Alberto's Lost Birthday (16 page)

In the dark, he heard the boy snuffle. He reached over and patted the boy’s head.

‘The doctors are very clever these days. They will do everything they can for your papá. It’s not like when I was young. When I was at the orphanage, there were children who
had been hurt terribly in the war.’

‘Really?’ came the small voice.

‘Yes. Children who had been scarred or lost limbs. Many of them were younger than you and had survived all sorts of dreadful things. One boy I knew had been in a house that was hit by a
shell. The house was reduced to rubble. He wasn’t dug out by rescuers until the next day. All of his family were dead. They took him to hospital, and he saw injuries there that you
couldn’t begin to imagine.

‘He was nearly completely deaf, after the noise of the explosion. He was confused and scared, so when he could, he ran away from the hospital.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘He found his way back to his street and some neighbours took him in. He lived with them until hunger and fear drove them to escape the city.’

‘So he got away?’

‘No. The Nationalists caught them. The older boys and men were shot.’

The boy gasped.

‘The women were taken to prison, and the younger children were split up and taken to different orphanages. They were lucky not to have been killed too.’

‘And you met him at the orphanage?’

‘Yes. His hearing came back slowly, but he couldn’t bear loud noises. I was quiet and he felt comfortable with me.’

‘It sounds awful, Apu.’

‘It was. That’s why people never talk about it these days. But when you think things are difficult for you, think of what others have been through. Your troubles will seem easier
then.’

There was silence while the boy seemed to contemplate his grandfather’s words.

‘Now,’ said the old man, ‘it’s late. Time to sleep.’

‘First, tell me again what you remembered, please, Apu.’

Alberto yawned, tired. ‘It was the label on the brandy bottle. I recalled seeing it before. And when Doña Isabel showed me the wine as well, I remembered a vineyard.’

‘Do you remember any people, Apu?’

‘No. Just a big house with a courtyard and rows and rows of vines.’

‘And the name on the bottle?’

‘Quintero? I recognized that too.’

‘Is it the name of the people who make the wine?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Maybe they know your family, Apu!’

‘Maybe. We’ll find out tomorrow.’

‘Apu?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think we’re going to find your birthday tomorrow.’

Alberto was silent. It had surprised him how much his mood had changed this afternoon: from the disappointment of reaching a dead end to the excitement of finding a new clue. In the bar just
before they went to bed, they made plans to visit Quintero’s Winery the next day. The address was on the label, and although Alberto had never been to that area as an adult, everything about
it seemed familiar.

And yet in the pit of his stomach lay an unsettling feeling – a very mild fear. Perhaps he would not like what he found. Perhaps questions would be answered only with questions. And now
all these memories from his time at the orphanage were flooding back too, the war seemed closer. He couldn’t remember a time since he’d lost María Luisa that he’d felt such
extreme emotions.

But the boy was right. It felt as if answers were within his reach. His family, his birthplace, his birthday: it seemed likely that if they discovered one, the others would follow.

He wondered if his father had been a worker at the vineyard. He knew many vineyards had become collectives during the war. Many wine producers had gone out of business, but as the bottles in
Isabel’s cabinet proved, Quintero’s had not.

He heard the child’s breathing become deeper and knew that he was asleep.

Quintero. He had always been sure his name was Romero. Isabel had reminded him of the paper in his pocket that spelt out his name. She had said there was writing on the other side. It was in
another language she recalled – German or English, she thought.

He had a vague recollection of a soldier writing the name down, but it was muddled. Soldiers and Father Francisco; the faces and uniforms were unclear to him. But the name – Alberto Romero
– had always seemed right.

Yet now he wasn’t quite sure. There was something about the name Quintero that gave him a sense of belonging.

Alberto lay in the dark trying to grasp the memory, but it was nothing more than a wisp.

The rhythm of the clapping and the strumming of the guitar reminded Alberto of evenings on the farms he’d worked on as a young man. As the taxi roared down the empty
road, the driver tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel in time to the traditional music that echoed around the car.

On the horizon, blue mountains merged into the distant grey clouds. All around them, the undulating land bore line after line of dark green vines. There were no people in the fields, although,
far in the distance, Alberto could see a bright red tractor lumbering slowly along.

Alberto looked at the sleeping boy, whose chin was wedged firmly into his chest. It had been a late night, and the whole family had been up early. Andrés had apologized for not being able
to drive them to Quintero’s, but he had to receive deliveries at the restaurant and he didn’t want to leave all the work to his mother. Thanking him, Alberto had told him that he and
his mother had done more than enough.

Isabel had come to wish them goodbye and good luck. She had given the boy a parcel of food for the journey, and the family had waved them off as they walked to the bus stop.

The bus had dropped them at the nearest village and they had found a taxi to take them out to the vineyard. They were now only a few minutes away. For the first time, Alberto had a tingle of
anticipation in the pit of his stomach.

‘Are you taking a tour of the vineyard, señor?’ asked the driver.

‘Maybe,’ said Alberto. He wanted to be left alone to his thoughts.

The driver took the hint and went back to tapping along to the music. As the road gradually began to rise, Alberto saw a building in the distance. Leaning forward, he squinted at it. The driver
noticed.

‘Señor, that’s the old hacienda. That’s Quintero’s.’

Alberto nodded, staring at it, realizing it meant something to him. He heard the boy stirring and turned to him.

‘Apu?’ said the sleepy child. He yawned and rubbed his eyes.

‘We’re nearly there.’

The boy joined his grandfather, looking blearily in the direction he pointed.

‘Is that your old house?’ he asked, wide-eyed.

‘I don’t know,’ said Alberto quietly. He shook his head.

As they drew level with the stone building, the driver turned off the main road. A large sign proclaimed, Q
UINTERO
’
S
W
INERY
– T
OURS AND
W
INE
T
ASTING
A
VAILABLE
. The car rumbled up a wide, dusty drive,
and Alberto could see a series of new low-rise buildings behind the large old house.

The taxi pulled up outside the building. Alberto paid with some coins from his small purse. The driver thanked him and gave him his number for when he was ready to be picked up.

The taxi drove off, leaving Alberto and the boy standing outside the building. A sign directed them through a large arch to the reception. Following the arrow, they entered a cool courtyard
shaded by jacaranda trees.

Alberto stopped and looked around. It was so familiar to him it was as if he’d only been here last week. The sensation unnerved him, but a bubble of excitement rose in his chest.

Tino looked up at him and smiled. Alberto squeezed his hand. He owed the child a great deal.

They entered the hacienda through a large doorway. Inside, a young woman sat at a reception desk, talking rapidly on the phone. She was discussing the delivery of an order to Sweden. She saw
Alberto and raised a finger at him – she would just be a minute.

Alberto gazed around. The room did not seem familiar. Modern furniture created a waiting room, with leaflets, brochures and wine magazines on every table. He had the sense that the building
should smell of food, but it did not. It smelt of furniture polish.

He walked back to the open door and looked across the courtyard. On the opposite side, a large sign that said, C
ELLAR
, hung over a wooden door.

Tino came up beside him and leant against his hip.

Finally, the woman finished her conversation and turned to Alberto.

‘How may I assist you, señor?’ she asked.

‘Good morning, señorita,’ he said politely. ‘Could you tell me, are the owners here today?’

‘Do you have a meeting booked?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Alberto. ‘This is not business; it’s personal.’

The woman looked at the boy, who smiled at her. She smiled back and her face softened.

‘I’ll see what I can do, señor. Could I have your name, please?’

‘Romero.’

‘Thank you, Señor Romero. Please take a seat while I call through for you.’

Alberto nodded his thanks and turned to sit in a large leather armchair. He was not used to such expensive furnishings and felt uncomfortable, but the boy followed him and clambered onto his
knee.

‘Apu?’ he whispered.

‘Yes.’

‘We’re nearly there.’

‘Let’s see.’

Alberto heard the woman talking quietly on the phone, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. She seemed to be cajoling the person on the other end. Eventually, she put the phone down
and smiled at Alberto.

‘The owner will be down shortly. Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?’

‘Thank you. No.’

The girl nodded and went back to her work behind the desk.

After a few minutes, Alberto heard steps coming down the stairs, and when a door opened, he saw a middle-aged man approaching. The man was well dressed and clean-shaven, and his shoes clicked on
the polished floor as he walked towards them.

The boy jumped off his grandfather’s knee and Alberto stood.

‘Señor Romero,’ said the man smoothly. He offered his hand. ‘My name is Javier. I am the owner.’

Alberto shook the man’s hand.

‘Please, señor, come up to my office,’ said Javier. He directed them towards the door from which he had just come.

The old man and small boy climbed the stairs to a large office on the first floor. Windows on both sides of the room gave views over the extensive vineyard. Air-conditioning hummed quietly, and
Alberto thought it sad the windows weren’t open to allow a cool breeze and the scent of the plants to enter.

The man sat behind a large desk covered in computers and gadgets Alberto did not recognize. On the wall behind the desk was a selection of framed certificates. Alberto sat on an upright chair
and Tino stood beside him.

‘How may I be of service, Señor Romero?’ asked the man when he was settled.

‘Could you tell me,’ began Alberto awkwardly, ‘did your family run this vineyard during the time of the war?’

‘My family? The war?’ asked Javier, surprised. ‘No, no, not at all. My family were not in the wine business at all.’

Alberto remained still.

‘My father was a businessman. I took over his business and now have a number of successful businesses of my own. Three years ago, I decided to branch out into wine. I bought this winery
then, and have since bought two more small ones. I’m modernizing and consolidating them.’

‘Oh,’ said Alberto.

‘Yes,’ said Javier. ‘This winery was not doing well. The processes used were old-fashioned and inefficient. There was no room for growth, and they had no international
connections. In just a few years, I’ve invested a great deal to modernize the production and now our export capacity is as good as any major wine brand you can name.’

Alberto looked out of the window. Disappointment overwhelmed him again. Tino looked at him sadly.

Javier saw their reaction and continued, ‘Señor, I believe the family I bought the business from were here during the war.’

Alberto turned to him, his eyes sharp.

‘In fact, I know they were. In our literature, we mention that the winery was owned by one family for nearly two centuries. That’s where the name came from – the Quintero
family. We considered changing it, but it’s a solid name that our marketing department believed we could build on.’

Javier stood up and walked to a bureau at the back of the room.

‘If it’s the Quinteros you’re looking for, this may be of help,’ he said, opening a drawer.

Alberto stood and he and the boy crossed the room to join Javier.

Javier pulled a plastic file out of the drawer. He opened it and took out some old black-and-white photos.

‘I believe this is the family,’ he said. He held up one of the pictures.

Alberto and the boy looked closely. The photo was taken at the front of the house and showed a group of four people. Their clothes suggested it was the 1950s. In the centre was a large, balding
man in a white shirt. He was trying to look serious, but Alberto could see his smiling eyes. Next to the man was a smart woman, and beside her, a fat teenage boy and a pretty young woman.

‘This,’ said Javier, pointing at the boy, ‘must be Néstor. It was Néstor Quintero that I bought the winery from.’

Alberto nodded.

Javier gave Alberto the photo and shuffled through the rest of the pictures. ‘That one was obviously taken after the war, and others seem to be a bit later. I’m not sure if they help
you at all?’

Alberto was peering closely at the girl. The whole family seemed familiar, but the girl was particularly memorable. Turning the photo over, he was disappointed to see there were no names.

‘Señor?’ said Javier.

‘I’m sorry. This is what we are looking for, thank you. I don’t suppose you know where Don Quintero lives now?’

Javier paused for a moment.

‘I’m sorry to say, señor, that Néstor Quintero died shortly after the sale was completed.’

Alberto’s shoulders slumped.

‘With the money from the sale, he bought a large house near the city. I remember him saying he never wanted to live on a farm again. Sadly, he had a heart attack not long after he moved to
his new home.’