Alberto's Lost Birthday (23 page)

Fury rises in him and he sees himself running towards the soldier. He remembers Rubio’s lesson in how to hit and curls his hand into a fist. With all his might, he punches the
officer’s leg. He is just about to hit him again when a hand flies towards him and strikes him across the face. He hurtles back and falls to the ground.

Father Francisco rushes to him and kneels down beside him. The officer storms away.

‘Alberto,’ says the priest, looking into his face, ‘you shouldn’t have done that. I understand why you did, but these are dangerous times. Take great care of becoming
involved in other people’s arguments. Captain García could have killed you – and just for the sake of a priest’s pride.

‘When you are older,’ Francisco continues, ‘you will understand that there are times when you should get involved, and times when it is better to stand back.’

He watches the priest wipe the spit from his cheek with his sleeve.

‘Why did he spit on you, Father?’

The priest looks at him and smiles. ‘Because I am still learning when to stand back.’

The memory flitters and stutters forward in a staccato fashion, revealing emotions and images. He feels fear as he says goodbye to Father Francisco and climbs into a
soldier’s truck. He experiences an intense stab of grief as the truck passes fallen fighters and he sees the blond mop of El Rubio. He feels himself sink into a dark, deep hole and sees
nothing. Then far away, he hears his name.

‘Alberto,’ says a woman’s voice.

‘Alberto.’

He blinks. He is holding a chunk of bread. The warm, sweet smell of chocolate wafts from it, and he is just about to take a bite when he hears his name again.

‘Alberto.’

He looks up and sees a young woman. She is wearing an apron, and her dark hair is tied up – she has a serious look on her face. She holds a piece of paper in her hand. It is the piece of
paper on which El Rubio wrote his name.

He smells the chocolate and feels the warm bread in his hand.

‘Alberto.’

The old man looked up. Mimi sat in front of him. She held his hand tightly in hers.

‘Alberto,’ she said again softly.

Gruffly, he said, ‘I saw it, Mimi. I saw it. Everything that happened. The memories are coming back.’

‘It looks as if they are difficult memories,’ said Mimi gently.

Alberto nodded.

Mimi put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said quietly.

The old man looked at her and gave a sad smile. He lifted his glass of water to take a drink, but the glass shook with the trembling of his hand. Embarrassed, Alberto set the glass back
down.

‘Brandy?’ asked Mimi.

Alberto smiled and nodded.

‘Come with me,’ said Mimi. ‘I’ll show you the collection and you can choose a brandy.’

Alberto raised his eyebrows at his friend.

‘There is no one else I would rather share these wines with,’ said Mimi.

Alberto smiled at her appreciatively.

Mimi led him out the back of the house to some stairs. At the bottom was a large oak door, which Mimi opened with a key.

‘We had this cellar built for the collection,’ she explained as she pushed the heavy door open, found a light switch and flicked it on.

The cool, stone room was lined with shelves, each filled with dusty bottles. Alberto breathed in the dry, musty air as he followed Mimi inside.

‘The ones by the door are the more recent wines, including those sent by Javier. You see this marker here? This signifies the death of my father. To be honest, I’m not very
interested in the wines after that. But here’ – she waved her hand at the shelves of bottles – ‘is the wine that my father and our ancestors before him made.’

Alberto peered at the bottles but was frightened to touch them, conscious of their value.

‘There are more than five generations of our family’s wines here. Some are better than others; some have not aged well. But there are some outstanding wines. My father was always
very careful to maintain the collection, and I still have the log of all the wines stored here.’

‘It must make you proud of your family,’ said Alberto, taking in the scene.

‘Yes,’ said Mimi softly. ‘Yes, it does. I’m still trying to decide what to do with the collection when I’m gone. My children don’t want it – they
don’t have the historical links. And Néstor’s children are even less interested than my brother.

‘Of course, it’s worth quite a lot of money. Maybe I should just sell the collection, even though the thought pains me, and split the profit in my inheritance. I know I have to make
a decision soon, but I keep putting it off,’ Mimi sighed.

Alberto nodded uncomfortably. He had barely anything to leave his children and grandchildren.

‘Now,’ said Mimi, brightening up and rubbing her hands together. ‘The brandy collection is down here at the end.’

They crossed to the deepest part of the room, where the single bulb threw only a little light, and the shelves here were densely filled with the stout bottles.

‘Our brandy became very popular locally,’ explained Mimi. ‘My father was always very proud of it, and the fact that he had expanded the business.’ She reached up and
brought down a bottle. She wiped the dust off the label and showed it to Alberto.

‘This was a good year,’ she said. ‘My father really had a chance to develop the flavours. He and your father learnt a great deal from those first few years.’

‘Did you say he and my father began the brandy production together?’ asked Alberto thoughtfully. There was a memory fluttering around his mind.

‘Yes,’ said Mimi. She paused. She was remembering too: there was something significant about the beginning of the brandy production.

‘Could we see an early bottle?’ asked Alberto.

Mimi nodded and stepped to the corner of the room. There, she knelt down and wiped the tiny brass labels attached to the bottom shelf.

As she did, Alberto gasped. ‘The first brandy,’ he said. ‘I remember our fathers talking about it. It was a celebration.’

‘Yes,’ said Mimi, turning to him. ‘I remember too. The first bottle – it was dedicated to your mother!’

‘And the label on the bottle . . .’ said Alberto.

‘. . . shows the years of her birth and her death. Oh, Alberto, she died on your birthday.’

Alberto nodded, suddenly unable to speak. He reached for the wall and placed his hand on the cool stones to steady himself. After all these years of not knowing, he was about to find his
birthday.

Mimi reached for one of the bottles and slid it out of its shelf, then handed it to Alberto. Holding it carefully, he stepped towards the light. Mimi joined him, standing close beside him.

Alberto blew hard and a cloud of dust surrounded them. Then he wiped his hand over the label, revealing the Quintero family crest and, in heavy red letters beneath, the words Quintero Brandy. As
Alberto squinted at the faded ink, he saw words appear out of what he had first thought was a decorative flourish. It formed two dates.

At the sight of them, the old man smiled at the familiarity of his birthday.

Alberto turned to Mimi. ‘Just wait until we tell the boy,’ he said.

A
NGELITA

16 April 1931

A sharp pain jabs me, making me gasp. But almost as soon as it comes, it is gone. I rub my back gently. Through the night, I had noticed aches, but I didn’t wake
Raúl. Instead, I had watched him sleep, his kind face relaxed. He is a fine man. Often I think he is too good for me. He has integrity and honour, characteristics I fear I lack.

I pour the warmed milk into the bowl of coffee and set it on the table. I pick at a sweet roll and lean against the table – the wood feeling cool on my legs through my smock.

‘Good morning, my Angel,’ says Raúl, walking into the small kitchen. He reaches out for my hand and kisses its palm.

I smile at him. I’m lucky. He treats me like a princess, not a fallen woman.

He sits down to his breakfast of sweet rolls with honey. Slurping his coffee, he indicates for me to sit with him. I ease my enormous body into the seat next to him.

‘How are my wife and child today?’ he asks warmly.

‘We’re fine. I felt a little pain earlier.’ I see his eyebrows rise with a mixture of excitement and concern. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ I carry on
hurriedly. ‘The women say sometimes the body practises for what’s to come. It doesn’t mean the baby’s coming yet.’

‘But it’s due soon, Angel. Should I call for the midwife?’

‘No, Raúl. Not until we’re sure. When you’ve gone to work, I’ll go and see Chita.’

‘All right. But you must send for me the moment anything happens.’

‘Raúl,’ I laugh, ‘you know there’s no point. What can you do except pace and fret? Better that you get on with your work and leave it to the women.’

‘I can’t bear the thought of you being in pain,’ he says sadly.

‘But think what the result will be,’ I say, rubbing my huge stomach. As if to agree, the baby kicks.

Smiling, I reach for Raúl’s hand and place it so he can feel the baby kicking. It’s a sensation that Raúl never seems to tire of and he grins widely.

‘It is a wonder,’ he says, shaking his head.

‘What?’

‘The miracle of childbirth. The fact that any day a baby will arrive. A baby with ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. And, I’m sure, with your perfect beauty.’

There is a moment of discomfort as I wish I could return the compliment – tell him that I want the baby to have his calm and generous temperament. But I cannot.

Raúl sees my unease and, pushing his chair back, pulls me to him. Awkwardly, I sit on his lap, aware of my weight.

‘Angelita, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t worry. This baby will be mine too. I will be there with you, bringing it up. It will be me teaching it to speak and count and
read. It will learn my way of doing things. It may not have my nose, but it will have my sense of right and wrong. And I shall be proud of my achievements if it does.’

He rubs my back as I smile weakly at him. Usually it is me reassuring him, telling him that it is of little importance that he is not the baby’s blood father. In the last few weeks,
however, my mood has changed and I find myself full of doubts and fears.

‘Don’t be late for work,’ I say, standing up and walking to the sink.

Raúl drains the last of his coffee and crosses over to me. He puts his arms around me and nuzzles into my neck.

‘I love you, Angel,’ he whispers.

I smile and, turning to him, kiss his lips, breathing in his soapy smell.

‘I’ll have lunch with Dante today,’ he says as he heads for the door. ‘Put your feet up and have some rest.’

I smile again at him as he leaves.

Washing the dishes, I look out of the window and think about that kiss. Every time I kiss Raúl, I wait for that feeling. That tiny sparkle inside me. The sensation of fairy dust sprinkled
on my heart. I wait for it, but it never comes.

If I had not been in love before, I believe I would be happy with Raúl. He is warm and thoughtful, and he adores me. But I have been in love and I know what is missing.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the thought. I do love Raúl. And he knows I do. But it is not a love that lights up like a fire inside and ignites a glow that cannot be
extinguished.

Looking out of the window, my hands resting in the warm water, I think of that searing love. The sensation of pure happiness that surges through you every time you see the man you love. The
knowledge that you must be together, that to be apart feels wrong and throws the world out of kilter. And when you are together, it is impossible not to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him. And to
know absolutely that he feels the same way.

I shut my eyes and see his face. His eyes flecked with green. His soft brown curls. His strong chin. As I look at him, he says my name.
Angelita
. And he reaches both hands to cup my
face and pulls me towards him to kiss him.

‘Angelita?’

I turn quickly, flushed, to see Chita peeping in through the door.

‘Come in, Chita,’ I reply, wiping my hands on a cloth.

‘Señor Raúl asked me to visit you,’ says Chita, a smile on her face.

I am embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, Chita. You know how he worries. I’m sure it’s nothing, just a little pain this morning.’

‘You look well – you have a good colour. A little pain is to be expected at this time in your pregnancy. It may mean that the baby will come soon. Or it may not. It’s up to the
baby when it decides to come. Is it still moving?’

‘Oh yes,’ I say, laughing. ‘It’s been very active this morning.’

‘Then everything is going well,’ says Chita.

‘Do you have time for some coffee?’ I ask.

‘Of course,’ she says.

I know Chita works hard and I feel bad taking her from her chores, but I have few friends here. Everyone has been friendly and welcoming, but I know that some women feel uncomfortable with me.
Sometimes they catch their men looking at me and become a little cold towards me.

Luckily, Dante and his wife both treat me as a long-lost sister. I feel at ease with Dante because, for all his cheeky comments, I know that he has no room in his heart for anyone other than his
wife. Perhaps that’s why he and Raúl get on so well – they are both content.