Alberto's Lost Birthday (9 page)

After a pause, he throws a semi-serious punch at my leg.

‘Hmm – your technique needs a little work. Look, if you hold your hand like this, you won’t hurt your thumb.’ I lean down and carefully fold his little hand into a fist.
‘And if you’re going to hit someone, bring your arm up like this – in a jab. See?’

Alberto jabs his arm quickly and lands a punch on the side of my head. Losing my balance, I fall to the ground heavily.

‘Hey,’ I say, ‘watch what you’re doing!’ With that, I pull him down and pummel him. He rolls on the ground laughing.

‘Who’s the champion now, eh?’ I ask, tickling the squirming boy. When he’s giggling so much he can barely breathe, I stop, worried I might make him sick. As we lie on the
grass panting, he rolls towards me and embraces me. I give him a bear hug.

I squeeze Alberto’s hand and he turns his face up to me. I lift my finger to my lips and he nods seriously. Although we believe the village to be on the Republican side,
our information is often unreliable. And when there’s support for both sides, as there is in this region, we cannot rely on anyone for our security.

I bend down so that the boy and I are on the same level; then, as quietly as we can, we start to run. We pass shops and houses, dark and shut up for the night.

A short distance from the main square, I steer Alberto into a doorway, and we stop to catch our breath.

Suddenly, a dog starts barking ferociously on the other side of the door. Instinctively, I put my hand over Alberto’s open mouth, but he stops himself from crying out in fear. I drop again
and we make a dash to the shadows in the square.

When we reach the outer walls of the church, we edge around it, making our way down a walkway until we come across a gate. In the dim light, I can see a small graveyard inside. Very slowly I
turn the handle, and with a small squeak it opens. I usher Alberto in and he stands against the wall, while I quietly shut the gate behind us.

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 A
LBERTO
R
OMERO
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.

‘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 R
ESTAURANTE
L
OS
N
IÑOS
.

‘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.