by Diana Rosie
Across the dusty courtyard is a side door into the church itself, with a small bench beside it. We walk across to the bench and I indicate Alberto should sit down. My plan is to leave the child there for the remaining hours of night. The church will open early and they’ll discover him. With the Church supporting the Fascists, I can’t risk being found by a priest.
Kneeling beside him, I take out one of June’s letters. Carefully, I rip the triangle off the back of the envelope. Tucking the envelope back in my pocket, I fish out a pencil and, leaning on my knee, carefully write ALBERTO ROMERO on the white paper.
I tuck the paper into Alberto’s jacket pocket and stand up. I’ve been dreading this moment, and as the small boy looks up at me with his large, round eyes, I have no idea what to say. After a moment, I punch him softly on the shoulder.
‘Good luck, mate,’ I whisper in English.
Then, with a crack of metal against wood, the door beside us opens, causing light to flood out of the church. Like startled rabbits, Alberto and I stare at a priest in long black robes, framed by the open door. He is tall and spectacled, and looks me straight in the eye. After what seems an age, he turns to Alberto, then back to me.
It seems as if he understands what is happening. He steps out of the church towards Alberto and places a protective hand on his head, then nods firmly at me. This priest is not what I was expecting – I sense he is a man of integrity.
Alberto is watching me nervously. I flash him a wink. He gives me a tiny smile in return. By the time I pull the gate to behind me, the wooden door is shut, with the priest and Alberto inside. The romantic in me notices a small star directly above the church glow a little more brightly.
The pragmatist in me hopes my instincts are right about the priest.
Chapter Seven
‘Papá? Is that you?’ Alberto’s daughter’s voice crackled at him down the phone line.
‘Yes, it’s me. I didn’t know if you’d be at the hospital.’
‘No, they sent me home. I’m here and Cristina is too. She arrived this morning. Her mother-in-law is looking after her husband and the children.’
‘Good. I’m glad your sister is with you. How is Juan Carlos?’
‘He’s doing much better. In fact, he was speaking a little today. The doctors are very pleased with his progress.’
‘That’s good news, Rosa,’ the old man sighed, relieved. He nodded at the boy, who was looking up expectantly.
‘Papá?’
‘He’s here,’ he said, passing the phone to his grandson.
‘Mamá?’
As Alberto walked away, he heard the child chattering excitedly to his mother about where they’d been and who they’d met.
He knew how much the boy’s mother would be missing her cherished child. Rosa and Juan Carlos had been through many years of heartbreak trying to have a baby. When first her older sister and then her brother’s wife had delivered one baby after another, Rosa had been delighted for them. But María Luisa would tell Alberto of the pain their daughter had silently suffered.
Alberto knew María Luisa blamed herself. She had suffered numerous miscarriages, both before the birth of their first child and in between the others. Rosa herself had been born almost eight years after her elder sister. Superstitious, María Luisa thought she had passed this terrible affliction on to her youngest daughter.
Then, when it seemed Rosa and Juan Carlos had given up, Rosa had fallen pregnant. As she blossomed and grew, she remained cautious, reluctant to express her joy. At the birth, there were complications, and María Luisa told Alberto afterwards that for a short time both Rosa and the baby had been in danger. The child was immediately whisked away for special care.
A few days later, Alberto had gone to visit at the hospital. He watched his pale, exhausted daughter sleeping, and then he and his wife went to see the baby. They joined a worried Juan Carlos peering into an incubator.
As Alberto had looked at the pink, wrinkled baby, it squirmed and raised a tiny clenched fist into the air.
‘Look at that,’ he said to Juan Carlos. ‘You have a little fighter there.’
Juan Carlos turned to Alberto and gave him a weary smile.
‘He must take after his grandfather,’ he replied.
Alberto walked into the kitchen, where the gardener and his wife were sitting drinking coffee and chatting comfortably.
‘Thank you for the use of your phone,’ said Alberto. ‘You must let me give you some money towards the bill.’
‘Nonsense,’ they said in unison.
‘How is your son-in-law?’ asked the gardener.
‘My daughter says he’s doing much better.’
‘Oh good,’ said the gardener’s wife. She poured Alberto a cup of coffee.
Nodding his thanks, Alberto said, ‘So, Isabel is running a restaurant now? I’m not surprised. She always fed us as well as she could at the orphanage. I know there was little food in those days.’
‘Yes,’ replied the gardener. ‘My father used to say she could turn an old onion and a bit of sawdust into a hearty meal! That’s quite a skill, eh?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Alberto, smiling.
‘We went to visit her when I was very young. As I remember, she married after the war. She went to live in her husband’s family’s town, and he set up a restaurant in the square. I was little, but I remember her.
‘My sister was travelling that way last year and went to see if the restaurant was still there. She said that although her husband had died some years ago, Isabel was healthy and well, and the restaurant was doing better than ever.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing her,’ said Alberto. ‘I doubt she’ll remember me – there were so many of us.’
‘It’s surprising what people remember,’ said the gardener’s wife.
Just then the boy walked into the kitchen, beaming.
‘I told Mamá we were going to find Apu’s birthday tomorrow and she said Papá was getting better.’
Alberto got the feeling there was something Tino hadn’t mentioned, but the boy seemed happy.
‘Excellent,’ said the gardener’s wife. ‘Now, sit down while I make you some warm milk. Then off to bed – it’s late, and tomorrow is another adventure.’
Fields of sunflowers lay like yellow eiderdowns as far as Alberto could see. They had left the pine-tree hills some time ago, and now the bus was travelling down a long, straight, empty road.
Tino was chattering as usual, and Alberto was only half listening, nodding occasionally. He felt an uneasy mixture of feelings. There was the anticipation that Isabel would be able to tell him something of his past. But he also knew it was probable she wouldn’t remember him, and this would be the end of the journey. The thought of it being over made him sad.
Nevertheless, it was good to see the countryside again. After the dry coast, filled with foreigners and tall buildings, it was pleasing to see how familiar the landscape was inland. The crops had changed over the years, and solar panels and wind farms were peppered across the horizon, but this was the Spain he remembered from his youth. Still and unhurried, colourful and fertile. He hoped his grandson would remember this trip when he was older.
An hour later, the bus pulled into a bus stop on the outer road of a small town. Alberto helped the boy off the bus and they strolled through the streets. A tiny supermarket bustled with women. Old men sat outside a coffee shop smoking, chatting and enjoying the sun. A lone dog trotted down the pavement, confident in his destination.
At the end of the road, they found themselves in a small square framed by a scattering of shops.
‘Apu, look,’ said the boy, pointing across the square.
Alberto looked and saw an unfussy restaurant with white walls and a few metal chairs on the pavement outside. Above the open door, a sign read RESTAURANTE LOS NIÑOS.
‘That must be it,’ said Alberto. He took the boy’s hand.
As they walked across the road towards the restaurant, Alberto glanced at
the far end of the square. There stood an old stone church. Its large wooden doors were open, and in the tower above hung a bell.
A car tooted, breaking Alberto’s reverie, and he realized he was standing in the middle of the road. He hurried Tino across to the other side, but when they reached the pavement outside the restaurant, he turned once again to look at the church.
‘Apu? What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ said Alberto distractedly. ‘It’s just . . . that church seems familiar. I don’t know this town, but I feel I’ve seen that church before.’
‘Maybe Señora Isabel brought you here,’ suggested the boy.
Alberto shook his head, confused. ‘I don’t think so.’
At length he broke his gaze from the church, shrugged and smiled at the boy. Together, they walked into the restaurant.
A long bar stretched the length of the room, with three large barrels sitting on one end. Smoked ham and bunches of garlic hung from the ceiling, and the walls were covered with paintings of food.
With it being so early, the restaurant was empty. Behind the bar was an open door covered by a beaded curtain. Alberto called a hello towards it.
A tall, greying man stepped through the door, the beads creating the sound of running water as he did so.
‘Yes?’
‘Excuse me,’ said Alberto politely, ‘I am looking for Doña Isabel.’
The man looked at them with dark eyes that twinkled as a smile broke over his face.
‘Mamá! You have a suitor!’ he called over his shoulder.
Tino giggled behind his hand.
‘What?’ came a shout through the beaded curtain as they heard footsteps on the tiled floor. ‘Andrés, what is your silliness this time?’ The bead curtain separated and a small, wiry woman with short silver hair stepped out. She used a stick to walk, leaning on it with her right hand.
‘Mamá, you have a visitor,’ explained Andrés.
Isabel looked at Alberto, her pale eyes almost obscured by large glasses.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked curiously.
Alberto cleared his throat. He had been planning what he would say on the journey to the town, but now his mouth was dry and his mind a blank.
‘Doña Isabel, we have met before. That is to say, a long time ago,’ Alberto stammered.
Isabel looked at Alberto patiently. Then she looked at the boy. ‘Señor, please sit down. Andrés, bring us some sherry. And something for our young friend here.’
Isabel pointed to a table and the boy dutifully climbed onto a seat. Alberto held a chair out as the elderly woman walked slowly to the table. As she sat down, she sighed, ‘I am not as quick as I once was. Old age is a terrible thing.’
As Alberto sat, Isabel turned to the boy and, smiling warmly at him, said, ‘Welcome to Los Niños, child. A very long time ago, it was my job to feed lots of children. So when my husband took over this restaurant, he named it Los Niños because he said anyone who walked through the door would be fed as well as possible. Just like the children.’
‘My grandpapá was one of the children,’ said Tino excitedly.
‘What?’ Isabel turned from the boy and looked into Alberto’s face.
He nodded simply.
At that moment, Andrés arrived at the table carrying a tray. He placed a small glass of chilled sherry in front of his mother, then another in front of Alberto. For the boy, he opened a bottle of lemonade and poured it into a glass. Then he placed a basket of bread and a plate of thinly sliced ham in the middle of the table.
‘Is there anything else, Mamá?’ he asked kindly.
His mother shook her head.
‘I’ll take care of the kitchen. Let me know if you need me,’ said Andrés. He put a hand softly on his mother’s shoulder.
Isabel placed her hand over his, smiling warmly up at him. Alberto noticed some of her fingers were gnarled. While she was probably at least ten years older than him, he had seen his own knuckles and joints swell and knew the ache of arthritis.
As Andrés strolled to the bead curtain, Isabel turned to Alberto.
‘Were you at the orphanage?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes.’
Slowly, a smile spread across her lips, and behind the glasses, her eyes seemed to flicker with light.
‘I always wondered if I would see any of you again.’
‘My grandson suggested I make this journey.’ Alberto looked at the boy, who grinned widely.
‘Eat, child,’ said Isabel. She pushed the plate of ham towards him. Still grinning, Tino picked up a sliver of ham and started to gnaw at it as he reached across for a piece of bread.
Isabel turned back to Alberto.
‘I apologize for arriving unannounced,’ he said. ‘This trip was unplanned, and I only heard that you were here yesterday.’
‘I am delighted you have come.’
‘So am I. Forgive me, but it has been many years and I was unsure if I would recognize you. Now I see you, I know without a doubt it is you.’
‘Well, you are at the advantage, señor. I’m afraid I don’t remember you.’
Alberto chuckled loudly. ‘Of course you don’t remember me. I’ve lost a little hair since the last time you saw me,’ he said. He ran a hand over his balding head.
Isabel smiled back at him. ‘Perhaps I will remember your name.’
‘Alberto. Alberto Romero.’
Isabel gave a small gasp and lifted her hand to her mouth. ‘Alberto?’
‘Yes. You remember me?’
Isabel took a moment. She carefully smoothed her apron over her black skirt. With a hand that shook slightly, she removed her glasses and laid them in her lap. Alberto could see her eyes were watery.
‘I hope I haven’t upset you,’ he said uncomfortably.
Isabel reached out and patted his hand. ‘Alberto,’ she answered quietly. ‘If it had not been for you, I would not have met my husband.’
Confused, Alberto looked at Isabel, unsure what to say. The boy, sitting on the edge of his seat and watching them intently, sipped his drink and reached for another piece of bread.
‘How . . . ?’ started Alberto.
‘My husband was in the army. For most of the war, he drove lorries, moving supplies. One day, he and his lorry brought you to the orphanage. That was the first time we met. After that, he found ways to visit whenever he could. Sometimes he brought extra supplies to help me feed you all. Sometimes he only brought his smiling eyes. But that was enough.
‘He wanted to marry me long before the end of the war, but I didn’t want to leave the children. By the time the war finished, there were so many orphans that the Church arranged for the orphanage to be closed, and the children to be moved to an institution in the city.’
Alberto nodded.
‘I stayed to help clean the house for the next owner; then my husband and I married and moved here. He left the army and we took over the restaurant. I did all the cooking, and my husband looked after the customers. It was difficult – there was so little food, and soon I had Andrés – but we managed. And every year on our anniversary, my husband and I would raise a glass in thanks to the small boy who rarely spoke, but who brought us together.’
Isabel smiled, and patted Alberto’s hand again.
‘I’m pleased to have been of service,’ Alberto said, a little embarrassed. ‘And I’m sorry your husband is not here. I would have liked to have met him – again.’
‘And he would have been pleased to meet you too. How did you find me?’
‘We went to the old orphanage. The gardener there is the son of the gardener during the war.’
‘Of course, Jorge’s family. Are they well?’
‘Very well. And now my grandson and I are hoping to continue on to discover more of my childhood. I’m afraid I have no memories of the time before my arrival at the orphanage. Did your husband ever tell you where he brought me from?’
‘Here!’ said Isabel, tapping the table. ‘This village.’
‘Apu, that’s why you remember the church,’ interrupted Tino excitedly.
‘Yes,’ agreed Isabel. ‘You were at the church. My husband came to visit his family, and when the priest saw his lorry, he asked him to take you somewhere safe. The fighting was getting closer and the priest was worried that the church would be in danger.’
‘I remember,’ said Alberto quietly. He looked into the distance. ‘Yes, I remember a priest.’
‘By the time I came to live in the town, he was gone. Some said he was taken away by soldiers, but there were many rumours and recriminations at that time. I would have liked to have thanked him.’
Alberto nodded thoughtfully.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know any more,’ said Isabel apologetically.
‘No, you have been very helpful. You see, I have only tiny flashes of memory – like the church and the priest – but nothing of my family.’
Isabel shook her head sadly. ‘You barely spoke when you arrived. So many children had seen such terrible things – it’s hardly surprising they didn’t want to talk about it.’
Alberto sipped his sherry thoughtfully.
‘Why don’t you visit the church?’ suggested Isabel. ‘They may have records of your arrival. And maybe they know what happened to the priest. I’m afraid I can’t remember his name.’
‘Yes, Apu – let’s go and visit the church,’ the boy chimed in.
‘Tell me, child, why do you call your grandfather “Apu”?’
‘My mamá says when I was little, I couldn’t say “Abuelo”.’
The old man nodded. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘It was as close as he could get, and it has stuck. My other grandchildren all managed to call their grandparents Abuelo and Abuela, but not this one. I have always been Apu, and his grandmother was Apa.’
‘And your wife?’
‘I lost her four years ago.’ Alberto sighed, surprised the pain still stabbed when he had to admit she was gone.
‘I’m sorry. But at least you have this little one with you.’
The old man looked at the boy and smiled at him.
‘Oh, Alberto,’ said Isabel, ‘it broke my heart to see you poor little things. I wasn’t allowed to spend time with any of you; Señora Peña saw to that. But I always kept an eye on you in particular – just to make sure you didn’t get ill, or in fights.’
