Manuel was surprised. “In other words, they brought him up wrong.”
“Well, yes, I suppose; I gave him money whenever he asked. So did his brother, and so did all the others. And you can be assured there was never any shortage of funds around here. Fran got his driver’s license as soon as he was old enough and a fine automobile when he turned eighteen and became an adult. They had no problem affording travel, riding lessons, fencing, polo, hunting, whatever the boys wanted. Their father kept them well supplied with cash, because the sons of a marquis couldn’t go around without their spending money. But Fran . . .” Her face twisted in terrible pain as she shook her head once more. “Fran never had enough, and we all turned a blind eye until it was too late. One day I went to clean his bathroom and found the door locked. Nobody answered. Finally my husband and one of the other employees broke the door down and there we found him, lying on the floor with a syringe dangling from his arm. Alive, thank God! He was a drug addict. Both of them were, Fran and his girlfriend, Elisa.”
“Nobody suspected? They hadn’t noticed?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of those so blind they would not see? Fran put up a good front. All of them suspected something, or at least it had occurred to them. That’s when it became obvious the boy was going downhill. The marquis located a very good, very expensive clinic in Portugal, and Fran agreed to go, but only if Elisa went too. They were gone for almost a year and came back only on special occasions like Christmas and the marquis’s birthday. Not for long; they had to go right back to their program at the clinic. And not even then did his father’s attitude change. Fran was always the apple of his eye. His mother could hardly stand the boy; she refused to look at him. She made no secret of her opinion that anyone with Fran’s failings was lower than dirt. But with his father it was different. That wicked man seemed to realize for the first time that his son was especially vulnerable. Which he was, in my opinion. Some people can overcome any difficulty, and álvaro was one of them; but others, like Fran, are too easily overwhelmed in this life.”
“And Fran died during one of the visits home?” Manuel prompted her.
“The old man realized his health was failing fast, so he had Fran called home. It was cancer. He’d been ill for several years, but the doctors had kept him in reasonably good shape. He lived a fairly decent life, until the monster within finally woke up. The sickness spread to all his organs and laid him so low the end was in sight. For about two months he suffered like a dog. Toward the end he was given heavy doses of morphine. Fran came back home to be with him and stayed at his side for days on end, even though the old man had no desire to see anyone. And Fran took it like a man; he hardly slept at all. He held his father’s hand, wiped the man’s drool, spoke to him. The two of them were inseparable until the night his father died.”
The cook broke off, lost in her memories and shaking her head, as if trying to expunge those unpleasant visions. “I’ve never seen anyone cry like that. He stood there clutching his father’s hand until at last the old marquis slipped away. Fran started weeping in a way that broke my heart. All of us went into the room—the rest of the family, the doctor, the priest, the undertaker. We found ourselves in tears as well, but I tell you that the only tears shed in that room for the father were Fran’s. He wept like a child, sitting rigid and exposed. Tears ran down his cheeks, but he seemed not to be aware of them, like a lost little boy. We should have realized that’s exactly what he was, a child who’d gotten lost in the dark and was scared half to death. And then there was his mother’s face when she came into the room and saw him crying like that. I’ll never forget her expression of deep, black contempt. There was nary a trace of pity or consideration in that old woman. She looked away in disgust and left the room. The day after the funeral they found him dead of that overdose. Lying across his father’s grave.”
Herminia stopped and moaned. Manuel waited patiently for her to resume her story. She’d closed her eyes and was squeezing them tight, fighting back her tears. But without success. They trickled from beneath her lids and streamed down her face.
The woman sat wordless and unmoving. Finally she sighed and covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry,” she managed to say in a broken voice.
Deeply moved and pained by her doleful story, Manuel wavered indecisively between the impulse to take her in his arms and the feeling he was intruding in a stranger’s grief. Torn, he placed a hand on her arm and pressed gently in a sign of support. She felt his touch and covered his hand with hers, slowly regaining her composure.
“Forgive me.” She wiped her tears away. “First Fran, now álvaro . . .” She reached for the photograph that lay on the table.
“There’s no reason to apologize, Herminia.” Manuel pushed the photo across the table toward her.
She gazed at him with great affection. “Poor fellow, I should be consoling you. You can keep it, fillo,” she said as she pressed his hand.
He flinched. He didn’t want her pity. “No, Herminia, it’s yours. You’ve kept it all these years.”
She insisted. “I want you to have it.”
A feeling of great depression descended upon him as he stared into the eyes of the boy in the photo. The child’s pure gaze pierced him from that great distance and faraway time, a dagger of knowledge painfully striking home. He hid his reluctance and accepted the photo, but to avoid further exposure to its force, he slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Keenly aware of Herminia’s gaze, he tried to redirect the conversation. “And Elisa?”
“The child saved Elisa. She was already pregnant, in her first trimester, but that was enough to sustain her. She kept herself clean, and she’s completely recovered. She’s a marvelous girl, and as for the child—what can I tell you of a boy I love like my own grandchild? He’s wonderfully bright. Only three years old and he can read already. Elisa taught him. Sometimes he says things that make him sound like a little grown-up. Of course, he’s with adults all day long here on the estate.”
Manuel reacted with a grimace of disapproval that just seemed to encourage Herminia all the more. “I don’t say that’s necessarily a bad thing. This is a fine place to educate a child. But he hasn’t gone to kindergarten, and Elisa won’t hear of him leaving the estate. I suspect she’s never even taken him to a playground. Children need to be with other children if they’re not to turn out strange.”
Manuel gave her a surprised look, but she didn’t meet his gaze.
“But she’s always in the cemetery, you said.”
“Every day, morning and evening. In summer she stays until sunset. She plays with the child on the lawn in front of the church. But it gives one a strange feeling to see her, always alone, playing with her toddler son in the graveyard.”
“How does the family treat her?”
They heard Sarita come in and both turned around. The girl held an armful of rags and cleaning products. Herminia’s voice assumed a different tone. “Sarita, please go up and clean the windows in don Santiago’s study.”
“You said to clean the refrigerator,” the young woman countered.
“You can do that later.”
“But if I don’t, I’ll never get done today!”
“Then you’ll just have to do it tomorrow,” Herminia said tartly. “Go do the study now.”
The girl went to the back stairway door, opened it, and passed through, and then leaned back against the door to push it shut.
Herminia remained silent for a couple of moments, her eyes fixed on the door. “She’s a good girl, but she hasn’t been here long enough. Just like Gri?án. By the way, neither Sarita nor I were fooled by the excuse he made up to get you to leave.”