kicking. It’s a sensation that Raúl never seems to tire of and he grins widely.
‘It is a wonder,’ he says, shaking his head.
‘What?’
‘The miracle of childbirth. The fact that any day a baby will arrive. A baby with ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. And, I’m sure, with your perfect beauty.’
There is a moment of discomfort as I wish I could return the compliment – tell him that I want the baby to have his calm and generous temperament. But I cannot.
Raúl sees my unease and, pushing his chair back, pulls me to him. Awkwardly, I sit on his lap, aware of my weight.
‘Angelita, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t worry. This baby will be mine too. I will be there with you, bringing it up. It will be me teaching it to speak and count and read. It will learn my way of doing things. It may not have my nose, but it will have my sense of right and wrong. And I shall be proud of my achievements if it does.’
He rubs my back as I smile weakly at him. Usually it is me reassuring him, telling him that it is of little importance that he is not the baby’s blood father. In the last few weeks, however, my mood has changed and I find myself full of doubts and fears.