Alberto's Lost Birthday (26 page)

‘Well,’ his mamá said, ‘we have plenty of time to save up for it. And we clearly have a lot to plan.’

Albertino nodded forcefully. He was taking full responsibility for Apu’s first birthday party. Aunt Mimi had said there had been celebrations for his birthday when he was a very young boy,
but that was a whole lifetime ago. In a few months’ time, he would have the best fiesta ever.

‘Thank you, Rosa,’ Alberto said, pushing away his empty plate.

‘My pleasure, Papá,’ his daughter replied, standing and crossing to the oven. She opened the door and took out the warming plate of food with a cloth. As she placed it on a
waiting tray, she suggested, ‘Tino, why don’t you and Apu watch some television while I take Papá his meal?’

‘Apu,’ he said excitedly, ‘maybe
Los Simpsons
will be on.’

His grandfather settled into the armchair in front of the television as the boy chattered away about his favourite show. But the evening news was on, so he picked up his toy car and drove it
over the furniture, humming the noise of the engine.

‘Albertino,’ his grandfather said quietly.

‘Yes?’ he replied, driving the car up the leg of Apu’s chair.

‘I’d like to thank you,’ the old man said gruffly.

The child stopped making the engine noise and, kneeling in front of him, looked at his grandfather. ‘What for?’

Alberto took a deep breath and continued, ‘Thank you for making me search for my birthday. I never expected to find it. But I did. And I found old friends. And memories that I thought had
gone forever.’

He leant over and held his grandson’s face in his large, leathery hand. ‘And I would never have had that joy without you.’

The boy smiled up at his grandfather. Compliments from Apu were rare and he was pleased to receive these kind words.

‘You’re a very special boy. And I believe you will be a special man. Remember that. Your apu believes you will do wonderful things in your life.’

He placed a soft kiss on his grandson’s forehead and smiled at him with tears in his eyes. Albertino smiled back, proud of his grandfather’s words.

Then Apu’s eyes narrowed and he rubbed his chest with his hand.

‘Apu?’

His grandfather winced and, breathing out heavily, said to his grandson, ‘I’m fine. Get me a brandy, will you?’

The boy dashed off into the kitchen, where he carefully took the bottle – the brandy his mamá kept especially for Apu – out of the cupboard and slowly measured out two fingers
of the amber liquid as his grandfather had shown him many times.

When he had returned to the lounge, he’d seen Apu slumped forward, clutching his arm and letting out a grumbling groan.

‘Mamá!’ the boy shouted as he stood, rooted to the spot.

His mother came dashing into the room and, as soon as she saw her father leaning over in agony, rushed to his side.

‘Papá!’ she’d cried, as Tino edged towards them both, still holding the brandy.

‘Sit with Apu,’ his mother said to him loudly as she stood up and pushed past him.

Obediently, Tino sat on the floor beside his grandfather, placing the glass of brandy beside him. Looking up, he took in Apu’s red, strained face, the muscles in his neck taut, veins
throbbing visibly.

‘Apu?’ he said in a scared voice.

But his grandfather didn’t reply.

The boy had heard his mother speak into the phone. Her father was having a heart attack, he had heard her say. She told whoever was on the other end to hurry. Please come quickly, she pleaded
before slamming down the phone.

Then she had rejoined her son, sitting on the other side of Apu. As they watched, they saw his face start to relax. The muscles and veins softened, released of their intense strain, and his body
slowly eased back into the chair. As it did, Apu gave a long, heavy sigh.

‘Papá?’ Rosa cried, shaking his arm violently.

But Apu had lain back, his face slack, his mouth open. As his mother frantically felt around her father’s neck for a pulse, the boy looked at his grandfather’s face. To Tino, Apu
looked like he did when he dozed off in front of the television. He looked as though he were sleeping peacefully.

The ambulance had arrived not long after, and two men in uniforms rushed into the house. They quickly but gently pulled Apu onto the floor. Tino saw one of them knock over the glass of brandy,
spilling his grandfather’s drink on the floor. No one else noticed. While one of the medics pumped Apu’s chest with his hands, the other opened a small case with what looked like a
little machine in it.

‘Tino!’ his mother said sternly to him.

He wrenched his eyes away from the men leaning over his grandfather and looked at his mother, who was kneeling on the floor by Apu’s head.

‘Go to your papá,’ she said. ‘Now!’

He had wanted to stay and watch, but the tone of his mother’s voice told him not to argue. He ran into his father’s room, where his papá, worried, asked what was going on.
Tino had explained as well as he could about the ambulance men, and about the machine, and that Apu just looked like he was asleep.

His father had lifted his bandaged hands up and opened his arms. Tino fell into his papá’s body and his father hugged him tightly.

‘Maybe he’s just asleep, Papá,’ he had said, as he fought back the scary feeling that fluttered in his stomach.

His father hadn’t said anything, just held him. Perhaps it was then that Tino had realized that Apu was not sleeping.

But now, all these months on, he liked to think that he’d been right the first time, and that’s what dying was like. It was like going to sleep, forever. Apu was having a lovely
siesta – and was able to watch over his family in his dreams.

Rosa looked at her son, blinking away his tears, and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, said, ‘Thank you, Father,’ to the priest.

‘Did your grandfather ever tell you what he did at my church?’ asked Father Samuel with a wry smile.

The boy shook his head, swallowing hard.

‘Well,’ said the priest as Rosa and Juan Carlos leant in to hear the story, ‘do you remember you got a bit dirty when you were climbing the tree and I took you into the church
to clean up?’

The boy nodded seriously.

‘Your grandfather and I had been talking about someone who was buried in the church graveyard. The burial had taken place a very long time ago, but the grave didn’t have a headstone.
It just had a simple wooden cross to mark the place. There wasn’t even a name on the cross.

‘I had been trying to get a headstone for the grave, but as I told your grandfather, things do not happen swiftly in an institution as large as the Church. Rightly, your grandfather
considered this a poor excuse and took matters into his own hands.

‘When you had gone, I went back into the churchyard. There, I found that your grandfather had carved the man’s name into the wooden cross.’ He looked at Rosa and Juan Carlos
and smiled. ‘Such a simple action, but it says a great deal about the compassion of Alberto.’

‘What was his name?’ asked the boy. ‘The man who was buried?’

‘Antonio,’ replied the priest, ‘Father Antonio.’

‘A priest?’ asked Rosa, surprised. ‘How strange.’

Father Samuel nodded at her before continuing, ‘I have taken a leaf out of your grandfather’s book, Tino. In commemoration of your grandfather, I have had a headstone built for the
grave. It will arrive and be placed next week. And I intend to say a few words – a blessing for the soul who is buried there.’

‘What does it say?’ asked Albertino. ‘The headstone?’

‘It’s very simple. I didn’t have any details other than a name. So it just says, “Father Antonio. Commended to God. May he rest in peace.”’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ smiled Rosa. ‘I wish my father could have known of your actions.’

‘He knows,’ said the boy clearly. When the three adults turned to him, he said confidently, ‘Apu is always with us. You said so, Mamá. And now he knows about the
gravestone.’

Smiling, Juan Carlos reached across to his son and gently ruffled his hair with his thick-fingered hand.

‘Father,’ said Rosa, ‘can I offer you something to eat? The whole village is here and everyone’s brought something. We too could feed the five thousand, there’s so
much food.’

Grinning, Father Samuel let himself be led towards the trestle tables laden with food.

‘Papá?’ said the boy, looking up at his father.

‘Yes?’

‘Apu
is
here with us, isn’t he?’

His father nodded. ‘Yes. He is. He will always be with you and your mamá. And he will always be here on this land.’

Together, they looked across the small plot. The almond and lemon trees, the vines and the tiny corner of flowers. And now the patch of land was filled with people who had come to
Alberto’s birthday party.

Rosa had made copies of Albertino’s hand-drawn poster and they had pinned the party invitation all over the village. She had also tracked down people the boy and his grandfather had met on
their search for his birthday. And, as Señora Ortiz had predicted all that time ago, the whole village had come out for the occasion. Albertino was proud that Apu was such a well-liked
person.

While the women had covered plates in strips of sliced hams and chorizo, and prepared two large paellas to cook outdoors, the men had brought beers and wines – many home-made. The butcher
had donated a whole pig – it was so big that the baker had cooked it in his oven. And Rosa and her sisters had ordered a huge birthday cake edged with nuts, Alberto’s name spelt out in
blue icing.

Albertino wished his grandfather could be here to appreciate it. Even if he was watching from heaven, it wasn’t the same as being here. He imagined Apu standing with him, embarrassed about
the fuss, but secretly pleased to see so many friends and neighbours mixing happily with his family.

The boy’s memory was broken by a frenzy of barking. Turning quickly, he saw Bonita fly past him, yapping madly. And there, tearing towards her and yelping delightedly in return, was Vito.
The two dogs met joyously, bouncing noisily around each other.

Grinning, the boy looked past the two dogs and saw Mimi walking towards him.

‘Aunt Mimi,’ cried Albertino, running towards her.

When she saw him, Mimi opened her arms. He ran into them and she hugged him hard.

Rosa and Juan Carlos approached, smiling.

‘Thank you so much for coming, Mimi,’ said Rosa.

‘It’s my pleasure,’ replied Mimi, hugging her gently. ‘How are you, Juan Carlos?’ she asked as he limped towards them.

‘Much better than the last time you saw me,’ he grinned.

‘Yes, you look much better than at the funeral, especially your walking,’ she commented.

‘It’s the exercises I make him do,’ teased Rosa.

‘She’s a tough boss,’ grinned Juan Carlos, putting an arm around his wife, ‘but I know all the hard work is paying off.’

‘And your hands?’ asked Mimi gently.

‘Oh, you know,’ replied Juan Carlos, lifting up one of his ugly hands to show her. ‘Little by little.’

Mimi nodded sympathetically.

At that moment, Vito and Bonita ran up to them, jumping and slathering over them all.

Laughing, Albertino knelt down to their level and let them lick and nudge him. As he played with the two dogs, it was impossible to tell which of the three was happiest.

Leaning over the giggling child, Mimi handed Rosa a bag. It clinked loudly and she said, ‘Just a few bottles. Not the best stuff, but perfectly good for sangria.’

Rosa kissed Mimi’s cheek as she thanked her and delivered the bottles to Señora Ortiz.

‘What a wonderful party!’ Mimi said to Juan Carlos.

Across the stretch of land, children played noisily, a group of men sang, old women dressed in black and sitting on folding chairs gossiped loudly, and other people milled around the tables
filled with plates of food and paella dishes.

‘He was a very popular man.’

Mimi nodded. ‘He was a wonderful friend when we were children,’ she said sadly. ‘I just wished I’d been able to spend time with him once we’d found each other
again.’

‘Rosa says he came back from that trip a different man. He had always been content with what he had, but she said it was as if he’d received a gift he’d never expected. And it
was the best gift he could have wished for,’ said Juan Carlos.

‘I wish Rosa could have seen his face when he saw that bottle with the date of his birth on it. And, of course, as soon as he saw the date, he remembered it. He remembered the birthday
parties we’d thrown him, and gifts his father had given him. He became quite emotional.’

‘He was not a man who often showed his emotions.’

‘May I ask what happened to the bottle of brandy?’ asked Mimi.

‘It’s Tino’s now,’ replied Juan Carlos. ‘It was his idea to search for his grandfather’s birthday, so we all agreed he should have it. His mother and I will
look after it for him until he’s ready to take it. I don’t know whether he will drink it or keep it somewhere safe; he’s a bit young to think of things like that now.’

‘When the time comes, he’ll make the right decision,’ said Mimi. They both watched the child racing the dogs in circles. ‘He’s a wonderful child.’

‘Thank you,’ smiled Juan Carlos. ‘Now, can I help you to a drink?’

Just then, the dogs barrelled past them, nearly knocking Juan Carlos off his feet.

‘Tino!’ cried Mimi. ‘Don’t excite those dogs any more than they already are!’

The boy grinned at Mimi and dashed after the barking dogs, who were heading for a group of people sitting chatting.

‘Tino! There you are,’ said a familiar voice.

The boy turned and saw among those seated an elderly woman with short white hair and glasses.

‘Doña Isabel,’ he said happily. Then the boy realized that sitting on either side of her were the gardener and his wife from Los Zorros.

They greeted him happily with kisses and smiles.

‘You were playing when we arrived,’ explained the gardener. ‘I recognized Doña Isabel straight away and we have been catching up on old times.’

‘See what you and your grandfather have done?’ asked Isabel. ‘You’ve brought together old friends. It’s wonderful – I’m so pleased to have someone to
talk to about the old days.’