Alberto's Lost Birthday (20 page)

They all sat in silence for a moment.

‘Aunt Mimi?’ said the boy earnestly.

‘Yes, dear,’ Mimi smiled at him.

‘Do you know when Apu’s birthday is?’

Mimi looked at Alberto. ‘You don’t remember your birthday?’

He shook his head.

‘Oh dear. Let me think. My father liked any excuse for a fiesta, so we would have celebrated your birthday. We were similar in age, you and I, but while my birthday is in June, I’m
afraid I can’t remember yours.’

The little boy’s face fell.

‘I’m sorry – both of you.’

Alberto gave Mimi a small smile. ‘Don’t worry, Mimi. The reason we came on this journey was to find my birthday. But’ – he turned to his grandson – ‘because
of this journey I have found my oldest friend. And I have found some of my memories. I remember playing in the cellars at Quintero’s. I remember the warm kitchen that always smelt of food.
They’re not crystal clear; they’re a bit blurry – but they’re my memories.’ Reaching out, Alberto stroked the boy’s head. ‘And I have you to thank for
that.’

Tino looked at his grandfather and smiled.

‘Wait,’ said Mimi suddenly.

As they both turned, she stood up and left the room. Vito lifted his head and watched her go, then laid his head back down, his eyebrows twitching.

The boy turned to Alberto with a questioning look and the old man shrugged.

When Mimi returned, she held an old leather-bound book in her hand. She stood in front of Alberto and held it out to him.

Before he could take it, a thin piece of card fell from the book and fluttered onto the floor, landing in front of Vito, who quickly sniffed it with his wet nose.

The boy leant down from his chair and picked up the card. Turning it in his fingers, he revealed a photo of a woman. She was young and attractive with warm, dark eyes, and although the picture
was serious, a smile danced around her lips.

‘Who’s that, Apu?’

Alberto carefully took the old photo, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Alberto,’ said Mimi quietly. ‘That’s your mother.’

The old man caught his breath. He stared at the photo, bringing it closer to his eyes. Immediately, he could see similarities – the shape of her face, her nose, but, most strikingly, her
eyes were just like his.

Alberto let out a short breath. The more he looked at the photo, the more familiar it seemed. As if he had seen it many times before.

Turning the photo over, Alberto looked for writing on the smudged paper. There was nothing.

Reading his mind, Mimi said, ‘Her name was Angelita.’

‘Angelita,’ repeated the old man softly.

‘Little Angel,’ said the boy.

‘I kept this to remind me of you,’ said Mimi, giving Alberto the book in her hands. ‘At first, I kept everything I could – your toys, your schoolbooks, all sorts of
things. But over the years, I let them go. When I left home, this was the only thing of yours that I kept. And I have kept it all these years.’

Carefully, the old man turned the book in his hands. Its dark red cover was faded, and the gold edging of the paper only shone in patches. A tatty red ribbon hung from the middle pages. The
words H
OLY
B
IBLE
were embossed simply on the front cover.

Very slowly, Alberto opened it, releasing a musty smell. An inscription was written in tidy letters on the first page.

F
ATHER
F
RANCISCO

21 July 1931

The mule’s ears twitch as it pulls the cart. The peasant beside me seems to have dozed off, but the animal plods on regardless. I’m glad for the peace to gather my
thoughts.

It’s been three months since the king’s abdication and the repercussions are now becoming obvious. A Republic will soon be announced, and the country will be governed by a doctrine
that separates State and Church. I, like many of my brethren, am concerned.

But for now, I can put my worries to one side, as I am on my way to visit my old friend Father Sebastián. We worked together in the city many years ago, and have been in touch from time
to time, but this will be the first time we’ve seen each other in many years.

I assume he has heard of my new posting, and the recent tragic events, through the bishop. I’m unsure I can talk about it yet, but I am looking forward to seeing him again.

Without instruction, the mule veers off the road and onto a small path. The man beside me snores gently. I consider waking him, but the animal seems to know where it’s going.

It is late morning and the sun is at full strength. My black robes and hat are devilishly hot and not for the first time I wonder who decided on black for our uniform. After all, I don’t
believe our Lord Jesus wore black – he lived in a hot country too.

All around us, the land is dry and dusty. The summer has been harsh so far, and, as in my village, the people here will be wishing for some unseasonable but welcome rain. There is not a breath
of wind. Apart from the regular clomp of the mule’s hoofs and the occasional bird, it is deathly quiet.

In the distance, I see a small cluster of houses and buildings. That must be Father Sebastián’s town. I realize I am looking forward to being somewhere other than my own home. I
have lived in the village for only a few months, but it has been an extremely difficult time. I am pleased to be away from there for a few days.

As we approach the town, I see a few women walking towards us. I nudge the driver awake and instruct him to stop, and they come close enough for me to touch their scarfed heads. I ask them where
they are going and they reply shyly that they are going home after market. They point to their meagre bundles wrapped on their backs – the week’s simple purchases. They smile at me,
revealing missing teeth, and continue on their way. It seems impossible to think that the Church is so threatened by the poor.

We head into the centre of the town and past the small market, now packing up. The driver directs the docile mule up a small street behind the back of the church. We stop outside a large house
and my companion points to the door. Thanking him, I let him hand me my bag as I climb down.

I pull the chain and deep inside the house I hear a bell ring. The mule clip-clops up the cobbled street. The driver looks ready for another siesta, and I imagine that he will be happy to go
wherever the mule decides to take him.

The door opens and an elderly woman stands in the doorway. ‘Father Francisco,’ she says politely. ‘Welcome.’

She opens the door and lets me into the dark reception room. ‘Father Sebastián is expecting you,’ she says, leading me down the corridor. The house may be large, but it is
simply furnished. Father Sebastián, like me, abhors the ostentatious homes some priests have. For Sebastián, I believe it is a question of style – his being modest and
unassuming. For me, I would prefer church funds were used to help the poor than dress a house unnecessarily.

The woman knocks on the door at the end of the corridor and waits for a response. I recognize Sebastián’s deep voice instantly and I feel myself relax. The woman opens the door and
there, walking towards me, is my old friend.

Portly and red-cheeked, he has put on some weight, but it is so good to see him I decide not to remark on it. He seems pleased to see me as we shake hands.

‘Welcome, Francisco,’ he says warmly. Then, ‘Señora,’ he says over my shoulder, ‘please bring lunch at your convenience.’

The woman nods and closes the door behind her. It is only one o’clock, so I am surprised to hear of eating already, but the journey has been long and I realize I am hungry.

‘How was the trip?’ asks Sebastián. He points me towards a comfortable chair.

‘Good, thank you,’ I reply. ‘But extremely hot.’

There’s a knock on the door and the señora enters with a small tray. She places a glass of water beside me and gives us each a crystal glass of light sherry before putting the
bottle on the table beside Sebastián. He thanks her and she quietly leaves the room.

‘So good to see you, friend,’ says Sebastián. He smiles and raises his glass. We drink the cool, sharp sherry and pass pleasantries, until there’s a second knock on the
door and the señora enters again. She carries another tray to the large oak table and starts laying out food. When she has finished, Sebastián and I rise from our chairs and cross to
the table. After a brief blessing, Sebastián pours wine from a decanter, while I look at the spread before us.

‘What a generous table of food, Sebastián,’ I say.

‘I am grateful for all I receive,’ he replies, smiling.

‘And what will you do if the rumours are true and the government stops paying our salaries?’ I ask.

‘Oh, dear friend, I had to buy very little of this food. Most of it is gifted to me by my loyal congregation.’

I nod, watching him take a large mouthful of asparagus and roasted red pepper. He certainly has won the support of the area’s richest families.

Teasing him a little, I say, ‘Perhaps the Church should stand alongside the poor – make a difference where we can.’

‘Perhaps, Francisco,’ says Sebastián, easing back in his seat and smiling at me. ‘And perhaps you should have followed your namesake and become a Franciscan
monk.’

‘I’m not about to give up my boots, Sebastián,’ I reply. ‘But you know this new Republic poses a very great threat to us – whatever your political point of
view. It plans to stop all religious education and ban all religious processions – even the ringing of church bells.’

He looks at me, appalled. ‘No church bells in Spain, Francisco?’

‘They want change. And change is not convincing unless everyone can see and hear it. They call the new Republic “the Beautiful Child”. They’ve given birth to something
they believe is a force for good. I think the only way to survive is to join them in raising their beautiful child.’

He refills his glass and swirls the wine thoughtfully. ‘How did it come to this, Francisco?’

‘We’ve been too comfortable for too long, friend,’ I reply gently. ‘We’ve become complacent and forgotten our vows. These days, the Spanish Church would most likely
consider Christ a Marxist.’

‘Hush,’ says Sebastián with a laugh. ‘You will land yourself in trouble if you’re not careful.’

I smile at him. He is a good man. Mild-mannered and easy-going, he joined the Church for an easy life – as a great many men do. I do not think he is prepared for what may be coming.

‘Here, comrade,’ says Sebastián. He refills my glass. ‘Have another glass of wine with me before you join the revolution.’

It is still humid and warm despite the late hour. A fat, red ball of sun is just about to set behind the far, hazy mountains. I hear Sebastián huffing behind me and slow my pace.

‘I don’t know why you wouldn’t let us take the cart,’ says Sebastián. He pats his forehead with a handkerchief.

‘I think we both needed some fresh air, friend,’ I reply. After an afternoon of eating, drinking and conversing, we had both dozed off in our chairs. Unlike Sebastián, I am
unaccustomed to drinking so heartily and awoke feeling thick-headed and slow; when he asked me to help him talk to one of his parishioners, I agreed, pleased to stretch my legs.

Up ahead is a large hacienda. It’s an attractive building, and the lines of vines alongside us are well kept.

‘What did you say the owner’s name was?’ I ask.

This gives Sebastián a moment to pause and get his breath. ‘Don Dante,’ he replies. ‘His family have had this vineyard for over one hundred and fifty years. He’s
very popular in the area. He looks after his workers and is well respected by both them and his customers. I’m sure you’ll approve of him.’

I smile at Sebastián. He must think I am far too opinionated for a cleric.

‘But it is Raúl I have come to see,’ says Sebastián.

‘His son?’

‘No, his chemist.’

I turn to Sebastián with a quizzical look.

‘It’s a sad story. Raúl and his wife arrived about a year ago. Dante was looking for someone to help him improve his wine and was open to a little experimentation. Raúl
was looking for a job away from the city and they became friends instantly. Dante swears he saw the value of the scientist’s contribution very quickly.

‘I believe the wife was pregnant when they arrived – a beautiful young woman. I rarely saw her, though. She never came to Mass in all those months. Raúl made excuses for her,
but I spoke to Dante about it once. He said she had fallen out of love with religion. It was his opinion that with a little time, she would grow to love it again. She never got the chance. She died
in childbirth a few months ago.’

I tut sadly, and for a while we walk in silence.

‘And the baby?’ I ask eventually.

‘Healthy and well,’ says Sebastián.

‘Excellent.’

‘But I am concerned that the father hasn’t spoken to me about the baptism yet,’ he says.

‘Do you think it has something to do with the mother’s opinion of religion?’ I ask.