Alberto's Lost Birthday (13 page)

‘Then, one day, I was called to administer the last rites to an elderly gentleman. He was very ill and I sat with him for a long time. When he passed, his wife – a woman of great
strength – asked me to pray with her for the soul of her husband.

‘When we finished, she brought a wooden box to me. She explained that for many years her husband had been a custodian to a few churches in the area. He held the keys and looked after the
maintenance of the buildings. She said that when I’d asked about the unnamed grave in the churchyard, her husband told me he knew nothing about it. But in fact he did.

‘He had found a body hanging from a tree – a suicide. Together, he and Francisco buried the poor soul in the unmarked grave. She said her husband always had the greatest respect for
Father Francisco and his compassion. And when the army took him away, her husband was asked to collect the father’s possessions and deliver them to the bishop. He did as he was asked –
but didn’t hand over everything: he’d come across the small wooden box and realized it contained Father Francisco’s diaries. Somehow, he didn’t want them falling into the
bishop’s hands, so hid them in his home. Later, when I asked about the grave, he instructed his wife to give me the box on his death.’

Alberto raised an eyebrow.

‘In them,’ continued the priest, ‘he described his life here and his thoughts and beliefs. Of course, the first diary I searched for was the one explaining the occupant of the
unmarked grave. It was written before the war and documented Father Francisco’s arrival here at the church.

‘He wrote about the death of a friend of his, explaining that his friend had killed himself here in the churchyard – he hanged himself from that tree.’

Father Samuel pointed to the carob tree that the boy was climbing. Alberto felt a slight shiver run through him.

‘Because it was a suicide, a mortal sin, he buried the body at night, in an unmarked grave. That in itself was shocking – and I understand why no one had been willing to tell me
about the grave when I asked. But as I read on, I discovered something even more dreadful. Father Francisco’s friend had also been a priest.’

‘A priest?’ gasped Alberto.

The father nodded. ‘Father Francisco inherited his friend’s position here in the church. In his diary, he wrote of wanting to be near the spirit of his friend. But then, reading
between the lines, he became comfortable here. He supported the poor and often helped farmers with the harvest. I can imagine he was not popular with the more wealthy members of the community, but
the majority of the congregation seemed to warm to him quickly.’

‘Father, did you read anything about his time during the war?’

The priest shook his head.

‘Do you still have the diaries?’ asked Alberto.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said the father, taking a deep breath. ‘When I mentioned the diaries to my bishop, he showed great interest in them. When he asked me for them to read,
how could I refuse? I believed them to be – how would one put it? – on loan. But when I mentioned them again to the bishop, he said he had sent them to the Church archivists. Although I
have asked for them to be returned, I’m afraid my requests have been refused.’ Father Samuel shrugged. ‘Such is the Church’s will.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Alberto quietly.

‘Yes,’ nodded the priest. ‘But, from the little I read, it seems Francisco was a good man and a priest who was loyal to his community. I’m sure you’ll understand,
Alberto, that when the war came and his principles were revealed, the institution of the Church did not see him as the compassionate priest he clearly was. It’s very sad.’

Alberto nodded slowly, absorbing the information. Taking a deep breath, he looked up and saw the unmarked grave.

Father Samuel followed Alberto’s gaze and said, ‘I believe it was Father Francisco’s intention to add his friend’s name to the cross. It was perhaps indelicate to do so
when the village was still in shock over their priest’s suicide. Many would probably consider the ignobility of an unmarked grave a fitting end for such a sinner. He was probably waiting for
tempers to cool. But then the war came and the strength of feeling about the Church was such that any act like that would only fuel emotions.’

Alberto nodded. ‘Poor man,’ he said softly, looking towards the grave. ‘Do you think he’ll ever have his name on his grave?’

‘It is my hope. I have submitted a letter to my bishop, asking both for the man’s date of birth and any necessary details, and for permission to place a headstone on the
grave.’

‘Good,’ said Alberto.

‘Unfortunately,’ sighed Father Samuel, his smile slipping again, ‘the wheels of the Church roll rather slowly. The bishop referred my request to a higher level. I have been
waiting over a year for a reply.’

Shaking his head, Alberto looked back at the grave. ‘All this time and they still can’t find a way to forgive him.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Father Samuel quietly, ‘they know what drove him to take his life.’

Alberto paused thoughtfully, then shook his head. ‘If he was a friend of Father Francisco, he must have been a good man. It is God’s decision to forgive, not the
Church’s.’

Father Samuel nodded. ‘I understand, Alberto. But protocol dictates a process must be followed. I shall write to my bishop again.’

Alberto continued to look at the grave. ‘Do you know the priest’s name?’

‘Father Antonio,’ said Father Samuel softly.

As the two men regarded the grave, Tino trotted up beside them.

‘What are you looking at?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ said Alberto. He turned to the child. The boy was filthy. He was grey with dust, and his legs were covered in small scratches.

‘Oh dear,’ said Father Samuel cheerily. ‘Looks like someone could do with a wash. Why don’t we let your grandfather have a moment here, and I’ll show you where you
can get clean?’

They both looked at Alberto, who nodded at them.

Chattering to the boy, the priest led him back into the church. For a moment, Alberto closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face, and listened to the low buzz of the town on the other side
of the wall. Then, opening his eyes, he reached into his trouser pocket and brought out his old penknife.

Alberto and the boy walked into Los Niños and looked around. The restaurant was now half full, mostly with men in their work clothes drinking beer and picking at plates
of tapas. Andrés, dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, bustled around the customers, filling glasses and collecting plates.

They walked to the bar and Alberto helped the boy onto one of the high stools. The child kicked his feet side to side as Alberto wearily perched on the edge of his.

‘Señores,’ said Andrés, slipping behind the bar. ‘Welcome back. What can I bring you?’

Alberto asked for a beer for himself and a lemon drink for the boy. When Andrés brought them, Alberto took mouthfuls of the cold beer, reflecting on what he’d heard at the church.
The boy crunched his way through a plateful of crisps Andrés had placed in front of him and watched a television that hung from the ceiling at the end of the bar.

Just as Alberto was finishing his beer, the bead curtain rustled and Isabel stepped out of the kitchen.

‘Doña Isabel!’ said the boy brightly.

‘Hello, child,’ smiled Isabel. ‘Hello, Alberto.’

‘Hello,’ replied the old man warmly. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘So,’ said Isabel to Tino as she leant against the side of the bar. ‘What have you learnt? Are you any closer to knowing more about your grandpapá’s
history?’

The child suddenly looked at his grandfather. He had been distracted by the tree and had forgotten the reason for visiting the church.

Alberto nodded at the boy. He was pleased that the child had been able to play for a while.

‘I found out the name of the priest who looked after me,’ he said as cheerfully as he could.

‘What was it, Apu?’

‘Father Francisco.’

‘Did you find out what happened to him?’ asked Isabel.

‘He was considered a traitor by the Nationalists,’ said Alberto. ‘It seems he died during the war.’

‘Oh,’ said the boy.

Isabel shook her head sadly.

‘So we have reached the end of our search,’ said Alberto.

‘What?’ said the boy anxiously.

Alberto frowned. He had expected Tino to be disappointed, but the fretful reaction surprised him.

‘Well, there’s no more information to be gained from the orphanage, and Doña Isabel has very kindly helped us with everything she could. Now we know about my time here in this
village, before the orphanage. But there’s nothing else. I don’t remember anything before Father Francisco, and we’ve run out of clues.’

‘But can’t we ask someone else?’ The child seemed agitated.

‘Who?’

‘Other old people in the town?’

Alberto and Isabel chuckled.

‘What will we ask them?’ said Alberto gently. ‘“Excuse me. Do you remember a boy who was in this village for a short time in the 1930s?”’

The boy shook his head in alarm. ‘But, Apu, it can’t be over already.’

‘I know – it’s sad we didn’t get more answers. But we tried, didn’t we?’

‘But we didn’t find your birthday, Apu!’ the little boy whined, almost in tears.

Alberto glanced up at Isabel. She looked at him quizzically.

‘That’s what we are looking for – my birthday.’

‘Ah,’ said Isabel, looking at Tino. ‘I understand. Birthdays are so important to a child.’

‘For some reason, it has become important to me too,’ said Alberto quietly.

Isabel nodded kindly.

Suddenly, the little boy burst into tears.

D
ANTE

24 May 1934

It’s a mistake to come into the kitchen, but the smell is too tempting to resist – a wonderful mixture of frying onions and roasting meat. But one look at my wife
directing the dozen or so women and girls, and the military-style manoeuvres involved in the preparation of so many dishes, and I know this is no place for a man.

The large oak table is the centre of activity, with herbs being chopped, fruit being peeled and sausages being sliced. At the far end, away from the oven, Néstor sits in a chair propped
up by cushions. With chubby fingers he reaches into a bowl of shelled peas and does his best to put them in his mouth. Beside him stands Mimi, peering over the edge of the table watching Chita
gutting fish. The poor girl looks too terrified to move as women work around her, brushing her with their skirts.

‘Don Dante!’ calls Chita with a smile. ‘Have you come to help us?’

My wife turns to me, her face flushed and her usually perfect hair tousled. She tries to smile at me, but I can see she doesn’t have the time for unexpected visitors.

‘Chita, my wife obviously has everything under control.’ I smile at the working women and add, ‘The cooking smells magnificent, ladies.’ Then, turning to my wife, I say,
‘Perhaps I should liberate these two?’ and point to the children. With relief she smiles at me and nods.

As I pick Néstor up out of his chair and take Mimi’s little hand, my wife steps over to me, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Thank you, dear husband,’ she says. She gives
me a kiss on the cheek.

‘Don’t overtire yourself,’ I say quietly to her. ‘It’s a party. I want you to enjoy it too.’

‘I’ll enjoy it when all the work is done,’ she says. She picks up a couple of slices of chorizo from the table beside her. Popping them in my mouth, she smiles and turns back
to the stove to stir a bubbling pot.

Chewing the rich, spicy sausage, I lead Mimi out of the kitchen and into the courtyard. There, some of the men are setting up tables and bringing chairs out of the house.

Raúl is kneeling on the floor, attaching lanterns to a wire for hanging. Alberto is sitting beside him watching. As we approach, I look at Mimi and see her face light up at the sight of
her friend. Néstor seems unaffected and sucks on his fingers.

‘Can we help?’ I ask.

‘Dante! Excellent timing. I’m ready to hang these lanterns. Could you take the other end?’

I set Néstor down on the floor beside Alberto, and Mimi flops down alongside them both. They watch as Raúl and I fetch chairs and climb them to carefully attach the wire onto hooks
so the lanterns swing over the long tables.

When we’ve finished, we step back and take a look.

‘It’s going to be a great party, Dante,’ says Raúl. He smiles sadly at me.

I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s a celebration,’ I say softly.

He nods.

I know he must feel strange about today. After many years of hard work on both our parts, Quintero’s Winery has produced its first brandy. But the brandy is a memorial to the wife that he
has lost.

When Angelita died all those years ago, I wanted to do something that would express the grief we each felt. I had been thinking about expanding my vintage into brandy, and it had seemed a
fitting memorial. A beautiful woman of such charm and spirit deserved to be remembered forever, and the first bottle of our new brandy would do so.

The financial outlay to start producing a brandy has cost me a great deal, but now that my wine is the preferred choice of some of the most influential families in the region, the investment
seems a good one.