Immortal Love Read online

“Did you sense that in her?”

  “No. I cannot sense Beatriz. I know because she conveniently forgot to tell you about the costume.”

  “You can’t read her? But she is human.”

  We had reached the end of the porch and Federico stopped by a side door. “It depends whom you ask,” he said as he turned the knob. “Matt is not so sure.”

  “Matt?”

  “Yes, Matt. From what he tells me, she is not the maternal type.” When I looked at him nonplussed, he added, “Beatriz is Matt’s mother.”

  He smiled at my surprise and motioned me inside. We left our coats and my purse on the iron rack set against the wall, and then climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  Crossing the door at the end of the corridor, we entered a big room furnished with a low table, a love seat with silver leaves on dark blue velvet, and an antique desk set before matching curtains that, I guessed, covered windows.

  Federico asked me to wait there and disappeared, through a set of French doors. From where I stood I could see that the next room was even larger and was dominated by a four-poster bed carved from dark wood. Several pillows were arranged on top of the blue eiderdown. Both the bed and the heavy wooden chest with iron reinforcements that sat at its foot were of Castilian style. That and the familiar smell of lemon and cinnamon that permeated the air made me realize this was, most probably, Bécquer’s bedroom.

  Startled at the thought that I was intruding on his privacy, I stepped back and bumped hard against the low table behind me. I swore under my breath at the sudden pain in my leg, and then again at the thump of metal hitting on wood.

  I turned.

  Two picture frames lay face down on the table. I picked one up. It was an oval painting of three children, the eldest one formally dressed in an old-fashioned suit, the two little ones in white gowns. A boy and two girls. Or maybe three boys, I corrected myself, as I remembered young boys used to wear gowns in centuries past. I set the painting back down and took the other frame. It was a photograph, a color picture of a young man I knew well. A picture of my son.

  I started, my thoughts reeling in confusion. Why did Bécquer have a picture of my boy? And not just a picture among many, a collage of faces tacked to a cork, the way Madison kept the pictures of her friends. But an 8-by-10. A picture taken with care, framed with love. Love. The word brought to my mind Federico’s conversation in the car, his conviction that despite his denial, Bécquer had a new lover.

  At the disturbing image my mind had conjured, my hands froze and the picture slid through my fingers and hit the wooden floor. This time the glass shattered.

  The sound broke my reverie. I shook my head. What was wrong with me? The boy could not be Ryan, just someone who resembled him. I kneeled and lifted the picture. Over a dozen straight lines diverged from a central breaking point making recognition impossible. Holding the frame in my shaking hands, I removed the bigger piece of broken glass to uncover the boy’s face.

  It was Ryan. No doubt about it. Ryan smiling as he had not done at me in a long time.

  I swore in anger and disgust. Anger at Bécquer for stealing my son, disgust because he had charmed him with his powers, for I knew Ryan was not gay. I had seen him fall in love when he was barely two at the sight of a beautiful girl dressed all in black. I had seen his head turn 180 degrees to follow a pretty neighbor in a too-short skirt a couple of years ago. No, Ryan was not gay.

  “Carla,” Federico’s voice called from the door.

  I stood. Holding Ryan’s picture in front of me, like a priest would hold a cross to exorcise a demon. I advanced toward him. “Since when?” I demanded, my voice raw with hate.

  Federico’s look of concern quickly changed to alarm as his eyes fell on my hands. “Stop,” he ordered. His voice, low but firm, entered my mind, overpowering my will. I stopped.

  “Please, Carla, put it down. Whatever it is that has upset you, we can talk about it in a civilized way.”

  The pressure in my mind had dwindled to almost bearable limits, as his tone changed from commanding to pleading. I didn’t move.

  “Put. It. Down.”

  Again his voice resonated in my head with an intensity that erased any resistance. Powerless I saw my hands moving, as if they didn’t belong to me.

  “On the floor.”

  I set the picture down.

  “The glass.” Federico’s words burned bright red inside my head.

  Confused, I hesitated for a moment. Then I noticed the piece of glass I still held in my right hand and bent again.

  With a speed that was not human — as if I needed a reminder of that unsettling fact — Federico was at my side and, lifting me by the waist, pushed me against the wall.

  “Why did you try to kill me?”

  I felt the pressure of his mind on mine. A pressure that turned to pain so that it made thinking impossible. Or lying.

  I shook my head. “I didn’t.” Even in my ears my voice sounded weak. “I did not try to kill you. How could I?”

  “Don’t lie to me. Remember I can read your feelings. And there was murder in your mind.”

  “Bécquer — I was thinking of Bécquer. Not you.”

  His eyes, glowing red, stayed on mine but, as the pressure in my mind eased and disappeared, Federico set me on the floor and took a step back. “Why? Why do you hate Bécquer? What caused the sudden change?”

  Too shaken to explain, I pointed at the frame lying on the floor.

  Again Federico moved almost too fast for me to see. When he came back the picture was in his hands. “Do you know this boy?”

  “He’s my son.”

  Federico gasped. In the silence that followed I could almost hear his mind working along the lines mine had followed.

  “You think Bécquer fancies your son,” he said at last, voicing my assumption. “You think they’re lovers. That is why you’re angry at him.”

  I nodded. “What other explanation is there?”

  “Does your son like men?” Unlike mine, Federico’s voice was even.

  “No. That is why this is so very wrong. Apart from the fact that Ryan is only eighteen and Bécquer is what — two hundred years old? He has forced him. He has charmed him to do his bidding.”

  Federico shook his head. “I understand your concern, Carla. But I think you’re mistaken. Bécquer is not gay. In all the years I have known him, I was his only male lover. And, please believe me, Bécquer would never force anyone.”

  “That is a lie. You told me so yourself. You told me that he charms his lovers.”

  “But the attraction must be there. And if your son is not gay — ”

  “Don’t play with me. I know you can control humans. You did it with me right now. You are monsters.”

  Federico moved back as if I had slapped him. Taking advantage of his hesitation, I ran to the door. But when I reached it, Federico was already there, blocking my exit.

  “Carla, please. Wait. There is something you need to see.”

  His tone was not threatening. It needn’t be. “Do I have a choice?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Gently but firmly, Federico steered me to the desk set against the far wall. He moved back the chair and, once I was sitting, produced a key — from where, I didn’t see — and opened the top drawer.

  Careful, almost reverentially, he removed a leather-bound book and set it on the table.

  “Open it.”

  As I did what he ordered, I realized it was not a book, but an album, its thick pages yellowed with age separated by onion sheets. Each page held a photograph of a different boy. As I turned the pages, the pictures, yellowed with age and vignetted around the edges at first, became color prints, and the serious expressions in the boys’ faces gave way to playful smiles.

  “No,” Federico said, reading my mind. “They are not his lovers, but the children he has sponsored over the years.”

  I looked up.

  “How much do you know about Bécquer’s life? His human l
ife?”

  “I know he died in his thirties. But, of course, he didn’t. So I guess I know nothing. Only that he wrote short stories and poems published under the title Rimas y Leyendas.”

  “Which, by the way, were not widely known when he was human. All his life, his human life, Bécquer struggled and failed to be recognized as a writer, but that is another story. What matters here is that Bécquer had three children, three boys. They were young when he died, the oldest barely eight.”

  “The boys in the frame,” I whispered.

  Federico frowned as if not following my train of thought. Then nodded. “Yes. That painting is the only thing he has of them. That and his memories.

  “Bécquer loved his children more than anything. ‘Take care of my children,’ he asked his friends shortly before his staged death. And they did. They published his work the following year, and Bécquer ensured it sold well to procure enough money for his children and his wife. Still, he missed them.”

  “Couldn’t he see them afterward?”

  “No. It’s forbidden. The Elders, the Immortals Council, if you wish, doesn’t allow it.

  “That’s why to alleviate his longing, he took care of various children over the years. Orphans as Bécquer himself had been since the age of eleven, children with artistic talents, or just children he met who needed help. He gave them a chance at life, but never interfered afterward. There was nothing dark in their relationship, nothing he should be ashamed of. My guess is that Ryan is his latest interest.”

  “Ryan is not an orphan, and he’s eighteen.”

  “Is he gifted?”

  I shrugged. “He’s good at music.”

  Federico lifted the album. “If he’s one of them, he must be here.” He passed the pages forward, then stopped. I felt his intake of breath, as he slammed it close.

  “What is it Federico?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Let me see.”

  He hesitated for a moment, and then handed it to me. “Please don’t jump to conclusions. It’s just a picture.”

  I didn’t notice anything unusual at first. Yes, Bécquer was standing close to Ryan, their hands touching. But it made sense in the context as he was directing Ryan’s fingers on the strings of the guitar my son was holding.

  It was a candid picture, obviously amateurish as the top of Bécquer’s head was cut off and neither of them was looking at the camera. Yet it was terribly effective at conveying the easy rapport that existed between them.

  “They are close,” I said.

  “It doesn’t mean they are lovers,” Federico said. But there was doubt in his voice.

  It was only as I turned back the pages to compare the picture of my son with the others, that I noticed the difference: Bécquer was not in them. Bécquer was not in any of them, because his picture would have given away the fact that he didn’t age. But then, why had he kept this picture of him and Ryan?

  I looked up and met Federico’s eyes.

  “You are right, Carla, something is different in Bécquer’s relationship with Ryan. Still, I don’t believe Bécquer has forced him. Please, let me talk with Bécquer. Let me ask him what Ryan is to him. I promise I’ll report to you what he tells me.”

  “No.”

  I stood to go, but Federico grabbed my arm. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Carla. But you must understand, I won’t let you hurt Bécquer either.”

  “As if I could.”

  “Don’t pretend with me.”

  “Pretend?”

  Federico stared at me for a long time and I knew he was reading my feelings and resented him for it, but could do nothing to stop him. Finally, he shook his head. “Either you’re good at hiding it or you really don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “About the glass.”

  “Know what about the glass?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “I see. You don’t trust me, but I must trust you. I don’t think so.”

  Federico sighed. “You’re right. If you are to trust me, I must trust you too. But before I do, promise you won’t ever repeat what I’m about to say.”

  “We call ourselves immortals, but that is a misnomer,” Federico told me when I promised. “We can die.”

  “How?”

  “You really don’t expect me to answer that, do you? Let’s say we heal fast. Any wound we receive disappears almost instantly once the object that caused it is removed. But a cut from glass doesn’t close as fast, and the loss of blood leaves us vulnerable.”

  “You heal fast. How fast are we talking?”

  “Let me show you.”

  From somewhere about his person, he produced a pocketknife. Holding the blade in his right hand, he ran it over his left palm. Briefly, the line he traced filled with blood then closed again, or so it seemed to me for, as I looked, my vision blurred. As my knees gave way, I fell into darkness.

  Chapter Six: The Kiss

  When I came back to my senses, I was lying on the four-poster bed I had seen through the French doors that opened into Bécquer’s room. I tried to sit, but the walls started spinning, so I gave in and laid back once more against the pillows. Through the cotton cloud that filled my mind, I heard angry voices coming from the anteroom. Bécquer’s voice and Federico’s. Then Bécquer’s again, louder this time.

  “Why did you bring her here?”

  So much for my hope that he never learned I had been in his room. I didn’t have to strain my ears to hear Federico’s answer for he was also shouting.

  “Because you forgot to tell her this was a costume party, and your dear Beatriz didn’t waste time to point it out to her. I came to find her a mask.”

  “What does it matter whether she is wearing a stupid costume or not?”

  “It matters to her.”

  “I see. What would I do without you, Federico? I guess being straight has its disadvantages. I miss those subtleties in women you see so well.”

  “So you’re straight? Still?”

  “What kind of question is that? Of course I’m straight.”

  “Then why did you frame the picture of her son?”

  “Ryan.” Bécquer’s voice was softer now, almost inaudible. “His name is Ryan.”

  “You love him,” Federico shouted. “You love this boy. Don’t deny it. I know you too well. Your voice changed when you said his name.”

  “Yes, I love him. But it is not what you think.”

  “Stop lying to me, Bécquer. I’m tired of it. You know I’d give my life for you a thousand times. The only thing I ask is that you tell me the truth. And you haven’t.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I asked you this morning if you had a new lover, and you said you didn’t. But it was a lie.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “I don’t believe you. I think you were ashamed of confessing that you had taken a boy and forced him against his nature. Or maybe not ashamed, maybe he has resisted you. Has he? Is that why you signed Carla, to have an excuse to be close to her son?”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “I think not. I feared that Beatriz was going to get you in trouble with the Elders. Now I hope she will. The only thing I regret is that I won’t be here when it happens because I’m leaving. Now.”

  “Calm down, Federico. You’re overreacting as usual.”

  “Goodbye, Bécquer.”

  “Federico!”

  I had left the bed upon hearing Federico’s accusations and Bécquer’s weak denials and, as the door slammed close behind Federico, I slid the French doors open and entered the anteroom.

  “Is that true?” I asked to Bécquer’s back.

  Bécquer turned.

  Despite the fury that burned inside me, my breath caught in my chest, for he was a vision of beauty in his three-piece black suit, the jacket open to reveal a white shirt, a red vest, a white rosebud caught in its lapel. His black hair, slightly longer than fashionable, came almost to his shoulders, frami
ng his handsome face that, even now flustered in anger, had the beauty of a Michelangelo statue come to life.

  In a swift movement, Bécquer was by my side. “How much have you heard?” he asked, a trace of irritation in his voice.

  “Answer me. Is that why you chose me? To be close to my son?”

  His eyes glowed red. “No. I chose you because you have the gift. The gift of turning words into stories. The gift and nothing else in a world that is blind to beauty and deaf to song. And thus, you, like me when I was alive, like all of us with an artist’s soul, struggle to survive, but not quite make it, for we have no mind for business. That is why I chose you. I thought you needed me. I thought I could be of help to you.”

  “I may need you, but my son is not the price.”

  “I agree. He’s not. I never meant him to be.”

  “Then why do you have his picture?”

  “Because … ” For the first time ever, Bécquer struggled for words. “Would you please take a seat, Carla, I — ”

  “No. Tell me.”

  He hesitated for a moment longer. “All right.” He took a deep breath. “I have his picture because Ryan is my descendant.”

  “Your what?”

  “My descendant. His great grandfather, your grandfather, Carla, was my grandson.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  Bécquer shrugged. “It’s the truth. I was human once, you know, and I had children.”

  You’re my ancestor was all I could think. This man to whom I was, undeniably attracted, was my ancestor. I started shaking.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to sit?”

  I shook my head. But when he grabbed my arm and guided me to the sofa, I didn’t resist.

  Bécquer didn’t sit, but walked to the curtains that covered the wall and, after drawing them aside, stood by the window, his eyes lost in the distance as if reading a story in the darkness outside. Finally he turned and, pulling out a chair that stood by the desk, dragged it over and sat heavily, facing me.

  “All right. Here is the truth. You’re a descendant of my wife’s third child. But you are not biologically my descendant for the baby was not mine. My wife and I had parted ways more than a year before his birth. She had left me for she loved somebody else.