But the boy with huge eyes and sun-bleached curly chestnut hair Manuel saw in this photograph was anything but just ordinary. He was smiling happily at the photographer and had a comradely arm flung around Lucas’s shoulder. Santiago, half hidden behind his brother, hung from álvaro’s left arm as if trying to attract his attention.
“My husband, Damián, took this picture right here in front of the oven with the camera I gave him as a birthday present. This photo is nothing particularly special, but I’ve always thought it was the best picture of my boys.”
The charisma of the boy in the center looking back at the photographer was obvious. Lucas was smiling with the happy adoration of a youngster ready to follow his friend to the ends of the earth. The smallest boy was scowling. There was something excessively jealous in the way he hung on his brother’s arm. He looked afraid the photo would make álvaro forget him.
Herminia was moved by Manuel’s unfeigned reaction. “I doubt it really had anything to do with his relationships,” she continued. “I won’t claim that wasn’t a point of contention, but maybe if álvaro had been the sort to accept parental counsel and advice, things might have turned out differently. The conflicts with álvaro were nothing new. They started when he was very small. You should have seen him. He wasn’t much more than knee-high, but he was always defying his father, talking back, disagreeing, and glaring at him. álvaro’s attitude infuriated the marquis. I don’t think the old man ever had a lick of affection for anyone. He hated álvaro but he admired the boy at the same time.” She paused and gave Manuel a somber look. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear. The old marquis was the sort of man who valued courage more than anything. Even if it was the courage of an adversary.”
“I do understand what you’re saying. But I just don’t understand how character differences could justify exiling a child from his family.”
“It was a good deal more than that. álvaro’s father was used to dominating others, and in this family everyone danced to his tune. Except álvaro, and that’s something the marquis couldn’t stand. I remember one time, when álvaro must have been eight or nine. Santiago, two years younger, was a very shy but impulsive child. One day he took a lighter from his father’s office and had the brilliant idea of setting fire to a pile of hay in the stables. He stamped it out, but not carefully enough; after he left, it flared up again. Luckily one of the stableboys saw him doing something back there and was smart enough to check what the boy might have been up to, so they put it out quickly.
“When their father heard about it he went out looking for Santiago with a belt in his hand. Santiago was terrified and hid somewhere. álvaro walked up to his father and said he was the one who’d done it. I’ll never forget the look on his father’s face. It was as if suddenly the incident itself wasn’t important anymore; he focused only on his oldest son and what the boy had told him.
“The marquis became very stern. ‘You know what I think? I believe you’re lying. I think you want to deceive me, and I’m not going to let you make a fool of me.’ His father made him stand there before the front door of the manor, all day long. Didn’t let him sit or eat or go to the toilet. In midmorning the rain started, but even then he wouldn’t let the child back inside. He came out every two hours holding his black umbrella overhead and asked, ‘Who was it?’ and got the answer, ‘I did it, father.’”
As he listened, Manuel had no trouble visualizing the boy álvaro had been, the child with the light-colored hair and proud look who’d defied his father and stood firm.
“I don’t remember exactly when this was, but it was winter. It was cold outside. By five thirty night began to fall and a terrible storm broke. There was thunder and wind and so much lightning that by six the electricity went off and didn’t come back until the next day. Santiago was so scared at dinnertime that he went to his father in tears and confessed. The marquis didn’t even look at him; he turned his back and sent the child to his room. Everyone went to bed but the marquis and me. He didn’t say a word to me, either, but not for anything in the world was I going to go off and leave the child there alone. At one o’clock in the morning the marquis came down here to the kitchen. That was unheard of. Neither of the parents ever came in here. To this very day the lady dowager won’t set foot in the kitchen.
“The marquis was carrying a candle, and that flickering candlelight made him look even more ferocious. He stood in the kitchen door and said, ‘That child has more balls than all the men I know, put together.’ I could hear pride and admiration in his voice. He told me to wait until he’d gone to bed, and then I could bring the youngster inside.
“I got a glimpse of that same expression sometimes as the years passed. He hated álvaro, but there was something in the boy’s defiance the old man appreciated. But don’t you ever mistake it for affection. He didn’t love either of his older boys. He outright despised álvaro, and he systematically humiliated Santiago from the very first, even though the poor dear followed him around like a little puppy, ready to lick his feet if it would elicit the least little bit of affection. And in return the child got nothing but contempt. Never in my life did I ever see him look at Santiago with the respect he had for álvaro.”
Manuel was intrigued by the demanding attitude of the little boy in the photo. “How did álvaro and Santiago get along?”
“Very well. Excellently, in fact; they loved one another immensely. Santiago was younger, of course.” She nodded at the photo. “And he was shorter and a bit chubby. Whenever the other kids teased him, álvaro inevitably defended him. álvaro took care of his brother, took him by the hand as soon as Santiago learned to walk, and you might even say álvaro never let go. Santiago adored him, worshipped the ground he walked upon, thought everything álvaro did was wonderful. Santiago has always been the most sensitive and sentimental of the three. He nearly fell apart when his brother Fran died. But I’ve never seen him as devastated as the night we lost álvaro. He was almost out of his mind. I was afraid he was going to do something crazy.”
Manuel recalled the couple of glimpses he’d had of Santiago over the past two days. “I don’t know; they seem very different.”
“And that they were, but they were allied, even if it was in a strange way. For álvaro it was a sort of duty, a feeling he was responsible for his brother. álvaro had lots of friends outside the estate, but Santiago wasn’t sociable at all. If it hadn’t been for álvaro, the poor child would have spent his entire childhood alone.”
“Did they spend a lot of time with their youngest brother?”
“álvaro was eleven and Santiago nine when little Fran was born. álvaro got along well with him, though obviously they didn’t spend much time together. The family sent álvaro off to boarding school in Madrid not long after Fran’s birth, and from then on he came home only during his vacations. The first chance they had to really become acquainted was when their father died, but Fran outlived the old man by only two days. My poor little tyke! You see, Fran was the only one the marquis cared for, if you can call it that, and their father made the terrible mistake of spoiling him rotten. Gave him everything.” Her face showed deep pain. “But I do have to admit we all treated the child that way. Perhaps because of the age difference between him and his brothers, he became everyone’s darling, the plaything of the family. He was a lovely one, always laughing, singing, and dancing; he had a sweet and cheerful character. I can still see it now, how he would come in here, hug me, and kiss me. He’d untie my apron and ask for money. And I’d give it to him.” She nodded, almost rocking, grieving and accepting her portion of the blame.