Alberto's Lost Birthday (21 page)

‘It shouldn’t matter,’ he says flatly. ‘It’s his decision now.’

‘Perhaps he just needs a little time,’ I say.

‘After all you’ve said about the decline of Catholicism in the masses,’ says Sebastián seriously, ‘surely you think we should make every effort to bring all the
children we can into the arms of the Church? That baby should be baptized – the sooner the better.’

‘
And now why tarriest thou? Arise, and be baptized, and wash away thy sins, calling on the name of the Lord
,’ I quote, quietly.

‘Exactly! Don’t you remember when we all worked at the children’s hospital in the city? Antonio would baptize newborns in case they didn’t survive. Most of their parents
would have objected given the chance, but he thought saving their souls was more important.’

At the mention of Antonio’s name, I fall silent. This visit has, in part, helped me escape what has been a difficult time.

Sebastián notices and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘What happened?’ he asks. I realize he has probably been wanting to ask about our mutual friend since my arrival.

I take a deep breath. ‘I truly don’t know why he did it. I don’t believe I’ll ever understand, despite knowing him so well.’

Antonio and I had become friends at the seminary when we began our training. I had chosen the Church; Antonio’s family expected it of him. It was me he turned to when, as happened from
time to time, he questioned his faith. He worried that he would not live up to what was expected of him. We talked about ideology a great deal, but he rarely seemed to find the answers he was
looking for.

After college, we had been sent to work in a hospital in the city, where we met Sebastián. We were shocked to find just how extreme the poverty was – and the poorer the area, the
smaller the church attendance. It was hard work, but at last, Antonio had found some contentment in his situation.

He had moved some years later. A priest had passed away and Antonio was asked to take over a church situated in quite a wealthy part of town. We met occasionally after that, but I had to admit I
noticed a change in him. He became distant and uncommunicative, and I sensed his demons had returned. At times, he was angry, furious with himself and with God. At other times, he was overwhelmed
by remorse, pleading for forgiveness from his sins.

The last time I’d seen him, he’d told me he was leaving the parish. He said he had requested a new post. He said his current position had made him question his faith again – in
fact, it had pushed what faith he had to its limit. He thought if he could go somewhere different, somewhere that he was really needed again, it would help him find a way back to God.

He’d been granted a position in the rural village where I now live. I promised to visit as soon as I could, but I never had the chance.

A few months ago, I had been summoned in the middle of the night. The bishop had sent his car and I was driven to the village. The bishop himself met me there. He told me that the church
custodian had found Antonio that evening. He had hanged himself.

I sigh at the memory and say, ‘You know almost as much as I do, Sebastián.’

‘I only know that he took his own life, and that you have now taken over his parish.’

‘When the bishop arrived, he discovered that Antonio had left a letter. It was addressed to me, so the bishop had me brought to the village.

‘But when I read the suicide note, it revealed little. It thanked me for being such a good friend and begged my forgiveness. He gave no explanation as to why he had been driven to this
terrible deed. It had simply said that he was not worthy of being a priest.’

‘Where was he laid to rest?’ asks Sebastián.

‘In the churchyard.’

Sebastián gasps. ‘But, Francisco, it’s a mortal sin.’

‘The bishop wanted his body to be returned to his family. But they are wealthy with strong connections to the Church. It would have ruined them to bury their shamed son. The bishop wanted
the problem to go away and I suggested that we bury him in the churchyard in an unmarked grave.’

‘Well, I still don’t know,’ says Sebastián.

‘He was our friend,’ I say gently.

Sebastián wipes his head with his handkerchief and nods, then gestures for me to continue.

‘I then asked the bishop if I could stay on. I felt I owed it to Antonio. I wanted to be where he had suffered so much. And if his spirit remained in some state of purgatory, I could maybe
help him.’

‘The devil must have been whispering in his ear to commit such a sin,’ says Sebastián.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘I don’t think we’ll ever know. Perhaps it pays to remember that we are only men. Weak and sinful men.’

‘If Antonio’s spirit remains in the church, I can’t feel it,’ I continue. ‘But every day I pray for him.’

‘May God bless him,’ says Sebastián.

We approach the front of the house, and Sebastián leads me through an arch into a courtyard. There, a man with a round, kindly face is bouncing a baby on his knee. He
beams when he sees us and stands, shifting the baby onto his side. ‘Welcome, welcome,’ he says cheerily.

Sebastián introduces me and the man – Dante – shakes my hand warmly. ‘You are welcome. This is little Mimi,’ he says, proudly holding up the child.
Sebastián chucks her under the chin.

‘Come inside and have a drink,’ says Dante.

We step into the warm house, and Dante leads me through to the kitchen. There, sitting at a large table, is a middle-aged woman, her hair wrapped in a scarf. She is holding another baby.

Dipping her head to us, she stands and carries the baby to a Moses basket, where she settles him.

‘Father Francisco, have you had far to come?’ Dante asks.

I explain where my village is, and we discuss the journey for a while. Sipping the wine, I compliment Dante on its flavour.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I put it down to a satisfying blend of generations of experience and a modern approach to winemaking.’

The door clicks open and I turn to see a young man enter the room. His face looks aged beyond its years, and dark circles lie under his eyes. He is unshaven, and his shirt is crumpled. I can
only assume this is Raúl.

‘Aha,’ cries Dante, ‘Raúl, you know Father Sebastián, and this is Father Francisco, who is currently visiting.’

Raúl hides his initial look of surprise with a tired smile.

‘How are you, Raúl?’ asks Sebastián.

‘Fine, thank you, Father,’ he replies. It is clear he is not.

‘Chita?’ he says to the woman as he walks towards the baby in the basket.

‘Alberto’s fine. I’m just preparing his milk now.’

The young man picks the baby up and, holding him gently, stares into his eyes. Then he pulls the child tightly to him, his own eyes closed firmly.

‘Raúl?’ says Sebastián gently.

After a moment, the man opens his eyes and looks at the priest.

‘When would you like me to perform his baptism?’

A dark look passes over Raúl’s face, but he is silent.

‘I said, when would you like—’ repeats my friend.

‘I heard you, Father,’ says the man.

‘Well?’

After some thought, Raúl says, ‘When I am ready to organize Alberto’s christening, I would be honoured if you would perform the ceremony.’

There is a silence; we are all aware that Raúl is procrastinating.

‘Raúl, I know you’ve been through a great trauma . . .’ urges Sebastián.

The young man shakes his head, as if to dispel an annoying voice inside it.

‘But,’ continues Sebastián, ‘this child is ready to be released from original sin.’

‘No,’ says Raúl weakly.

‘It is for Alberto’s salvation,’ says Sebastián with force.

‘No!’ shouts Raúl.

The room is still, stunned at this outburst. Raúl buries his head into his son’s neck, clearly overcome with grief. As we watch, he takes a deep breath, smelling the baby’s
sweet scent. For this moment, his world is his son.

Awkwardly, Sebastián reaches out to stroke the child’s hair but stops himself. Instead, his gaze directed firmly at the heartbroken young man in front of him, he says softly,
‘Forgive me, Raúl.’

Raúl looks up bleary-eyed at the priest and slowly nods.

All of us stand uncomfortably until Dante says, ‘Father Sebastián, would you care to see our new casks?’

Sebastián gratefully accepts the invitation, and handing his daughter to Chita, Dante gently leads him out of the kitchen.

‘You’ve done the right thing,’ says Chita to Raúl.

I pour him a glass of wine from the bottle on the table and pass it to him. He takes it with a suspicious glance towards me.

‘There is no rush,’ I say. He is clearly surprised by my words and he nods gratefully at me, but just as he is about to respond, Mimi hiccups and vomits milk over herself and
Chita.

‘I’ll have to change her again.’ The woman sighs, walking towards the door.

As she leaves, Raúl smiles. ‘She’s always doing that.’

I smile back at him, glad that the mood has relaxed.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

‘Fine,’ he replies.

‘I imagine you’ve said you’re fine a great deal over the past few months, when you really aren’t.’

Raúl looks me in the eye before returning his attention to baby Alberto.

‘Sebastián has told me of your situation and I am sorry for your loss,’ I say to him. After years of being a priest, these are words that come easily. But I feel for this man.
He looks as if the life has been sucked out of him.

He shrugs and I can see he believes that my words are well meant but insincere.

‘I recently lost a very close friend,’ I say. ‘I have never been married, but I understand the pain of loss.’

Raúl looks at me.

Reaching for my satchel, I pull out a book. It is a Bible. In fact, it is Antonio’s Bible. I have been carrying it with me since I found it among his possessions. It is beautiful in its
simplicity – a dark red cover and gold-edged pages.

‘Raúl, this has been a comfort to me in dark times. Now I hope it helps you as it has me.’ I hand the Bible to Raúl, who takes it cautiously.

‘And I believe that one day you will be ready to have Alberto baptized. Please accept this gift for him on that day. If you decide not to have him baptized, please give the Bible to him
when he’s old enough to read it and understand it. That way, you place the decision in his own hands.’

Raúl turns the book, thoughtfully, before looking at me. ‘Thank you,’ he says.

‘Would you like me to bless Alberto before we leave?’ I ask.

Raúl smiles down at the baby. The child responds with a gurgle that makes Raúl grin. ‘I think a blessing would be fine,’ he says.

‘Alberto,’ said Mimi gently, ‘do you remember anything about the day you went missing?’

The old man shook his head. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to remember. That day had changed the course of his life. He could have been part of that comfortable family in the photo.
Instead, he had been on his own, all through the years at the orphanage and then his young adult life. Until María Luisa.

Taking a deep breath, Alberto looked at Mimi. This was why he had come on this journey. This was the memory that had been missing for most of his life. Mimi was the only person who could tell
him. It had been sixty-five years. It was time.

‘Please,’ Alberto said hoarsely, ‘can you tell me?’

Mimi nodded at Alberto, then topped up his glass of wine. The boy had gone to bed, and Vito was curled up outside his bedroom door. The house was quiet and calm.

Mimi chewed her lip absent-mindedly, as if trying to decide where to begin. Alberto waited.

‘Well,’ she started carefully, ‘you and your father went for a drive. He had a big, old car that he adored. It was late afternoon, and you both left in the car. But you never
came back.’

‘Where were we going?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mimi. She stumbled a little over the words.

Alberto looked at Mimi. She shook her head and sighed.

‘We were playing. You, me and Néstor. There was an argument and you and Néstor had a fight. Your father came and took you off for a drive – to ease the
situation.’

‘What was the argument about?’

‘Oh, nothing. Childish things,’ said Mimi. She looked into her glass.

Alberto looked at Mimi and recalled that his friend had always been a terrible liar. ‘Mimi, I’ve come so far for this. Please tell me the truth.’

Mimi looked at him and gave a deep sigh. Reluctantly, she began to speak again. ‘Néstor was not a nice child. He was jealous of our friendship – you and me. Being a little bit
younger, he was always trying to keep up with us. My parents, too, must take some of the blame. My father always wanted a boy, and he and my mother spoilt Néstor.’ Mimi took a sip of
her wine, then continued, ‘He was mean to me that day. And you defended me.’

As Alberto listened to Mimi talk, he saw images in his mind’s eye to match the words. He saw the courtyard dappled in light. He saw Néstor push Mimi to the ground. He saw his own
reaction.

‘I hit him,’ said Alberto softly.

‘You remember?’ asked Mimi quickly.