“To be hurt is not an excuse to hurt others. If he behaves like a child, you should treat him like one. Don’t defend him, Federico. Let him make his own mistakes so he learns from them. Maybe then, he will finally grow up.”
“You’re right, Carla. He needs to grow up. That’s why he needs you.” As if pre-empting my denial he hurried on, “Yes, I know Rachel would gladly give him her blood. But Bécquer needs someone like you who loves him for who he is, not a girl worshiping a god who doesn’t exist. Would you agree to come, if he promises not to charm her?”
Too tired to deny his assumption that it was because I loved Bécquer that I didn’t want to be around him, I shook my head.
“No. Even if he doesn’t charm this girl, there will be others. And I’m not you, Federico. I won’t accept that.”
Federico nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Your decision is wise and I’ll abide by it. Loving Bécquer was for me an agony I do not wish on anyone.”
“Take my card,” he added, offering me a card he had somehow magicked into his hand, “in case you ever need me.”
“Goodbye, Carla,” he continued after I took it. “I hope you find a new love soon. For only another love displaces — even if it does not erase — the previous one.”
I thanked him for I knew he meant well, even if another love was the last thing I wanted. As for forgetting Bécquer I was certain that, in my case, absence would do as well.
Chapter Thirteen: Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
I dreamed of Bécquer that night. Dreams of wanting and desire that only increased my determination to stay away from him. If my subconscious was sending a hint, it wasn’t a very subtle one. But my waking self would have none of this nonsense. Determined to forget him, I forced myself to sit and started typing at the computer.
Not for long. The characters usually so eager to tell me their story were nothing but flat cutouts that morning, and the flow of words soon died on my fingertips.
I gave up after a while and googled Bécquer’s name: Bécquer, Gustavo Adolfo. I had studied his work at school back in Spain, and still knew some of his poems by heart, but if I had learned anything about his life, I had forgotten since. In my search, I found two or three pictures of him in old style suits, but neither these photographs, nor the romantic portrait his brother Valeriano had painted of him (the one printed on the Spanish currency of the twentieth century), bore but a faint resemblance to the man haunting my dreams. As for the biographies I found online, they were sketchy to say the least. They provided the bare facts, but no insight into his mind:
Bécquer was born in Sevilla in 1836 and lost his father when he was six. At eleven, after his mother’s death, he and his six brothers went to live with one of their mother’s sisters and several years later, he moved alone with his godmother.
Later he would reunite with one of them, Valeriano, when at fourteen, he joined his uncle Joaquin’s studio as an apprentice. Like their father, like their uncle, Valeriano chose painting as his profession. Bécquer, although talented as a painter, loved books more and dreamed of becoming a writer.
His dreams, and almost nothing else, he took with him when, at seventeen, he moved to Madrid with two of his friends. He survived, barely, by writing for newspapers and magazines, and coauthoring plays while working the odd clerical job he was ill-suited to maintain. At twenty-one, he fell sick with the first bout of the mysterious illness (TB was suspected) that would eventually kill him at thirty-four.
With the care of his friends and of his brother Valeriano, who by then had moved to Madrid, he recovered. After a chance encounter, he fell desperately in love with Julia Espín, a beautiful actress who would become his muse even after she rejected him and married another.
After another bout of illness, he married Casta Esteban, his physician’s daughter. A marriage, unexpected that, as Bécquer had told me, ended in separation.
I read on, devouring any information I found about him. And so I learned that Bécquer died in 1870 — stopped being human, that is. Before dying, he asked his friends to burn his letters, and publish his poems and stories because he was certain, he told them, he would be better known after his death than he had been in life. A presumption that turned out to be true. A presumption he could well make come true if, as an immortal, he supervised the success of his published work.
After a while all the information I found repeated these bare facts. I stopped reading and ordered all the biographies I could find about Bécquer, including one written by one of his friends and another by Julia, Valeriano’s daughter, named after Julia Espin, the beautiful girl who broke Bécquer’s heart and inspired his achingly beautiful poems of unrequited love.
I wrote nothing that first morning, which bothered me. My first book, a medieval fantasy — not surprising, considering I taught Medieval History at a private college — had taken me two years to write. When I finished my second book two years after that and realized that the end was not an ending but the beginning of a new story, I’d decided to take a sabbatical to finish my third book, for I was beyond tired of writing in stolen moments. My sabbatical had started in July; we were in November now. I had no time to waste.
What was even more frustrating was that, although my dream of getting successfully published was within my reach now that Bécquer was my agent, knowing he was immortal had stolen all pleasure from my accomplishment. Not to mention the fact that my infatuation with him was making it impossible for me to concentrate on my writing.
Still, I persevered. But after two days of wasting time rereading Bécquer’s Rhymes and Legends, or daydreaming in front of an empty screen, I gave up on writing my novel. Instead, I started an account of my encounter with Bécquer and the impossible events that followed.
I was aware that publishers take months to read a manuscript, yet knowing Bécquer’s powers of persuasion, I was not surprised when a week after our meeting in Café Vienna, he contacted me by e-mail.
Two of the editors who had read my novel were interested, he explained. One of them was, as I’d expected, Richard Malick, the editor impersonating Lord Byron I had met at Bécquer’s party. Bécquer attached the two proposals and discussed the pros and cons of the two offers and the reasons he recommended I sign with Richard.
Finding no fault with his decision, I wrote him back agreeing to his suggestion.
His next e-mail was short and to the point.
Dear Carla,
Richard will be at my house this Saturday for the purpose of signing your book contract. Would you kindly join us here at 3 P.M.?
As we discussed, this will terminate my representation of your work.
Sincerely yours,
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Although it was my understanding that most contracts are signed by mail, his tone, courteous and professional, gave me no reason to refuse his request. But my trust of his word was not the only reason I accepted. The truth was I wanted to see him.
His hold on me had increased, not decreased, as the week passed. Several times, I found myself driving toward his house while running an errand, or after dropping Madison at school or at one of her friend’s house. I had always stopped in time and turned around. I couldn’t start to imagine my embarrassment had I made it close enough for Bécquer to sense me and my pathetic crush. For crush was the only word to describe this yearning for a person I had met only four times. And having a crush at my age was ridiculous. Crushes were for teenagers, not for mothers of teens.
Madison might be only fifteen, but she, certainly, had more sense than I did.
“I don’t fall for guys who have no interest in me,” she had told me some weeks earlier. “What would be the point?”
“There is no point,” I’d told her. “But you don’t choose whom you love.”
“I do,” Madison said, so stubbornly certain that I gave up trying to explain.
But I knew by experience that reason had nothing to do with love. I had fallen for Bécquer against all common sense a
nd, hard as I tried, had not been able to forget him. And against my better judgment, I wanted very much to see him again.
Besides, the meeting was to be the following Saturday, which was the weekend Madison would be grounded. And any excuse to leave the house was welcome, because nobody knows better than a grounded teenager how to make life miserable for everybody else.
Chapter Fourteen: The Contract
There were two cars already in the parking space in front of Bécquer’s house when I arrived. A yellow Jeep and a green Honda Civic.
Almost two weeks had passed since the Halloween party, which meant Federico would be gone by now and Matt, I knew, kept his car in the garage. My understanding was that only Richard would be there today. I remembered Richard had mentioned he didn’t own a car for he didn’t need one in Manhattan and had taken the train to Princeton to come to the party. Maybe he had rented one today. If he had, a Jeep seemed an unusual choice for a rental. Was his the Honda Civic then?
As for the other, it had to be Rachel’s, I thought with a pang of jealousy that had no reason to be there. Bécquer had asked me to be his blood giver and I had refused. That he had chosen somebody else was inevitable, that I hurt because he had was illogical.
My hurt also validated my decision. Even if I had agreed to give him my blood, he might have taken the girl as his lover, which would have been even more painful for me. I had done the right thing. By staying away from him I would eventually forget him. I just needed more time. I would have plenty of time from then on, considering I didn’t plan to see him again.
Yet this thought that was supposed to reassure me only added to my distress.
How had this happened? Since when had my desire to see Bécquer overcome my wish to sell my manuscript? Today my dream would come true. I was about to sign a two-book deal with one of the most prestigious publishing houses in the country. I should be elated, but I was not. I was upset and apparently jealous because a young, pretty girl had caught Bécquer’s attention.
I tore my eyes from the small sedan blurred by the raindrops streaming down my window and, forcing myself to bury this futile yearning for a man who was not human and thus forbidden, I turned off the ignition and stepped outside.
Behind the curtain of rain that fell unrelenting from an overcast sky, Bécquer’s house loomed in front of me, its impressive mixture of modern architecture and Pennsylvanian charm more apparent now without the orange lights that had framed it on Halloween night.
Holding my umbrella with both hands to fight the gusts of wind that threatened to yank it away, I dashed across the gravel expanse, and climbed the stairs to the porch. The door opened before I knocked and a young woman appeared in the opening. Although her face was in shadows, my suspicions were confirmed when I recognized Rachel, the red-haired girl from Café Vienna.
“Come in,” Rachel said, moving brusquely aside. “Bécquer is waiting.”
It sounded like a reproach the way she said it, as if she was accusing me of making him wait. But I wasn’t late, I knew, and as if to prove me right, the antique clock sitting in the hall sounded the hour.
Without glancing back, the girl disappeared into the great room. She obviously meant for me to follow but I hesitated as I considered the puddle forming in the wooden floor underneath my umbrella.
“Excuse me,” I called to her. “Could you tell me where to leave this?”
The girl stopped and turned and for the first time she met my eyes.
She was young. Younger than I remembered. Ryan’s age was my guess. Or maybe she seemed younger because, unlike at Café Vienna, she was wearing no make-up. And in her pale, freckled face her eyes showed red. Not flashing red that would have marked her as immortal, but red and swollen, as an indication that she had been crying. In fact, she seemed about to burst into tears at any moment as if my question had pushed her over her limit.
“It’s all right,” I hurried on, “I’ll leave my umbrella outside.”
I grabbed the doorknob but, before I could turn it, a young man materialized by my side.
“Please give it to me,” he said. His deep baritone voice was surprisingly gentle as he addressed the girl. “Don’t worry, Rachel. I’ll take care of this.”
He was young, mid-twenties probably, with broad shoulders and muscled forearms his tight sweater couldn’t conceal and, unlike Rachel who seemed overwhelmed by emotion, his manners were brisk and efficient.
After he relieved me of my coat and umbrella, he offered his hand. “I’m David,” he said.
“Carla Esteban.”
David smiled. “Rachel will take you to Bécquer’s office,” he told me. “And Rachel?” he called as the girl waited for me to join her. “Try to smile.”
If anything, Rachel seemed even more distressed by the young man’s attempt to lighten her mood. Tears welled in her eyes.
Had Bécquer tired of her already? But that didn’t seem right. If he had, he would have stopped charming her and she would have forgotten him. Bécquer was not cruel that way, or so Federico had led me to believe.
Not knowing what else to do, I offered the girl a tissue. She thanked me and, after drying her eyes, slid it into the pocket of her jeans and started again across the great room with the grand piano at one end, and through the door that led to the corridor where I had followed Beatriz after she injured Bécquer the night of the party. But instead of turning toward the library, Rachel stopped before the door directly across and knocked.
“Come in,” Bécquer called from inside. Bécquer’s beguiling voice invited me in. I felt like fleeing, but it was too late. It had been too late for a long time. Probably since the moment he had told me he liked my book the first time I ever met him.
In my struggle to keep my feelings at bay, I almost missed the quiver in the girl’s voice when she announced my arrival.
“Thank you, Rachel,” Bécquer said. “You may leave now. But please come back in half an hour for I will need you to make some copies.”
Rachel nodded, and then turned and left.
From behind the massive mahogany desk where he sat, Bécquer stared at me.
“Please come in,” he said and smiled. The smile lit his handsome face, which was paler than I remembered it and somehow thinner. But his eyes, dark on mine, did not smile.
I mumbled my welcome, and stepped forward toward the empty chair that Bécquer indicated with his hand. Before I reached it, I sensed a movement to my left and turned just in time to see Richard stand.
“You remember Richard?” Bécquer asked.
“Of course.”
I had been so intent on keeping my feelings blocked from Bécquer’s mind, I’d failed to notice the man who held my future in his hands. But Richard seemed undaunted by my omission, if anything he seemed nervous, for his voice was louder than necessary, his smile brighter than meeting me, an almost unknown author, would warrant.
“We just finished discussing the last points of your contract,” Bécquer said to me after we were all seated. “Do you want me to read it to you now?”
I shook my head. “Actually I’d rather read it on my own.”
Bécquer started.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to insult you in any way. But I find it difficult to follow when someone reads aloud.” Especially if it’s you, I thought but didn’t say.
“I understand.”
He didn’t carry his arm in a sling anymore, but as he handed me the document over his desk, I noticed several scars on his hand just before his fingers touched mine. I shivered.
“You can move closer to the fire,” Bécquer said, “if you are cold.”
I noticed then there were, indeed, some logs burning in the fireplace, which surprised me for I had assumed immortals didn’t feel hot or cold. Maybe I was wrong. Or maybe Bécquer had lit it for us.
I shook my head. “I’m fine,” I said, although I wasn’t. But it wasn’t the fire I wanted to get closer to. And I wasn’t cold either.
The contract was typed this
time and simply written. It covered all the points I wanted covered and some I had not considered. I handed it back to him when I was finished and thanked him for his hard work for the contract was clearly in my favor.
“Shall we proceed then?” There was a hint of relief in his voice.
As I nodded, he produced a black fountain pen and signed first, above his printed name. Then Richard got up and, coming to the table, added his signature below.
“I hope our partnership continues,” Richard said handing me the pen, “after these two books are done and sold. And I hope — ”
What he hoped for I never knew, because just then, Bécquer reached forward to take the contract I had already signed, and as he did his pen rolled out of his reach. Richard jumped forward and grabbed it as it fell. His eyes on Bécquer, he set it on the table. Bécquer glowered at him.
Before any of them spoke, there was a knock at the door. Following Bécquer’s invitation, Rachel came in and, taking the contract from the table, moved to the copying machine by the farther wall.
Soon she was done and, after handing a copy to each of us in a black folder, she left as silently as she had come.
Richard looked at his watch. “I better go,” he said, getting up, “if I want to catch the five-thirty train.”
He bent over the desk as he spoke and shook Bécquer’s hand — with both of his — for a long time and with an eagerness that betrayed his deep affection for him and made their previous silent confrontation even more puzzling.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Richard said.
Bécquer nodded, his face unreadable, but when Richard asked me if I could give him a ride to the train station and I said yes, Bécquer’s eyes, once more, flared with anger.
“That won’t be necessary,” he told Richard. “Rachel will take you, as agreed.”
Immortal Love Page 11
