Under the Spanish Stars (39 page)

‘I am not having a heart attack.' Her voice sounded stern.

‘I'm sorry, Abuela—'

‘I'm the one who should be sorry.' Her voice now soft. ‘I shouldn't shoot the messenger, I just …' She took a deep breath, ‘I wasn't expecting this.' Abuela's shoulders shook and Charlotte feared this could be the start of another turn. ‘But he was dead. I … he …' She placed her head in her hands. ‘I saw him die.'

‘Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. Maybe—'

‘Do not be ridiculous. You did the right thing telling me. No one gets to this age without some heartache and disappointment.' Abuela's chest rose and fell, as if she was struggling to remain in control. She stared out the window, at the storm clouds massing and the wind shaking the leafy trees. Outside the room nurses and doctors talked in hushed voices, and trolleys with medical gear clanked as they were wheeled up and down, while the distinct smell of antibacterial hand wash pervaded the air. Minutes ticked by and Charlotte grew antsy but didn't want to interrupt Abuela's reflecting.

‘Who am I to question the will of God?' Abuela said eventually. She squeezed her granddaughter's hands and Charlotte noticed her grip had weakened dramatically.

‘Abuela, I'm sorry to ask but I really want to know who Raul was to you.'

A slow, sad smile graced Abuela's lips. ‘He was the first man to ever capture my heart.'

Deep sorrow for Abuela's loss now mixed with a snippet of hurt on her grandfather's behalf. If she'd known Abuela had wanted to deliver a letter to a past love … who was she kidding? Charlotte would have delivered it
anyway. People don't live life and not have history, but still … so many questions flew through her mind, she didn't know where to begin but this was about Abuela right now, not Charlotte getting upset for her grandpa.

‘Was he happy?' Abuela's voice wavered.

‘Felicidad thinks he was but he never forgot his grand love for you.'

Abuela's lips trembled and Charlotte's heart went out to her. She leant over and gave her grandmother a hug, ‘According to Felicidad, Raul and Lucia had a marriage that was more about friendship than undying love. She passed away when Felicidad was a young girl—'

‘Oh, the poor dear.'

‘Yes, it's very sad. I couldn't imagine growing up without a mother. Or grandmother.' Charlotte gave a half smile then continued, afraid if she paused for too long she wouldn't finish. ‘So Raul brought up Felicidad. I get the impression he was a very good father and loved her very much. He must have known he was dying because just before he passed away he gave her a guitar and case and … letters. He said she had to look after them.'

‘What?' Abuela's eyebrows shot up, as well as her energy.

‘I have the guitar and its case. I also have the letters.'

‘Why would you have the letters?' Abuela's eyes widened. ‘Are they for me?'

‘Yes.'

‘But why didn't he send them?'

Oh, jeez.
Charlotte stared out the window. The skies had turned black, and the wind rushed through the trees. So far Abuela had coped with the news relatively well but this last part—this last, romantic vestige of Raul's love for her—might be the piece that pushed her over the edge.

‘Charlotte?'

Taking a long, deep breath, she said, ‘He thought you had died, Abuela.'

Her breath caught in her throat then she rasped, ‘Why?'

‘I've no idea. I do know, however, he wrote a letter on the same day every year but he never posted them because he had nowhere to send them.'

‘What date?' Abuela struggled for a moment, finally managing to sit up. Instead of losing strength with this news, she appeared to have gained some, although her eyes had turned glassy.

‘August 30
^th
. The letters start from 1945.'

‘Oh dear God.' A lone tear ran down her face and Abuela wiped it away with force. ‘Where are the letters?'

Charlotte pulled the guitar case out from under the bed and balanced it on her knee. She unclicked the locks, opened the lid and gently reached for the large bundle that Abuela grabbed with both hands.

Charlotte said, ‘I haven't read any.'

‘They would be in Spanish anyway.' Annoyance laced Abuela's tone and Charlotte couldn't comprehend the sudden change of mood. ‘Leave me be, please.'

Charlotte never argued when Abuela's voice held this edge. Putting the guitar case away, she stood and walked towards the door. ‘I'm getting a coffee. Do you want anything?'

‘I have everything I need, thank you.'

Charlotte hovered outside Abuela's door, not wanting to stray too far, despite her desire for a caffeine fix. Her head still felt a little woozy from lack of sleep and food, but she would just have to suck up the jetlag for now. There would be time for sleep eventually, although she doubted it would come as quickly as she wanted. From the room inside she could hear papers rustling and the occasional gasp or suppressed sob, but nothing set off alarm bells that her grandmother's health suffered because of the news about Raul.

‘Stop hovering and come in.' Abuela's voice travelled from inside the room.

Supressing a smile, Charlotte opened the door and made her way to the chair beside the bed. A large stack of envelopes sat on the table and a neat pile of letters lay on Abuela's lap. On the other side of her was a mountain of scrunched tissues. Despite efforts to appear stoic, her grandmother's red nose and eyes betrayed her.

‘How are you doing?' Charlotte resisted reaching for Abuela's hand in case her grandmother read it as pity—a feeling Abuela never had time for.

With a slow shake of the head, she said, ‘On the same date every year he wrote a letter, with the exception of one year.' Picking one up, she looked at it lovingly, as if summoning memories from long ago. ‘Decades and decades of declarations of his love.' Abuela placed her head in her hands for a moment then looked up and sniffed. ‘I shouldn't have left.'

‘Left where?'

‘Left Spain.' She closed her mouth tightly.

‘It might help if you talk about it.' Although Charlotte wasn't so sure she wanted to hear any of this. If her grandmother had stayed in Spain, then she wouldn't have met Charlotte's grandpa, and if they hadn't met
then maybe Charlotte's father wouldn't have existed and if he didn't exist then … she refused to get sucked into that particular vortex.

Swallowing hard, Abuela said, ‘I've held this in for decades. Darling Charlotte, I don't want you to think anything less of me.'

‘Why on earth would I?'

‘I just … it feels strange to talk about a life I once had. For you to know I made mistakes. That I loved. I lost.'

‘Abuela, I don't mind at all,' Charlotte said.

‘Not even your father knows about this.'

‘What about Grandpa?'

‘Yes, he knew a little about my life in Spain—Raul, flamenco—but he never knew the exact reasons why I left. He was a good man, your grandpa. When I had no one he took me under his wing and loved me in a way I never deserved. I loved your grandpa but …' Her voice trailed off.

‘He wasn't Raul.' As soon as Charlotte said the words she couldn't turn back from the truth. Her view on the relationship between her grandparents had changed forever. She hated this fact but was also relieved there would finally be closure to a chapter of Abuela's life that had remained unfinished for so long.

‘No, he wasn't Raul.' Abuela closed her eyes for a moment. ‘It's hard knowing we both lived our lives thinking the other had died.'

‘That's the part I don't understand.'

‘I can barely comprehend it myself.' Abuela fixed her gaze on Charlotte. ‘The last time I saw Raul we had arranged to get out of Spain and cross into France. You have to understand, darling girl, this is bringing up a lot of memories I've spent years trying to forget.'

‘I get that, Abuela.' Boy, did she understand not wanting to discuss one's innermost feelings.

‘We wanted to escape Franco's regime so I had helped a friend and young baby across the border and …' She stopped, took in a long breath and ran a shaky hand through her perfectly coiffed hair. ‘Raul and my friend were behind us. There was a scuffle … gunfire … blood …' Abuela covered her face with her hands as a small sob escaped. Looking up with tear-filled eyes, she said, ‘I ran back to help but Franco's men had shot him and I … I tried to get him to France, but he was too big and heavy … then they shot me and I fell. I said we'd always have
duende
of our hearts
and he said always and …' Abuela's breathing increased rapidly and Charlotte lurched forward, placing her hands on her grandmother's shoulders, trying to get her to focus and pull her back from the tumultuous memories.

‘Abuela—'

‘No, you need to know this.' She straightened her spine, as if summoning more courage. ‘He had no pulse, Charlotte. My friend Salvador checked and I was too injured to do anything then I passed out and Salvador dragged me to France.' She shook her head. ‘Salvador said by the time he returned for Raul's body the Spanish army had already taken him.'

‘I'm so sorry, Abuela.' The layers would need to be peeled back one at a time, and by the intensity of the emotions her grandmother still suffered, it could take quite a while before she would tell the whole story. Charlotte had time and she prayed Abuela did, too.

Grabbing her granddaughter's hand tightly, Abuela said, ‘I need to know what happened to Raul, how he survived.'

‘I'm not sure if Felicidad actually knows. Even if she did, I worry that if you find out the truth it might make things worse.'

‘How can it be any worse? I spent my entire life unaware the man I once loved with all my heart was alive, walking the earth, just like me. Damn.' Her small fist hit the mattress. She sighed then hung her head.

Slowly coming to terms with the relationship Abuela had shared with Raul, Charlotte nodded towards the letters. ‘Are they romantic?'

‘Oh, Charlotte, they are beautiful. Raul bared his soul when he wrote. I always told him he should be a lyricist or poet but he never thought he was good enough. I haven't had a chance to read them all but the ones I have read have warmed my soul.' Abuela gently thumbed through the papers then smiled. She extracted one and stroked the envelope. ‘I haven't read this one yet. Do you want to hear it?'

Abuela's question sounded hopeful and Charlotte's curiosity got the better of her. She nodded encouragement.

‘Hopefully the romanticism isn't lost in translation.

‘Mi querida
fuego de mi alma—
fire of my soul,

‘It has been ten years since I last saw your fiery red hair cascading across your shoulders, the spark in your beautiful blue eyes and the grace with which you move—even when you are not dancing flamenco.'

Abuela paused a moment, red rushing up her neck and across her face. Looking up, she asked, ‘Are you definitely okay with this?'

‘More than okay.' Charlotte had to remind herself that Abuela's time in Spain was a lifetime ago and a world away. She had every right to revisit her past and if it helped by having Charlotte there to talk about it, then so be it.

Continuing, Abuela read:

‘My wife passed away three months ago and now it is only Felicidad and me. She has an enormous heart for someone so small, and her sensitivity and kindness is beyond her years. I miss my wife, she was a good companion and, like our daughter, had a good heart. Bless her for accepting that my love for you will never wane. That alone made her a special person and it gave me the desire to be the best possible husband. I know you would understand my motivations and not entertain the senseless emotion of jealousy. Although I am grateful for my beautiful daughter and lovely wife, I continually wonder what life I would have led had things turned out differently.'
The last few words caught in Abuela's throat.

‘He does have a lovely way of writing,' Charlotte said.

‘Oh, dear girl, you two would have been such good friends.' She patted Charlotte's hand. Taking a deep breath, she continued:
‘Dear, dear, Katarina, I miss you every single day. Every single minute. Every single second. I yearn to hold you in my arms and for us to lie and talk into the small hours of the night, just like we used to.'
Abuela cleared her throat, the faint red of her complexion now burning bright.
‘But those are memories that time is corroding, even though I hang on with desperation, like a man on a lifeboat. I fear my mind will one day forget your beauty, your wondrous scent, your soft, silky skin …'
Putting the letter down, she said, ‘Maybe that's enough.'

‘It's okay, Abuela, I know you were young once.'

She nodded and adjusted the paper in her hands.
‘And it is for this reason I write a letter on the anniversary of your death—to remind me of the love I once possessed and have never coped with losing. I'm sorry, dear Katarina. I am so, so sorry that I couldn't change what transpired on that night. My heart still breaks every time I remember the moment I received word from the network that you'd made it to the other side, but had died
from the wounds inflicted. I have prayed every day since then that you hadn't suffered.'
Abuela put that letter down and looked with wide eyes at Charlotte. ‘Oh, dear Lord in Heaven, they told him I'd died?'

‘Who's they?'

‘The Spanish Maquis.' Abuela ran her fingers through her hair, pulling at the roots so tightly it distorted the line of her brows.

‘As in anti-Franco movement?' What the hell had Abuela gotten up to?

‘I see you paid attention in history class.' Her grandmother gave a small smile. ‘Darling, it's a long story and I'm just not ready to go into it right now. I will, in due course, I promise.' Gripping the paper tightly, she asked, ‘How could they have told such a lie? And why?' She hung her head. ‘Oh no.'