Alberto's Lost Birthday

by Diana Rosie

  In the distance, I hear a buzzing, like a loud mosquito. Lifting my hand to my eyes, I turn towards the noise. There, at the end of the drive, is a motorcycle.

  I drop the stick and start running towards the house. As I run, I keep glancing over to the motorcycle, which is now near the house entrance. There is no question in my mind that it brings news of Alberto.

  As I get closer to the house, I see a soldier climb off the bike and walk towards the courtyard. I can just hear him calling for Papá.

  Suddenly, I don’t want to run anymore. I slow to a walk, putting my hands on my hips and puffing loudly. By the time I reach the entrance to the courtyard, I am dragging my heels. I realize I don’t want to know the news.

  I stop by the arch, leaning in to see. Mamá and Papá are standing together at the door to the house. The soldier has his back to me, speaking to them. I can’t hear what he is saying, but as I watch, Mamá puts her hand over her mouth, and Papá puts his arm around her.

  They both look shocked, but Papá seems to be asking the soldier questions. The soldier shakes his head. Papá speaks again, this time more insistent. The soldier reaches into his uniform and pulls out some papers. He hands them to Papá, who looks at them carefully. He shows them to Mamá, and I see her start to cry.

  Papá puts the papers into the top pocket of his shirt. He seems to be thanking the soldier, who nods to him and turns on his heel. He walks out of the courtyard, passing me without a glance. I hear him kick-start his motorbike. It takes a few attempts before he gets it going, but then I hear it driving away, its engine sounding like a mosquito again, buzzing into the distance.

  Mamá and Papá have seen me. Papá beckons me to come to him. Reluctantly I walk towards them, kicking the jacaranda petals with my shoe. As I reach them, Papá hunches down to look me in the eyes.

  ‘Darling Mimi. It’s very bad news.’

  I nod to let him know I want him to continue, despite the fact that my stomach is lurching.

  ‘Alberto and his papá were in a motor accident.’

  ‘Is Alberto all right?’ I ask, my voice sounding very far away.

  ‘No, Mimi. He isn’t.’ Papá takes a deep breath. ‘Alberto and his papá have both passed away.’

  I hear the sound of my own breathing in my ears and it sounds incredibly loud.

  Mamá leans down to me and takes my hands in hers so I look at her. There are tears running down her face, but she tries to smile at me.

  ‘They’re with Alberto’s mamá now, sweetheart.’

  I nod but feel as if my body is not my own. My mind seems blank and I can think of nothing – not even my best friend.

  I glance up. There at the window, pale and pinched, with a dark shadow under one eye, is Néstor.

  Chapter Nine

  As they stepped into the church’s cool interior, Alberto immediately felt a sense of calm. There was no one around, so he took off his hat and steered the boy down the aisle, pausing only to cross himself before taking a seat on a creaking pew.

  ‘Let’s say a prayer for your papá,’ said the old man in a low voice.

  The little boy nodded, squeezed his eyes shut and clasped his hands together. Alberto smiled at the child’s prayer. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at the altar and Christ on the cross. When María Luisa was alive, they had attended church regularly. These days, he only went when obliged by a funeral or Communion. But in the peaceful silence of this small church, he remembered how he could clear his mind and pray.

  Closing his eyes, he prayed for Juan Carlos. He thought of his daughter, and her husband’s mother sitting beside him in the hospital. He asked God to protect and heal them all. Then Alberto remembered Rosa had her sister with her, and Cristina was away from her husband and children.

  Slowly, his joints objecting, Alberto lowered himself onto the leather stool. Dropping his head, he whispered prayers for all of his family. Inevitably, his mind wandered to María Luisa, and he prayed she was at peace. He pictured her as a young woman, her head thrown back with laughter, her arms reaching out towards him. The image gave him an ache to hold her and laugh with her again. She had always breathed such life into him, her energy infectious and indefatigable.

  She had hidden her illness from him for as long as she could. When, at last, she could no longer fool him she was losing weight because of a diet, or her fatigue was due to playing with her little grandson, she had admitted she had felt unwell for over a year.

  She told Alberto she knew it was serious, and when the doctor confirmed the cancer was fast-moving, and there was little that could be done, she simply nodded in agreement. Alberto had been dumbfounded, unable to comprehend what was happening to his wife and best friend.

  As always, María Luisa had organized everything. She’d gathered the children to tell them, and she’d given Alberto clear instructions about her funeral and burial. He had silently accepted her directions and watched like a bystander as the children fussed over her. María Luisa had insisted she would make this as easy for everyone as she could. The whole village had remarked how courageous she was, and Alberto had agreed, but cautiously waited.

  Then suddenly her energy vanished, only to be replaced by pain. María Luisa had been bewildered, not comprehending why death was reluctant to follow her plan. It was then Alberto held her hand and told her he would be strong enough for both of them. Looking deep into his eyes, her fear had slowly subsided and eventually she nodded.

  From then on, Alberto took control. He announced that with the help of Rosa, he would nurse María Luisa at home. Friends in the village insisted that hospital was best, that caring for a sick woman was no job for a man, but Alberto brushed the comments aside, not interested in anyone else’s opinion.

  Doctor Herrera had known the family for most of his life and had even delivered Rosa. He supported Alberto in his decision and helped when he could, administering pain relief and sending a nurse to show them how to care for María Luisa as her health deteriorated.

  Juan Carlos coordinated the rest of the family – who would visit and when. Cristina came as often as she could, sleeping on a camp bed at Rosa’s house.

  Soon María Luisa became bedbound, and while her daughters bathed her and changed the bedding in the mornings, Alberto would leave María Luisa and walk out to the land. There, he would tend his small vegetable patch, bringing back what he could for the girls to add to their mother’s broth.

  In the afternoons, Alberto would sit on María Luisa’s bed and talk to her. Holding her hand and speaking softly, he told her who he’d seen in the village and who had sent their best wishes. He talked to her about how the plants and trees were doing on the land, and how large the lemons were growing. He described the colour of the sky and the heat in the sun, how noisy the road was and how fresh the mimosa smelt. María Luisa would listen and occasionally nod, whisper a question or smile.

  His daughters were bemused. Their father had always been a man of few words, and yet now, when words were needed, he found them.

  Sometimes Alberto picked wild flowers and put them in a small vase by the open bedroom window. María Luisa would look at the flowers, the delicate petals fluttering gently in the breeze.

  Once, he watched her gaze rise above the flowers and up to the sky. The two of them had spent so much of their lives outdoors, he instantly understood her desire to feel the sun on her face again. With the doctor’s approval, Rosa carefully wrapped María Luisa in her bedjacket and a soft blanket. Alberto and Juan Carlos then gently carried her down the stairs to where Rosa’s brother, Jaime, was waiting in his car. They sat her on the back seat, padded with extra cushions.

  Alberto climbed in with her, and with one arm around her bony frame, he asked his son to drive. Slowly, the car crept out of the village and onto the main road. It travelled through the countryside at a snail’s pace. María Luisa saw the rows of orange trees and the old white finca, with shocking-pink bougainvillea draped over its front arches. She saw the water gushing down the ir
rigation channel by the side of the road and spotted a tabby lazing on a stone wall, its tail twitching. Alberto had watched her gaunt face relax as she shut her eyes. Her mouth hadn’t moved, but Alberto had seen the smile in her eyes before she closed them.

  When they reached Alberto’s plot of land, Jaime had parked the car so that his mother could see out towards the terraces. On the nearest edge of the terrace, Cristina, her husband and Jaime’s wife stood by a folding table covered with food. Five of María Luisa’s grandchildren had been playing chase on the terraces, clambering up the stone walls and racing round the almond trees.

  Alberto climbed out of Jaime’s car, opened the door by his wife and made her comfortable with the cushions. Juan Carlos’s battered old car pulled up, Tino flinging open the door to run to the game. Rosa joined the women, carrying folding chairs, which they set up so they could sit by María Luisa.

  With a roar, Juan Carlos rushed towards the children, chasing the little ones, who ran away squealing with laughter. The other two fathers had quickly been dragged into the game too, and as they poured the wine, the wives laughed at their husbands getting dirty and breathless.

  Alberto sat by María Luisa, holding her hand and talking quietly to her all afternoon. At times she slept, but mostly she sat, listening to Alberto and watching her family with shining eyes as they chattered and ate, played and laughed.

  María Luisa had died three days later.

  Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, Alberto eased himself back onto the pew. It was only then he noticed the boy wasn’t there. Glancing around the church, he couldn’t see him anywhere. Panic rising in his chest, he stepped out into the aisle and started walking towards the altar.

  It was then that he saw Tino standing in the gloom by a side door. The child was reaching up for the old metal handle when the door swung open with a clang. The boy jumped back and Alberto stepped quickly over to him.

  Strong sunlight flooded into the church, making the child and his grandfather squint at the figure at the door.

  ‘Hello!’ said a cheery voice.

  As his eyes adjusted to the light, Alberto saw a young priest dressed in a black shirt and trousers, his clerical collar pristine white.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he replied gruffly.

  ‘Hello,’ said Tino.

  The priest smiled at them both, leaving the door open and letting in the warm air.

  ‘Were you looking for me?’

  ‘Yes, we were,’ said Alberto.

  ‘Well, why don’t we step outside? It’s such a lovely day,’ the young priest said.

  Alberto nodded and led the boy out through the door and into a small cemetery surrounded by a stone wall. At the back of the church stood a large carob tree, pods hanging from its wide branches. Alberto looked around.

  The priest indicated an iron bench leaning on the side of the church, half shaded by the roof. As Alberto sat down heavily, the boy said, ‘Apu, can I play?’

  When his grandfather nodded at him, Tino immediately ran to the carob tree, searching for the best branches to climb.

  The young man sat next to Alberto and smiled brightly at him. ‘How can I help you, señor?’

  ‘Romero. Please call me Alberto, Father.’

  ‘Welcome. My name is Father Samuel.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Alberto looked again around the small cemetery. The young man waited patiently.

  ‘Many years ago,’ started Alberto cautiously, ‘when I was just a child, a priest at this church looked after me.’

  ‘Oh, how interesting. When was that?’

  ‘During the war.’

  ‘Aha. Very difficult times,’ replied the priest carefully.

  ‘Yes. The priest was a good man and I wonder if you know his name.’

  Father Samuel’s smile faded. He glanced towards the boy, who was busy climbing the tree. He seemed deep in thought, so Alberto remained quiet.

  Eventually, the priest looked at the old man seriously. When he spoke, he lowered his voice. ‘I’ve lived here for four years, and I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before. Can I ask how you came to meet this priest?’

  Alberto nodded slowly, understanding Father Samuel’s reticence.

  ‘I was lost in the war. I don’t remember how I got here, but a tall priest with spectacles took care of me for a short time. He put me on a lorry that took me to an orphanage.’ Alberto hesitated, wondering whether to reveal his other memory.

  ‘Is there something else?’ asked Father Samuel.

  Alberto took a breath. It was all so long ago; surely it meant nothing now. ‘I have a memory of an argument, between the priest and a soldier. An officer in Franco’s army.’

  At this, Father Samuel nodded and took a deep breath. ‘Yes, that sounds like Father Francisco.’

  Alberto sighed. ‘Yes. That was his name – Father Francisco. Do you know what happened to him?’

  Samuel looked at Alberto seriously. ‘I’m afraid it is not good news. Father Francisco was removed by the army. He was accused of being a traitor and sent to a concentration camp. The records are inconclusive, but I believe he died there.’

  Alberto breathed out heavily. ‘That seems hard to believe. The Church supported Franco. I was taught by priests when I was in the orphanage – they often spoke of the Catholic martyrs murdered by the Republicans.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The Red Terror, they called it. Even before the war, thousands of Catholic clerics were killed. There were horrific reports of atrocities – executions, castrations – I even read that a priest was thrown to the bulls in a bullring.’

  Alberto sucked his teeth and shook his head.

  ‘It was understandable that the Church aligned itself with the Nationalists during the war. Your Father Francisco was a rarity: he had a strong social conscience. He refused to take sides, and instead supported those who needed help the most – the poor. But that meant that he was accused of supporting the enemy.

  ‘These days, of course, we consider ourselves a rather more charitable institution, but back then Francisco was sadly ahead of his time.’

  ‘How do you know this about him?’ asked Alberto.

  Father Samuel smiled softly. He pointed towards the rows of old stone and marble stones marking graves. ‘Do you see that grave there? The one with a wooden cross?’

  Alberto squinted and saw the outline of a grave. At one end stood a small, weathered cross. He couldn’t see clearly, but it didn’t look as if there was a name on the cross. Nodding, he turned back to the priest.

  ‘Ever since I arrived, I’ve always spent time out here. I know it’s a little unorthodox, but I feel close to God in the sunshine. And it’s always so peaceful – I get a great deal of thinking and prayer done here.

  ‘As I walk the cemetery, I look at the names, trying to match them with the families I see every Sunday. When I came across that grave, it had no cross. It looked as if there had been one, but it had been destroyed. I looked in the church records, such as they were, but could find no reference to it. I asked some of the people I met here. The younger ones knew nothing, but a few of the elders gave me the impression they knew something but did not like to speak of it.’

  Alberto nodded. ‘It’s understandable that people are reticent to speak of the war. So many atrocities, so many families destroyed.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the priest. ‘And you know how everyone fell into the Pact of Forgetting – both sides agreeing it was better to look forward than risk looking back to the divides that tore this country apart.’

  ‘What’s done is done. There’s no point in picking at a sore.’

  ‘Exactly. I didn’t want to push anyone, so I left it and, truth be told, I forgot. Life in a small town is busier than you might think, Alberto.

  ‘Then, one day, I was called to administer the last rites to an elderly gentleman. He was very ill and I sat with him for a long time. When he passed, his wife – a woman of great strength – asked me to pray with her for the soul of her
husband.

  ‘When we finished, she brought a wooden box to me. She explained that for many years her husband had been a custodian to a few churches in the area. He held the keys and looked after the maintenance of the buildings. She said that when I’d asked about the unnamed grave in the churchyard, her husband told me he knew nothing about it. But in fact he did.

  ‘He had found a body hanging from a tree – a suicide. Together, he and Francisco buried the poor soul in the unmarked grave. She said her husband always had the greatest respect for Father Francisco and his compassion. And when the army took him away, her husband was asked to collect the father’s possessions and deliver them to the bishop. He did as he was asked – but didn’t hand over everything: he’d come across the small wooden box and realized it contained Father Francisco’s diaries. Somehow, he didn’t want them falling into the bishop’s hands, so hid them in his home. Later, when I asked about the grave, he instructed his wife to give me the box on his death.’

  Alberto raised an eyebrow.

  ‘In them,’ continued the priest, ‘he described his life here and his thoughts and beliefs. Of course, the first diary I searched for was the one explaining the occupant of the unmarked grave. It was written before the war and documented Father Francisco’s arrival here at the church.

  ‘He wrote about the death of a friend of his, explaining that his friend had killed himself here in the churchyard – he hanged himself from that tree.’

  Father Samuel pointed to the carob tree that the boy was climbing. Alberto felt a slight shiver run through him.

  ‘Because it was a suicide, a mortal sin, he buried the body at night, in an unmarked grave. That in itself was shocking – and I understand why no one had been willing to tell me about the grave when I asked. But as I read on, I discovered something even more dreadful. Father Francisco’s friend had also been a priest.’

  ‘A priest?’ gasped Alberto.

  The father nodded. ‘Father Francisco inherited his friend’s position here in the church. In his diary, he wrote of wanting to be near the spirit of his friend. But then, reading between the lines, he became comfortable here. He supported the poor and often helped farmers with the harvest. I can imagine he was not popular with the more wealthy members of the community, but the majority of the congregation seemed to warm to him quickly.’