Alberto's Lost Birthday (19 page)

Miriam smiled and nodded. ‘He was. A very good man. That vineyard was everything to him. He’d be so sad to know that it had been sold. But he left it to Néstor and my brother
was never interested. He’d rather have a beer than a glass of wine.

‘My father’s name was Dante,’ Miriam continued. ‘He passed away not long after this photo was taken. He and your father were very good friends.’

‘My father?’ said Alberto quietly.

‘Yes. You don’t remember him either?’

Alberto shook his head.

‘Oh, Alberto, that’s sad. I remember him a little. He was very kind and clever – a real gentleman.’

‘A gentleman?’

‘Yes. He was quietly spoken and polite. And he smiled a great deal. He always had time for us children. I’m sorry, it’s not much – but I was very young.’

Alberto shrugged. It didn’t matter. It seemed there were no memories to trigger.

‘Did he work for your father?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘In the fields?’

‘Oh no! He was a chemist. He helped develop the wines. My father was quite advanced in employing a scientist, and your father introduced some new ways of testing and processing the wine.
It was the two of them that started the brandy production.’

‘And did we live at Quintero’s?’ asked Alberto.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Miriam enthusiastically. ‘You and your father lived in a casita out the back of the main building. You used to come into the house and have
meals with us.’

‘And my mother?’ asked Alberto.

‘Oh, Alberto,’ said Miriam gently. ‘I’m afraid I never knew her. Neither did you – she died at your birth.’

Alberto looked down at his clasped hands and sat very still.

Tino regarded his grandfather sadly.

The old man took a deep breath. It seemed there were nuggets of information, important things that he should recall. His father’s character, his mother’s death – these things
should be scorched on his memory. Yet here he was, his family and his past within his grasp, and he still couldn’t remember the woman sitting in front of him.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Alberto. ‘It’s difficult learning it all as if for the first time.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Miriam sympathetically. She picked up the bowl of olives and held them out to the small boy. He chose the largest one he could see and quickly popped it into
his mouth.

Miriam set the bowl back on the table, putting an olive into her own mouth as she leant back in her chair. As he looked up, Alberto saw the olive dribble a fat dollop of oil onto Miriam’s
ample chest. Miriam followed Alberto’s gaze and glanced down. A large stain marked her white top. Her face fell.

‘Oh,’ she said in exasperation, ‘can you believe it? This was clean this morning. I’m always doing this.’

Alberto’s eyes darted between the stain and Miriam’s perturbed face. As she pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the oil, he watched her face. Then he looked at the stain
again.

‘Mimi?’ he said quietly.

Miriam stopped dabbing and turned to him.

‘Mimi,’ said Alberto with more conviction.

Miriam nodded slowly at him.

Alberto stood up and stepped round the table towards her. Miriam stood to face him.

‘Mimi,’ said Alberto hoarsely, ‘my friend.’

Smiling through her tears, Mimi nodded again at Alberto. The old man stood uncomfortably in front of her, before Mimi pulled him to her and they hugged.

The little boy grinned and gave Vito a hug.

Mimi watched the boy climbing up the stone terrace to where Vito waited for him. She tutted and shook her head. ‘Poor child,’ she said.

Alberto had just told her about Juan Carlos’s accident and the boy’s reaction to his father’s situation. The child had slept well and without nightmares both nights they had
been away.

‘You must phone your daughter as soon as we get home,’ said Mimi firmly.

Together, Alberto and Mimi strolled along the terraces that led from the back of her house. Gnarled olive trees were spaced evenly along the wide terrace, and their feet sank gently into the
soft crust of brown earth.

Tino and the dog scampered up and down the ancient walls. Above them, the hill rose, the terraces petering out to bushes and craggy boulders. The sun was starting to lose its strength, and a
gentle breeze swept over them.

Mimi had suggested a walk before dinner. At her insistence, Alberto had agreed they would stay the night. She had a big house, and now that her husband was no longer alive and the children had
left, she had more than enough space for them both.

As they walked, they talked of their lives since the war. Alberto avoided talk of their childhood. It felt as if the recognition of Mimi, the little girl who was his best friend as a child, had
opened the door a crack. He worried that with a push, the door would fly open and the torrent of memories that flooded out would sink him. For now, he wanted to keep the surge at bay.

Instead, he learnt that Mimi had been lucky enough to go to college and study business. She had hoped Néstor would let her help run Quintero’s after their father died. She had ideas
to grow and modernize the business. But her brother had refused, saying there was no need for change – they would carry on as always. He agreed with Franco that a woman’s place was in
the home, not at work. Mimi had argued that their father had always been progressive, but Néstor had left all the business affairs to his foreman. Mimi had known the foreman and considered
him lazy with little passion for the business.

It was with great difficulty, Mimi told Alberto, that she had walked away from Quintero’s. She took a job in a leather shoe company that made workmen’s boots. It was hard and
she’d had to fight for her independence at a time when the government had been against women in the workplace. But she gained the respect of the bosses and they had given her greater
responsibility. After years of persuasion, she eventually convinced them to develop fashion shoes. She found a young designer, and thanks to her shrewd business instinct and Franco’s plan to
make Spain a modern economy, the shoe company had grown to become the best known in the area.

It was during this time she met her husband. He was an accountant: safe and reliable but with a sharp wit and a big laugh. After the marriage, she continued to work at the shoe company but just
one or two days a week. However, when she had her third child, she decided that running the family kept her busy enough.

She had brought up three boys, all of whom had gone to university, and one, she proudly admitted, had become a politician. Her husband had died young, in his fifties. She had never considered
remarrying; instead, she put her energy into her garden and her family.

‘I am content, Alberto,’ she said. ‘I have had a wonderful life – and I’m enjoying my older years. And now your arrival – well, I couldn’t have asked
for a more wonderful surprise.’

‘And I am glad to have found you,’ replied Alberto.

As Mimi fried green peppers in the kitchen, Alberto and his grandson called Rosa. She said that Juan Carlos’s recovery had been remarkable.

The doctors had warned both Juan Carlos and Rosa that the healing process would be long and painful, but the prognosis was excellent.

Alberto could hear the relief in his daughter’s voice. She said her sister, Cristina, would be leaving the next day, and her mother-in-law was spending less time at the hospital. She joked
that Juan Carlos had pleaded for his mother to watch her beloved soap operas at home rather than in his hospital room.

The boy was excited to hear about his father’s progress and asked several questions. Then he filled her in on everything he and his grandfather had learnt and talked to his mother at
length about Vito and asked if they could get a dog. His mother replied that when things calmed down, they would talk about it. The boy raced off to tell Mimi, Vito bouncing after him, barking.

‘Do you know what you have done?’ asked the old man, smiling down the phone.

‘Oh, Papá, all this has made me realize there’s more to life than worrying about dog hairs. Of course, we’ll have to wait until Juan Carlos is well enough.’

‘Boys and dogs are a good match,’ said Alberto.

‘And how about you? It sounds as if you are having quite an adventure! How does it feel to uncover your history?’

‘It’s unsettling,’ he admitted.

He was going to go on, but Rosa interrupted, ‘Papá?’

‘Yes?’

‘When will you be coming home?’

Alberto could hear Rosa’s ache for her son in her voice. Alberto sighed silently. Mimi had invited them to stay for a few days. She and Alberto could catch up properly, and the boy and
Vito would enjoy each other’s company. He had said it would depend on his daughter. Now, listening to her voice, he knew they had to go back.

‘Tomorrow, Rosa. We’ll come home tomorrow.’

‘Oh, Papá, don’t come if you’re still searching. I wouldn’t want you to cut your trip short.’

‘No, no. I’ve found everything here at Mimi’s,’ said Alberto softly.

Mimi placed the steaming tortilla on the kitchen table. It was thick and golden with flecks of green pepper running through it. Tino took a deep breath, taking in the rich
smell of the eggy potato pie.

She handed Alberto a bottle of wine, which he opened, the cork releasing from the neck with a satisfying sound.

While he poured the wine, Mimi served the boy, who sat, distracted by Vito.

‘Vito,’ said Mimi in a reproving tone.

The dog turned his large dark eyes to his mistress, but after one look at her determined face, got up and trotted, defeated, to his bed in the corner of the room.

‘Eat your dinner,’ said the old man to the boy.

‘One moment, Alberto,’ said Mimi firmly. She finished serving herself and sat down. Closing her eyes and clasping her hands together, she dropped her head. The boy squeezed his eyes
tight shut, and Alberto lowered his head.

As Mimi said a short grace, even Vito stopped noisily licking himself and lay still. When she had finished, she nodded at the boy, who hungrily tucked into his meal.

Alberto and Mimi sipped the wine. ‘It’s a Quintero,’ said Mimi.

‘I saw,’ said Alberto.

‘It’s from one of our best years, not long before my father died. I have a collection of wines that the vineyard gave me.’

‘Yes, the new owner told me. That was how we found you.’

‘My father always talked so passionately about the wine. He loved every part of the process, and I believe his heart is in every glass.’

Alberto took another sip and nodded. It was very good.

‘So your son-in-law is improving?’ asked Mimi.

‘Yes. He’s doing very well.’

‘Do you think you may stay a few more days?’

Alberto paused a moment, before sadly shaking his head. ‘Thank you for your kind offer, but my daughter is missing Tino. He’s her only child . . .’

Mimi raised her hand. ‘There’s no need to explain, Alberto. The wonderful thing is that now you’ve found me, you can visit again. Or I could come to visit you.’

‘Will you bring Vito?’ asked the boy quickly. The dog lifted his head at the sound of his name.

‘Of course,’ said Mimi. ‘I think Vito would like to see the sea.’

The boy nodded happily as he took another mouthful of tortilla.

‘So, Alberto, have you been a gardener all your life?’ Mimi asked.

Alberto nodded. ‘My education wasn’t good, so I took work where I could find it after the war – labouring on building sites, working on farms at harvest time. I was always
happier outside. When I met María Luisa on her family’s olive farm, I learnt a great deal about agriculture. For our wedding, her father bought us a small plot of land. I grew crops to
sell, and for our table.

‘Then the tourists began to arrive in the area. They bought and built villas with gardens and plenty of land, but they only stayed in them for a few months a year. María Luisa knew
a woman who sold properties to the British and Dutch. Through her, my wife began work as a cleaner – looking after the empty houses and preparing them for their owners’ return.

‘And I was hired to look after the gardens and the land. Often, the villas came with many terraces of almonds and olive trees. They paid me to maintain them, and often allowed me to take
the harvest.

‘Some of the families returned over many years, and María Luisa became friends with a few of them. She would show the wives the best places to shop and would learn a few words of
their language. If they were interested, I would show the men how to clear the irrigation channels and check for termites in their villas’ woodwork.

‘María Luisa became good friends with one English family. They spoke a little Spanish and liked to learn the Spanish way of life. One day every summer, María Luisa would make
a large paella, and we would carry it up to their house on a hill. Our two families would eat together and the children played, despite none of them speaking the same language. I made their
youngest child – a little
rubia
– her own garden. It had a lemon tree and flowers that would be in bloom when the family arrived.’

Alberto smiled at the memories.

‘It’s interesting you’ve always worked with plants, Alberto. Have you ever worked with grapes?’ asked Mimi.

‘Only picking them at harvest time. I did make my own wine once, but even I could barely drink it,’ he chuckled.

‘I wonder what would have happened if you had stayed at Quintero’s. Papá always wanted you to help Néstor run the vineyard – just as your father helped him. But
while your father was a scientist, it sounds as if you could have appreciated my father’s love of the vine. You would have been a better foreman than the lazy waster my brother
hired.’

Alberto shrugged. ‘What if the war had not come? What if Néstor had given you Quintero’s? What if? We have lived the lives we have lived.’

Mimi nodded. ‘Of course you’re right. But part of me wonders if, when you lost your memory, some of my father’s words remained. He was always talking to us about plants –
perhaps somehow a little of his knowledge settled in your memory. It’s a nice thought to have. It would have made him happy.’