by Rosanna Ley
They were on the outskirts of the village now. In front of them stretched a beach of pale golden sand, the blue sea beyond. The coastline seemed to go on for ever. Ruby blinked. This was more like it.
‘There was an argument,’ Izabella said softly. ‘Between Andrés and our father.’
‘It must have been a massive one,’ Ruby said. Families always argued. There had to be more.
‘They never got on.’ Izabella sighed. ‘Andrés, he would always try to protect our mother. Things he said made my father angry. My father is a great painter.’ There was pride in her voice now. ‘And great painters sometimes have … ’ She said something in Spanish. Gesticulated with her hands.
‘Great egos?’ Ruby had been able to see that just from the pictures on his website. He hadn’t looked like a man who liked being crossed.
Izabella nodded. ‘I think so,’ she said. They crossed over the road. Ruby shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun, which was already hot, and looked out along the coastline to a stretch of sand drifting into dunes, crops of black rock at the water’s edge and semicircular pods of volcanic lava dotted around the beach, just like in the photographs …
‘It was a long time ago,’ Ruby said. ‘Isn’t it time they put it behind them and made up?’
Izabella looked at her sadly and shook her head. ‘You do not know my father,’ she whispered.
No. They were both artists but there the resemblance ended. The father was clearly nothing like the son. Even so, Ruby couldn’t wait to meet him. ‘What did Andrés say to him?’ she asked. ‘Do you know?’
‘Not exactly. They wouldn’t tell me. But my father has a terrible temper.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And Mama said that Andrés had just gone too far this time. My father … ’ She looked beseechingly at Ruby. ‘He threw him out of our house. And Andrés was so proud that he never tried to come back.’
‘You don’t know what it was about?’ Ruby asked. Andrés must have really touched a raw nerve with the great Enrique Marin.
‘No.’ Izabella shook her dark head. ‘I only know that after he had gone … After he had gone … ’ Her eyes glazed over and she seemed to shake herself as if she realised she had said too much. ‘Nothing was ever the same,’ she said.
They wandered over the sand and down to the water’s edge. Izabella took off her shoes and let the water curl between her toes and Ruby followed suit. The touch of it was soft and refreshing. There were a few people on the beach and in the sea, but it wasn’t crowded. And the sand and rocks stretched out as far as the eye could see. ‘Shall we walk a little way?’ Izabella asked her. ‘There’s something I’d like to show you.’
‘Of course.’
They remained barefoot and stayed by the water’s edge as they walked. ‘What’s wrong with your father?’ Ruby asked, though she wasn’t sure if Izabella’s mother had been making it up as an excuse to keep her out of the house. ‘Your mother said he was ill.’
‘He has lung cancer.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Izabella’s words were so stark. But as Ruby turned to her, she saw that she was barely holding back the tears. She touched her arm. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I had no idea.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Does Andrés know?’ she whispered.
‘Si. He knows.’
‘He knows?’ Ruby was shocked. ‘But … ’ Why on earth hadn’t he told her? It was such a big thing. Wasn’t she the woman he was supposed to be in love with? The woman he spent his time with? The woman who – she had thought, not so long ago – he might even have a future with? My God … He was clearly a hell of a lot more secretive than she had realised.
And Ruby had had more than enough of secrets. It was bad enough not opening up to her about whatever had happened with his father and his reasons for not seeing his family. But now. His father had lung cancer and he hadn’t even bothered to mention it. Did that mean he just didn’t care? About his own father? About her?
Izabella led the way up and over some smooth rocks. ‘You expected him to tell you?’ she said. ‘You are in love with my brother?’
Was she? She knew that she’d been falling … She looked helplessly at Izabella.
Izabella took her hand. ‘Look,’ she said.
From the top of the rocks they had a vantage point to the north and to the south. And in front of them was what the rocks had hidden from view before. A perfect horseshoe-shaped bay. A luminescent turquoise lagoon of gently rippling water, surrounded by black volcanic rock; leading down to it from the bank of rocks, a sheet of smooth pale sand. ‘It is beautiful – do you not think?’
‘It is, yes.’ Ruby stared. It was truly stunning.
‘And it is a secret.’ Izabella put her finger to her lips. ‘You have to walk this far to even know it is here.’
Ruby smiled. This was true. On the far side of the bay she could see a strange-looking building built on the beach. Some sort of Moorish beach house, perhaps, with a sculptured roof and chimney. And in the distance … She felt like letting out a whoop of excitement. There was a red and white striped lighthouse.
Izabella turned to her. ‘But why have you come to our island?’ she asked Ruby.
This could be the place. This could really be the place. ‘I came here, Izabella,’ she said, ‘to look for my mother.’
CHAPTER 38
He must get on.
Andrés began to take some of the sitting-room floorboards up with his crowbar and a hammer, so that he could get to the pipes. He was stripping out some old plumbing for one of his clients. It was the kind of job he could do without, but despite the fact that his business was now very healthy and he wanted to spend more time on his art, he still found it hard to say no to work. It had taken him a long time to get to this position – and it was perhaps the fate of the self-employed; to always worry where the next pay cheque was coming from.
He leant on the crowbar. The dusty old board creaked. Out with the old … It was a sobering thought.
Andrés thought of Ruby over there in Fuerteventura. His girl. He had thought that not so long ago. Now … He wasn’t so sure. If his suspicions proved to be correct then there was no future for them, it was as simple as that. And if he was not correct … Well, by not going back to the island with her, by not helping her and supporting her as her man should, then he had already blown his chances, as the English might say.
It was a no-win situation. He put the floorboards to one side and grabbed the pipe wrench from his tool bag. This might be a dirty job but it was just the thing to be doing when you were feeling pissed off with the world. Bloody angry, in fact. Angry that she was there. Angry that she couldn’t understand why he hadn’t gone back there with her. And angry with him – that lecherous old bastard he called his father. Why should he? Why should he just drop everything and run back to see him – the man who had never had time for him, had barely a word of praise for him; never a moment of love. What did he owe him? What did he owe him really?
Especially after …
Andrés switched to the hacksaw, turning the blade so that the teeth faced forwards. He started to saw the pipe; the rasping sound of metal to metal filled the air. Harsh.
And he thought of his father in his studio entertaining all those women – little more than girls, some of them. He’d seen them coming through the house, singly or sometimes in pairs, giggling and whispering together. So impressed by the man. In awe of the great artist. He’d seen his father’s face when he looked at them. Lustful old goat. And he’d seen his mother’s expression too, although she always went out around the back of the house or turned her face away. How many times had Enrique Marin humiliated his wife? Too many times to be counted.
Andrés had sneaked up to the studio when his father went out to the Bar Acorralado and he’d seen what the old bastard had been doing, how he’d been painting them. People thought that he was a great man, but some used their talents and their greatness to wield power over the more vulnerable. That was Enrique’s tool of trade. He had something – a ch
arisma, Andrés supposed you would call it, that made others bend to his will; that enabled him to even know what you were thinking sometimes. But what was he using it for?
Enrique Marin had a huge talent. But he had many strings to his artistic bow.
‘Why do you not put a stop to it?’ Andrés had asked his mother more than once. ‘Show him he cannot go on like this.’
His mother had bent her head. ‘He is an artist, son,’ she said.
An artist! ‘Have you seen what he draws?’ he asked her. ‘Have you seen what he paints?’ Life drawing could be a beautiful thing. But not his. Some of it was so tacky it made Andrés’s skin crawl.
His mother turned on him then. ‘I do not want to see!’ she shot back. ‘I do not want to know.’
‘But, Mama,’ he had pleaded with her. ‘It is not right that you hide your head in the sand, you know. It is not right that you allow this to continue.’
She had brushed this away. ‘He is a great man,’ she said. ‘With a great man, you will always have a dark side.’
Andrés didn’t believe this for a moment. His father had always had a temper – yes, and he had always been hard to satisfy. But everything had changed when the man became successful. It had turned his head, made him think that he was something he was not; made him use the power he had to control others. To get what he wanted.
But Andrés had to stand by and watch his mother’s continued humiliation. Her husband did not take her to exhibitions, launches or parties. Why should he when there was always someone younger or more beautiful to hang on to his arm and on to his every word? Why should he take the woman he was married to, the woman who had borne him his two children? Andrés used to seethe. But what could he do to change things?
Was it just drawing and painting? he used to ask himself. How could it be? And he was determined to catch him out.
One afternoon, Andrés came back to the house when he was supposed to be out till supper time. It was his mother’s shopping day and his father was alone in his studio.
But of course, he was not.
Andrés crept back inside Casa Azul and tiptoed up to his father’s studio. He could hear their voices and he could tell it was not just painting that was going on. But he must be sure, so he opened the door just a crack and put his eye to the slit. He recognised the girl as Stella, one of his father’s models. She was just eighteen and had a boyfriend in the village who Andrés played soccer with sometimes. Enrique Marin played dominoes in the Bar Acorralado with the girl’s father; he was one of his best friends.
They were both naked. She was lying on the chaise longue and he was kneeling in front of her, feeding her segments of an orange; dropping them between her moist and open lips. His father was caressing her breast with his other hand. They were talking and laughing and … Andrés shut the door. He did not want to see any more. He could not. And he knew that there had been others – so many others.
That night over dinner, when Izabella had gone round to a friend’s house, he told his parents what he had seen.
‘I came back to the house this afternoon,’ he said. ‘I went up to the studio.’
His mother got up from the table and started clearing the plates.
‘I saw you and Stella.’ He addressed this to his father. ‘How can you take advantage of her like that?’
His father shrugged. ‘She is desperate to be painted,’ he said.
‘To be painted!’ Andrés laughed. He turned towards his mother but she was opening and shutting cupboards, seemingly not even interested in their conversation. ‘I did not see so much painting going on.’
‘What do you know of women and their needs?’ his father growled. ‘You are just a boy.’
Andrés sat up straighter. ‘You are taking advantage of her. She thinks you are such a big man. So important. She is young and stupid. And so you are fucking her and fucking up her life.’
His father just sat at the table and watched him. Andrés even thought he saw a smirk hover around his lips. Why should he worry? He had them all under his control.
‘Hush, Andrés!’ His mother scurried back to the table. She seemed more shocked that he was saying it than that it had actually happened. ‘You do not know what you say.’
‘I know exactly what I say.’ He looked right back into his father’s coal-black eyes. Others might, but Andrés would never look away. ‘I saw them. Naked, the two of them. I saw him touching her. It was disgusting.’
‘You’re a liar, boy,’ his father said. He took another swig of his beer.
‘I know what I saw.’ Andrés looked from one to the other of them. He was doing this to protect his mother, to show his father up for what he really was. So why did he feel that they had both turned against him?
‘Take it back,’ his father growled.
‘No.’
‘Take it back!’
‘I saw you with her,’ Andrés shouted. ‘I know what you do. I know what you are. People think you’re such a great man. But you’re not. You’re not. You’re a filthy—’
‘Enough!’ His roar was loud enough to waken the dead. ‘Get out of my house.’
‘Enrique … ’ Only now did his mother try to stop him. ‘Enrique, no … ’
‘Get out of my house, boy!’ he roared. ‘Do not darken this door again. And do not dare to come back.’
*
Andrés continued cutting the pipework into manageable sections with the hacksaw. At one point the blade broke and he had to fit a replacement.
And so he had left.
Those women … Those girls … If that was what a marriage was, then he wanted none of it.
But now. He had to go back there. He had thought he could avoid it, but how could he? He had to go back. He should be there with Ruby at this time – she needed him. And if Enrique was dying? He would need to help his mother and Izabella through it too. It was his responsibility. Something hurt inside his chest and Andrés breathed deeply, trying to free it, trying to free himself. His blood. His father was his blood.
He owed it to himself. He had a ghost to lay to rest. He had to go home.
And Ruby …
He thought of the picture his father had painted of the beautiful young girl with long blonde hair and sad blue eyes. He had to find out if Ruby’s mother had been one of those girls.
CHAPTER 39
‘Come round to the casa again this afternoon,’ Izabella had said when they parted. ‘I will talk to Mama. She will let you in this time.’
And so Ruby was here again, waiting outside.
Reyna Marin came to the door. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘You are a friend of my son. Please. You must come in.’
‘Thank you.’ Ruby followed her into the house, past a spiral staircase which wound from the hall into the upper reaches of the house, and through into the kitchen. It still had the look of a Spanish kitchen about it, Ruby thought, with its colourful tiles and curtains, but it also had all the mod cons.
Reyna Marin ushered Ruby to sit down in a wooden chair at the table. She moved a chopping board and some vegetables she was preparing to one side.
Again, Ruby wondered about their lives. It touched her that despite her husband’s success, Reyna Marin – and possibly Enrique too – seemed to prefer the life of simplicity that they had probably always led.
‘How is Andrés?’ his mother asked hesitantly.
‘He’s very well.’
Reyna Marin looked as if she might cry. She spoke swiftly and softly in Spanish. Ruby couldn’t understand what she said, but she felt the emotion behind her words.
‘What I would not give to see him,’ she added. She hugged her arms around her chest and slowly rocked her body from side to side. ‘What I would not give to hold him in my arms again.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Andrés. My son … ’
Ruby got to her feet, put her arm around the woman and tried to offer some comfort. First Izabella and now Reyna. Why wouldn’t he come home? And another thought struck her. Here was another woman
– like Laura – who had lived for a great deal of her life without her child. Whatever had happened between Enrique and Andrés, she clearly loved her son. Ruby could feel her pain.
Reyna’s eyes snapped open. She looked vague, as if she’d suddenly remembered she wasn’t alone. ‘You want some coffee, si?’ she asked.
‘Yes, please,’ said Ruby.
Reyna filled the percolator with water and coffee and put it on the stove. ‘And you want to talk to my husband about your mother, you say?’
‘I want to trace her.’
Reyna didn’t seem to understand. She frowned.
‘Look for her.’ Ruby sighed. She might as well tell this woman the story. ‘She gave me away when I was a baby,’ she said.
Reyna spoke again in Spanish, went to the doorway, looked up the stairs. Clearly, she was uncomfortable with the conversation. ‘A baby,’ she repeated. She shook her head, although whether this was in response to what Ruby had said or whether she was thinking of her own children, Ruby had no idea.
‘I saw a portrait of my mother on your husband’s website,’ she explained.
‘A portrait?’ Again, her eyes darkened. ‘A portrait, you say?’ The frown grew deeper.
‘I spoke to Andrés … ’
Reyna was watching her intently. She was on edge, Ruby realised. But why? Was it just because of Andrés – or was there something more?
What could she tell her? ‘I am sure he misses you all,’ she said weakly.
‘And we miss him.’ Reyna Marin got up to pour the coffee. ‘We miss him from the bottom of our hearts.’
‘Reyna?’ A man called from upstairs. It could only be Enrique.
‘Si?’ Reyna sighed. ‘He is not well,’ she said to Ruby. She got to her feet and called back to him, speaking in Spanish.
‘I promise not to tire him,’ Ruby said when she came back into the kitchen.
‘Hey there!’ He called out in English this time. His voice was guttural and thick. It must once have been a powerful voice, but Ruby could hear the fragility in it now.
