Alberto's Lost Birthday (18 page)

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.’

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.

Nodding to him, Alberto popped the whole fruit into his mouth, biting through the sweet skin to the tart pulp. Tino gnawed at the outside until only the bitter centre was left, which he threw
into the bushes.

Alberto rang the bell beside a wooden door almost completely hidden behind a cluster of clematis flowers. Far away, a bell tinkled and instantly a dog started barking. Moving a woody vine, he
saw an old sign, with the words P
AN Y
V
INO
burnt into the strip of hardwood.

‘“Bread and Wine,”’ read Tino.

Alberto looked down at him and shrugged. The boy shrugged back, smiling.

At that moment, the door swung open. Alberto turned and saw a plump woman with white, curly hair smiling at him. She was wearing trousers and a straw hat, and held a pair of gardening gloves in
one hand. A wiry, honey-coloured dog squirmed past her legs and, wagging its tail, tentatively sniffed at Alberto.

‘Hello?’ said the woman, looking first at Alberto and then at the boy.

‘Hello!’ said Tino, eyeing the dog with delight.

The old man nodded, suddenly bashful. He took his hat off and held it in front of his chest. ‘Forgive the intrusion at your home,’ he began quietly.

The woman smiled at him and brushed a curl from her face. The dog moved closer to the little boy, sniffing at his feet. Tino grinned and patted the dog’s slim head.

‘Are you Miriam Quintero?’ Alberto asked quietly. He looked at her intently.

‘Goodness,’ she replied, chuckling, ‘it’s been a long time since anyone called me that. Yes, that was my name before I was married.’

Alberto nodded, uncomfortable. He looked down at the boy, who seemed to be holding his breath with excitement.

Turning back to Miriam, he said, ‘I think we may have known each other when we were very young.’

‘Yes?’ replied Miriam curiously.

Alberto nodded again, turning his hat in his hands.

‘My name is Alberto. Alberto Romero.’

Miriam stared at Alberto for a moment, the words sinking in. Then dropping the gloves, she slowly raised her hands to her mouth. Her eyes shone with confusion, and she blinked a number of times.
She peered at the old man. Her eyes began to well with tears.

‘Alberto?’ she whispered through her fingers.

Alberto nodded. He could see she had recognized him despite the years. But when he looked at her face, he couldn’t see the girl in the photo. He didn’t know this woman.

Tentatively, Miriam stepped towards Alberto. She placed a hand on either side of his leathery face and gently kissed him on both cheeks. The tears were pouring down her face as she stepped back.
The dog wound his way round her legs, eager for attention.

‘We thought you were dead,’ she said, her voice quivering.

Alberto looked at her, wishing he could remember.

Miriam wiped her eyes. ‘And who is this?’ she asked, looking at the boy.

‘This is my grandson, Tino.’

Miriam smiled at the boy, then turned back to Alberto, looking into his face again.

‘Well, you must both come in.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alberto.

With a click of her tongue, she nudged the dog towards the door and he bounded through.

The boy bent down, picked up Miriam’s gloves and handed them to her. She smiled her thanks, then stepped to one side and, once the old man and the boy had crossed into the garden, shut the
door behind them.

Alberto looked around. The garden was stunning. Along the house and exterior wall climbed jasmine and passion flower. The trunk of the kumquat tree was sturdy and leant heavily against the wall.
Hibiscus, bandera with its Spanish-flag flowers, angel’s trumpet and lilies covered the ground with small stone pathways running through them. Over the entrance to the house hung a
spectacular mix of pink and red bougainvillea, and pots of fuchsia lined the steps leading up to the door. The mixture of scents was heady, and Alberto breathed them in deeply.

Miriam led them into the cool house, putting her gloves on a small table by the door. The dog’s claws clicked on the tiled floor as he followed her.

‘Please,’ she said, indicating a large sofa, ‘take a seat while I get us some drinks.’

Alberto and the boy sank into the soft cushions. Looking around, they saw a mix of old and new furniture set around the spacious room. Family photographs hung over the fireplace, and a pair of
knitting needles stuck out of a bag by a comfy chair.

‘Apu?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember Señora Miriam?’

Alberto turned to the boy, who looked expectantly up at him. Sadly, he shook his head.

‘Oh,’ said Tino quietly.

Alberto rubbed the line of his jaw, his hard fingers rasping against the bristles. ‘I wish I did,’ he said.

When Miriam came through from the kitchen carrying a tray, Alberto stood and helped her put it on the table. She set a glass of sweet fizzy water in front of each of them and placed a bowl of
olives in the centre of the table. Then she settled herself in the comfy chair opposite them and picked up her drink.

‘Thank you,’ said Alberto, lifting his glass.

The dog trotted up to the boy and flopped down beside him. Grinning, the child stroked its ears and the dog’s eyes closed with pleasure.

‘I think he likes you,’ said Miriam.

‘What’s his name?’ asked the boy.

‘Vito. Because he’s always been so full of life.’

They all looked down at the dog, who leant against the boy’s leg.

‘I still can’t believe it’s you,’ said Miriam, turning to Alberto. ‘But it seems you don’t remember me.’

Alberto slowly shook his head. ‘I feel that I should, but I can’t. I have lost my memory from those days.’

Miriam frowned. ‘What do you remember?’

‘I was taken to an orphanage, where I spent most of the war. There’s very little before that. This one’ – Alberto nodded and gestured towards his grandson –
‘persuaded me to go looking for my history.’

Miriam smiled kindly at Tino.

‘We went to where the orphanage was, but there was a mean old man there,’ said the boy. ‘Then we met Doña Isabel, and we went to the church. Then Apu saw a bottle of
brandy and we went to the vineyard and saw the cellar. Then they said to come here.’

‘Well,’ said Miriam, ‘it sounds like you’ve had quite an adventure!’

The little boy grinned and nodded before gulping down more of his drink.

‘The new owners of Quintero’s gave us your address,’ explained Alberto.

‘Ah,’ said Miriam.

‘Apu,’ said the boy excitedly, ‘don’t forget the photos!’

Alberto opened his bag, which lay by his feet. He took out the photos and handed them to Miriam.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Look at these – so long ago.’ She leafed through them until she got to the one Javier had shown them. Smiling, she turned it to show Alberto.

‘This is when we were very young. This is my brother, Néstor,’ she said, pointing to the teenage boy. ‘And of course this is me, and our mother and father. Do you
remember any of us?’

‘No. There’s something there, a glimmer, but it’s not clear.’ He looked at the photo again. ‘Your father looks like a good man.’