by Diana Rosie
‘But, one day, Miriam contacted me direct. She said she had spoken to Néstor and had persuaded him that some items were family heirlooms. Though he wanted nothing, she wished to have something to pass on to her children.
‘She mentioned a few pieces of furniture, which was fine as we were planning to modernize the rooms to create offices anyway. But then she said she wanted the collection.’
‘The collection?’ asked Alberto.
‘The collection of wine, señor,’ said Javier seriously.
‘Ah.’
‘Well, you can imagine my disappointment. It was a collection of all the best vintages the vineyard had ever produced. Just a few bottles from selected years. It was an incredible wall of wine down in the cellar. I had planned to make it a feature of the tours.
‘In the end, the lawyers got involved. While I think Néstor was angry and just wanted to complete the sale, Miriam persuaded him not to move forward until I agreed to this condition. Through the lawyers we renegotiated the price down.
‘I respect Miriam for her decision – after so many years, it’s only right that a family’s history is maintained. I don’t know if it’s true, but I did hear that Néstor asked Miriam to pay him for what he had lost in the renegotiations. His own sister. He was not a generous man.’
Alberto nodded.
‘But,’ said Javier cheerfully, ‘after the sale, we organized delivery of the collection to Miriam’s house. And as a personal gift, for the past few years we have sent her a bottle of our best wine and brandy to add to the collection. So we have her address in our files. Would you like it?’
Alberto looked down at the photo again. The young woman was smiling and squinting in the sunshine. Her dark hair was swept up in the style of the time, but she looked natural and at home out of doors. Her dark eyes shone and Alberto knew he had to see her again.
‘I would very much like to have her address, thank you.’
‘No problem,’ said Javier. He crossed back to his desk and picked up the phone, then spoke to the receptionist and asked her to find Miriam’s address for Señor Romero.
Alberto looked down at the boy and nodded. The child grinned back at him.
‘Oh, and, Señor Romero,’ said Javier, putting down the receiver, ‘if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps you would take those photos with you? We found them when we were having some decorating done and have never got round to sending them on.’
‘Of course,’ said Alberto. He slid the photos into the folder and passed it to the boy. Tino slipped the folder under his arm and held it tightly.
Javier then led them down the stairs and back to reception, where the girl was picking a piece of paper up from the printer.
‘Señor Romero, it was good to meet you,’ said Javier. He offered a hand. It was clear he was keen to get back to his work.
‘Thank you for your time,’ said Alberto. He shook Javier’s hand.
‘I’ll leave you in my receptionist’s capable hands,’ said Javier. He turned and disappeared through the door.
‘Here you are, Señor Romero,’ said the girl, offering him the piece of paper.
‘Thank you,’ said Alberto. He looked at the printed details. ‘Do you know if this is far from here?’
‘No, it’s not too far. Maybe twenty minutes on the autopista. Would you like me to call a taxi for you?’
Alberto nodded. He was unused to taking taxis – it was an extravagance he couldn’t usually justify. But this journey was special and all too soon he would be back at home. Why not enjoy the treat?
‘Apu?’ said the boy excitedly as the girl called the taxi company.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember Señora Miriam?’
‘I believe I do.’
‘Do you remember the family?’
‘They seem very familiar, yes.’
‘But they’re not your family?’
‘No. They are not my parents.’
‘I wonder how you knew them.’
‘Miriam will know.’
Tino jiggled with excitement.
‘Señor,’ said the receptionist, putting down the phone, ‘the taxi will be about half an hour.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alberto.
‘Can I offer you anything while you wait? Some coffee?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Alberto. ‘But . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘No, I don’t want to inconvenience you further.’
‘Please, señor, I’d be happy to help.’
‘I was wondering if it would be possible to see the cellar. Just for a moment?’
The receptionist smiled. ‘Señor, it would give me great pleasure to give you a tour of the cellar. To be honest, I’ve spent all morning talking to businessmen about shipments and payments. It would be nice to smell the oak barrels and talk about the wine for a change.’
Smiling, she opened a drawer and pulled out a large bunch of keys.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Alberto.
‘So,’ said the receptionist to the little boy as she led them out into the courtyard and towards the cellar door, ‘let’s see what you know about how wine is made.’
Chapter Twelve
RAÚL
7 November 1932
Her long dark hair is wound in a knot at the top of her head. Her soft brown eyes look to the right, and the tiniest hint of a smile flitters around the edge of her full lips. I know that smile – she is smiling to herself at what she considers a ridiculous situation.
And sitting for a photo would have seemed ridiculous to her. She was young and full of energy and wanted to be out living life – not creating a moment for history. But I, for one, am glad that someone – probably her father – insisted that she sit for that moment.
Holding the picture up to the light, I take a sip of my wine. Again I taste the mustiness and remind myself that I must mention my concerns about the oxidization to Dante. Shaking my head, I recall the days when I could enjoy a glass of wine without performing a chemical analysis.
I turn my attention back to my little Angel. What would she want me to do? For nearly two years, I’ve avoided this question. There has always been a reason not to think of it.
I was barely able to function those first few months after she died. Dante and his wife had given me all the support they could, and Chita had taken the babe into her care. In fact, it was Chita, rocking baby Alberto and humming him a lullaby one evening, who had commented on his eyes – that they were just like Angelita’s. Standing over her, I had looked into the baby’s eyes. And I had seen my Angelita looking back at me.
That was the beginning of my recovery. With Chita’s help, I learnt how to care for a baby. In the night, I was the one to go to him. It was I who made him weak camomile tea when he was teething. When he started eating, it was I who chopped long slices of pear for him to gnaw on.
Of course, I had also resumed my work for Dante and the vineyard, so my days were occupied. Dante had insisted Alberto and I join the family at mealtimes. Mimi was just a baby too, then, and Chita clucked and cooed over the two of them as Dante, his wife and I ate and talked into the evening.
Alberto was nearly nine months old when Dante had broached the subject. Mimi had been baptized as an infant. Would Alberto be baptized soon? I realized I had been deliberately pushing the thought out of my mind. I explained it was complicated; Angelita’s headstrong opinions about religion meant I would need to think about it. Dante nodded and left it at that.
Shortly after, the harvest started. One of our busiest times of the year had given me an excuse to ignore the situation for a while longer. By the time things began to ease, Alberto had begun walking. The joy I took from leading him around the room gave me such delight it was all I could think about.
And so it continued: looking for and finding a reason not to think about baptizing the child. But today, after Mass, Father Sebastián sought me out and asked me directly if I would like him to prepare for Alberto’s baptism.
So now there’s no more procrastinating. It is time to make a decision. Taking a deep breath, I look at Angelita again. This photo, taken years before we were married, shows a young girl before the complications of life and love. If I had asked that girl if she wanted her child to be baptized, she would have laughed at me and asked why in heaven not.
But the woman I married was scarred by a broken heart and a confused relationship with religion. We were married in a small chapel with only our immediate family present. Even then, she had seemed uncomfortable and agitated during the service and, at one point, had nearly fainted. Everyone assumed it was the importance of the occasion, but I knew it was probably the pregnancy, which we hid from our families. The young priest who performed the rites was patient and caring with her and completed his duties as speedily as he could.
When we arrived at Quintero’s, we were asked to join the family at church on our first Sunday. I, of course, agreed, but on the morning, Angelita said she felt ill and asked me to go without her. The following Sunday, she again refused to go. By then, I knew it was not illness that was keeping her away.
One evening as we lay in bed together, my hand resting on her growing belly, I asked her why she refused to go to church. In the darkness, she tried to explain. Once, she had believed unconditionally, she said. Truth be told, at that time she didn’t think about it – she recited the words and prayed for childish things. Then she had found herself in a situation where she had needed God. Only He had the answers she was searching for. But God, who had it within His capacity to help her and make her joyous, had taken away her dreams of happiness. In her mind, He was a spiteful and vengeful God and she would not turn for help from Him again.
Since our engagement, we had never spoken about her affair, but I could see that was where God had disappointed her. She must have asked for God to find a way for this married man and her to be together. But instead her lover had broken off the affair. Unable to blame the man she loved, she blamed God instead.
I had gently suggested that over time she might see that perhaps the Lord really did have her best interests in mind. After all, He had brought us together. At this, she had remained silent but pulled my arm around her. I held her tightly and silently thanked God for bringing her back to me.
Over the months, however, she continued to stay away from church. I worried it might affect our relationship with the Quintero family, but Dante and his wife had fallen in love with my Angelita too, and it seemed we would all forgive her anything.
We never spoke of religion again. I never asked her if she wanted her baby baptized. But in my heart, I knew what her answer would have been.
The hypnotic sound of the cicadas reverberates along the river’s edge. The afternoon sun is warm, and the air is still. I can smell the faint fragrance of oleander, and, high above, the ash trees gently rustle their leaves.
I check my rod again, but there’s no interest from the fish. They’re having a lazy Sunday afternoon too. This is my favourite spot for fishing. At least, I make a show of fishing. In fact, I rarely catch anything, much to Chita’s amusement.
The truth is, this is my favourite spot for thinking. I found it not long after Angelita’s death. Even after two years, I find anywhere near the vineyard has some memory of her. In our home, the small annexe on the edge of the hacienda, I relish the sense of her in every room. Out in the vineyard, I can see her strolling easily down the dusty lines between the vines. On visits to the town, I catch a glimpse of her laughing with the old men sitting on the fountain’s edge, or in the market pressing a melon to test its ripeness.
Most of the time, I enjoy the reassurance that she once existed in this place and in all our lives. But early on, there were times when the grief was so intense I wanted to be somewhere she had never been. One day, a few months after her death, I climbed into the car and drove, somehow stumbling across an old track that brought me down to the river. At once, I’d felt at peace. The pain seemed less raw as I listened to the water and felt its fresh air on my face.
When I mentioned the river to Dante, he told me he and his friends had spent many happy afternoons fishing further upstream – it seems the river is full of catfish, and in his day they had caught some big ones. When I saw his enthusiasm, I’d been worried he would want to join me. But he’d found his old fishing rod and given it to me with a smile and some handy tips.
As I sit, my arms resting on my raised knees, I look to the other side of the river. An ancient wall runs along the water’s edge, and partway up the hill behind it stands the remains of an old house. The wooden roof has long since collapsed and now the walls of yellow stone are surrounded by weeds and bushes, inside and out. I wonder why the owner abandoned such a picturesque spot.
Beside me, Alberto snuffles in his sleep. He is lying on a blanket in the shade of a tree. Leaning down towards him, I look at his peaceful face. Not for the first time, I wonder what he will look like as an adult. Although he has his mother’s eyes, his hair is fairer and curlier than hers, and his chin is stronger.
I always worried about the fact that the child would not look like me. Angelita soothed my fears, saying that the baby would have dark hair and dark eyes like all Spanish children. I’d laughed at her silliness, and hoped she was in part right.
Lying beside the sleeping child, I watch his small chest rise and fall rhythmically. I wonder what kind of man he will be. His mother was clever and funny and capable of enormous emotion. I am calm and steady, a man who likes routine and order. I have no idea what Alberto’s real father was like. It will be interesting to see if he develops any characteristics that are neither his mother’s nor mine. A blank slate or his personality already etched into his being: the classic debate will be played out in this little child – but I will be unable to discuss it with anyone.
Dispelling my scientific deliberation, I place a small kiss on the child’s forehead and lay my head beside his. I need to think about the baptism. The water gurgles and bubbles nearby, and I feel the sun warm my legs.
Opening my eyes, I realize I must have dozed off. The blanket lies empty in front of me. Alberto is no longer on it. Panic rises from my stomach as I sit up quickly and call his name. Since he started walking, he has used his new skill at every opportunity. He’s probably very close, I try to persuade myself as I get to my feet.
‘Alberto!’ I shout, and hear the fear in my voice.
I dash behind the nearby bushes. The little boy loves to play hide-and-seek, so perhaps he’s playing now. But he’s not. Running back to the blanket, I stand and look around. It’s only now that I look towards the river.
A clamp grips my heart as I see a flash of white bobbing up and down on the dark water. For a moment, I cannot move; I cannot breathe. Then I force myself into action and run into the water, knocking the fishing rod over in my haste. The river quickly becomes deep, and as I wade out, the water comes up to my stomach.
As I get closer, I see Alberto is lying face down with his arms floating by his head. I pull his small body to me. He feels heavy and hangs limp in my arms as I drag myself back to the river’s edge. Climbing out onto the sandy bank, I shake him and shout his name. His hair sticks to his head, and his sodden clothes cling to him. I don’t know what to do. I shake him again, harder this time and his head wobbles.
Stop, I say to myself, taking a shaky breath. Think. Remember your anatomy. Water has filled the lungs. To expel it, apply pressure.
Carefully I place the child down on the blanket, lying him on his stomach, his head turned to the side. I kneel and place my hand on his back and gently push. Nothing happens. I lift my hand and apply pressure again onto the middle of his back. Still nothing. I feel the moment of calm reason start to lift from me and the panic slip back. I know I’m running out of time. Placing both hands on his back, I give the child’s body a short, hard push.
Water gushes from Alberto’s mouth, and I see his nose wrinkle as he gasps loudly. I gasp too and grapple him into my arms, turning him
to look into his face. He coughs violently as yet more water dribbles from his nose and mouth, and his wide eyes look confused and frightened.
‘Alberto,’ I say quietly. ‘Are you all right?’
He answers with a huge howl. I hold him tight and feel his deep sobs. As I rock and shush my crying child, I realize that even in my kneeling position, my legs are shaking so much that I have to sit down. We sit for a long time, and I continue to rock him long after his crying has stopped. The sun is starting to drop and the first of the midges are buzzing around us. The child looks up at me with tired eyes and I share his exhaustion.
‘Alberto,’ I whisper to him, ‘I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll never put you in danger again.’ I turn my face to the pale blue sky.
‘Angelita,’ I say out loud, ‘I’m sorry, my love, but you can’t have him. He is not yours to take. He’s mine now. And I will love him better than any father could.’
I look down at Alberto’s face. He gazes up at me curiously.
‘Let’s go home,’ I say gently to him. ‘I have to speak to Father Sebastián.’
Chapter Thirteen
The boy whipped the air with a wild fennel stalk. Beside him, Alberto walked steadily along the rocky path. The unlaid road sloped gently upwards, and the old man looked at the green and grey hillside above them. If he were a younger man, he would have happily lived somewhere like this.
The taxi had taken them to a town, where they’d caught a bus to a nearby village. There, they had asked for directions. They’d walked along a quiet road for about a mile; then, when they’d seen the top of a house nestled in the lowlands of a hill, they’d turned up the dirt track towards it. After sitting on the bus, it was good to be stretching their legs.
Soon they reached the house. All that was visible of it was the roof, as a tall white wall surrounded the building. The wall itself could barely be seen under a spread of mature clematis and a thick undergrowth of bright yellow broom and wild onion. The branches of a kumquat tree swung lazily over the wall, its trunk hidden on the other side. Heavy fruit hung from the branches. Alberto lifted the boy up so he could pick the shiny, olive-sized fruit. The boy took two, and when Alberto lowered him to the ground, he handed one to his grandfather.
