Alberto's Lost Birthday (3 page)

Quickly, I squirrel it into the pocket of my apron and look up. The soldier is sharing a cigarette with Jorge and chatting about whether the fighting will reach us. I don’t think
they’ve seen the piece of paper.

Grasping the boy’s hand, I say loudly, ‘Jorge, I’m taking the boy into the kitchen to get him cleaned up. Don’t be long – the señora may need you.’

I turn to the soldier. ‘Thank you, señor.’

The soldier smiles back as I turn and walk away.

The boy trots along obediently beside me. As I open the back door, I turn and see the soldier is still looking at me. I lift my hand in a small wave before shooing the child inside.

In the kitchen, I motion the boy over to the long oak table, where he sits, still looking at his boots. I open the bread bin and take out the last crust. I was saving it for my supper, but I can
do without. With my finger I drill a hole into the middle of the hard bread and then reach into my apron pocket and take out the chocolate. Unwrapping it carefully, I stuff the chocolate into the
bread and pop it into the warm oven.

Then I rinse a cloth in water and approach the boy, who eyes me suspiciously.

‘I’m just going to wash your face, Alberto,’ I say gently.

I lift his chin and start to wipe the grime off his face. He looks around slowly, taking in his new surroundings.

‘This is an orphanage, Alberto. There are lots of other boys and girls like you here. You’ll soon have friends. How old are you, Alberto? Have you been to school? You will have
lessons here. The priests take the classes and will teach you to read and write.’

I continue cleaning the boy and speaking gently to him as I do so, although he does not respond. Eventually, his face and hands are clean and I rinse the filthy cloth in the sink. Then, opening
the oven, I take out the toasted bread, wrap it in a little paper and hand it to the boy.

He accepts it sceptically and sits, holding it.

‘Alberto,’ I say quietly, hunching down to his level. ‘Alberto, the orphanage is run by people who do not like the
Rojos
.’ I reach into my pocket, bring out the
piece of paper and hold it in front of him. ‘Who gave you this?’ I ask.

The boy looks at me intently but remains silent.

‘Alberto, this is an address in England. Did you meet a Republican soldier? Did he give you this?’

The boy just looks at me.

I sigh and brush a dusty curl off his face.

‘Alberto,’ I say seriously, holding the paper in front of his face, ‘this orphanage is run by the Church and supported by the Nationalists. When you do decide to talk again, do
not speak of this.’

I stand, open the oven door and throw in the paper. It instantly curls and blackens; then a small orange flame flares, eating the paper until just a grey sliver of dust is left to settle on the
floor of the stove.

I shut the door and turn back to the boy, but he is not looking. He has taken a bite out of the chocolate-soaked bread and is chewing it slowly.

He looks up at me, and I think I see the tiniest trace of a smile.

Alberto held the little boy’s hand tightly as they walked along the corridor. The smell of disinfectant was pervasive and the child wrinkled his nose. Towards the end of
the walkway, they reached a long window and Alberto slowed, looking in.

A large metal bed stood in the middle of the room. Lying on top of the white sheets, bound in white bandages, lay a motionless figure. Wires and tubes appeared from under the wrappings and were
connected to a machine beside the bed. A woman in blue pyjamas, cap and face mask was adjusting a drip.

Sitting in a chair beside the bed was Juan Carlos’s mother. A semi-transparent yellow garment covered her customary black dress, and plastic booties concealed her black slippers. She too
wore a blue face mask and cap. Her eyes were shut and Alberto couldn’t tell if she was deep in prayer or dozing.

Leaning over the bandaged head, talking gently to the man within was his daughter. She was wearing the same clinical garments as her mother-in-law, her long, dark curls swept up into a cap.

Absorbed in watching his daughter, he didn’t notice Tino let go of his hand, stand on his tiptoes and peer into the room – not until he heard a small gasp. Looking down, he saw the
boy’s mouth open in shock and his wide eyes filling with tears. Juan Carlos’s mother’s head snapped up in time to see the old man pulling the reluctant child away from the
window.

Leading him to some nearby chairs, Alberto helped the boy into the seat and sat next to him.

‘Apu, was that really Papá?’ he whispered. Large tears ran down his cheeks.

‘Yes, it was,’ he replied gently.

At that moment, the door opened and Tino’s mother walked out of the room. He jumped up and ran to her, and she took off her mask and bent down to hug him.

Alberto stood. After some quiet words, his daughter wiped the tears from her son’s eyes and led him back to Alberto.

‘Well?’ he asked.

Rosa sighed. He could see she was exhausted.

‘The doctor was worried Juan Carlos would go into shock last night. But he’s done well over the past few hours and they say he is stable now. The pain relief is very strong.
He’s not conscious, but we speak to him constantly, so he knows he’s not alone.’

Alberto nodded.

‘I’ve been talking to the nurses. They say over the next few days it is essential that he avoids any risk of infection.’ She stopped speaking and looked down at her son, who
held her hand with both of his. ‘I cannot leave Juan Carlos. Could Tino stay with you a little longer?’

‘You know he can stay as long as is necessary.’

Smiling weakly, Rosa nodded gratefully to her father.

Tap, tap, tap – the long stick struck the top branches and a hard brown shower of nuts bounced onto the green netting under the tree. Tino waited until the last almond
had fallen, then, picking out the occasional leaf, gathered the nuts and put them into a large plastic bucket. Then he stepped back to the edge of the netting as his grandfather moved over to some
other almond-laden branches and began tapping again.

When the tub was full, Alberto carefully put down the stick. Nodding to the boy, he picked up the tub and carried it over to the edge of the terrace, where they sat, in the shade of a lemon
tree. The sun was still in full heat, and the pale brown earth on the terrace was cracked like an over-baked cake.

Alberto opened a bottle of water he had brought and handed it to the boy, who took a long drink. The old man took a few gulps and settled the bottle in the shade. Then he and Tino set to peeling
the hard, leathery husks from their harvest, throwing the skins on the ground and putting the nuts with their distinctive pitted shells into a canvas bag.

‘Apu?’ asked the boy as they worked.

‘Yes.’

‘If you don’t know when your birthday is, do you still get birthday presents or have a party?’

‘No.’

‘But just because you don’t remember the date doesn’t mean you can’t just pick another date.’

‘Hmmmm.’

‘It’s my birthday soon. I’m going to be eight.’

‘I know.’

‘Apu?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you like to share my birthday with me? We could have a party together.’

The old man stopped and looked at the boy. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said.

He remembered the years that his wife had tried to do the same thing. Although the government had given him a date for his papers – 1 January – he had never thought of it as his
birthday. Instead, María Luisa had suggested dates, both random and those that were important to them. He had never agreed, saying it was silly and pointless. But when their children had
come along, he had enjoyed the presents and parties she’d organized for them, glad when they’d taken it for granted. That was how a childhood should be.

‘I’m too old for birthday parties now,’ he said, smiling.

‘But, Apu,’ continued Tino, ‘everyone should have a birthday. Even Grandma has a birthday every year – that’s how we know she’s so old.’

‘Do I need a birthday to know that I am old?’ asked Alberto.

‘No,’ agreed the boy. ‘But don’t you want to have a birthday?’

The old man shrugged. ‘I have managed all these years without one.’

‘Everyone should have a birthday, Apu.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because a birthday is your day. It’s the day when everybody comes to visit you. They bring gifts, and food, and you are with the people who love you. It’s a special day,
Apu.’

Alberto looked at the boy, bemused.

‘You don’t know, Apu. Because you’ve never had a birthday. You don’t know how it feels. It’s a good day. I want you to know how it feels.’

Alberto nodded. ‘Well, maybe you’re right. But I would need a date for a birthday.’

‘You can share mine.’

‘No.’ The old man shook his head. ‘That is your special day, not mine. It’s good of you to offer to share it, but that day is just for you.’

Tino frowned, peeling the tough coat off an almond. ‘Then we will have to find your birthday,’ he said.

That evening, Alberto sat in his weathered armchair, sipping a glass of brandy. His other daughter, Cristina, had married well and she and her husband lived in Madrid. Each year at Three Kings,
they would visit with their family. They would present Alberto with an expensive bottle of brandy, which he accepted uncomfortably and savoured in private.

The television shouted the results of the lottery, but Alberto paid it no attention. The conversation about his birthday tap, tap, tapped at his mind. It had unsettled him, and he could not
understand why. He had spent so many years not knowing his birthday. Why should the idea of it start to nag at him now? Was it that he was getting old, that he wanted to know before he died?

Suddenly, a shriek came from the other room.

Running next door and switching on the bedroom light, he saw the boy sitting up in bed, glossy with sweat. They had been to Rosa’s apartment earlier and picked up a bag of clothes, so the
child was dressed in his own pyjamas. A small, tatty brown bear lay discarded beside him on the bed.

Alberto moved the bear so he could sit down and gathered the boy into his arms, stroking his damp head.

‘Was it a dream?’ he asked gruffly.

The boy started sobbing, clinging tightly to his grandfather.

Alberto hushed the boy, rocking him gently.

‘Tell me,’ he urged in a whisper.

Hiccupping air, the boy burrowed his head deeper into his grandfather’s chest. ‘It was Papá. He was trying to get out of the bandages, but they just kept wrapping more and
more round him. I was shouting to let him out, but they didn’t hear me. Apu, they wouldn’t listen to me.’

‘Shhh,’ said the old man. He held the child tightly and rocked him. He tried to reassure him with words he believed to be true. ‘The doctors and nurses are helping him get
better. They’re looking after your papá. Soon they’ll take the bandages off and you’ll see him again.’

Reluctantly, the old man remembered in the years after the war seeing men horribly disfigured by burns. But, these days, the medics could do so much more for the victims. At least, he hoped they
could. He felt the child’s tears soak into his shirt.

‘Now, now, little one. It was just a bad dream. Dreams like that don’t come true. Forget about it and think of things that make you happy. Think how when your papá is better,
you’ll play football with him at the park.’

Tino snuffled noisily.

‘Think about your birthday party,’ whispered the old man. ‘Your cake, covered with cream, and all those presents waiting to be opened. And the party with your friends and the
games you’ll play.’

‘And your party too, Apu,’ sniffed the boy sleepily. ‘When we find your birthday.’

Alberto smiled, relieved that something had distracted the child from his distress.

‘Yes,’ said Alberto quietly. ‘We’ll have a party when we find my birthday.’

He felt the exhausted child relax in his arms and laid him down on the pillow, tucking the bear into the crook of his arm. Then he stayed awhile, making sure the boy was sound asleep, before
going back into the living room, leaving the door open.

Sighing, he rubbed his eyes, picked up the glass of brandy and swallowed the remainder, relishing the sensation as the liquid slid down his throat.

Over the next few days, Alberto and the boy spent all of their time together. The old man was concerned to see Tino subdued and tense, so spent as much time as possible on his
land keeping the child busy.

Together, they visited tree after tree, tapping the almonds to the ground. When all the nuts were harvested and rid of their husks, the old man loaded the last canvas bags onto the moped and
walked the heavy bike along the road.

Back at the apartment, Alberto took two chairs downstairs to the street outside his apartment. He and Tino sat on the pavement, the bags of nuts between them. The old man gave the boy a simple
nutcracker.

‘Mind your fingers,’ he told him.

While the boy set to cracking his first nut, Alberto stood a tall log between his legs and took a small hammer out of his pocket. Lifting an almond out of the nearest canvas bag, he placed it on
the top of the neatly cut log and brought the hammer down on it with a swift rap. The almond shell split neatly, and he swept the broken bits onto the ground as he dropped the wrinkled nut into a
large glass jar next to the boy.