Letters to a Stranger Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2015 by Mercedes Pinto Maldonado

  Translation copyright © 2019 by Jennie Erikson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Cartas a una Extraña by Amazon Publishing in Luxembourg in 2016. Translated from Spanish by Jennie Erikson. First published in English by Lake Union Publishing in collaboration with Amazon Crossing in 2019.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, in collaboration with Amazon Crossing, Seattle.

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Lake Union Publishing and Amazon Crossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542007306

  ISBN-10: 1542007305

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  First edition

  To my mother, a model of perseverance, who has given everything for her family. She is the antithesis of Doña Alberta, the mother of the protagonist in this story.

  CONTENTS

  Start Reading

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  At that time, I found a strange refuge. By chance, as they say. But coincidences like that don’t exist. If you need something desperately and find it, this is not a coincidence; your own need and desire lead you to it.

  Hermann Hesse, Demian

  Chapter 1

  Wednesday, 11 June 2014

  After a gap of fifteen years, most people would feel quite emotional, returning to the house where they were born and grew up. The simple act of opening the front door after so much time and coming face to face with such a significant section of their past – years in which their personality developed and shaped the rest of their life – would be enough to make the majority of folk take a deep breath before stepping through.

  Well, not so far as I was concerned. I crossed that threshold with blinding indifference, as if it were nothing more than heading into the supermarket to pick up a sandwich on a night off from the restaurant. I was just annoyed at the interruption to my life and the inconvenience of going away right now, just before the peak tourist season in London: my business needed all employees on hand and my absence was a problem.

  The news came and I didn’t have time to stop and think – the preparations for such an unexpected trip kept me busy right through to the last minute, but once on board the plane, with two hours of inactivity stretching ahead, my mind suddenly cleared. The seat to my right was unoccupied, and the novel I’d been glued to for the past three nights lay forgotten on the bedside table back home in my London flat. I didn’t fly often, and take-off always makes my stomach lurch, so I tried to keep my mind busy, which felt strange, alien, more from the enforced idleness than from the unusual situation. I was used to managing every moment of my day with meticulous efficiency, making best use of my time, and having nothing to do made me anxious. I searched for distraction on the other side of the window, but London and all of its magnificence lay hidden beneath a dense blanket of endless dreary grey.

  She had died . . . My mother had left this world less than forty-eight hours earlier and I felt nothing, only irritation because this was not the best time to head off travelling, and especially to Spain, absolutely the last place I wanted to go. The burial had taken place this morning. Condolences had been offered and the mourning clothes returned to the back of the wardrobe, so the only task that remained now was to deal with her belongings, half of which suddenly belonged to me. Teresa, the woman who had kept our house throughout my mother’s marriage, had told me on the phone that my sister Yolanda had been living for some time in Australia and was unable to come to Madrid. And so it fell to me to put in an appearance and handle all the usual matters in such times – choosing which goods and personal items of the deceased, my mother, the ‘distinguished’ Doña Alberta, should be thrown away, and which should be sold or kept, so the property could be put on the market as soon as possible. This was going to be enormously unpleasant, but that was all.

  I’d never had the slightest desire to return, or even been tempted to call. Any curiosity as to what might be taking place in the house where I grew up had been non-existent since my departure. In my first months of freedom I hadn’t even dared answer my phone, in case my sister or mother had somehow got hold of my number. At that point in my life my only priority was to forget. I’d left because I was suffocating, convinced I would go mad if I stayed even one more day.

  I climbed out of the taxi with my single suitcase. I didn’t think I was going to be staying any longer than absolutely necessary, and at the start of summer light clothes were all I needed. Teresa was waiting for me and she opened the door right away, having heard the sound of the car. She was exactly the same as I remembered, and, although a few white strands were beginning to appear at the temples, her hair still shone black, clean and silky, tied back in a low bun, which looked as though it hadn’t moved in all the years gone by. She still wore a delicate flowered scarf knotted around her neck, the two ends resting gently on her chest like the wings of a butterfly on a flower. Her lips remained slightly pink, looking as moist and cool as I remembered them. She still wore the woollen jumper, dark knee-length skirt and shoes of a nun . . . And her gaze even now was deep and steady, the gaze of someone whose heart shines out through their eyes. Teresa was one of those rare souls who can hug you without even touching you. I had told her a thousand times over that the only source of kindness in Alberta’s house was the person who stood in her own black-laced shoes. My words had always upset her though, because they betrayed the deep contempt I felt for my mother and sister. I was always mystified by the devotion and respect she showed to her mistress, in whose service she had slaved for forty years. For me Teresa wasn’t only the woman who kept our house in order; she was the closest thing I had to a mother.

  I had thought that during the fifteen years I’d spent in London I’d been reborn, reinvented, and that nothing from the past still survived in me. But before I could hug my beloved Teresa, as soon as I stepped on the welcome mat – and it wasn’t a welcome sight, I thought – I automatically started maniacally wiping the soles of my shoes: five times on each side. Either you did it, or you didn’t come in at all. That was how my mother was – she had to remind you who was in charge in that pristine house before you’d even set foot inside. One, two, three . . . OK, that was enough. It didn’t matter any more. I broke off the doormat ritual to hug Teresa.

  ‘My darling, how wonderful to have you home again! My little Berta . . .’ she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss me. ‘Let me look at you.’ She stepped back for a closer inspection. ‘You’re so slim, elegant and beautiful, and—’

  ‘Yes, Teresa, I’m the
same, just older. But I’m so very glad to see that you’re exactly how I remember you.’

  ‘Come in, come in, I’ve made you something to eat. After all this time I expect you eat early like the English. It’s really so good that you’re here, I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you and your sister in these last few days. It’s truly such a joy, my dear,’ she repeated, walking into the house.

  I set my suitcase down next to the door and prepared to follow her in. So far I’d only seen this one loving face from my past: Teresa. Standing at the entrance to the dreaded hallway, I congratulated myself on having had the strength to get past the first hurdle.

  Then, all of a sudden, I was hit by a shock wave, held paralysed in the centre of the doorway, in full sight of the sitting room, both of its doors flung open wide. My hand flew to my heart as Teresa, in high spirits, headed off to the kitchen. I heard her telling me what was for dinner but the words seemed to come from far, far away, and I could neither move nor answer her questions. I searched desperately for something to hold on to. I couldn’t breathe – it felt as though a ball of rotten straw had stuck in my throat. When at last I took a deep breath, the source of my crippling anxiety became clear and I leaned against the nearest wall, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor. Just then Teresa came along with a tray in her hands and almost tripped over my feet.

  ‘Oh, darling! You’re white as a sheet, love. What’s wrong?’ she asked worriedly, setting the tray of tapas down on the sideboard.

  ‘It was her scent, Teresa . . .’ I managed to say, gasping for air. ‘It got inside me and almost choked me.’

  ‘Oh dear, no! Come on, put your head between your legs. You’re cold as ice,’ she said, massaging my temples gently. ‘I’ll fetch you a glass of water. Goodness gracious, you gave me quite a turn.’

  She returned a few seconds later. ‘Drink up, love. Is that any better? Your colour’s coming back now. Yes, this is all still too recent for you. Let’s step outdoors again for a while.’

  As soon as I’d recovered a little, I took Teresa’s arm and we went out into the garden together, where I discovered that it was a particularly lovely afternoon. I knew it was time to face up to the reason for my return, but neither of us dared break the silence.

  ‘I see some things haven’t changed,’ Teresa said finally. ‘Her perfume still upsets you.’

  ‘I can’t believe how much the house still smells of her. But it’s not just the smell, it’s everything it represents – it’s like breathing the very essence of her, along with all my worst memories.’

  ‘I’ve made up your room . . . I suppose you’ll be sleeping here?’ she said, rapidly changing the subject. She didn’t like it when I criticised my mother.

  ‘That was the general idea, though now I’m not so sure I want to stay . . .’

  ‘You’ll see your room is exactly how you left it.’

  ‘OK. Oh, your Russian salad is delicious, not to mention the croquettes . . . Mmm . . .’

  ‘Tell me, sweetheart, what have you been doing with yourself all these years? Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? It’s been so long since I heard from you . . .’

  ‘Well, I started washing dishes in a restaurant, worked my way up and now I own it. That’s my job: I manage one of the best restaurants in London – Berta’s Kitchen. And no, no boyfriend, no husband, no children . . . I live alone in a flat and my life revolves around my work.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve been doing so well, and there’s me dreaming up all these stories in my head . . . Do you want to know how it happened then?’

  I wanted to know as soon as possible, though more out of a sense of duty than of interest. ‘What can I say, Teresa. Do I need to know?’

  ‘Yes, you do. Have a little bit more, won’t you?’

  ‘More? I stopped growing a long time ago. You know what, I think I’ll have a whisky – that might help me relax and take in what you’re about to tell me. By the way, this garden is still the most beautiful in the whole of Madrid. I never could understand how you managed to keep all these flowers alive, even in winter,’ I told her, looking around.

  ‘Oh, you just have to spend a little time at it every day. Plants appreciate it when you take care of them. I’ll go and see what there is in the drinks cabinet in the sitting room. She was the only one here who enjoyed a drink, as you know . . . Well, we’ll see.’

  With the first sip warming my blood, I felt more able to listen, and at last Teresa started to tell me everything that I, as the deceased’s daughter, was honour-bound to know.

  ‘I left her when she was eating her pudding . . . I went to the chemist’s to get her blood pressure medication before they shut and . . . when I got back she was dead – her head in the remains of the watermelon. I think she’d only just died, because she fell to the floor as I was coming into the sitting room. Darling, it was all so . . . so sudden . . . I can’t get that image out of my head.’

  Tears welled up in her eyes and slid down her cheeks. I was shocked to see her cry. I honestly never thought anyone would grieve her loss, not even Teresa.

  ‘So I guess there isn’t really much more to tell, because it all happened so fast. On second thought, even the way she died was lucky – how many people would love to meet their maker like that?’ I said sarcastically, choosing to ignore how much it pained her to remember the scene.

  She seemed upset at my attitude, and decided she’d done her duty for the day and it was time for her to leave.

  ‘I’ve got to go, love – I don’t want to miss the ten o’clock bus. I’ve left information about the solicitor by the phone, along with the address. Don’t forget he’s expecting you in his office tomorrow morning at nine. Would you like me to come along?’

  ‘It’s all right, don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I’ll stop by tomorrow in case you need anything.’

  Before she walked through the front gate, I said what I knew she was hoping to hear: ‘Teresa . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through all that on your own.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some rest, sweetheart.’

  It was a little unfeeling, my behaviour in the face of her sorrow, but my mind simply refused to adopt the role of the grieving daughter who had just lost her darling mother. More than anything, the moment I came back I felt the same visceral sense of rejection I’d always experienced in that house.

  I poured myself another glass and stayed out a little longer in the fading light, enjoying the scents of the garden. Everything beautiful that surrounded me was Teresa’s doing, the woman who had worked for us for forty years. My mother had never pulled a single weed. She never cared about anything or anyone except herself.

  I was dying to go to the loo, but to get there I had to cross the space where her stale scent still lingered. I’d thought those years were long forgotten, like all the junk you only remember when you’re clearing out the corners of the attic, but I hadn’t counted on the fact that the very essence of a person is carried in their smell and there’s no way to shut that out like we do unwanted goods. It clings to everything and has the power to open doors in your subconscious, releasing all your loveliest as well as most painful memories.

  Holding my breath, I ran to the guest toilet, which she never used. It smelled clean and of no one at all.

  Then I crossed through the sitting room, dragging my suitcase, without breathing or looking around me. In the main corridor I turned my back on my mother’s bedroom door so I could open my own in safety. Everything was neat and orderly, just as it was then, almost sterile. She never allowed me a single poster of my favourite singer of the day on the wall; in fact, she never allowed me to have a favourite singer at all. She didn’t even let me decorate my bed with the cuddly toys my friends gave me for my birthdays. Everything had to be bare, with no personality. Anything that revealed my character or personal taste was ruthlessly edited from my room, and the same went for my sister. Our mot
her’s determination to quash our dreams and desires forced us to lead double lives where our true selves remained hidden and stifled, while the selves we showed to the world were so perfect as to be almost artificial. Maybe that’s why it was so easy for me to start my life over; because I’d never actually lived anywhere before that. I could finally just be myself, the real me, with no punishment or criticism of who I was.

  Setting my suitcase down by the desk, I found a piece of paper with the Wi-Fi password written on it. It would be great to have internet access during my stay here, to keep in touch with Harry, my friends and the chef at the restaurant. I took a quick shower and then logged on to my laptop. I meant to go on Facebook and chat a bit with Mary and Emily, but after answering some urgent emails I felt absolutely exhausted. I waited in bed for the drowsiness to take hold and send me off to sleep, but despite my tiredness the opposite happened, and I suddenly felt with cold clarity precisely where I was and why. A chaotic swarm of vivid memories from my time in this house now buzzed furiously in my mind.

  What had I been thinking . . . ? I’d convinced myself that I was a new person, a complete stranger to the naive girl who’d lived in Madrid, now long since dead and buried. I never contemplated that my return would merge these two selves together. If anything, I’d imagined a simple encounter between two women meeting for the first time, each unaffected by the other’s life, because there was nothing to connect them any more. The truth was, however, that we both shared the same skin. After a lot of time and space, and seeing other worlds freer and more authentic than the one in which I’d grown up, I’d wrested control of my own life and the opportunity to be the only star of my story. The memories that assaulted me now seemed like impossible nightmares. How could a young girl endure such subjugation, live in such terror of making a mistake? How could anyone survive a life of such absolute coldness and lack of love? It was all thanks to Teresa, who had provided the delicate pulse of light and warmth that crept into that house every day.