Alberto's Lost Birthday (10 page)

At that moment, Andrés arrived at the table carrying a tray. He placed a small glass of chilled sherry in front of his mother, then another in front of Alberto. For the boy, he opened a
bottle of lemonade and poured it into a glass. Then he placed a basket of bread and a plate of thinly sliced ham in the middle of the table.

‘Is there anything else, Mamá?’ he asked kindly.

His mother shook her head.

‘I’ll take care of the kitchen. Let me know if you need me,’ said Andrés. He put a hand softly on his mother’s shoulder.

Isabel placed her hand over his, smiling warmly up at him. Alberto noticed some of her fingers were gnarled. While she was probably at least ten years older than him, he had seen his own
knuckles and joints swell and knew the ache of arthritis.

As Andrés strolled to the bead curtain, Isabel turned to Alberto.

‘Were you at the orphanage?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes.’

Slowly, a smile spread across her lips, and behind the glasses, her eyes seemed to flicker with light.

‘I always wondered if I would see any of you again.’

‘My grandson suggested I make this journey.’ Alberto looked at the boy, who grinned widely.

‘Eat, child,’ said Isabel. She pushed the plate of ham towards him. Still grinning, Tino picked up a sliver of ham and started to gnaw at it as he reached across for a piece of
bread.

Isabel turned back to Alberto.

‘I apologize for arriving unannounced,’ he said. ‘This trip was unplanned, and I only heard that you were here yesterday.’

‘I am delighted you have come.’

‘So am I. Forgive me, but it has been many years and I was unsure if I would recognize you. Now I see you, I know without a doubt it is you.’

‘Well, you are at the advantage, señor. I’m afraid I don’t remember you.’

Alberto chuckled loudly. ‘Of course you don’t remember me. I’ve lost a little hair since the last time you saw me,’ he said. He ran a hand over his balding head.

Isabel smiled back at him. ‘Perhaps I will remember your name.’

‘Alberto. Alberto Romero.’

Isabel gave a small gasp and lifted her hand to her mouth. ‘Alberto?’

‘Yes. You remember me?’

Isabel took a moment. She carefully smoothed her apron over her black skirt. With a hand that shook slightly, she removed her glasses and laid them in her lap. Alberto could see her eyes were
watery.

‘I hope I haven’t upset you,’ he said uncomfortably.

Isabel reached out and patted his hand. ‘Alberto,’ she answered quietly. ‘If it had not been for you, I would not have met my husband.’

Confused, Alberto looked at Isabel, unsure what to say. The boy, sitting on the edge of his seat and watching them intently, sipped his drink and reached for another piece of bread.

‘How . . . ?’ started Alberto.

‘My husband was in the army. For most of the war, he drove lorries, moving supplies. One day, he and his lorry brought you to the orphanage. That was the first time we met. After that, he
found ways to visit whenever he could. Sometimes he brought extra supplies to help me feed you all. Sometimes he only brought his smiling eyes. But that was enough.

‘He wanted to marry me long before the end of the war, but I didn’t want to leave the children. By the time the war finished, there were so many orphans that the Church arranged for
the orphanage to be closed, and the children to be moved to an institution in the city.’

Alberto nodded.

‘I stayed to help clean the house for the next owner; then my husband and I married and moved here. He left the army and we took over the restaurant. I did all the cooking, and my husband
looked after the customers. It was difficult – there was so little food, and soon I had Andrés – but we managed. And every year on our anniversary, my husband and I would raise a
glass in thanks to the small boy who rarely spoke, but who brought us together.’

Isabel smiled, and patted Alberto’s hand again.

‘I’m pleased to have been of service,’ Alberto said, a little embarrassed. ‘And I’m sorry your husband is not here. I would have liked to have met him –
again.’

‘And he would have been pleased to meet you too. How did you find me?’

‘We went to the old orphanage. The gardener there is the son of the gardener during the war.’

‘Of course, Jorge’s family. Are they well?’

‘Very well. And now my grandson and I are hoping to continue on to discover more of my childhood. I’m afraid I have no memories of the time before my arrival at the orphanage. Did
your husband ever tell you where he brought me from?’

‘Here!’ said Isabel, tapping the table. ‘This village.’

‘Apu, that’s why you remember the church,’ interrupted Tino excitedly.

‘Yes,’ agreed Isabel. ‘You were at the church. My husband came to visit his family, and when the priest saw his lorry, he asked him to take you somewhere safe. The fighting was
getting closer and the priest was worried that the church would be in danger.’

‘I remember,’ said Alberto quietly. He looked into the distance. ‘Yes, I remember a priest.’

‘By the time I came to live in the town, he was gone. Some said he was taken away by soldiers, but there were many rumours and recriminations at that time. I would have liked to have
thanked him.’

Alberto nodded thoughtfully.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know any more,’ said Isabel apologetically.

‘No, you have been very helpful. You see, I have only tiny flashes of memory – like the church and the priest – but nothing of my family.’

Isabel shook her head sadly. ‘You barely spoke when you arrived. So many children had seen such terrible things – it’s hardly surprising they didn’t want to talk about
it.’

Alberto sipped his sherry thoughtfully.

‘Why don’t you visit the church?’ suggested Isabel. ‘They may have records of your arrival. And maybe they know what happened to the priest. I’m afraid I
can’t remember his name.’

‘Yes, Apu – let’s go and visit the church,’ the boy chimed in.

‘Tell me, child, why do you call your grandfather “Apu”?’

‘My mamá says when I was little, I couldn’t say “Abuelo”.’

The old man nodded. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘It was as close as he could get, and it has stuck. My other grandchildren all managed to call their grandparents Abuelo and
Abuela, but not this one. I have always been Apu, and his grandmother was Apa.’

‘And your wife?’

‘I lost her four years ago.’ Alberto sighed, surprised the pain still stabbed when he had to admit she was gone.

‘I’m sorry. But at least you have this little one with you.’

The old man looked at the boy and smiled at him.

‘Oh, Alberto,’ said Isabel, ‘it broke my heart to see you poor little things. I wasn’t allowed to spend time with any of you; Señora Peña saw to that. But I
always kept an eye on you in particular – just to make sure you didn’t get ill, or in fights.’

Isabel turned to Tino. ‘Your grandfather was a very good little boy. He never complained; he worked hard and rarely got into trouble.’

Tino smiled proudly at his apu.

‘Señora Peña – I remember her!’ chuckled Alberto. ‘It always seemed that the thinner we became, the fatter she got!’

‘Oh, that woman!’ said Isabel, shaking her head. ‘And those priests. Always so cruel. I often chastise myself that I didn’t stand up for you children. As if you
hadn’t been through enough.’

This time it was Alberto who laid his hand on hers. ‘It was your cooking that kept us all going,’ he said.

Isabel smiled, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and put her glasses on again.

‘Alberto, I’m so glad you visited.’

‘So am I.’

For a while, they chatted easily. Isabel spoke of other children she recalled with fondness. Alberto explained they had met the man who had taken over the orphanage and Isabel said she
recollected an unpleasant general had once visited the building as they were cleaning it for his arrival.

Eventually, Andrés appeared and asked if they’d like anything else. A coffee perhaps?

‘Thank you, but no,’ said Alberto.

Andrés nodded and smiled at his mother.

‘I think it’s time to continue our search,’ said Alberto to Isabel. Then, turning to the boy, he said, ‘Would you like to visit the church?’

His grandson nodded excitedly.

Alberto reached into his pocket.

‘Oh no,’ said Isabel, raising her hand. ‘Los Niños couldn’t accept your money, Alberto. And if you will come back later, I’d be delighted to cook for you
once more.’

M
IMI

5 March 1937

As I press myself behind the back of a giant barrel, I can smell the delicious old oak. Wedging my body between the cask and the stone wall, I smile. The boys will never think
of looking for me here.

I fold my skirt into my lap so they won’t see it as they pass. Néstor is useless at most games, including hide-and-seek, but Alberto might just spot me if I don’t hide
well.

I try to hold my breath, but I’m still panting from running through the cellars, so I concentrate on breathing as quietly as I can.

Papá would probably be annoyed if he knew I was hiding here. He doesn’t like us playing in the cellars. He likes the stone caverns to be quiet and serene. ‘Let the wine age in
peace,’ he tells us. But I like being down here in the cool. And I like being around the wine.

Papá often explains to us how the wine is made. He makes a story out of it. My favourite bit is the journey of a little grape. Papá talks about how it needs to be nurtured while it
grows on the vine. He tells us how only the best care will make sure the grape has the right flavours to make a fine vintage. When the grape is fully grown, then it allows itself to be picked and
turned into wine.

Néstor is always bored by Papá’s stories, but I love them. Papá tells Néstor to pay attention because one day the vineyard will be his, but Néstor
isn’t interested. Last week, Alberto’s papá told my papá that he should pass the vineyard on to me because I have a natural feel for it. But Papá just laughed.
Later, he told Mamá, and she laughed too as if it were the funniest joke they’d ever heard.

Mamá said that for such a clever man, Alberto’s papá has some crazy ideas. I felt bad for Alberto’s papá. I know he was doing a nice thing for me. And I know
Alberto tells his papá how mean Néstor is to me. Mamá and Papá don’t believe me when I tell them he punches and pinches me. They say not to tell tales, and my
brother and I should play nicely.

They would be pleased with me now. The three of us have been playing together all afternoon. We know that soon we’ll be back at school, so we’re playing while we can.

I shift my position a tiny bit. It’s uncomfortable behind this barrel, but I know the moment I move, one of the boys will appear and find me.

In the gloomy light, I look at my fingers. My nails are dirty again. Mamá despairs of me ever becoming a lady. I stick a finger in my mouth and work the grime out with my tooth. Then I
suck the ball of dirt onto my tongue and stick it out, picking the grit up with my fingertip. I wipe my hand on the back of the barrel and move on to the next finger.

By the time I’ve finished all ten nails, I have a metallic taste in my mouth, and I’m very bored. Where are the boys?

Stiff and achy, I shift again, but this time I lose my balance. To steady myself, I plant my foot heavily on the floor under the edge of the barrel. I hear a splash and look down with
dismay.

There is a puddle of red wine under the cask. One of my white socks is soaked with wine, and as I step into the light, I see red splatters all over the yellow skirt of my dress. Mamá is
going to be furious.

Just then, I hear steps running towards me. For a moment, I consider squirming back into my hiding place, but dismiss the thought. I have bigger worries now.

‘Ha! I found you!’ screeches Néstor as he runs up to me.

I ignore him and try to wipe the wine off my skirt. After all the wine I’ve got on my clothes over the years, I know it is useless, but I have to try.

‘Ha, ha, ha, ha!’ my brother screams. He points a fat finger at my skirt.

‘Mamá’s going to be so angry with you!’ he shouts, glorying in his victory.

I will him to shut up. The last thing I want is a fight with him. But Néstor just sneers at me, his chubby face glowing with delight.

Another set of footsteps run towards us. Alberto has heard Néstor’s shouting. As I look up, he stops beside my brother. He stares at my dress.

‘Oh, Mimi,’ he says in a quiet voice.

I know he understands how I am feeling. I am always spilling things and have ruined so many of my clothes. Mamá despairs of me and now I’ve done it again.

Néstor is sniggering at me and pointing.

‘Let’s go to Chita,’ says Alberto.

Yes, of course. Chita will help. She’ll be busy preparing the evening meal right now, but I’m sure she’ll do what she can.

As I walk past my brother, he snorts, ‘I’m going to tell Mamá.’

‘Don’t be mean, Néstor,’ says Alberto.

‘You can’t tell me what to do,’ says my brother angrily.

Ignoring him, Alberto turns and walks along the length of the cellar with me.