Lilia's Secret (26 page)

We were on our third tequila when I got to telling him about my vision of the child's feet under the bushes and about my father. He got up and crouched in front of me and held me tight.

‘All this, by yourself,' he said. ‘Why didn't you call me?'

‘I did,' I said quietly. ‘Lots of times. You were never there.'

‘I got those messages, but I couldn't call back.' He held me close. ‘I felt terrible after our fight and then I got those messages, but I couldn't talk to you. That's why I decided to come. I suppose I missed your other calls because I was on my way.

‘I'm so sorry I wasn't with you when all this happened, all these ghosts,' he said. ‘But with your father I think this is what has to happen: it's the process of letting someone go. I know when my father died, I felt so guilty – terribly guilty – and I was just a boy so I really had nothing to feel guilty about, like you. But the guilt made me frightened. Now I feel him not so much as a haunting, but as a protection.'

He sat back on his chair and took a sip of tequila while he kept my hand in his. I nodded slowly. It made sense.

‘With all these visions, you've become Mexican,' he smiled wryly. ‘I'm glad. But you can't ever do this again. You know what I mean?'

I squeezed his hand. ‘Yeah.'

The next day was Sunday. Padre Miguel and Magdalena were busy in the church, so Andrés and I went to meet Bill. Later I was going to take Andrés to Lilia's hacienda.

I was surprised that he wasn't more affected by Aguasecas. ‘Your father grew up here,' I said to him, trying to goad him into a reaction. He laughed at me. ‘It's good to see everything but it doesn't mean much to me. This was his life.' He pulled me towards him. ‘You're mine. I like mine better.' I marvelled at his resistance to the pull of history.

As we crossed the square I caught sight of Ramiro. He looked his age as he made his way slowly towards us.

I pointed him out to Andrés, who quickened his step towards Ramiro, and without waiting for an introduction said, ‘Excuse me, I understand you have information about Lilia de Las Flores?'

Ramiro looked up, alarmed, then broke out in a huge smile. He put his hand over Andrés' and squeezed it. You are Lilia's great-grandson!' He nodded happily as if they'd been introduced over a glass of wine. ‘Lilia's great-grandson,' he repeated. ‘You have her ears,' he said.

‘And you will be without yours if you don't tell us what you
know about my family,' Andrés said without blinking.

‘You're just like your great-grandmother,' Ramiro said, patting Andrés' hand. ‘Let me invite you to a small tequila. I know it's only eleven, but such days as these are rare, so we honour them with rare events.'

Andrés looked at me uncertainly. I burst out laughing, so he let his hand fall and we allowed ourselves to be beguiled into a morning tequila.

‘You've changed colour,' Ramiro said to me, as we settled at a quiet table upstairs at Alberto's café. I looked down at my off-pink T-shirt and khaki pants before I realised he was talking about something I couldn't see.

The light illuminated his white hair; he looked like a wizened angel. ‘Apologies that I didn't arrive, as per our agreement, at Doña de Las Flores' two days ago.'

I frowned. ‘I left—'

He interrupted. ‘There was too much black about me. I stayed home.'

With Andrés holding my hand under the table Ramiro seemed harmless.

‘What's my colour?'

‘Today, you're a rainbow.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘A little bit of violet, some indigo, there's blue by your nose. It means you've gone through the washing machine and the stains are gone.'

I glanced at Andrés before turning back to Ramiro.

‘Did you know my father as a child?' Andrés broke in.

Ramiro stared intently at him for a moment. ‘She kept to herself in those years. Your father and his brother didn't even
go to the village school. We saw her at mass with the boys every Sunday and that was all. All I can say is that they were very good boys, but they weren't …' He searched the air for the word he wanted. ‘They weren't normal. They hung in the shadows of her skirts.'

He unfolded his napkin and folded it again. ‘I am sorry. We knew she was hard on them. But we did nothing. I think we were all too scared of her, but that seems like no excuse now, so many years later.'

He sighed and unfolded his napkin and this time laid it across his lap.

‘Do you think she murdered her husbands?' Andrés asked.

‘I don't wonder about those things,' Ramiro said, looking over the balcony to the street below.

‘Are you looking for somebody?' I asked.

He turned back to us and nodded.

‘Who?' I demanded.

He cackled and I saw the inside of his mouth as he threw his head back. ‘A woman,' he said, ‘The reason the house of Doña de Las Flores sparkles so.' He nodded at me. ‘That's how you miss things; by being concerned only about the big things. The sparkle on that sink is the key to it all,' he said.

‘So who produces the sparkle?' I asked. ‘Isn't it you?'

He wagged his skinny finger at me. ‘Telling you that would be like giving you the present without the wrapping and the ribbon.'

‘I don't like surprises,' I said.

‘I know,' he said. ‘Stitched-up gringas never do.'

Andrés went to protest but I squeezed his hand. ‘I'm not stitched up, and I'm not a gringa.' By habit I made as if to cover
my right wrist but, stopping myself, I put my hand back in Andrés's.

‘What are you smiling about?' Ramiro asked.

I shrugged, but I couldn't contain the grin. My wrist wasn't itchy. I did a little dance with my shoulders.

Ramiro shrugged. ‘You don't need to tell me,' he said. ‘It's in your colours anyway.'

Not even that could bother me.

‘When did you start seeing colours?' Andrés asked.

‘When I was tucked up snug in my mother's womb,' he said. He didn't smile.

‘You're making that up!' I laughed straight out.

‘Beautiful golds and blues; it was like a church in there,' he said solemnly.

‘Were you as difficult as a child as you are now?' asked Andrés.

Ramiro shrugged with a pretend smile and looked out of the window again. There was a change in the air but since I didn't read colours I didn't know what it meant.

‘Truth is never shiny and complete,' Ramiro said. ‘It's a patchwork – a little button here, a scrap over there, and you bind them together however you can.' His hands sewed one bit of air to another as he spoke. ‘Nobody gives you the right to it all. But for important stories there is always a guardian of secrets. And what could be a more important story than one of a beautiful woman cut open by despair.'

‘Is that Lilia's story?' Andrés sat forward.

Ramiro took a quick breath as if he had to recover himself. ‘Who knows?'

‘Apparently, you do, guardian of the secrets,' I said drily.

‘Secrets are power, and I love power, especially considering my height. A man must get his power where he can.'

‘You know you're going to die soon – who will be the guardian after you?' Andrés pushed harder.

‘Not you,' he hissed.

Andrés leant even further forward. ‘What happened to my grandmother, Amalia, and Lilia's daughter?'

Ramiro carefully fingered the buttons of his suit, as if to ensure they were still there. ‘I only know there was no funeral. But I can do one thing for you, as you are Lilia's great-grandson. I will take you to somebody who may know. She's never told me, but she just might be persuaded to talk to you.'

‘Carole Bixton speaking.'

‘Ah,' Bill cleared his throat. ‘Carole.'

‘Bill?'

‘I didn't think you'd be home at this hour, but I thought I'd try anyway.'

She laughed. ‘I've sprained my ankle, and in the most ridiculous way. Tripped over the carpet in the hall. It's a damned nuisance.'

‘Are you all right? How long ago? Is someone looking after you?'

‘Oh Bill, it's not like you to fuss. It's fine, really. How are you? It's nice to hear from you. How far have you progressed?'

He felt the distance between them. ‘Ah … Fine.' He patted his stomach where his paunch was shrinking. ‘Everything's fine.' Inattention had blunted their interaction for years. How could he make it different now? ‘It's sure hot down here.'

‘Did you get the parcel I sent you from your mother's lawyers. Was it useful?'

‘It sure was. Must have been hard to track down. I know you're busy.' He wanted to say thank you but he couldn't quite get there.

‘It was fun, helping you put the pieces of the puzzle together. The girls are both doing well.'

Bill rubbed his face. He should have asked about them.

‘We were wondering just last night when you'd be home. A few of our friends have been asking. I'm not quite sure what to tell them.'

He knew she meant her friends. All of a sudden Bill wasn't sure that he could go home to his ordinary life directly after he left Aguasecas. He cleared his throat. ‘Soon. I'll be home for Laura's birthday next month for sure.'

‘Good. How's Angela? It seems like a black hole down there. People stop communicating when they get there.'

‘It's not easy, not many international telephones, no internet,' he said. ‘But Angela is doing fine. She speaks Spanish well.'

Carole gave a short laugh. ‘She always does well at what she wants to do, it's the things we want her to do well in that she handles so poorly. Have you worked out what happened to your father?'

‘Yes, there has been development there. It doesn't look like Lilia lured him away. He went willingly. He seems to have been a bit of a scoundrel actually. He also betrayed her by having an affair with the maid.'

‘Really? I've been thinking lately about something your mother said to me years before she died. She kind of hinted that he'd been a hard man to live with because of his roving eye.'

‘Why didn't she say it to me?' Bill felt stung. How could Carole have known this and never told him before?

‘Bill.' Her tone admonished him. ‘You've always worshipped the ground your father walked on. I guess neither of us wanted to take that away from you.'

‘No, I didn't. I thought he was a bastard for leaving us.'

There was a short silence. ‘Maybe you thought both things.'

‘I think I know what I thought, Carole.' Bill was tensing up again.

‘Hil is still convinced that he deserved whatever he got,' Carole said ignoring his terseness. ‘How are you going exhuming his body?'

‘It's nearly impossible,' Bill said, glad of the subject change. ‘Lots of hurdles and I don't think it's necessary anymore.'

‘Oh, so you know then. Did she kill your father?'

‘No,' he broke in. ‘I still don't know, but everybody thinks she did. It's just that …' he looked for the right way to say it. He imagined her sitting in her armchair, a world away from the heat and dust of Aguasecas. ‘Things are different here,' he said slowly. ‘It doesn't seem as important to know whether she actually did it or not. I mean, I came down to find out whether my father had left us willingly. I thought that if she'd killed him it would have been a clear sign that he'd gone unwillingly. It's just not that clear anymore.'

‘It certainly sounds complicated.'

Bill wanted to say that it was the opposite, that it was simple now. ‘Yes, it's just too difficult,' he finished lamely.

They talked on for another few minutes before Bill hung up. He leant against the wall of the phone booth as if there was nothing within him to hold him up. He hadn't been able to make it different – it seemed this was the way they always talked. An exchange of information, nothing much more. The only heat was in the peaks of annoyance – his annoyance.

He was alone in the telephone exchange. The long wooden
stools, normally so crowded, were empty, the booking woman at the desk had disappeared. The sweaty smell of overheated humans was trapped inside the booth with him. He started counting the shiny specks on the concrete, but they kept merging into each other so he couldn't keep them separated enough to count them.

When he opened the door of the booth, it banged behind him loudly and the woman scurried from within, anxiety written on her face. Bill held up a hand. ‘
Disculpe
, sorry, sorry.' He reached into his pocket. ‘Could I have that number again?
Otra vez
,
otra vez
,
el número por favor
.' Coins and notes spilled out on to the desk. His hands were shaking.

She nodded towards the same booth. Bill lumbered back inside as if he still carried all his blubber. He stopped himself from counting the number of posters on the far wall and focused on the phone, willing it to ring. When finally it did he couldn't pick up the receiver. His urgency had dried up, his palms were slippery and he could feel the inside of his stomach.

The woman banged on the window. ‘
Contesta el telefono
,' she cried.

‘Carole Bixton.'

‘Carole …'

‘Bill, what is it?'

He rubbed his face. ‘Bill, what is it?' she said more urgently.

‘What are you doing next week?' he asked quietly.

‘Well, I've had to cancel my engagements under doctor's orders, so resting, although I'm sure I can go back to things earlier than he thinks.'

‘Don't do that.' There was only quietness down the line from her now. ‘Come with me to Venice?'

‘What?' Her voice caught. ‘You never wanted to go.'

‘Yes, but you did and I should have taken you, years ago.' Bill felt himself growing more solid from within. ‘I want to go. I want to go with you. I'll book tickets for Saturday week.'

There was a heartbeat of silence and Bill smelt the stale human smell again.

‘Yes,' she said softly. ‘Yes, Venice, that would be lovely.'

He laughed with relief, not quite believing that she'd agreed. Things could be different between them. He could make them different.

By the time he'd rung off the second time the wooden stools of the telephone exchange had filled up again. The booking woman smiled at him as he paid his bill. He slipped his car into gear and grinned at himself in the mirror. He'd have to shave properly before he went home. He couldn't wait to show Carole how firmed-up he'd become. He considered for a moment returning his rental car when he got back to Aguasecas so that he'd be forced to keep up the exercise for the last few days, but he dismissed the idea. He'd keep it up anyway.

It had felt so good talking to Carole about Angela, it had made him feel calmer. He'd told her what Angela had said to him about coming down to Aguasecas; that she'd been worried about him. ‘We all were, Bill,' she'd told him. ‘But of all the girls Angela has always felt kind of responsible for you.'

He smiled just thinking about it, now. He was lucky to have a daughter like Angela.

Then he'd told Carole about Maddy and Lilia. At first just using Lilia's name had been hard, but it had soon come out like any other. Then he'd felt able to tell her about Paulina Piña. How alien she'd seemed to him, how it had made him think
how lucky he'd been. All his life he'd concentrated on the hardships brought on by his father's disappearance. One look at her and her scrubbed-clean, cracked floor had put that into perspective.

Bill adjusted the radio until he found a salsa beat and turned it up loud. Nearing Aguasecas he recognised Angela walking along the road. He slowed down alongside her.

‘Want a ride?' he asked, smiling widely.

Angela went around the front of the car and slipped into the front seat. She cranked up the air conditioner for a few moments and positioned the vent on her face. ‘You seem happy,' she said with her eyes still closed.

He put the car into gear. ‘How can you tell?'

‘I can feel it.'

‘Aguasecas is getting to you,' Bill laughed. ‘I just spoke to your mother. I'm taking her to Venice next week.'

Angela turned down the air conditioner and sat up in the seat. ‘Really?'

He nodded, keeping his eyes on the road.

‘Dad that's great.'

He nodded happily.

‘How is Mom, how are they all?'

Bill told Angela about her mother's ankle, and gave her what family news he had.

‘That means you're leaving soon then,' she said after a moment.

He nodded. ‘Will you come with me?'

‘I'll go when you go, but not home. I'm going to head down to Guatemala for a few weeks before term starts again.'

He looked quickly at her. ‘College? You're going back?'

‘May as well, somebody told me I can't bum around here all my life,' she said dryly.

Bill kept his face straight. ‘Are you sure that's what you want?'

Angela looked at him suspiciously. ‘Isn't it what you always wanted me to do?'

‘You're smart, Angie. You could do anything you liked.' He paused. ‘But it has to be what
you
like.'

‘Well, I won't be going into a firm like yours.'

He nodded. ‘It's not for everybody. You'll find something better for you.' He felt as though for the first time he was seeing Angela from the outside – a young woman at the beginning of her life – not as his daughter reflecting him to the world.

‘Were you just out for a walk?' Bill asked.

She shook her head. ‘Been to the cemetery.'

‘Why?'

‘Took Grandfather some flowers. I was angry with him.' She paused but Bill didn't say anything. ‘Because he'd hurt you. But I guess then I decided to leave that to you.'

Bill was quiet for a few more moments. ‘I thought my parents were so happy. And when he left everything changed for us. I thought he was a bastard to do that to us, and yet I couldn't reconcile that with what a great father he'd been. I've spent a long time running away from that contradiction.'

There was something else his father had stolen from him, but he couldn't articulate it. It was something like the surety of being loved.

‘And now?'

‘Now I realise my parents probably weren't entirely happy. Well – Mom. I think Dad was happy as long as it was all about him.'

‘You're a bit like that.'

‘Me?' he said, stung.

‘Yeah,' Angela plunged on. ‘Everything has to be your way. Think of how you were at work. You called the shots. If anybody got in your way you sacked them.'

‘I don't like incompetence.'

She laughed. ‘You think anybody's incompetent if they don't think your way. You thought, anyhow.'

His flexed his hands on the steering wheel.

‘But there's hope for you yet,' Angela said. Bill glanced at her. She was grinning. ‘I think the heat around here has melted your autopilot,' she teased.

He decided to relax. It was good to have a daughter who would give him the straight scoop.

He pulled off the main road into the outskirts of Aguasecas. ‘What about that day you were crying?' He was immediately worried about his question. ‘Can you tell me what it was about?' he asked.

She folded her arms and sighed. ‘It was just … life,' she said looking out of the window.

‘It had to be something, Angie.'

‘No, it doesn't.' Angela turned back to him. ‘No, it doesn't, Dad. Sometimes it gets like that. That's life. It's not always perfect. It doesn't have to fit neatly into a box.' She stared at him for a moment.

He drove down the small lane that led to the back of Teresa's house and Angela gathered up her bag. ‘I'm just grateful I don't feel like that anymore.'