Alberto's Lost Birthday (7 page)

When he was a few feet from Alberto, he stopped and, breathing deeply, said in a sharp, rasping voice, ‘Can I help you?’

‘Don García’ – Alberto bowed his head slightly – ‘my name is Alberto Romero, and this is my grandson.’

The old man nodded graciously at Alberto, ignoring Tino. ‘And why are you here?’

‘Señor, many years ago, I lived in this house. My grandson and I have come in search of some information about those times.’

‘You lived in this house before me?’

‘Yes, señor. It was during the time of the war.’

‘The war?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Many say that was a bad time for Spain, eh?’

‘Yes,’ said Alberto.

‘And you? What is your opinion of the war?’

Alberto paused for a moment but answered, ‘I was just a boy. Those times have passed. I believe it is better to look forward.’

‘Hmm. You say you lived here before I moved here?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Don García sucked audibly on his teeth and ran his thumb and forefinger over his moustache before pointing an emaciated finger at Alberto. ‘So you were an orphan?’

Alberto nodded slowly.

‘A child of
Rojos
, no doubt.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Alberto carefully. ‘I don’t remember my parents.’

‘Mmm,’ said the old man, sceptically.

‘So, señor, you didn’t visit the house during the war years?’

‘No. I was too busy ridding the country of red filth,’ sneered the man.

Alberto winced.

Pausing for a moment, he persisted, ‘Could I ask when you moved here?’

‘Franco himself bequeathed me this house. For my services in the war,’ said the old man, tapping his medals. ‘Those were the days,’ he continued. ‘The Franco years.
Spain was blooming. Since he’s been gone, the country has gone to the dogs – don’t you agree?’

Alberto stood silent.

‘Eh? Don’t you agree?’

‘I like being able to choose my government,’ said Alberto deliberately.

At this, the ancient man started to laugh a wheezing laugh, but quickly began to gasp for breath. His wheezing soon turned to coughing that shook his entire bony body.

Alberto took a step towards him, but the old man lifted his papery face and scorned, ‘Socialist rubbish!’

Alberto heard the boy gasp quietly, and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

‘The country’s run by snivelling, weak populists. And do you know who is to blame for this country’s fall? Do you know who is the traitor?’ He paused to take a breath,
his watery eyes on Alberto. ‘The king!’

With this, Don García began to cough again. He pulled a clean white handkerchief from his top pocket and coughed violently into it, crumpling in his chair.

Alberto began walking towards the door, pulling the riveted child with him.

‘I think we will leave you now, señor,’ he said firmly.

But as he reached for the door handle, the venomous voice rasped, ‘He betrayed Franco – the hero who saved this country from godlessness. He prepared the king to take the reins. And
how was he repaid? With treachery. The king turned his back on Franco and all that he stood for.’

Alberto turned to look at the ancient man.

‘If the king were to walk into this house right now, do you know what I would do?’ García paused, gulping small mouthfuls of air. ‘I would spit in his face,’ he
hissed.

Alberto blinked at the wheezing body in the wheelchair, a wisp of a memory flickering in front of him, gone before he could grasp it. Then, turning quickly, he yanked the door open, grabbed
Tino’s arm and steered him out of the room. Without speaking, he marched through the house, the boy scampering to keep up.

When they reached the main door, Alberto stepped out into the sunshine and took a deep breath. He turned his face up to the sun and, still breathing deeply, rubbed his chest.

Suddenly, he folded over with a soft groan.

‘Apu!’ cried Tino, grabbing hold of his leg.

‘Señor,’ shouted the gardener. He dropped his hoe and dashed towards him.

Alberto lifted his hand to calm him and slowly stood up straight. His face was ashen and he let the gardener take his arm and lead him to a garden bench, where he sat down heavily.

The gardener called into an open window. When his wife’s face appeared, he asked her to bring some water.

‘Thank you,’ said Alberto when he had his breath back. Looking into the gardener’s worried face, he smiled and said, ‘I’m fine. I just had a shock.’

He turned to the boy, who was on the verge of tears. Alberto reached out and touched his cheek. ‘Don’t worry, Tino. It will take more than a wicked old man to finish me
off.’

Not for the first time, Alberto wondered if he’d done the right thing bringing the boy on this journey.

‘Ah. Don García is on ferocious form today, is he?’ asked the gardener. ‘I’m sorry. I should have warned you. My wife calls me a fool, but it is in my blood to
respect my elders, no matter how terrible they are.’

‘He
is
a fool,’ huffed the housekeeper as she approached with a large glass of water. ‘He can’t see that the old man is a snake, through and through. It’s
no wonder he’s on his own – and has been all these years.’

Alberto thanked her for the water and gulped it down.

‘My husband is only grateful to him,’ continued the housekeeper, ‘because he kept his father in employment after the war. His father was a cripple and Don García was
cruel to him all his life. But in a time when work was scarce, it was a job, and Papá Jorge could feed his children.’

‘My father used to bring me here to help him when his walking became very bad,’ continued the gardener. ‘And when my father passed away, Don García let me carry on his
work. I’ve worked here all my life. The old man is very particular about the garden, but I think his attention to detail shows.’

Alberto nodded. ‘I admired your work when we arrived. The flowers are beautiful.’

‘This was all vegetable gardens when my father was here. He had to feed over a hundred orphans during the war. He worked very hard in those years.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ said Alberto quietly.

‘Oh!’ cried the gardener. ‘You were an orphan here?’

Alberto nodded.

‘Do you remember my father?’

‘A little,’ replied Alberto, squinting. ‘We weren’t allowed to spend time with anyone like that, but I remember a man with a limp working outside. And a kind woman who
prepared our meals – I can’t recall her name.’

‘Isabel!’ stated the gardener proudly.

‘Yes,’ said Alberto, pleased. ‘Señorita Isabel.’

‘She left here at the end of the war. She married and went to live in her husband’s town. I believe she still runs the restaurant there.’

‘Oh,’ gasped the boy. ‘Apu, maybe Señora Isabel will remember you.’

Alberto looked at Tino, then back to the gardener. ‘Is it far from here?’

‘It’s a few hours’ drive. It used to take most of a day to get there, but the new
autopista
makes it a much faster journey. There’s a bus that leaves in the
morning.’

‘In the morning?’ repeated Alberto.

‘Yes. And if you have nowhere to stay tonight, we would be honoured if you would stay with us.’

‘Oh no,’ said Alberto quickly, ‘we could not impose. If you could direct us to a
hostería
—’

‘Nonsense,’ replied the gardener’s wife sternly. ‘You have both had a shock, thanks to that nasty old man. This boy looks quite exhausted. My husband will take you home
with him now, while I see to Don García. He has a nurse here during the night, but I’ll give him something to make him sleep before I go. He’s upset enough people
today.’

Taking the glass from Alberto, she patted the boy’s head before returning into the house.

‘Right,’ said the gardener, ‘I’ll just tidy up my tools.’

As the gardener walked away, Tino turned to his grandfather.

Alberto smiled at him. ‘Perhaps Isabel will know something, eh?’

His grandson grinned as he threw his arms around his apu and hugged him tightly.

M
ICHAEL

6 March 1937

I carefully fold the thin pages and slide them into the envelope. Sniffing the envelope, I remember how it smelt of June’s perfume when it first arrived. Now, it smells of dirt. I tuck it
into my top pocket and lean back against the ditch, looking up at the inky twilight sky. A short distance away, some of the men are singing softly.

What will she be doing now? Helping her mum wash up after tea, perhaps. Listening to the wireless with her brother. Maybe she’s sitting at her father’s desk, pushing that glorious
auburn hair off her face as she writes me another letter.

I have no idea how many letters have gone astray, but each one that makes it to me is precious. I’ve read all of them so many times I know every word, every scratch of her pen, every smile
or tear that accompanies the words. Half of the Spaniards I’m fighting with are illiterate, but they understand love, and they wink at me when they see me with June’s letters.

‘
And I say thank you to the Señor for the women. Yes, the women and the wine
. . .’ sings a smooth, heavily accented Spanish voice, and I see Ramón stroll
towards me in the gloom.

‘
Amigo
,’ I say, ‘what’s happening?’

‘Nothing yet,’ replies Ramón as he eases himself down beside me. ‘We’ll leave once it’s dark.’

‘Righto,’ I say in English.

‘Rrrighto,’ mimics Ramón with his rolling tongue.

‘Shut up,’ I tell him in Spanish as he chuckles deeply.

‘Rubio,’ says Ramón, ‘life does not always need to be so serious.’

‘Ramón,’ I reply sternly, ‘there are many serious issues I am concerned about.’

At this, Ramón sighs deeply, waiting for me to begin one of our long political and ideological discussions.

‘Serious issues,’ I continue, ‘such as how much you need a bath.’

‘Ha!’ roars Ramón, throwing an arm around me. ‘This is the serious issue: where will I find the next bottle of wine and beautiful pair of eyes?’

Laughing, we both look up and observe the blanket of stars that has appeared above us. I imagine that Ramón is thinking of the dark-haired señoritas he will woo with tales of
fighting the Fascists and life on the road.

Not for the first time, I am struck by how different we are and how even so we are such good friends. Ramón is from the Basque Country. His family have been farmers there for as long as
anyone can remember. Ramón has a wife, four children and a farm full of pigs, which I truly believe he adores more than the children. He is a devout, if selective, Catholic. A naturally
happy man, he finds the good in every situation.

When the Fascists launched their revolt across Spain last summer, Ramón joined a peasants’ militia to defend the government. He tells me the fighting had been hard around his
homeland for many months, but the Republicans had held the enemy at bay. Word of his courage and inspirational leadership had quickly spread, and he had been called to Madrid by central command. At
first, he refused, stating that he fought for the autonomous Basque government. But when Franco proclaimed himself
generalísimo
at the end of September, Ramón had realized he
was fighting for freedom from fascism. We met in Madrid last November, when I’d first arrived.

‘Miguel,’ says Ramón softly. I turn to look at him. He rarely calls me by my name. Instead, he and the men call me ‘El Rubio’, the Blond, because they’re not
used to seeing such fair colouring.

Still watching the darkening sky, he continues, ‘Miguel, I have a bad feeling. Deep in my stomach. I have a very bad feeling.’

I study his face.

His beret pulls back his black hair, exposing strong, rounded features despite a scruffy beard. His mouth, always so quick to smile and laugh, is set in a serious line. I’ve never heard
him speak like this.

I mull over his comment. Ramón is deeply superstitious, and I know there is little I can do to persuade him his feeling is most likely a simple psychological reaction to our
situation.

Eventually, I reply, ‘It’s probably José’s cooking.’

Ramón snorts with laughter and turns to me. He knows we can’t let his feeling affect us or infect the other men. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. When
he offers, I take one – I’m getting used to the coarse flavour. We smoke in silence as the light fades and the singing becomes quieter.

Stubbing out the cigarette, Ramón puffs one last cloud of smoke. Rising to his feet, he looks over to the men, who are starting to gather their packs.

‘It’s time,’ he says, and reaching a hand down to me, he smiles, ‘
Vamanos, muchacho
.’

Smiling, I let him pull me up.

The quiet tramping of boots on the dusty road is suddenly interrupted by an almighty fart.

As we all groan, Felipe whispers loudly, ‘Hellfire, José! It is not the Nationalists that will be the end of me – it is your beans, goddamit!’

‘The noise alone will lead them to us,’ comes Ramón’s voice from the dark. The moon is slim tonight and there’s little light on the road.

‘
Hombres
,’ replies José, ‘you’re missing the point. I have given you a secret weapon. With just one bowl of my beans, you could blow up an enemy
truck.’