Letters to a Stranger Read online

  My sister, so in love with a man that she would scheme to get rid of Bodo in order to be with him . . . How I wished that might be true. It might have redeemed her because there’s a certain dignity in a crime of passion, but that just wasn’t her style. No, if she was in any way connected with this crime, then it had to be about money. It also seemed impossible for anyone to worship her so much they would murder her husband, but then perhaps love really is blind.

  I tried to imagine what married life could have been like for Yolanda and Bodo, and it just seemed utterly crazy. He’d known her since she was less than five years old, at least since my mother got pregnant with me, or maybe even before . . . I didn’t know exactly when his romance with her had started. The German property developer had watched Yolanda grow up, become a woman, all the while sleeping with her mother . . . although I guess I don’t know exactly what kind of relationship they had, or what their rules were. What kind of demented pervert was Bodo? What rubbish . . . I was losing all objectivity.

  Bodo, as always, was no more than a puppet in the hands of a young and beautiful woman. He was so vain it was laughable, accustomed to having the best of everything without putting in any effort, and even though all his relationships with women had been superficial and part of the insincere sham of his life, each one a link in the long chain of his failed love affairs, in the professional world he had worked towards success from a very young age, or so we all thought judging from his standard of living. Almost certainly, the corrupt participant in that absurd relationship had been Yolanda, just as it had been our mother before her. Looking at it from the outside, they weren’t that odd a pair – she young and beautiful, with elegant and expensive tastes, and he a successful businessman with plenty of money to fund the most extravagant whim. Yolanda was one of those – a whim that had apparently cost him his life. Furthermore, an age difference of twenty years in such cases is hardly unusual. It was everything that lay behind it that was less common in this particular story.

  I nibbled on some leftovers, took a shower and climbed into bed with my Kindle.

  Falling asleep, I mused over the realisation that for the first time in years I had no plans for the next day. The lack of routine, away from all my usual daily tasks, left me somewhat adrift.

  Chapter 4

  Saturday, 14 June 2014

  I slept restlessly, waking, I think, at least four times in the night. Well into the morning a flood of sunlight shone in through the window, almost blinding me when I tried to open my eyes. Still groggy and half-asleep, I leapt out of bed, startled and bewildered, thinking I was back in my flat in London and that I was late for work, before I realised that such glorious light could only mean I was in Spain.

  After feeding Aris, with a café con leche and several biscuits set out in front of me, I tried to plan my day. The kitchen door stood open to the garden and the scent of flowers wafted in on the warm breeze. I’ve always savoured the beauty of the morning, before the air grows heavy with cooking smells and people start coming and going.

  Just then my phone rang.

  ‘Harry, hi! How’s it going?’ I was glad to hear his voice. ‘I can always count on you to call at the worst time. I was just about to take a shower.’

  ‘Oh! Sorry, my darling . . .’ Even though our relationship had been purely physical for a long time now, he still called me ‘my darling’. He switched languages and explained in Spanish, ‘I’m sorry, but I was at the restaurant and they told me your mother had died and you were in Madrid. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner . . . How are you?’

  ‘Good . . . tired but good.’

  ‘When are you coming home?’

  ‘I don’t know. I might stay a few weeks.’

  ‘OK, I’ll call you again. Talk soon, my darling.’

  ‘Talk soon.’

  And, thinking about Harry, I went on with my day. He was my first and my last before I left London, although ours was an on-off relationship and I’d had other flings in the meantime. I had to admit that as a lover he had no equal, but as a boyfriend he was a complete disaster. During the months we’d tried living together, not a day went by that we didn’t fight. Sometimes these rows were caused by my fits of jealousy, which even I didn’t understand – not because they weren’t justified, but because I don’t think I was ever really in love with him. He truly was a hopeless rascal. Living together was a dreadful idea that we hit on one night after a few drinks, but before too long we were back in our own flats. Deep down we both knew it wouldn’t work out, so we’d rented a small furnished flat between his workplace and mine, and never got rid of our individual homes. When we were back to being single, at first we called each other every day, because we’d promised to keep in touch as friends, but soon we returned to sharing the one thing that really brought us together: sex – only once or twice a week, of course, and then we’d each go back to our own beds. The fact is that when we stopped living together I missed more than his lovemaking – among other things, his sense of humour, his vitality, his ability to calm me down when I came home tired and fed up after a long night at the restaurant . . . But I never told him. I know we had an emotional connection that went beyond just the physical and that’s why we tried it, but we were simply incompatible living together and I never lost hope of finding a man who would fall madly in love with me. Harry said that I was chasing a fantasy, that such a man didn’t exist. Harry certainly wasn’t Mr Right as far as I was concerned.

  I took a shower and decided to investigate the only room I hadn’t yet searched in the house: the attic.

  I climbed the stairs leading up to the top floor like someone nervous of running into a sadistic killer: slowly, very tense and with all five senses heightened in case I had to turn and run. In our house, the attic was like the ghost town of a once-great city. It wasn’t just the abandoned bits and pieces up there – something in that space was much more mysterious and less childish. The attic was where my mother hid the most shameful family secrets; the old junk she got rid of without any problem.

  All lives have a public display and also a back room that they don’t want other people to see, either now or ever. Between these rooms is a passage through which we come and go, in a never-ending attempt to find a balance between the two. Our attic wasn’t that particular passageway, nor was it just the repository of all the things we were probably never going to use again but which had sentimental value and couldn’t be thrown out. Our attic was hell itself, where Alberta cast out her sins and weaknesses; only they didn’t burn up or crumble to ashes, but instead wandered forever in a closed, dark space with no way out, more like a state of purgatory. Virtually no one went up to the attic, and she did least of all. Only Teresa went once in a while, to check for rodents. No one else ventured up there: we girls were forbidden to, and the lady of the house, the only person allowed to poke about up there, had no desire to dig up the detritus of her past.

  Standing at the top step of the steep staircase, my heart pounded desperately in my chest, as though in warning that I was getting too close to something dangerous – but the door facing me was locked. I should have known. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and my nerves seemed to shatter into a million tiny pieces. For a moment, I crossed the veil between life and death.

  ‘Oh my heavens, Berta – what’s the matter? Not again! Say something, sweetheart!’ Teresa shouted in despair, afraid this would end with the two of us tumbling down the staircase. ‘You must be ill, my love – this is the second time this has happened.’

  Somehow, we ended up sitting on the top step, which acted as a small landing.

  ‘It’s locked,’ I said finally. ‘Do you know where the key is?’

  ‘I think so, but this is no time for that. Come on, let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll make you something. You’re far too thin, my darling,’ she said, helping me down the steps and keeping hold of my waist.

  ‘Find me that key, Teresa,’ I babbled, still dizzy and confused.

  ‘Yes, ye
s, forget about the blessed key now – there’s plenty of time to look for it. Careful, dear, let’s just make sure we don’t both break our necks.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s passed now. I’m feeling much better. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with this house . . .’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong with this house – you’re just weak, that’s all. I bet in England all you do is work and you don’t even remember to eat.’

  ‘I work in a restaurant with one of the best chefs in the world, remember?’ I argued, forcing myself to smile to reassure her as we came down from hell, which in this case seemed to be up in the direction where heaven should be.

  We reached the last steps to find Aris staring at us as though he knew what had happened.

  I took sips of my soothing lemon balm infusion while my pulse settled, and Teresa grilled a steak for me along with a light salad.

  ‘Please find me that key, Teresa,’ I insisted.

  ‘Yes, yes, darling, later,’ she answered, without looking up from the pan. ‘Right now you need to eat something. You need vitamins.’

  She decided to let me eat lunch on my own and disappeared off into the depths of the house, returning some time later.

  ‘I can’t find it, love,’ she said at last, standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she swallowed it before she died. She probably choked to death on it,’ I answered sharply.

  ‘Goodness, dear, the things you say . . .’

  ‘We’ll call a locksmith. I have to get in there somehow. If the attic is locked, there has to be a reason. Teresa . . .’

  ‘What?’ she answered solemnly. She didn’t like it when I talked about my mother that way.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know where the key is? I remember you used to go in the attic.’

  ‘Come on, love, stop seeing ghosts everywhere. There’s nothing but old stuff up there that nobody wants. Your mother would give me the key every now and then to make sure everything was OK – it really could be anywhere. Now, I’m going to clean up the kitchen and then head home. I have a lot of ironing to do.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Are you sure? Are you feeling better then?’

  ‘I feel perfect, thank you – your lunch worked wonders. Don’t you worry about me.’

  ‘All right then, I’m going. I think I’ll stop off at the grocer’s first. Need anything?’

  ‘I need you to call a locksmith.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll call them tomorrow, dear. My, you can be persistent,’ she added impatiently.

  Lying in the hammock in the garden with Aris at my feet, I returned some calls. I had two messages from Brandon concerning a few business matters and my lack of communication since I’d been in Spain. He couldn’t believe that the responsible and perfectionist Berta wasn’t calling three or four times a day to manage the one thing she cared about most: her restaurant, Berta’s Kitchen.

  In fact, it had taken only a few days for me to completely disconnect from my life in London. When I first arrived, I had very quickly developed an obsessive personality; the shy and apathetic Berta, who had previously only watched the days drift by as a mere observer, began to get involved with life, to have goals and go after them. I was so determined to be an active participant in the world that I didn’t give myself a single moment to mull over my past. Here in Madrid, after stepping back into my old environment, the London Berta suddenly felt very far away. In truth, I’d been living in a bubble and I realised now that the old Berta had never really left at all. Brandon was confused by my attitude, most of all when I told him that I trusted him completely to make decisions without my approval, if he thought it made sense. Before hanging up he wished me well, convinced that something serious must be going on.

  I read for a little while under the willow tree in the garden. The sun was sinking in the sky, slowly and peacefully, and the temperature was perfect. Now and then I stroked my hand through Aris’s thick fur. Before long I set the Kindle down, and turned on my side in the hammock to look at the little tiger as I petted him. Tickling him under the chin, I realised that the spot where his collar fastened looked somehow bulkier than it should. Yes, there was something there. It was probably his ID tag, in case he got lost. I undid the buckle and . . . I couldn’t believe it: something fell on to the fabric of the hammock. It was a key! It had to be the key to the attic. That’s how dark and twisted my mother was. Maybe she hid it in Aris’s collar because she didn’t even trust Teresa. I was strongly tempted to go up there immediately, but it was getting dark and this was no time to embark on a task that required a clear mind, time and daylight. I knew the next day was going to be intense. Right now I didn’t even have the strength to crawl up those stairs.

  I put the key back where I’d found it – it was a hard place to forget and it wouldn’t get lost – then let myself be enveloped in the falling dusk and its mantle of stars. Allowing myself the time to enjoy the clear luminous sky was sheer delight after so many years in London. Watching the sky before going to bed was becoming a pleasant and comforting habit.

  Chapter 5

  Sunday, 15 June 2014

  It was my fifth day in Spain and the fourth time I’d woken up in glorious sunlight. A loud noise from the kitchen served as my alarm call. I was scared at first, but then thought it surely must just be Teresa.

  Aris lay on the bed near my feet, staring at me. I sat up, stroked his back and said, ‘Well, my friend, we have something important to do today, but let’s grab some breakfast first.’

  I headed to the bathroom and then strolled into the kitchen.

  ‘Morning, Teresa. Goodness, don’t you even take Sundays off?’

  ‘And a very good morning to you too, my love. Dear me, no – a bit of light sweeping and watering plants isn’t work. How are you feeling today?’

  ‘Not bad, thank you. I had a hard time falling asleep, but then slept six or seven hours solid,’ I answered, hunting in the cupboard for Aris’s food. ‘You won’t believe this, but . . .’

  ‘Believe what? Don’t be so mysterious.’

  ‘You’ll be pleased when I tell you.’

  ‘Oh dear, will I?’

  ‘I found the key to the attic. At least, I think I did . . .’

  ‘Well, you’ll get to save some money. You have no idea what locksmiths charge around here these days.’

  ‘You’ll never guess where it was.’

  Teresa ignored what I said and asked, in a totally unrelated question: ‘Would you like me to make you some pan con tomate?’

  ‘Hang on a minute . . . No way . . . You knew the key was on Aris’s collar, didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, that’s utter nonsense. How would I know a thing like that? I’d have told you.’

  I didn’t believe her – and moreover, I was now starting to be suspicious of Teresa. After all, she knew much more about my family than she was letting on.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ she asked. ‘I saw a car out by the gate. You have no excuse to stay shut up in here. It’s a marvellous day outside – why don’t you get out of the house?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll go out later this afternoon, but I want to go up to the attic this morning.’

  ‘Oh dear, you certainly are fixated on that attic. Do you want me to stay with you in case you have another of your fainting fits? I go cold with fright every time I think about it,’ she said, as the coffee maker whistled behind her, downplaying the importance of the subject.

  ‘I appreciate it, but I’d rather do it alone – it’s a personal thing. But don’t worry, I feel fine.’

  Teresa turned off the hob and bent down to fumble around Aris’s neck.

  ‘Here, have it,’ she said, putting the key in my hand.

  ‘Were you thinking of taking it with you so I wouldn’t find it? What’s up there exactly in that attic?’

  ‘Oh dear, no, that certainly wasn’t what I was . . . Your mother didn’t trust anyone by the end – s
he hid it in the cat’s collar, but I pet him once in a while too and came across it . . .’

  ‘My mother didn’t even trust you any more? There has to be a reason why she hid the attic key . . . You will tell me another time, won’t you?’

  ‘Honestly, this girl . . . I’m not even sure what’s up there, it’s been so long since I went in. It’s just that yesterday you looked so poorly there on the staircase . . . Well, I just didn’t think it was a good time to give you the key.’

  ‘Teresa, I have the strangest feeling you’re trying to protect me from something. I’m a grown woman, you know. I grew up in this house. I’m ready for anything I’m going to find.’

  ‘Of course I want to protect you – from getting dizzy and tumbling down those awful stairs, all on your own here . . . No, no, I don’t even want to think about it.’

  ‘I know.’