Alberto's Lost Birthday (6 page)

I lean instead out of his reach. I glance away to avoid the pitiful look on his face. Thankfully, it is over quickly and his eyes glaze as he drops to the ground.

Through the settling dust, I can see the rescued Republican soldiers running to the rear of the vehicle, where they start to climb in. We carry on shooting, but it’s an impossible task, as
the truck rains bullets on us.

Then, incredibly, from the dip in the ridge where I am watching, I see one of the fighters run out from beside the truck. I can’t believe it – he was safe. What is he doing? His hat
is missing and his blond hair is blowing about in the wind. For a moment, it forms a perfect golden halo round his head. He skids to the ground by the edge of the road where one of their men lies.
Slinging his gun over his shoulder, he grabs his comrade underneath his arms and starts to drag him towards the truck.

I look along the ditch and see my men are hunched below the ridge, only occasionally firing an aimless shot over their heads. By contrast, the Republicans are now leaning out of their truck
firing at us. I watch as the blond soldier reaches the vehicle, and the others grapple the wounded man into it. The blond man then darts out again, weaving across the land back towards the
road’s edge.

I have had enough. Crouching low, I run along the ditch, instructing my men to cover me. They immediately start firing towards the truck, and I hear the scream of one of the enemy as he is
struck. I carry on, scrambling over the body of a soldier I shouted at this morning.

As the ditch becomes more shallow, I sink to my stomach and start crawling. The ditch has curved towards the road, and I am now quite a distance from my men. Peeking above the edge, on my right
I can see my men firing at the truck, which is now on my left. The
Rojos
have not seen me, and as I turn towards the road, I see the blond man kneeling by another fallen soldier.

But this time, he is shaking the soldier, shouting at him. It is clear that the man is dead. I lift my pistol. As I watch, the blond repeats the dead man’s name: ‘Ramón!
Ramón!’ Distressed, he runs his fingers through his fringe, pulling the hair off his face.

Spotting my moment, I rise to my knees, aim and fire. The bullet hits the blond in the chest and he falls slowly to the road’s edge, a surprised look on his face. Diving back behind the
ridge, a barrage of bullets hit the ground around me. I crawl as fast as I can back to my men, who have managed to set up the machine gun again and are firing at the vehicle.

As I reach my men, the armoured truck starts up and, with a lurch and a cloud of dust, rattles back to the road and roars away. My men cheer and slap me on the back. I do not approve of this
disrespectful behaviour, but they have, in the main, been brave, so I indulge them in their celebration. They know I have made my point about trying to rescue fallen comrades. It may be loyal, it
may be seen as courageous, but it is stupid and futile.

The dust of the armoured vehicle can just be seen in the distance as we scout across the land checking bodies. Occasional shots ring out as the wounded are despatched.

I am just walking round the mound the renegades were hiding behind when I see one of our trucks coming towards us, trundling along the road from the town. The lorry slows down as the driver sees
me, but I wave him on – we don’t need him, and the
Rojos
ahead will be long gone.

As he drives past, I see the boy who struck me at the churchyard sitting in the cab beside the driver. But he does not see me. He is staring, wide-eyed, at the blond fighter lying by the
roadside.

The truck rumbles on as I walk over to the fallen soldier. Standing over him, I wonder if he is German or English. His silky hair has fallen back and reveals a young face with freckles scattered
over a pointed nose. I look down at his scruffy, mismatched uniform: the half-turned-up shirt collar, missing jacket buttons and torn trousers. Sneering at his lack of pride in his uniform, I lift
my pistol, aim at his forehead and fire.

The train softly jigged the small boy in his seat as he tried to navigate the orange segment into his mouth. He looked up at Alberto watching him and giggled. Alberto smiled
back. When Rosa had asked Tino if he’d like to go away with his apu, he’d been thoughtful for a while, then asked if Papá would know he wasn’t there. His mother had said
when he asked, she’d tell him Tino was on an adventure with Apu. At that, the boy had thought some more, then suddenly seemed to make a decision. Yes, he’d said, he wanted to go.

They’d organized the trip quickly, and although he was clearly a little anxious, Tino had chattered as he helped Alberto pack a lunch to eat on the train. Early the next morning, after an
hour’s journey by bus, they had left the coast and reached the city. There, they bought tickets at the bustling station and found their train’s platform.

Alberto had travelled a few times by rail, but the sleek white train they boarded was like transportation that had been sent from the future. The seats were comfortable, but the window was one
large sealed unit that could not be opened. Alberto disliked the air-conditioning and felt ill at ease in the modern bullet shooting through the countryside. But the boy loved it and dashed from
one window to the other, pointing out sights to his grandfather. There – a sunflower field. There – a church tower. There – a wind farm.

Alberto looked at the wind farm. Row upon row of tall white wind turbines slowly rotated against the backdrop of a cyan sky. Alberto remembered the old wooden windmill on a farm where he had
worked when he was young. For a while, he trawled through his memories trying to locate where the farm had been, but he couldn’t remember. He shook his head – if he couldn’t
remember facts from when he was a young man, how would he remember anything from his childhood?

Some time later, a metallic voice announced a station. Alberto leant over the boy and gently woke him. He had been exhausted by his excitement and had fallen asleep, his head
leaning against the large window. Alberto gave him a nod and stood up, swinging his small bag over his shoulder.

As the train silently slowed to a standstill, they waited by the door, which suddenly slid open in front of them. Stepping out into the dry heat, Alberto took a deep breath and looked around.
They were in a small town, but judging by the cranes all around, it would quickly become a larger one.

They walked along the platform as the train doors shut with a quiet clunk and the machine moved off with a hiss. They crossed the modern station of glass and brown brick, out onto the street. It
was close to siesta time, so the streets were quiet, the shops pulling down their shutters.

Alberto walked over to a bus stop and squinted at the timetable behind the Perspex. When Tino came over to look, his grandfather showed him where they were going, and together they looked up the
time. The bus was not regular, but luckily they only had half an hour to wait. They went back into the station, where a small cafe was open, and Alberto had a coffee, while the boy sucked chocolate
milk through a straw. Then the boy took himself to the toilet and Alberto lit a cigarette. Watching Tino ambling back from the bathroom, looking in the counter at the ice creams and humming, the
old man knew his decision to get away for a few days had been right.

The bus chugged wearily up the hill. When it reached the top, Alberto and Tino looked over the rolling country side, covered with bottle-green trees. In front of them, the road
snaked through the hills into the distance. As the bus eased downwards, Alberto saw a break in the trees and a large terracotta roof.

A little further on, a wide turn-off appeared on the side of the road and the bus slowed, then stopped. Alberto saw a small wooden sign that read, H
ACIENDA
L
OS
Z
ORROS
.

‘Señor!’ called the bus driver to his only passengers. ‘Your stop.’

As Alberto stood and ushered the boy in front of him, the driver turned to them and explained, ‘Los Zorros is the name of this mountain. There used to be many foxes in these hills. They
say it was all you could hear at night – like an orchestra of screams. But in the war . . .’ He looked at the child and then up to Alberto. ‘Well, in the war, it got too busy
round here, so the foxes took their orchestra elsewhere,’ he smiled, chuckling.

Tino didn’t really understand the joke but smiled at the driver as he climbed off the bus.

‘Thank you,’ said Alberto to the driver, and they nodded knowingly at each other.

As the bus rattled off, the old man and the boy stood at the end of a long dirt road. It disappeared into the tall trees’ dark arches.

‘Apu?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember this?’

‘Yes.’

As they walked out of the bright sun and into the mottled light of the pathway, the boy took his grandfather’s hand. The old man found the shaded path unnerving – it was as if
memories lurked in the shadows. Holding the child’s hand reassured them both.

Birds squawked and cawed high above them, and occasionally they heard a small rustle in the bushes nearby. Although Alberto recalled this wood, it was different now. When he was a child, any
bird or rabbit was a meal. The hunting had been intense until the woods were eerily silent, bereft of wildlife – even foxes.

The path bent round to the right, and suddenly they came across a large metal gate locked with an enormous padlock. Alberto stopped and looked at the gate, then at the boy.

‘I think someone is telling us not to come in,’ he said.

Tino scowled. ‘We can’t give up already, Apu. We’ve come such a long way.’

Alberto shrugged and was considering climbing over it when the child suddenly slipped past him to the end of the gate, where he slid easily between the metal post and a gorse bush.

‘Come on, Apu – it’s easy,’ Tino said to him from the other side of the gate.

Alberto sighed and eased himself round the edge of the gate, scratching his trousers on the prickly gorse.

On the other side of the gate, they walked further, and the light grew dimmer as the trees overhead became more dense. But after a while, they saw the path open out ahead, bathed in sunlight. As
they walked out, they blinked up at the imposing white building in front of them. The high walls reached up to a roof covered in burnt-orange tiles. Bright red geraniums sat on small windowsills,
creating splashes of colour against the clean white walls. A solid-oak door sported iron studs, and a black grille lay open against the wall to the left of the door.

They stepped out onto the driveway, which swept in a circle at the front of the house. In the centre, on a carpet of bright green grass, stood an old stone fountain, water trickling lazily from
a nymph’s mouth.

On the edge of the drive, and on either side of the house, lay carefully manicured gardens featuring red and yellow flowers.

As Alberto looked at the healthy plants with approval, a man carrying a hoe appeared from the side of the house. Looking up with surprise, he crossed the gravel drive towards the old man and
small boy.

‘Good afternoon, señor,’ he said respectfully. ‘Can I help you?’

Alberto looked up at the imposing house again, staring for some time.

‘Sir?’ asked the man.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Alberto. ‘I haven’t been here for many years. Can I ask about the owner?’

‘Yes, yes. Don García still lives here,’ replied the man enthusiastically. ‘Of course he is very elderly now, but he has so few visitors, I’m sure he will be
delighted to see you both.’

Their footsteps echoed on the terracotta-tiled floor as they followed the housekeeper through the house. The gardener had introduced them to his wife, who looked after the
house and the elderly gentleman owner. She did not seem to share her husband’s enthusiasm for the don’s visitors, but agreed to take them to him.

Her rubber-soled shoes were silent as she led them through high-ceilinged rooms filled with heavy oak furniture and antique rugs.

The señora stopped in front of two large panelled doors and spoke quietly to Alberto. ‘Don García does not hear very well these days, so speak loudly and clearly. He is also
not comfortable with children, so I’d ask your grandson only to speak when spoken to, which is unlikely. And I suggest you do not detain the señor for too long – for all our
sakes.’

Alberto did not understand her last comment, but nodded to the woman, who turned the handle and slowly swung the giant doors open.

The boy grabbed Alberto’s hand as they stepped into the dark room. Heavy curtains, which blocked out most of the sunlight, hung partially closed at the long windows. The housekeeper gently
pulled the doors shut behind her and they stood still in the musty-smelling room.

Muskets and pistols hung on the walls, and the chimneybreast was decorated with a selection of sabres and swords. On the opposite wall hung an enormous, elaborately framed painting of Christ on
the cross, weeping women at his feet, his wounds bleeding profusely and his pain palpable.

Alberto was mesmerized by the painting until he felt a sharp tug at his hand. He glanced down at the boy, who was biting his lip and staring. Alberto followed his gaze. A man so ancient he was
barely more than a skeleton sat in a wheelchair in the gloomiest corner of the room. What was left of his white hair was parted sharply, and he had a patchy but precisely trimmed moustache. He was
dressed in a dark, tailored suit, too large for his shrunken frame, and his shoes were brightly polished. Medals adorned his jacket, glinting as he reached down and with great effort began to wheel
himself towards them.