Lilia's Secret (15 page)

Magdalena held my gaze. Padre Miguel said nothing as I reached for the second notebook.

Magdalena suddenly pushed the second book aside and reached for the fourth one. She opened it up, shuffled through pages and turned the notebook my side up, stabbing at the headline. ‘Her son. El Tigre was the evil son of Doña de Las Flores.'

It hit me like a bullet – was the terrible El Tigre Javier or Juan? I stared in horror at first the headline and then at Magdalena and Padre Miguel. ‘Are you saying that Javier, my father-in-law, or his brother, Juan, is one of Mexico's worst criminals?' I scratched at
my wrist. Juan? The hermit man with whom I shared a tequila while we sat alone in his house? Javier, Andrés's
father
?

Magdalena reached out to stop my scratching. She shook her head. ‘Your father-in-law and uncle are not Doña de Las Flores' sons.'

I looked to Padre Miguel for help. His eyes were round and he nodded slowly.

‘Doña de Las Flores was my husband's grandmother,' I faltered.

‘GREAT-grandmother,' Magdalena pronounced impatiently. ‘Doña de Las Flores had one son – Javier Juan – who was El Tigre, and he had two sons – Javier and Juan.'

My hands shook as I gripped the table. ‘The whole family thinks she was Javier and Juan's mother, not grandmother. How could they have made such a monumental mistake?'

‘We didn't know that they had,' Magdalena said.

‘It must have been her,' I said. ‘Lilia must have lied to them. How else would two small boys have thought she was their mother?' I squeezed my eyes shut. Every family had its secrets, but this was way out of bounds.

It was the still part of the day when it was so hot you could hardly breathe. Bill had more forms to fill out from the municipal office, so he set out though the siesta hours for Alberto's air-conditioned café. He had rescued Lilia's photograph from his dark drawer to look at the woman he could envisage now. He patted her photograph, back where it belonged in his pocket, seeping into his skin. He'd tried and failed to imagine her grief over her terrible son. It put into perspective his own disappointment in Angela, the brightest of his three girls, yet the one least able to achieve anything. All his children picked up awards, but Angela's shelf was the most crowded. When she was little she'd follow him around the house like a shadow. Sometimes it drove him nuts and he'd yell at her to go find something to do. He cringed now to think of it.

Why was there no trace of Lilia's first child? Was she also a disappointment?

The sound of his footsteps rang out in the baked silence of the street. He was the only one stirring, except for a girl in the distance walking towards him. He stopped dead and inhaled sharply; a dozen thoughts click-clacked through his head.
There was something so familiar about her. Charged with energy, he ducked down a lane and pressed his body flat against the wall. He'd been thinking about Angela; now he thought he'd seen her. He must be hallucinating – it was the searing afternoon sun.

He turned and ran back to Teresa's through the back lanes. He sat on his bed with the door closed, panting, then scrambled for the letter Carole had sent him. When it had first arrived he'd read it over three times, hearing her voice in each sentence. But as he held it in his hands now, it felt like a strange thing from another life. He scanned the words again. Hil had got that apartment she put in for, Laura had gone on a second date with somebody, Angela had taken up Spanish lessons. Nothing about her coming to visit.

He snatched his photo of Lilia from his pocket and walked around the room, wondering where to put her. Finally he shoved the photograph back into the drawer, apologising for banishing her to the darkness again. Then he hurried outside to sit on the bench. He took out a book. Should he look up from the book when the girl appeared? He couldn't make up his mind, so he laid it down and went to find Teresa.

‘Teresa.' She was in her kitchen, already up after her siesta. His eyes watered from the smell of chilli. ‘I think I've just seen my daughter.'

Teresa's face broke into a wide smile. ‘Is she here now?' she asked, craning her neck to see past Bill.

‘No. Perhaps I made a mistake …'

‘Perhaps she has come on a surprise visit! She will need a room!' Teresa was already bustling towards him, wiping her hands on her apron.

Bill went back outside and sat down, feeling shaken and strange. Who had that girl been? He stared up the road. Of course he'd been mistaken; Angela wasn't here. A sudden cut of disappointment surprised him. She always unsettled him. His other daughters had friends, went out, got into trouble and then got jobs. Angela was awkward and seemed to want something from him that he couldn't identify. Yet here he was now hoping he had seen her on the street earlier. He got up and walked around the corner and bumped straight into a girl wearing a white tank top, black cargo pants and a shirt tied around her waist.

‘Watch it, Dad.'

All his excitement evaporated at her belligerent tone.

‘Was that you on the road back there?' she asked, her eyes narrowed.

‘It was, but I wasn't sure it was you.'

‘So why didn't you stop to find out?'

Why hadn't he? He looked alarmed for a moment. ‘I don't know,' he finally said lamely.

She tilted her head to one side and looked at him. ‘You? Admitting you don't know something?'

He smiled at her ruefully. A small smokeshaft of hope rose up in him that they could be different together now.

When they got to the house Teresa greeted them with a big open-smiled face. They got Angela settled and Bill took her off for a snack at Alberto's. They ordered
pollo poblano
and licked the chilli chocolate sauce from their forks. Angela sat back, apparently appraising her father.

‘You're looking good, Dad. Only a couple of weeks or so and you've started to lose weight.'

‘Yeah, thanks, I feel great,' Bill said, patting his waist. ‘Lots of walking.'

‘Mom wants to know why you haven't contacted her.'

‘I emailed from Mexico City. And I've written two letters. Maybe she hasn't gotten them yet. Of course, you can't telephone or email from here.'

Angela shrugged her shoulders. ‘I think she'd like you to try.' She looked out over the slanted red roofs. ‘We were worried that you'd disappeared like your dad.'

Bill'd never imagined they'd be worried about him.

‘It's so peaceful here,' Angela went on. ‘The whitewashed buildings, the cobblestoned roads. It's like time stands still. Why didn't you say it was so nice?'

‘I thought I had.' He scratched his head. ‘It's good to have you here,' Bill said, the words surprising him.

She looked up at him, slightly alarmed, he thought. ‘Most of the buildings are from the fifteenth century,' he burbled.

‘Must we have a history lesson already?' Angela said, turning away.

‘I thought you'd be interested – that's all.'

She seemed to soften, and put her hand on his arm. ‘I am. I just want to know about you first. How's your Spanish?'

‘I can follow a fair bit.'

‘Started lessons, yet?' Angela said.

‘Not really.' Bill winced, trying not to feel criticised.

‘Seems like you've done well to get this far then.'

He smiled, but he pulled his arm away anyway, pretending to drain his cup and hoping she hadn't noticed the manoeuvre. It was like that with her: one moment she was about to attack, the next she was all honey.

‘What do you do here every day?' she asked.

‘It's much slower than I thought,' he said. ‘I found my father in the cemetery up the road, buried with the paupers.' He waved cigarette smoke from the next table away from Angela. ‘I haven't meet anybody who remembers him, which is understandable since he was only here for a few years, fifty years ago. So now I'm concentrating on his wife, who was a much bigger presence, hoping she'll lead me somewhere.'

Angela angled her head and looked at him from the corner of her eyes.

‘What?' he asked.

‘You,' she said. ‘You've never spoken to me like that before.'

He dropped his hands under the table and squeezed them together. Your children always carry the shadow of your past with them.

Just then Padre Miguel came into the café, loudly greeting people. He made his way to Bill and Angela. ‘I've come to meet your beautiful daughter,' he announced with a flourish when he reached them.

‘News travels fast,' Bill said, pushing a chair out for the priest. ‘But how did you know she was beautiful?'

‘Ah! Daughters are always beautiful! And was I wrong?'

Bill felt lifted. ‘Sit down, have some coffee with us, Padre.'

‘Your father is one of our diversions here, you know.' Padre Miguel winked at Angela. ‘We keep him in Teresa's cupboard.'

Bill nodded with enthusiasm, although he didn't like Padre Miguel saying those things to his daughter.

Angela broke into Spanish. ‘
Mi parece que mi Papá esta muy feliz aquí con todos ustedes
.'

‘Such beautiful Spanish,' Padre Miguel took her hand and kissed it. ‘I agree, he does seem happy with us.'

‘Where did you learn that?' Bill asked her.

‘At school; remember, we used to have Spanish labels on everything when we were at school?'

He didn't, but he nodded anyway.

‘Since you've been here I've been brushing up,' she said.

Why? Bill wondered.

‘How is your digging-up-father project, Bill?' asked Padre Miguel.

‘No progress,' he replied. ‘I went up to the office first thing this morning; I have another form to fill out.' He pulled it out of his pocket and laid it on the table for Padre Miguel to see.

Padre Miguel peered. ‘Very good. Very good, Bill. See how kind the government is – still helping you to improve your Spanish with more new words. I suppose this form is the last one, too?'

‘That's what they say, Padre. Same as the last two.'

‘Maybe I can help, Dad, now that I'm here,' Angela said. ‘You know, iron out any translation problems.'

‘Maybe, honey. I don't think language is the problem,' Bill sighed.

Padre Miguel furrowed his eyebrows up and down, looking at Bill meaningfully. ‘I have something that might make you smile again.' He fished a photo out of his black robe. ‘I have another one for your collection, Bill.' He put it under Bill's nose and leant in conspiratorially. ‘And this is the best one. Yes? Very beautiful, no?'

Bill wished that Lilia wasn't so exposed to Angela's eyes, but it wasn't as if he could grab the photo and run. They all peered at it.

Bill could tell Lilia was looking directly at him. Her eyes were still and seemed to reach back to a time before she was born, as if she had always been in the world and always would be. A shiver snaked up his spine.

‘She looks like Frida Kahlo,' Angela said.

‘Who's that?' he murmured, still intent on the photograph.

‘Dad!' Angela snapped.

‘Somebody you Americans love, and we hardly knew existed,' said Padre Miguel. ‘She was a painter with one very long eyebrow.'

‘She sounds colourful.' Bill turned to Padre Miguel in an attempt to distract them all from the photograph. ‘Angela is studying business,' he said, slipping Lilia off the table to hold her in his hands.

‘Not at the moment, Dad,' Angela interrupted, before Padre Miguel could respond. ‘I've given up for the rest of this year.'

Perhaps he hadn't heard her properly. Studying business was the one good thing Angela did. ‘What? Why?'

‘Because … I ran out of steam, I guess.'

‘Th— thanks, Padre,' Bill finally stammered and stood up to leave.

That night, after he'd pecked Angela goodnight, he sat on his bed and ripped a jagged line into the envelope she had given him.

Home was pressing in on him.

He remembered Carole rubbing cream into her hands one night just before he'd left. There'd been some awkwardness around the table, although Bill couldn't remember what. Later, in their bathroom, Carole was looking at her hands thoughtfully. She always did that when she was getting ready to say something difficult. Bill brushed his teeth more furiously to forestall her.

‘Bill, you're too hard on Angela,' she eventually said. ‘She's just brighter than the other two, more direct.'

Bill grunted.

‘She doesn't suffer fools gladly,' Carole said. ‘She's like you.'

Bill grunted again, more loudly, spat the toothpaste into the bowl. ‘Respect starts at home. That girl needs to show more respect.' He'd closed the door firmly behind him, slipped into bed and snapped his reading lamp off.

Now, sitting on his bed in Aguasecas with Carole's note beside him, shame spread through him like dye in water. Getting at his daughter for simply being her was not just ridiculous but cruel.

Carole's letter had been so carefully casual. The wastebasket would have been overflowing when she wrote that note. He'd seen her do it a hundred times before.

‘This has to be right,' she would say, ‘if I'm going to get them to do what I need them to do.'

‘It can be right with a whole lot less fidgeting,' he'd replied.

It had taken time, in this case just on twenty-five years, but she had finally got him to see what she needed him to see. Angela
was
like him: the same awkwardness, the same angles, although his were more hidden behind his charm. And something else struck him, although he couldn't quite catch it. He slid down under the blanket and then the thought came back: if she was just like him, perhaps he would have been as awkward and angular even if his father hadn't disappeared. Maybe his problems had nothing to do with his father's absence.

The insight flashed away as fast as it had appeared.

Angela was in trouble and she'd come to him. This was his chance. He'd never had time with her, just the two of them. He'd taken over companies, managed ten thousand employees and sat with senators for dinner – of course he could sort out his daughter. The adventure of fatherhood was big inside him.