Bay of Secrets (43 page)

He slowed as Tindaya came into sight. The holy mountain. He had come here once with Izabella, on his scooter; they had ridden down the track between the drystone walls with Montaña Tindaya right in front of them, mushroom-coloured in the pale morning light, streaked with brown and
white and rust, channelled by rainwater; the sky clear as a diamond above.

They’d parked the scooter by the brown-stone derelict cottages in the shadow of the mountain itself; walked through the carpet of burgundy cosco and over the bare earth and rubble along the path that led up the slopes of Tindaya and on to the bare rock of the summit. Not an easy path; at times near the top they even had to climb on all fours. But it was worth it. From the top they could see the peaks of other mountains in the distance, the island of Lanzarote, the white sprinkling that was La Oliva and Ricoroque to the left on the coast. They had come to search for the hieroglyphs, the rock engravings. It was a game.

‘
Aquí está!
’ Izabella had found the first two – on a smooth, upright rock face on the east side of the summit, five or six metres from the peak. ‘Here. Come and look!’ There were, he had heard, over a hundred such carvings – of feet, podomorphs etched into the
traquita
. Further along the ridge in the next crop of rocks were more – some not so recognisable, but others clear and impressive still. Andrés had heard that they all faced towards Teide – the frequently erupting volcano in Tenerife where the devil was believed to reside. The hieroglyphs were intended to drive away bad spirits. And as he stood there and looked towards Teide, the peak of which was circled by thick cloud – he thought it really could be true.

It was slow going on the way down and they had held hands; Andrés was worried Izabella would go too fast, be
careless and lose her footing. But she was as sure-footed as a mountain goat and it was he who stumbled; she who stood firm and stopped him from falling.

But who could stop him from falling now? He and Izabella had lost touch over the years – their lives had gone in such different directions. His parents seemed like strangers. And Ruby …

Was the mountain haunted by spirits? Some believed so. He couldn’t deny the power of the place. Its magnetic force seemed to draw him in. He had felt it that whole day – as if something or someone dark was hanging over him. An oppression. And it was on the following day that it had happened – that he had seen his father in his studio and challenged him. It was the day before Andrés had left the house for good.

Andrés drove on towards La Oliva. It had always been an important town – the official residence of the colonels in the seventeenth century. Andrés did not go as far as the town, however; he took a left towards Ricoroque alongside the pale green lichen-smeared
malpaís
at Rosa de los Negrines. And he thought of those old history lessons at school, when he had learnt about the history of the island. About the French settlers, who had arrived to an island green with fig, palm and olive trees; to thick woodlands of willow and pine, and freshwater streams. It was, Andrés thought, hard to imagine. And then came the goats (which as everyone knew, ate everything), the lime kilns swallowing vast quantities of wood, the droughts and finally the
rabbits and Barbary squirrels. Now, the land was virtually a desert.

On the long straight road to Lajares he put his foot down – he was almost there. Ahead, he could see the hermitage and the windmills –
los molinos
. Were the mills still in operation? Did the ageing miller and his wife still live there, as if time had indeed stood still since Andrés had been gone?

The road to Ricoroque swung to the left and that’s when Andrés caught his first glimpse of the lighthouse, the village and the sea. His sea. His village. He could smell it – the dry stone and the earth, the salt-encrusted
casas
. The lava flow continued all the way, alongside the old road bordered by date palms – now effectively a cycling track for tourists, he guessed – and past the track which led to the old convent. This made him think of Ruby. Why had she gone to see a nun?

The straight wide road to town led him all the way in. Andrés took a deep breath. Had he been fooling himself all these years? He had no idea if he would receive any answers to his questions. He had no idea what his reception would be. No matter. He was home.

He parked outside the
casa.
He’d heard from his mother about some of the changes but it was still a surprise. The little house had doubled in size. Was it still his childhood home? Andrés wasn’t sure. He surveyed the white-gravelled courtyard and the central metallic sculpture that looked a bit like a giant whisk. It didn’t seem so real any more. But at least the carob tree still stood in the far corner of the courtyard.
He paused at the metal gates. Was he being unfair? His father had started from nothing and he had achieved a lot. But at what cost?

Instead of going up to the front door and knocking on it like a stranger, Andrés took a deep breath and walked round the side to the back. He was here now – he had to go through with it. Through the open kitchen window he could see her bustling about preparing food – his mother. He stood and watched, tears in his eyes. He shouldn’t have left her for so long – that was all he could think. He shouldn’t have gone away and not seen her for so long. What had he been thinking of?

All of a sudden she turned and saw him. She froze.

‘My son!’

He heard her cry through the open window and then he pushed open the door and he was in her arms. Cradled like a child.

‘Mama.’ He buried his face in her hair. She smelt of baking; a fragrance that spun him back to his childhood, to the kitchen where he had spent hours painting while his mother peeled vegetables and shellfish and baked bread; while she cooked dinner and washed dishes, quietly humming. Had she been content with her woman’s work? In the early days, perhaps. But later … She had been unhappy. He knew she had been unhappy. And what else could he have done to make things change?

‘Andrés!’ She pushed him away from her with a strength that had always surprised him, coming as it did from such a
diminutive woman. ‘Is it really you? Can it really be you?’

‘It is me,’ he assured her. Thank God his father was not around. Andrés was not ready for him – not quite. ‘How are you, Mama? Are you well?’

‘Me? I am healthy as a pig!’ She laughed. For a moment her brow clouded.

‘And Papa?’ Where was he? Up in his studio, he presumed. If he was well enough to even stand, that was where he would be.

Her expression changed. She looked towards the stairs. What was it she felt? Anxiety? Fear? And then she hugged him again. Drew back to scrutinise his face. ‘You are pale.’

He laughed. ‘I live in England.’

‘You are tired.’

‘I’m older.’

‘You should have told us you were coming. I would have prepared a special dinner.’

‘It does not matter.’ He picked her up and swung her from her feet. She was older too. Her face was more lined and weather-beaten and her dark hair was streaked with grey; she had lost weight – now she was light as a feather in his arms. But she had become more worried-looking than he remembered; the years had not been kind to her.

‘Andrés!’ She hit him on the back playfully, but her laughter was wonderful, like wine.

He put her down. ‘And Izabella?’ he asked. ‘How is my sister?’

‘I am well.’

The voice came from the open doorway. Izabella, his darling Izabella, stood framed there, a basket of bread and groceries on her arm, a big smile on her face. Small, slender, as beautiful as ever.

‘Andrés,’ she whispered. ‘At last you have come.’ She put down the basket she was carrying.

He strode towards her and enveloped her in the biggest hug ever, until she was beating on his chest, laughing and gasping for air. ‘Hello, Izabelle,’ he said softly. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’ She had though. He could see now that she too looked tired. Her skin was still smooth but there were fine lines around her eyes and mouth and a faint frown of worry on her brow. But her hair was still long and glossy as a raven’s wing, and as she moved away from him to kiss their mother, her body had the same arc and flow of lines and curves that he had drawn and painted so often; though less angular now, more rounded. His mother and his sister. They at least were not strangers.

‘Sit down, sit down. I will make coffee.’ His mother ushered them towards the table, glanced towards the stairs once again.

Izabella looked too. In heaven’s name. What were they both so afraid of? ‘Is my father here?’ Andrés asked.

‘Of course, my son.’ His mother ran water into the coffee pot.

‘And will you tell him I have come?’

She hesitated. Bowed her head. ‘Yes, I will tell him.’ Though still she made no move to do so.

Izabella pulled at Andrés’s arm so that he would sit down beside her at the table. It was the same table, Andrés realised, that had always been in the kitchen. The one he used to paint on. Simple and wooden; etched with marks, scratches and stains from the family who had used it for a lifetime.

‘Tell me everything,’ she urged. ‘What is happening in England? When did you arrive? Why did you not tell us you were coming?’

‘So many questions.’ He laughed, looked up, and there was his father standing in the doorway.

Andrés got to his feet. ‘Papa.’ He looked so much older; it was a shock. His face was like faded tanned leather and what hair he had left was thin and a shocking white. He still wore the paint-spattered shorts, the loose blue shirt, but he was so gaunt. Shorter, too. It was as if he had shrunk. The red bandanna was still fixed loosely around his head; in his mouth was the usual thin cheroot. Despite his illness, he still hadn’t stopped smoking then. His expression was thoughtful.

‘So … ’ And his voice as low and guttural as ever.

Andrés stood tall. This was his family. He had a right to be here. He would stand up to the man just as he had before. He had come here to support his mother and his sister. And he had questions to which he needed some answers.

‘So you have decided to show your face at last,’ Enrique Marin said. ‘I wondered how long it would take you.’

‘Enrique!’ Quietly, his wife admonished him. ‘Our son is home at last,’ she said. ‘We will have coffee together.’

But his father stomped to the fridge and removed a beer.
He shut the door, glanced at Andrés, opened it again and removed another for him. He handed it over.

‘Thank you, Papa.’

‘Very well.’ His mother shrugged and went to fetch glasses. Andrés sat down again but his father remained standing. He swigged his beer from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

His father coughed violently and spat into a handkerchief. ‘Why now?’ he demanded. ‘Why have you come back here now? Did you think I was on my deathbed, is that it? Nothing like a dying man to bring the vultures gathering round, eh?’

‘Enrique … ’ His mother reached out and patted Andrés’s hand.

‘Thinking you were too good for us – for this house,’ Enrique muttered. ‘Thinking you were too good for the island. Going to London. Pah!’ His father swore his contempt. He strode out of the kitchen, still muttering, cheroot still in his hand.

They heard his footfall on the stairs, the coughing fit he had when he got to the top.

His father hadn’t kissed him or even shaken his hand. His own father who he hadn’t seen for seventeen years. He hadn’t held him, he hadn’t said how glad he was to see him. Why the hell should Andrés bother with him?

But he had a purpose. He got to his feet.

‘Andrés … ’

He turned. ‘It’s all right, Mama,’ he said. Although it
wasn’t. The truth was, it hurt as much as it ever had.

‘Don’t mind him.’ His mother leant forward and whispered. ‘You know it’s just his way.’

She had always whispered to him like that.
It’s just his way.
But Andrés knew it was his way. And he knew just like he’d always known – if he was honest with himself. His father had never loved him. His father had never trusted him. Even when he had proved to his father that he too could paint – that he might have inherited a smidgeon of his father’s talent – even that only made him angry; as if he was threatened by the boy who could make the sea come alive; as if that boy might take some of his fame, his power, his glory. His father was not glad to see him – why would he be? Yes, it was his way. His way was not to love him.

But Andrés had come here for a reason and he wasn’t going to be dictated to by that old goat. He smiled at his sister, gently touched his mother’s shoulder. And climbed the stairs after his father.

Enrique didn’t seem at all taken aback to see Andrés enter his studio. And he didn’t tell him to get out like he always had before. For the first time it struck Andrés that his father’s bark might cover something up – some other emotion, perhaps. Was that possible?

‘Still painting, are you?’ Enrique growled at him.

Surely he couldn’t be interested? That too was a first. ‘Yes, I am.’ Andrés went deeper in, walking over the paint-spattered tiles. Not the way he had crept into his father’s studio as a boy, but as if he was entitled to be there. He smelt
the plaster of Paris, the dryness of paper and paints, the resinous turpentine and oils.

‘What subjects?’

‘Mostly seascapes.’

‘Nothing new there then.’ His father was standing erect in that way he had – as if he were the most important man on God’s earth, Andrés thought to himself – but then he took a rasping breath and sat down, almost collapsing into the nearest chair.

‘Are you all right, Papa?’ Andrés took a step towards him but he waved him away.

‘Don’t fuss. Don’t fuss.’ He coughed again, more prolonged this time, and once again spat into his handkerchief. ‘Of course I’m not all right. She’s told you, hasn’t she?’

Andrés nodded. ‘She has told me.’

Enrique swore. His face was white. He was angry, Andrés realised. Damn him. Could the man never stop being angry?

Andrés walked past the easels and the dusty sheets, over to the windows, where there were panoramic views of the mountains and the coast. The mountains rested soft and pink against the blue evening sky; the wind had dropped and the sea was slick. From here Andrés could even see the Moorish beach house out towards the lagoons and the red and white striped lighthouse in the distance. The pigeons swooped silently in formation over the orange and white rooftops, outlined against the pink and blue of the sky. Andrés tried to imagine what it would be like working here in this studio. It would be heaven.