Alberto's Lost Birthday
Read Alberto's Lost Birthday Online
Authors: Diana Rosie
For John, who brings me sunshine.
Contents
Reaching through the dense leaves, Alberto grasped the lemon and twisted it off its stalk. The hefty fruit was as large as his hand, and he inspected its waxy pores before
lifting it to his nose and sniffing. Nodding, he placed it in the rope bag alongside the muscat grapes. He knew the boy loved to peel the tough grape skins and suck on the sweet pulp inside.
Before he left for the day, he looked down across the stone terraces of his land. Below the lemon trees ran lines of aged almond trees, their branches heavy with nuts. Further down, rows of
gnarled grape vines stood stoutly in the dusty ground.
At the bottom, softly shaded by pine trees, lay Alberto’s garden, where herbs and flowers flourished. This small patch took more work than all the rest, and carrying the water from the
stone irrigation channel tired him. But whenever he picked a large bunch of scented flowers to leave at his wife’s grave, he knew his garden would be the last thing he would give up.
When his wife was alive, the two of them would walk to their land together. Over the three kilometres he would listen to her good-humoured chatter about the children and the foreigners whose
villas she cleaned. These days, however, Alberto’s joints ached at the change of the seasons, and often his own weariness surprised him. He had been reluctantly grateful when one of his
daughters and her husband had presented him with a second-hand moped a few years ago. ‘Apu’s put-put’ the boy called it, and Alberto used it regularly to come to the land, and on
the odd occasion when he had to go to town.
Now, the old man carefully strapped the bag onto the back of the moped, kicked away the stand with the heel of his espadrille and climbed on. Pedalling briefly to start the rat-a-tat engine, he
steered slowly out onto the main road.
Put-putting home in the late sun, Alberto planned how his grandson could help him pick lemons and harvest the almonds. Together, they would visit the local cafes and restaurants on the
beachfront to sell their wares. He told his daughter the boy was an extra pair of hands to help him during the school holidays, but they both knew it was more than that.
When he got back to the village, he parked the bike down the alley beside his apartment, locking it behind an iron grille. Carrying the rope bag, he climbed the tiled stairs to his front door
but was surprised to find it open. He wasn’t expecting the boy until the weekend.
Inside the cool, shadowy room, his rheumy eyes took a moment to adjust. His daughter was sitting at the table, tugging at a white handkerchief in her hand. Her son stood at her side,
stock-still, staring intently with large brown eyes at his grandfather.
Alberto smiled reassuringly at the boy, who seemed to relax a tiny amount.
The old man’s voice was gravelly, but his words were soft. ‘Rosa? What’s wrong?’
His daughter glanced at him briefly. ‘There’s been an accident.’
Alberto sat opposite her, the raffia seat creaking under his weight. ‘Juan Carlos?’
At the mention of her husband’s name, his daughter nodded and began to cry, raising the handkerchief to her face to hide her tears. The child looked at his mother anxiously. Alberto wished
his wife were here. She had always known the words to use to ease an emotional situation, how to express sympathy with just the touch of her hand. These small gestures of love and support were a
mystery to Alberto, so he waited for his daughter to compose herself.
She wiped her eyes and nose with the handkerchief. ‘He’s been hurt in an explosion,’ she explained. ‘A boiler at Señor Medina’s house. No one knows what
happened. Juan Carlos is always so good with the old plumbing.’
Alberto nodded, waiting for his daughter to continue. The boy stood so still and silent the old man had almost forgotten he was there.
Rosa took a deep breath and said, ‘He’s in the hospital. He has very bad burns. He’s stable at the moment, but it’s serious. They will know more in the
morning.’
‘Juan Carlos is a strong man,’ said Alberto as kindly as his gruff voice would allow.
His daughter looked at him and sighed. ‘You’re right, Papá. But I have to be with him tonight. Juan Carlos’s mother is at the hospital now and I need to return –
but it’s no place for a child.’
Alberto looked at his grandson and smiled at him. The boy stared back. ‘Of course he can stay here.’
‘I didn’t have the chance to pack a bag; you could go round to our apartment—’
Alberto shook his head. ‘No need. He’ll be fine. Now, go to your husband.’
Rosa looked at her father and smiled weakly. ‘Thank you.’
Alberto stood and put a large, leathery hand on his grandson’s small shoulder. The boy looked up at him.
Rosa stood too and turned to hug her son. Alberto watched the child collapse into his mother’s arms, sinking his face into her dark curls. She held him for a few moments before
straightening up. Blinking away the tears, she stroked the boy’s soft brown hair and smiled brightly at him. ‘Now, Tino, be a good boy for Apu. And don’t worry about your
papá – Grandma and I will be with him tonight.’
She turned to her father and gingerly kissed his bristly cheek. ‘Thank you, Papá,’ she whispered.
As she left the apartment, closing the door behind her, the old man saw the boy stiffen. Quickly he picked up the rope bag, took Tino’s hand and led him into the kitchen. He pulled the
fruit out of the bag and put the grapes into the sink. Instinctively, the child leant over to turn on the tap and began washing the dust off the grapes.
Alberto took out the bread he’d bought in the village that morning. He tore the end off the long loaf, then reached up into the cupboard overhead and brought out a small bar of chocolate.
Breaking off a few squares, he pushed them deep into the middle of the bread. He turned on the grill of his ancient oven, opened the door and put the bread on the shelf.
The boy had finished washing the grapes, so Alberto passed him a tea towel to dry them while he boiled the kettle. When he’d finished, Tino fetched the bowl from the table in the next room
and carefully placed the bunches of grapes in it.
Alberto made the boy a cup of weak tea with milk and sugar, and himself a strong cup of black coffee. The child took great care in carrying the glass bowl full of fruit to the table, then sat on
a chair while his grandfather placed his tea in front of him. Alberto felt two large brown eyes follow him as he returned to the oven and lifted out the bread.
Insensitive to the heat, he wrapped the toasted loaf in a paper serviette, brought it to the child and sat down opposite him. Tino held it, looking at it as if trying to decide if he was hungry.
But as the thin smell of warm, melted chocolate rose from the toasted bread, he began nibbling its crunchy edge.
Alberto sipped his coffee, watching his grandson blowing at and biting past the crust into the chocolate-coated dough. Alberto remembered eating this once as a child and being comforted by the
simple treat.
As the boy munched on, Alberto got up and crossed the tiny apartment to the bathroom, which lay off a corridor. He turned the bath taps on full, and while rusty brown water gushed into the bath,
he opened the bathroom cabinet. It was almost bare, housing only his razor and shaving foam; toothbrush and paste; a plastic bottle of aspirin that his daughter insisted he take, though he rarely
did; and some bubble bath he kept for the boy’s visits.
The water had begun to run clear, so he put in the plug and poured out some bubble bath. Then he returned to the boy, who had finished his bread and was holding his mug of tea with both
hands.
Alberto placed a hand on the child’s head and gently stroked the soft hair.
Tino twisted his head to look up at his grandfather.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Alberto huskily.
‘Yes, Apu,’ he nodded, attempting a smile.
‘Good. Now finish your tea. It’s time for your bath.’
Clean and sleepy, the boy climbed into bed dressed in his grandfather’s stripy pyjama top with the sleeves rolled up. Sitting on the bed, the old man tucked the sheet in and laid a light
blanket over him.
‘Apu?’ whispered the little boy.
‘Yes.’
‘Is Papá going to die?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied after a brief pause. While he knew his daughter often sugar-coated difficult news, he had always been completely honest with his own children.
The child’s large eyes peered up at him.
‘I am not a doctor. The hospital is full of doctors. They will do everything they can to make him better.’
‘But will he be all right?’ Tino persisted.
‘Your father is a good man. And he still has a great many things to do in his life. Like watching you grow up. I know he will fight as hard as he can,’ said Alberto.
The boy nodded thoughtfully.
‘Apu?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old were you when your papá died?’
The question took him aback, and for a moment he studied his grandchild, considering his answer.
‘I don’t know,’ he said finally, shaking his head.
‘Why not?’
‘Well,’ began Alberto, ‘it was the civil war—’
‘Spain was in a war? Who were they fighting?’
‘Themselves,’ said the old man.
‘How can a country fight itself?’
‘When people have different views, it can end in a fight. You must have seen that at school.’
Tino nodded.
‘Some people take the side of one person in the fight, and some people take the other person’s side.’
The boy nodded again.
‘Well, in this case, the whole country took one side or another. And the whole country fought each other.’
‘Who was on the right side?’
‘It wasn’t that simple. It was a fight between the rich and the poor. Between people who believed in God and people who didn’t. Between people who wanted to do things in the
traditional way and those who wanted to be more modern.’
‘I would be on the side of the poor people who believed in God,’ the child stated.
‘Well then, you would have been on both sides,’ said the old man.
‘What?’
‘It’s true. In those days, the Church was very rich and powerful. The poor workers and farmers wanted change; they wanted their own land and better working conditions. The Church did
not want change. So the two were on opposite sides in the war.’
Tino shook his head, unable to understand.
‘At the time, I think it seemed an easy decision. You were either for freedom – freedom from poverty, freedom from greedy bosses, even freedom from the Church – or you wanted
things to stay the same, and for the government to be very strict about keeping it that way.’
