After the War: A Novella of the Golden City

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  The Germans had taken a lot of prisoners that day. From letters he’d sent to Joaquim, Alejandro knew that he’d annoyed his superior officers by protesting the condition of the Second Division several times. He’d known a catastrophe waited in their future, and had hoped to change some part of it. Roberto was evidence that he hadn’t succeeded. “But you’ve made a full recovery?”

  Roberto rubbed a finger along the edge of his scar. It bore a hint of red along the edges, and pulled the outer corner of his eye downward. “My wife-to-be didn’t want me back, not looking like this. I was lucky to find work in the city.”

  That reminded Alejandro how lucky he was. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  One corner of the man’s lips twisted, like a shrug. “The king himself came to talk to me in the hospital, sir. And the Duke of Coimbra visited there, too, though I didn’t talk to him.”

  Alejandro was glad of that—that the country’s nobility felt some responsibility toward the men they’d sent to war. “Someday I would love to speak with you about your time in Flanders, if you’re comfortable with that.”

  “Mr. Mendosa said you don’t remember any of it,” Roberto said doubtfully.

  The butler would have talked to all the servants to apprise them of his condition, to avoid any embarrassing situations. “No, I’ve never remembered anything.”

  Roberto shook his head. “Might be better that way, sir.”

  Wounded and taken prisoner, Roberto’s experience had been far worse than his own. “Still,” Alejandro said, “at some time when Mr. Mendosa wouldn’t mind it, I would like to stand you a drink. Perhaps after hours?”

  The footman seemed taken aback, but said, “If you’d like, sir.”

  Foiled in his efforts to find his wife, Alejandro headed back to his bedroom to puzzle over his life. One thing there might tell him about Alejandro Ferreira—a series of two dozen notebooks on a shelf in his armoire in the dressing room. He’d only peeked at one before.

  The notebooks, examined more closely, were of varying ages. In the oldest, the handwriting was childish, while others displayed a more mature hand. He chose a pair of the oldest notebooks. He carried them to the tea table in the bedroom, flipped on the light, and sat down on the settee to read.

  Eventually, Joaquim turned up at his bedroom door. “Are you coming down to eat?”

  That means I’ve been reading for a couple of hours now. Surprised, Alejandro held out the notebook for Joaquim to see. “What did I copy this from, do you know, sir?”

  Joaquim limped over and peered down at the pages. “Copy? What do you mean?”

  “I’ve read it somewhere before,” Alejandro explained. “I can recognize books I’ve read before, even if I don’t recall when or where I read them.” It was one of the stranger aspects of his memory loss. He could remember fiction, but not reality. Everything he’d read in this notebook so far was familiar.

  Joaquim took the notebook, eyes narrowing. “Do you remember what happens in this story?”

  Alejandro remembered most of the tale of a mother and son trying to get help to release the boy’s father from prison. “The boy hits the man attacking his mother with a rock, and they escape to the nobleman’s house—the father-in-law. His mother tries to threaten him with blackmail, but decides it would be wrong. The father-in-law is impressed with her honesty, though, so he vows to help her. They travel to Madrid, where he demands her husband’s freedom.”

  Joaquim sat down on the end of the settee. “Have you read this book already?”

  “That’s what I was saying, sir,” Alejandro pointed out.

  Joaquim tapped the notebook with one finger. “No, I mean this notebook. Today. Have you read it through already?”

  Alejandro shook his head. “No, but I recognized the story, so . . .”

  Joaquim stared at him, mouth pursed as if he was trying to decide what to say.

  “I don’t understand,” Alejandro said. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’ve wanted proof? This is your proof.”

  He stared at Joaquim for a moment, but found nothing to say. How can this be proof?

  “Only Alejandro Ferreira would know how that story goes,” Joaquim went on. “You didn’t copy it. You wrote it, Alejandro, years ago. It’s never been published, and I don’t think anyone has ever read it other than myself and Marina—possibly Miguel—so you’re remembering it.”

  Joaquim handed back the notebook. Alejandro touched its cover, almost reverently. There were more than twenty of these notebooks. “Did I write all of these?”

  “Yes, and if you recognize the tales in them, that’s because you recall writing them.”

  Alejandro threw his hands up. “Then why can’t I remember Serafina? Or you?”

  “I don’t know,” Joaquim said gently. “I’ll ask Gaspar’s opinion. But this is a step in the right direction.”

  Alejandro shook his head. He was tired of small steps.

  

  After dinner, Serafina sat on the balcony in the twilight, her guitar in her hands. She played a mournful tune and, as Alejandro watched her, began to sing. It was the first time he’d heard her sing since that first night in Lisboa.

  He simply watched her for a time.

  He felt confident now that he wasn’t an imposter. He must be the same man who’d written all those stories. That meant he wasn’t doing anything illicit by bedding Serafina. It was a trivial thing to worry over, but it had bothered him since that first night, even though it clearly hadn’t troubled her.

  He wanted to get to know her. To understand her.

  She had avoided being alone with him all evening, chattering gaily through dinner and then closeting herself with Marina to discuss wedding preparations. Alejandro suspected that as soon as he let her know he was there, Serafina would draw him toward the bed, and all thought of talking would flee. It had been a successful tactic so far.

  She paused in the middle of her song, set the guitar aside, and jotted down a few notes. Her braid slipped over her shoulder as she leaned forward, ruining the illusion that she had short hair.

  She’s writing a song. He hadn’t realized she wrote her own songs. He watched as she gazed down at the words on the paper, her lower lip caught between her sharp teeth.

  Then she threw her hands in the air. “Where is Miguel when I need him?” she asked herself in a vexed voice.

  Miguel? Alejandro stepped back into the shadows of the bedroom.

  She rose, clutching the guitar in one hand, collected her papers, and came inside the bedroom before closing the balcony doors. It wasn’t until she turned to lay the guitar on their bed that she realized he was there.

  “Who is Miguel?” Jealousy roiled in the pit of Alejandro’s stomach, an unfamiliar sensation.

  She didn’t start guiltily. “Your cousin,” she said blankly. “Miguel Pinheiro. Have you not. . . ?”

  Oh, that Miguel. “Why do you need him?”

  Serafina looked puzzled—and a little hurt—by his tone. “To read my words. He always reads my poems.”

  Have I read any of her poems? Alejandro licked his lips, feeling that pit opening up at his feet once more, the feeling that he knew nothing about this wife of his. “May I read it?”

  Serafina hesitated, a flush staining her cheeks. “You’re not overly fond of poetry.”

  Am I not? Alejandro shook his head. It charmed him that she could be so shy about this subject when she was so forward on others. “I would like to read it. If you would let me, that is.”

  After a moment, she picked up the top sheet of paper and brought it to show him. “I’ve only just started this one,” she told him. “I’m having trouble with the meter, matching it to the tune. I may have to rethink the notes to make them fit.”

  Alejandro angled the sheet of paper so he could better read the words written there in a fine, slanted hand. It was only half a poem, telling of a woman’s loss of her lover, a topic Serafina knew better than she should at her age. Far too many Por
tuguese widows knew that loss. “It’s lovely.”

  She stepped back, flushing. “Do you truly think so?”

  Why did she doubt him at every turn? “Yes. It’s unfinished, I can tell, but I think that once you’ve worked out the meter, it will make a lovely poem.”

  “I can’t figure out how to end that fourth line,” she said, gazing down at the paper.

  The poem was arranged in quatrains, but he didn’t know how to end that last line in a way that would keep the spirit of the words. He simply didn’t know much about poetry—or music—and told her so.

  “Miguel could figure it out,” she said wistfully.

  “Shall we go to see him? I haven’t met him yet.”

  Serafina suddenly looked uncomfortable, her lips pressed together. “I, um . . . you quarreled with him.”

  So the fact that he hadn’t met this particular cousin was intentional. He’d been to Rafael’s house a couple of times now and had met the two younger sons, but not Miguel, the eldest. “What did we fight over?”

  She shook her head, her eyes on the rug now. “He wouldn’t tell me. He says you were a jackass, and he won’t come around until you apologized.”

  Well, he’d known that sooner or later, someone wouldn’t like him. He was perfectly willing to apologize, if only he could find out what he’d said. “Was it over you?” he asked his wife.

  Serafina shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  That meant it could have been his wife they were arguing over. “Well, I’ll go over there and apologize tomorrow.”

  Her lips pursed in a way that suggested doubt. “If he’ll see you.”

  Alejandro smiled down at her. “I’ll be convincing.”

  

  Thursday, 24 June 1920

  Alejandro’s plan to seek out his cousin was set aside when another guest arrived at the house before breakfast, apparently bearing urgent news. One of the footmen knocked discreetly on the bedroom door just as Alejandro was drawing on his coat. “A gentleman has come to see you, sir,” the young man said. “About your military service. I think he’s someone important.”

  Alejandro cast a questioning glance at his wife, but she merely returned his look with her eyebrows raised. “I suppose you should go down,” she said, picking up her cup of coffee again. She yawned and leaned back, tucking her scale-patterned feet under her on the leather settee. He’d learned quickly that she required a great deal of coffee in the morning.

  Thus dismissed, he followed the footman down to the elegant front sitting room where Joaquim stood waiting with a stranger.

  Or a stranger to me, I suppose.

  “You don’t remember me, Alejandro,” the tall man said, “but Joaquim and I are old friends.”

  Alejandro nodded. He could tell that they were on good terms from the way they stood, no tension between them. The tall man had near-black hair, unmarked by gray, with a conspicuous widow’s peak. Alejandro felt he should know that angular face. “I don’t know your name, sir.”

  “Raimundo will suffice,” the man told him. “Joaquim told me of the threat to you, and therefore I’ve made some inquiries with the military.”

  If only I could recall that face. He’d definitely seen this Raimundo before. Not before the war, but perhaps a photograph? “Were you in the military, sir?”

  The man laughed shortly. “I’m afraid not. But I have some responsibility for what happened in France and Belgium. Why don’t we all sit down?” Joaquim took his customary armchair and their guest sat on an old brocaded sofa, so Alejandro sat in one of the ivory chairs set across from it. “I’m here because I have some connections with the military,” Raimundo clarified. “I had to go to Bastião to get this, Joaquim, and you’re not going to like it.”

  “What did he find?” Joaquim asked.

  Raimundo handed over a file. “I’ll need to take that back with me, but I think there’s time for you to read through it. Essentially, Alejandro was loaned to the British Expeditionary Forces, to their military intelligence people. Unfortunately, Bastião can’t get any more than that. Whatever Alejandro was asked to do, the British want it hushed up.”

  Alejandro swallowed. “Have I done something terrible?”

  “I don’t think so,” Joaquim said. “You signed this paperwork, Alejandro. I don’t think you would have done so if you foreknew you would be asked to do something illegal, or that something bad would happen.”

  That was a complicated sentence. “Such as losing all my memories? How could I not have foreseen that?”

  Joaquim set a hand on Alejandro’s shoulder. “Because it’s a question that would never occur to you to ask yourself. You were probably asking yourself whether you would have to break any laws or hurt an innocent. Or if you would be physically injured. Or more likely, if you would return home to your wife. Which you’ve done, so your gift would have reassured you that it was a safe chance. A seer has to ask himself the right questions.”

  Alejandro was beginning to think being a seer wasn’t as wonderful a gift as it sounded. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “So I volunteered to work for British Intelligence. Why would they even want me?”

  “I assume they needed a seer,” Raimundo suggested.

  “Does it say in my papers that I’m a seer?”

  “No,” Joaquim said. “There’s no place in the paperwork for someone to list whether they’re a witch. Just as there’s no place to specify that you’re not fully human.”

  That was why they’d returned the wrong body to the Ferreira family—none of his paperwork mentioned that his coloration wasn’t human. “What happened to the body they sent to you? The man who wasn’t me?”

  “Since the army had no idea who he was,” Joaquim answered, “we had him buried with military honors in a plot near our family’s.”

  “If they mistook him for me,” Alejandro said, “I’d bet he was involved in the same operation I was. Otherwise, why make that assumption?”

  “Very likely,” Raimundo agreed.

  Someone he’d been working with had been burned so badly that only his feet were spared. Alejandro sat down, breath caught in his throat. “I’ve read that in a book before. A curse bounced back on him and . . .”

  Raimundo gazed at him, dark brows drawn together as if to ask whether he was mad.

  Joaquim set the folder aside. “Alejandro, tell me the rest of the story.”

  “Diamonds. They were supposed to steal something else—plans for an . . . assault—but they stole diamonds instead.” If he closed his eyes, he could imagine them, trays of jewels, taken from a jeweler, ripe to be stolen again, because the Germans couldn’t report them missing since they’d stolen them first. “No, the team stole both, but agreed to hide the diamonds and return for them later. Only one of them guessed that the . . . hero was going to turn them all in, so the other members of the team plotted to get rid of him before he could.”

  “What is he talking about?” Raimundo whispered, loud enough that Alejandro heard.

  “Could I have written that?” Alejandro asked Joaquim. “Ahead of time, I mean.”

  “He recalls stories he wrote before,” Joaquim said to Raimundo. “Gaspar thinks the hex on him only affects actual memories, but stories Alejandro wrote still exist inside his head because they’re only stories.”

  “Stories?”

  “He used to write adventure stories,” Joaquim explained, “as soon as he learned to read and write. Some were quite fantastical, but many of the events in them were borrowed from real life.”

  “Could I have written one of my . . .” What was the word for it? He hadn’t had visions, he’d simply known things. “Um . . . foresights . . . before I actually did those things?”

  “I don’t know.” Joaquim pushed himself out of his armchair. “Let’s find out.”

  Would there exist, among all those notebooks, the story of a Portuguese soldier asked to steal something for the British? Certainly enough seers had predicted the Great War. Joaquim led the way up to
his bedroom, and gave Alejandro a moment to knock first to be sure Serafina wasn’t in any state of undress.

  She came to the door, her thick braid hanging down. Her guitar dangled from her webbed fingers.

  “Darling, we need to look at the notebooks.”

  “Of course,” she said, stepping aside. Then she saw that he and Joaquim weren’t alone. Her eyes went wide, and she curtsied deeply to Raimundo. “Duke.”

  Alejandro turned an eye on Raimundo, and saw what he should have before. Not just a wealthy man, a man with power . . . but a man who had surrendered his power willingly to make the two Portugals into one. He had seen photographs of this man before. This was the former Prince of Northern Portugal, now the Duke of Coimbra, come to help a mere Portuguese soldier who’d lost his memory. “Sir? Have I offended. . . ?”

  “It’s fine, Alejandro,” the duke said quickly with a dismissive wave of one hand. “I didn’t expect you to remember who I am. That’s why I’m here, after all.”

  “We’re old friends,” Joaquim offered. “And Raimundo knows I won’t bend my knee to him.”

  Alejandro chewed his upper lip, but the duke seemed unoffended by Joaquim’s lack of correctness.

  “Why don’t you come in and get the notebooks,” Serafina said, looking uncharacteristically shy. She tried surreptitiously to pin up her braid.

  Alejandro suppressed his smile. All it takes is a former prince to quell her forwardness. “Actually, I don’t know which one I need. I’ve only read a couple.”

  “Why don’t we take them all down to the library,” Joaquim suggested. “We can sort them out there.”

  So they trooped into his bedroom and divided up the old notebooks. Serafina laid her guitar aside and joined them. Since Joaquim couldn’t carry things downstairs—not and handle his cane at the same time—the duke ended up with a third of the pile, carrying them down the steps like a footman.

  “What are we looking for?” Serafina asked when they’d set the books on the old round marquetry table in the library.

  “A story about a theft where one of the participants is burned to death,” he told her.

  She shuddered delicately. “Like the man the army thought was you.”