“I wasn’t lying to you,” Gri?án affirmed with great seriousness. He took care to make sure the door was properly shut.
“álvaro came to Galicia because you called him,” Manuel snapped, without allowing the man time to reach the shelter of his desk.
Gri?án looked down in silence. When he spoke again his voice held a deep regret that seemed sincere. “I’ll be sorry for that for the rest of my life. But I didn’t lie. I didn’t know he was here. Not until they told me.”
“Why did you call him?” Manuel’s tone was unremittingly harsh.
Gri?án dragged himself to his desk chair and with a gesture invited Manuel to have a seat. “There was a financial matter to discuss. Santiago needed a rather large sum of money, he came here to ask me for it, and I passed the request along to álvaro. In my role as administrator I have a discretionary fund of up to ten thousand euros per month for ranch and farm operations. It’s from a contingency reserve. But the amount requested was much greater than that.”
“How much did he want?”
Gri?án reflected. “Three hundred thousand euros.”
“Did he tell you why?”
A shake of the head. “He didn’t want to tell me, but he certainly was in a hurry. Whatever the reason, it was very important to him. I telephoned to inform álvaro. That’s all. I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t learn that álvaro had come here until Santiago telephoned me about his death.”
On his way out Manuel encountered Doval carrying coffees on a silver tray. He turned back toward the administrator. “Gri?án, don’t call As Grileiras this time. Remember, I’m still the owner.”
ARTISTS
The turbid light from the overcast sky of recent days was gone. Sunlight slanted across the sky. The silver-blue shapes of new eucalyptus and the greens and blacks of the furze bushes stood out sharply as Manuel drove past. So did the ancient lichen-covered stone walls, leaning wooden fences, and houses—the latter seen less and less frequently as he left the city behind. Everything glowed with an unfamiliar rarefied patina. Manuel leaned forward and peered up at the sky. The blue clouds looked like paint strokes extended until the paint ran out, leaving long random streaks of white. There must be a strong wind up there. At ground level not a leaf was stirring, but the air was heavy and humid. It would rain soon.
He parked in the same place they’d left their cars the day before. His BMW could be seen from the manor, but he didn’t care. As Nogueira had admonished him, this was no courtesy visit. He had questions and he wanted answers.
A red Nissan drove toward him from the outbuildings, scattering gravel as it neared the entrance. The driver’s face seemed familiar, perhaps from the funeral. The vehicle coasted almost to a stop as it came abreast of him. The driver made no effort to hide his look of surprise. Manuel fully expected him to stop and say something, but instead the Nissan accelerated and left the estate.
Manuel closed the car door and lingered for a few moments, attracted by the flowers. Their brilliant white made the gleaming green hedge seem almost black in contrast. He recalled the two gardenias he’d returned to the desk drawer before leaving the inn the previous night. The pallid smoothness of those petals was strangely attractive. He raised a hand to run a finger across the extravagant bloom of the flower just as Herminia appeared in the kitchen doorway and waved to invite him in. She must have heard his car.
The fat black cat sat motionless on sentry duty before the kitchen entrance. Manuel grinned as he saw Herminia trying to run it off.
“Get out of here, you rascal!” she called out and stamped her foot.
The animal glided away only a couple of feet before settling again. It pretended not to notice them and licked its tail to demonstrate its indifference.
“Come in, fillo, come in and let me get a look at you,” she exclaimed as she pulled him into the kitchen. “I’m worried sick about you. All I can think of is how you must be feeling. Sit down and have something to eat.” She placed a huge round loaf of Galician bread before him, cut a dark fragrant slice, and added some cheese and chorizo sausage.
Manuel smiled. “I’m really not hungry; I had breakfast at the inn.”
“You want something warm instead? I can cook up a couple of eggs in no time at all.”
“No, honestly, I’m not hungry.”
She gave him a pitying look. “Of course. How could you have an appetite after all you’ve been through?” She sighed. “Maybe a coffee? Surely you’ll accept a cup of coffee.”
“That’s fine,” he agreed, for he expected that otherwise Herminia would keep pushing food at him. “I’ll have some coffee. But first I’d like to discuss something with Santiago.”
“They’re not back yet. They telephoned this morning to say they’re returning this evening.”
Manuel nodded thoughtfully.
“There is one person who’s always here, though,” the cook volunteered. “The Raven.”
He looked blankly at her.
“The Raven,” the woman repeated and jabbed a finger at the ceiling. “The old lady up there keeping an eye on everything.”
Manuel nodded to show he understood. Into his mind came the sinister warning from Poe’s poem in the collection he’d happened across the day before: Nevermore. He obediently took a place at the table. The cook laid out breakfast pastries on a platter tidily covered with a cloth napkin.
“Elisa and the child are here,” Herminia said in a much warmer tone. “They’ll be over at the cemetery. Elisa spends almost all her time there.”
She laid out the coffee service and poured two cups from a pot that apparently was always kept hot on the wood-burning stove. She settled beside him and gave him an affectionate look.
“Ay, neno! You’re unhappy, no matter what you say. You think I don’t know you; I can see that, but I knew my álvaro and so I know you. The person who chose my darling was bound to have a huge heart.”
“Did he ever mention me?”
“He didn’t have to. I knew there was someone, of course; I could tell it from his smile, and it was obvious in his eyes. I raised this family’s children. I’ve seen them born and grow up and become men, and I’ve loved them more than anything on earth. My baby’s heart held no secrets from me.”
“It did from me,” Manuel said, almost to himself.
She extended her hand and covered his. Hers was dry and warm. “You mustn’t be so hard on him. It’s not my place to say so, because I’ve loved them all, and each was a good man in his own way; but álvaro was always my favorite. Even when he was a little fellow he had more energy and courage than the others. Everyone knew. And that character of his was always bringing him into conflict with his father.”
“Gri?án told me. Unfortunately some parents just won’t accept their children the way they are.”
“Gri?án said they didn’t get along because of whom álvaro liked, whom he loved?”
“Yes,” Manuel replied hesitantly. “Or at least that’s what he implied.”
The cook got up, opened a cabinet, took out her bag, rummaged in it, and took a photo from her wallet. She placed it before him on the table. It was old but well preserved. The corners were curved by the contour of the wallet where it must have been tucked away for many years. It was a picture of three boys. One was looking at the camera. The other boys were looking at him.
“The tallest is álvaro. The others are his brother Santiago and his friend Lucas, who’s now a priest. These two are about ten years old and Santiago is eight.”
Manuel tentatively touched the photo with one finger. This was the first image of álvaro’s childhood he’d ever seen.
Manuel had told his husband more than once, You must have been an amazingly handsome little boy. The reply was always, Just ordinary.