Dear Carla,
I’m writing this letter as I wait for you to come. When you read it, I’ll be dead.
Cesar, one of the Elders, came last Monday. His orders were to kill me, but I pleaded with him to let me live for a week longer so that I could finish my contract with you. He agreed after I promised I would take my own life afterward. As a precaution, he made me mortal and severed my spine so I would not escape.
Once I’m gone, the Elders will destroy any shred of evidence that would reveal their or my own existence as an immortal. I abided by their desires when I was first changed. I told my friends to burn my old journals and the letters to my brother where I mentioned my secret life, and I would have done the same today, except that, if I do, you would forget me. I’m fool enough to believe you care for me just a little, just enough to want to know who I really was.
Please believe me when I say I didn’t kill myself out of despair, nor because I am a coward and don’t want to face life in my present condition. I did it only because I promised Cesar I would do so.
My mortality has returned to me the gift of writing. Reason enough to make me want to live this mortal life. The other reason, I suppose you’ve already guessed, it’s you.
Alas, the choice has been taken from me, and so I will die tonight. But in my last act of defiance, I’m sending you this diary. Read it or burn it, as you please. But know, in either case, that my main regret as I prepare to die is that I did not have more time to be with you.
Goodbye Carla. I hope that, despite my many faults, you will remember me. And if you, I dare not hope, were to love me in return, know I will remain with you forever, made immortal by your love.
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
“Does he mention Cesar?”
Rachel’s voice startled me, bringing me back to the hospital room.
I nodded. “Yes, Cesar caused his ‘accident’ last Monday.”
“Then we have to tell the police. He must pay for what he did.”
“No. I don’t think we should interfere. The decision must be Bécquer’s.”
Rachel hesitated.
“Please wait, at least until we talk to him. There is no last name in the letter. No way to trace this Cesar, or prove he’s real. It’s our word against Bécquer’s.”
“And the notebook?” she said pointing at Bécquer’s diary sitting on my lap. “Maybe he tells more about Cesar there.”
I knew the diary would not help us locate Cesar either because Cesar was an immortal, thus beyond human reach. Yet, curious to know what Bécquer had written, I opened it to the first page.
I was eleven when I met Lucrezia on the patio of my aunt’s house. The year was 1847 and Sevilla was in spring, but not my heart, for my heart was still frozen in the winter morning, two months past, that had seen my mother die.
“She’s in heaven,” the priest had said, “because God had need of her.”
I nodded at him in fake assent, for the fear of the Church had been ingrained in me from the time I was a little boy and I knew better than to argue with my betters. But whatever need God had of Mother, I thought it was selfish of Him to take her from me and my seven brothers; God had the whole world to choose from and He had already taken Father from us.
Overwhelmed by my loss and unable to sleep, I took to wandering the silent house in the dark of night. My aunt’s house, like most houses in Sevilla at the time, was built around a patio, its walls washed white, an orange tree on a corner and in the middle a running fountain to help fight the unbearable heat that came with summer. And it was sitting on the low ridge of the stone basin I saw Lucrezia for the first time.
Bécquer’s words jumped at me from the page, kidnapping me against my will. I’d have continued reading, oblivious to Rachel and my foreign surroundings, if her voice had not interrupted me.
“Does he say who this Cesar is?”
I put the notebook down and, feeling strangely conscious as if I had been found peering through the window into somebody’s home, I shook my head. “No, he doesn’t. I don’t think we’ll find any clue about Cesar here.”
“Why?”
“It’s just a story. I think Bécquer meant for me to have it only after his death. I’m not sure I should read it while he’s still alive.”
“And is he? Is Bécquer alive?”
I looked up, startled by the familiar and unexpected voice.
From his six feet of height, Ryan looked down at me.
Chapter Eighteen: In the Hospital
“Ryan?” I half stood then sat back again, worn down by my son’s scowl. “What are you doing here?”
“Never mind that,” Ryan said, his voice cold. “Tell me about Bécquer.”
“The doctors are with him now. But how did you — ?”
“Madison told me you were at Bécquer’s. I thought it would be a good time to confront you two together and try to change your mind about my not seeing him, so I went there. David told me what happened.
“I’m going to see him,” he added lowering his lanky frame in the chair across from us. “Don’t try to stop me.”
“I won’t, Ryan. I think it would be good for him to see that you care.”
Ryan scowled as if ready to argue then frowned. “You mean you’re all right with that?”
“Yes, Ryan.” Turning toward the girl sitting by my side, I added, “And this is Rachel, by the way.”
Ryan looked at Rachel, as if he had just realized she was there, which knowing him, he probably had. Bending forward, he extended his hand to her. “I’m Ryan,” he said, reverting to his usual charming self. But when he turned to me, his voice was cold again. “It’s your fault. You know that, right?”
“Ryan, please. I wasn’t even there.”
“It’s your fault because you didn’t let me see him. If I had, I would have noticed Bécquer was depressed. I would have helped him.”
“It’s not so simple. Bécquer — ”
“ — can’t walk. I know. David told me. But you didn’t. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Don’t blame your mother,” Rachel said before I could answer. “I was with him every day this past week, and he never seemed depressed to me. So, actually, if someone is to blame it would be me.”
“Of course not,” Ryan told her. “How could you have known?”
By the eagerness of his voice, I knew the irony of his statement was lost on him.
“Thanks.” Rachel frowned, as her eyes focused on his face. “I know you, I think. Aren’t you the second guitar from Shut Up and Listen?”
“I am.” Ryan smiled, obviously pleased at being recognized. “Or was, I guess. I’m not sure if the band will hold together now that Matt’s gone.”
“Why not? You could take his place as leader.”
Ryan beamed at the girl.
His anger at me momentarily forgotten, he plunged into a technical discussion of his possible suitability for the job while Rachel smiled at him. Relieved at the respite this turn of the conversation provided, I slid Bécquer’s notebook and letter in my handbag and grabbed my phone.
I had called Federico from Bécquer’s house and, when I got no answer, left a message on his voice mail. He had not called me back. Or maybe he had, I thought as I realized my phone was dead. I threw it back in my purse and asked Ryan to lend me his.
“Why?” Ryan snapped.
Because I’m asking, I wanted to say, but that would have gotten us nowhere. “Because Federico and Matt are driving back tonight to be with Bécquer,” I said instead, “and they don’t know he’s here.”