Alberto's Lost Birthday (25 page)

A short time later, when I discovered I was expecting Antonio’s child, I considered telling him. But his words had been so final, I didn’t dare try even to speak to him again. In my
distress and loneliness, I had turned to an old friend. Raúl had suggested what seemed to be the answer to all our problems. Fear drove me to agree and feign delight when we announced our
engagement to our parents.

Just a few short weeks later, I entered the chapel on my wedding day, dressed in my mother’s white dress, the long veil hiding my wretchedness. And as I turned from a grinning Raúl
to the priest, I saw Antonio. It had never crossed my mind to ask who my father would appoint to conduct the ceremony. The horror of the situation overwhelmed me and I fainted. Raúl caught
me, while Antonio looked on, his pain obvious.

My mother’s smelling salts and stern words made me compose myself and the marriage continued. I could barely look at either Antonio or Raúl. And when the ceremony was over, I swore
I would never step foot in another church. A God that creates such intense love, then forbids it, then throws it back in your face, is not a God that I want to worship.

For a moment, I see Antonio’s face again. My heavy veil masks his features, but I see his warm eyes swimming with tears. The sight makes me sigh with sorrow and weariness.

‘Angelita,’ says an insistent voice.

Stirring, I try to open my eyes, but I am too tired.

‘Angelita,’ says the voice, louder this time.

I force my eyes open and see the doctor. He is holding my wrist and looking at his watch. I notice María Teresa standing over me, rubbing my stomach. There are no smiles now; her face is
stern and set. Behind her, I see Chita standing in the doorway holding a small bundle. I relax, knowing my baby is nearby.

I want to speak to the doctor, ask what is happening, but I don’t have the strength. Far away, I hear a splashing sound and see María Teresa look down with a horrified expression on
her face. The doctor drops my arm and steps towards my legs. As I look up, I see Chita disappear out of the door.

Everything is swimming now. I see Raúl, his worried face looking down at me, speaking words I cannot hear. I see Mercedes as a child, laughing as we chase each other across the garden,
our white Communion dresses fluttering in the wind. I see Antonio, his handsome face breaking into a large smile as he says my name over and over. And then I see a small boy, with soft brown curls
and eyes flecked with green. He looks at me seriously, but as I smile at him, I see the tiniest of smiles turn the corners of his lips.

I think he is the most beautiful child I have ever seen.

16 April 2006

Albertino stood on his tiptoes and reached up to the fattest lemon he could see. The leaves rustled as he twisted and broke the stalk. Carefully, he lifted the lemon to his
nose and breathed in, as he had seen his grandfather do so many times.

The lemon smelt fresh and sweet and clean, and he nodded to himself before turning and bounding off to the table with it. There, Señora Ortiz was making up jugs of sangria. The boy handed
the large lemon to her and she smiled at him.

‘That’s a big one,’ she said, squeezing it. ‘Thank you, Tino.’ She picked up a large knife and cut the lemon in half.

Beside her, other women from the village were opening bottles of wine and lemonade, and breaking large blocks of ice wrapped up in towels. Albertino wondered if Papá would let him try a
little sangria today.

He looked towards his parents. They were standing together talking to his aunt and uncle. His papá looked healthy and well, despite leaning on a walking stick. His mother smiled and
rubbed her husband’s back gently as she listened to her sister talk.

When he had returned home after his trip with his grandfather, Albertino had been wary of going to the hospital for the first time. But instead of the silent, frightening Egyptian mummy, his
father had been sitting up and talking. He still had some bandages on his head, but his face had been uncovered. Although swollen and discoloured, it was Papá.

On that first visit, his mamá had allowed him to sit very carefully on the edge of the bed and talk to his papá. His father listened with interest to Tino’s account of their
search for Apu’s birthday, occasionally asking questions about who they had met, and what they had discovered.

Albertino had noticed that his father kept his hands under the covers. The boy’s mother had told him Papá’s hands were going to take a long time to recover. And she was right.
His father had been through many operations as the surgeons tried to make his hands and arms better.

Rosa had explained to her son that the doctors had taken some skin from other parts of Papá’s body and put it on the part that was burnt the worst. She said that the skin started to
grow just like it was always supposed to be there, and soon it would look like new. These days, all these months on, Albertino thought his papá’s hands looked much better than they
did, but they still didn’t look like before. His father’s fine and dexterous fingers were now fat and clumsy. He watched his father struggle to do things that he used to do without
thinking – Mamá even had to cut up his food for him like a baby.

His papá hadn’t worked since the accident. His mother had taken more shifts at the factory, but the boy had heard his parents talk in hushed tones when they thought he wasn’t
listening, and he knew they were worried about money.

But today, it seemed that they had put their worries aside. Albertino thought his mother looked pretty in her best dress and his father very smart in his hat. He had to wear a hat all the time
he was outside now, as his skin was sensitive to the sun, but his father said he would start a fashion for men’s wide-brimmed hats that would spread across the country.

‘So, little one,’ said Señora Ortiz, ‘would you like to see who wants sangria?’

The boy nodded and carefully picked up a large earthenware jug, filled to the brim with the crimson liquid, slices of lemon and orange bobbing on the surface with the ice. Gingerly walking
across the dried earth, he made his way towards a group of men. Tall and cheery, Andrés stood at the centre of them. The group were mainly men from the village, but after so many years
looking after customers in Los Niños, Andrés was comfortable chatting with strangers.

Seeing the boy approach with the full sangria jug, Andrés stepped forward to help.

‘Is this for us, Tino?’ he asked.

When the boy nodded shyly, Andrés took the jug from him, saying, ‘Let me – I’m a professional, you know.’

‘Señores?’ he said, holding the jug up to them.

Most of the men nodded happily and lifted their glasses. As he began to fill the mixture of plastic cups, wine glasses and mugs, Andrés began to sing.

‘
And I say thank you to the Señor for the women. Yes, the women and the wine . . .
’

His voice was strong and melodic, and while some of the men joined in, others sipped their drinks and listened, smiling at the familiarity of the old song.

The boy smiled too as he watched Andrés raise his glass to the heavens and thank the Lord one last time for the sangria. The men cheered with approval as he finished the song, and those
standing around clapped appreciatively.

As Andrés started to sing another song, Albertino dashed over to his parents. His aunt and uncle had moved on to talk to some family friends, and his mother was talking quietly to his
father.

‘Mamá, Papá,’ cried the boy, running up, ‘Señor Andrés is singing!’

‘Oh,’ said his mother. ‘So he is. He’s very good, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ replied his father, nodding. ‘Remind me,’ he asked – although he already knew the answer – ‘where did you and Apu meet him?’

‘At Los Niños – the restaurant. His mamá is Doña Isabel. She looked after Apu when he was in the orphanage,’ said the boy excitedly.

‘Ah, that’s right. If he sings like that in his restaurant, maybe we should take a day out and go for lunch.’

Albertino nodded enthusiastically, but his mother said softly, ‘Remember, Juan Carlos, we have to be careful with our money.’

‘Pah,’ said Juan Carlos. ‘I’ll be working again in no time and we’ll have days out as often as we want.’

The boy noticed his mother’s fleeting glance at his papá’s scarred hands leaning on his walking stick before smiling at her husband.

Suddenly, they heard the squealing of children, accompanied by the excited barking of a dog. Albertino looked towards the sound of the fun and grinned. His friends from school were playing with
his cousins from the city. In the middle of the group was Bonita, his dog.

A few months after his father had come home from hospital, the family had gone to the local pound. There, his parents had let him choose a dog, although they guided him away from the dogs that
were too big for their apartment and the puppies that were too little to be away from their mothers.

In the end, they had all fallen in love with a scruffy little bitch. Her dirty grey hair was matted, and she could barely see out of her gummed-up eyes. They had taken her straight to
Rosa’s friend who had a dog-grooming parlour and left the dog in her hands, returning an hour later to find a dog they didn’t recognize. Her white fur was cropped short, even around her
long, elegant tail and dainty feet, and her large dark eyes glowed with happiness.

As everyone gushed at the prettiness of the dog, her name had been decided. ‘She is Bonita,’ announced the boy proudly. Bonita quickly settled into the family home and Albertino took
her for a long walk every day after school. The dog slept at the foot of his bed at night, and Juan Carlos told him she sat by the door for half an hour before he came home from school.

Now she was barking excitedly as the children chased each other round the trees on the terraces. Thrilled at the thought of joining the game, Albertino was about to dash off towards them when he
heard a familiar voice behind him.

‘Good afternoon, Tino.’

The boy turned and saw Father Samuel approaching, smiling broadly.

‘Hello, Father,’ he replied.

‘What a beautiful day for your grandfather’s birthday party,’ said the priest, holding out his hands and looking up to the spotlessly blue sky.

‘Father,’ said the boy’s mother, holding out her hand to shake his and giving a respectful bob of her head. ‘Thank you for coming. We’re all so glad you could make
it.’

‘Thank you for the invitation,’ said Father Samuel, shaking her hand graciously. ‘You must be Albertino’s parents.’

‘Yes, this is my husband, Juan Carlos.’

The priest turned to the boy’s father, his hand outstretched. But Juan Carlos’s hands remained resting on his walking stick, and after a brief glance at them, misshapen hands, the
priest gently grasped the man’s arm.

‘Father,’ Juan Carlos nodded at the priest.

‘My apologies,’ said Father Samuel. ‘Doña Isabel told me of the accident. How is your recovery progressing?’

‘Very well, thank you, Father,’ replied Juan Carlos.

‘I’m sure it has not been easy,’ said the priest sincerely.

‘No, Father, you’re right,’ said Rosa. ‘But Juan Carlos has been very brave. All through the operations and therapy he has remained cheerful.’

‘Excellent!’ said the priest. ‘Sometimes God sends us challenges and demands a great deal from us. It has always been my opinion that a positive attitude in the face of
adversity is an asset.’

Juan Carlos nodded seriously. ‘It’s true what they say, Father, that being faced with death makes one appreciate life. Now I see things I may have missed before. And we are both
determined not to waste our precious days.’ He smiled at Rosa warmly.

‘We should all count our blessings every day,’ nodded Father Samuel. ‘And may I add,’ he continued, turning to Albertino, ‘how sorry I was to hear the sad news of
your grandfather. You must miss him very much,’ he said gently.

The boy’s breath caught as it always did when he remembered Apu was gone. Hot tears welled in his eyes as the image of his grandfather on that awful evening flashed in front of him.

Apu had come to his house for the evening. Albertino’s father had only been home from the hospital for a few weeks, and was in bed. His mother had prepared
fideuà
–
Apu’s favourite, saffron-coloured noodles with lumps of fish and seafood nestled in its thick stock sauce. His grandfather told him it was what the fishermen cooked when they were out at sea,
and it came from the part of Spain where they lived.

The three of them chatted, sopping up the rich, fishy juices with chunks of bread.

‘And we should have fireworks for your birthday, Apu.’

The old man waved his hand, brushing away the idea.

‘He’s right, Papá,’ his mother said. ‘All those years you didn’t have a birthday to celebrate – we should make this a real fiesta.’

‘No, no. I don’t want a fuss.’

‘I do!’ Tino declared.

His mother smiled, and as his grandfather looked at him, he slowly nodded. He spoke quietly. ‘Maybe just a few fireworks. Let’s see what my pension can afford.’