Twenty years he had told me. He had lived in the States for twenty years. Did that mean he was ready to move? Now that I’d just found an agent, was he about to disappear and leave me agentless once more? He wouldn’t, now, would he? That would just be rude.
Federico laughed.
“Are you reading my mind again?”
“I wouldn’t if you were not shouting.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Anger sounds that way to me, to us immortals. Don’t worry. He’s not planning to leave. Not yet. He’s been an agent for ten years only.”
I sighed in relief. I guess an immortal, manipulative agent was, in my book, better than no agent at all. Which didn’t say much about my ethics. Maybe I shouldn’t be so harsh on Federico for reading my mind. It was not as if he could help it.
“Friends?” Federico asked.
“Friends.”
As I spoke, the car came to a stop. Through the window, I saw the facade of an imposing stone house covered in ghoulish spider webs glistening in the glow of blinking orange lights. Several jack-o’-lanterns flickered on the stairs that led to the porch.
“Oh well, here we are,” Federico said. “Let’s hope I’m wrong because if Bécquer is in love, Beatriz is going to cause him trouble.”
“Beatriz?”
“Forget what I just said, and let’s go inside and enjoy ourselves. Bécquer’s parties are always interesting. I have the impression this one will not disappoint.”
Chapter Five: The Portrait
Matt opened the limousine door for me. Although I didn’t delay, by the time I got out, Federico was already coming around the front of the car, the gravel crackling under his light steps.
“Thank you,” he said to the young man. “Please don’t forget to call the garage and ask them to tow the Mercedes.”
“I have already.”
Federico smiled. “Great. Now you better park this one in the back before your mother sees you.”
Matt glanced toward the house. “I better,” he agreed and, with a nod in my direction and a last longing stare at Federico, he disappeared inside the car.
Federico waved his hand toward the house and motioned me to go first.
Following his suggestion, I crossed the open space and climbed the stairs.
Up close the spider webs looked too perfect to be spooky and the artistic designs in the jack-o’-lanterns flanking the stairs to the porch inspired more awe than fear. An aged iron ring hung on the right side of the massive double doors that would have been perfectly in place at a Castilian noble house.
Just as Federico reached my side, the doors swung open and a woman appeared in the doorway. A woman dressed in a low cut dress with a tight bodice and a long skirt that fell to the floor.
“Here you are at last,” she said as a way of hello.
Her face was in shadow, but her voice, I recognized. It was Beatriz´s. Beatriz, wearing a dress that belonged to the mid-nineteenth century, to the time in which Bécquer had been human. Madison had been right, I realized with regret: this was a costume party.
“What a perfect choice.” Federico’s voice broke through my thoughts. “Bécquer must be delighted that you honor him so.”
I looked up, puzzled by Federico’s words. Tossing back her auburn hair that fell in waves over her shoulders, Beatriz revealed a silk blue scarf.
“La banda azul,” I whispered.
The blue scarf that Beatriz, the protagonist of one of Bécquer’s most beloved short stories, loses in the mountains. The blue scarf she goads her cousin to go find later that evening. He agrees because he loves her but does so against his best judgment for it’s Halloween and, that night, the mountains are said to be haunted by the souls of dead warriors that roam the earth trapped in their skeletal bodies. The following morning, Beatriz finds the scarf torn and bloody in her room and dies of fright guessing right that her cousin never returned from his quest alive.
Beatriz smiled. “So you noticed.”
I saw a glint of victory in her eyes as they moved up and down my embarrassingly plain, black dress. “Please, come in,” she said and moved back. “Bécquer is waiting for you.”
I breathed deeply to ease my discomfort, and was about to follow her when I felt the pull of Federico’s hand on my arm.
“Thank you, Beatriz,” Federico said. “But Carla and I are not quite ready yet. Don’t worry about Bécquer. You are so lovely tonight, I’m sure you can charm him into forgetting everybody else.”
Beatriz stared at Federico, like a tiger about to jump its prey. But Federico stared her down. “Of course,” she said, and closed the door, leaving us standing outside.
Federico smiled when I frowned at him. “I apologize. I should have realized that this being a costume party, you would feel uncomfortable not wearing one. Please, come with me.”
I hesitated. “Don’t you think it is a little too late now to go get a costume?”
“Don’t worry. We don’t have to go anywhere. A mask will do. And I know where to find one.”
I followed Federico around the porch decorated with white ghosts and black witches’ hats until he reached another door set on the left aisle of the L-shaped building.
“Are you sure Bécquer doesn’t want you to be his secretary?” he asked me as we walked.
“I told you I’m a writer. And, I assure you that organization is not one of my assets. No one would hire me as secretary. Why?”
“Because Beatriz thinks so and resents you.”
“Did you sense that in her?”
“No. I cannot sense Beatriz. I know because she conveniently forgot to tell you about the costume.”
“You can’t read her? But she is human.”
We had reached the end of the porch and Federico stopped by a side door. “It depends whom you ask,” he said as he turned the knob. “Matt is not so sure.”
“Matt?”
“Yes, Matt. From what he tells me, she is not the maternal type.” When I looked at him nonplussed, he added, “Beatriz is Matt’s mother.”
He smiled at my surprise and motioned me inside. We left our coats and my purse on the iron rack set against the wall, and then climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Crossing the door at the end of the corridor, we entered a big room furnished with a low table, a love seat with silver leaves on dark blue velvet, and an antique desk set before matching curtains that, I guessed, covered windows.
Federico asked me to wait there and disappeared, through a set of French doors. From where I stood I could see that the next room was even larger and was dominated by a four-poster bed carved from dark wood. Several pillows were arranged on top of the blue eiderdown. Both the bed and the heavy wooden chest with iron reinforcements that sat at its foot were of Castilian style. That and the familiar smell of lemon and cinnamon that permeated the air made me realize this was, most probably, Bécquer’s bedroom.
Startled at the thought that I was intruding on his privacy, I stepped back and bumped hard against the low table behind me. I swore under my breath at the sudden pain in my leg, and then again at the thump of metal hitting on wood.
I turned.
Two picture frames lay face down on the table. I picked one up. It was an oval painting of three children, the eldest one formally dressed in an old-fashioned suit, the two little ones in white gowns. A boy and two girls. Or maybe three boys, I corrected myself, as I remembered young boys used to wear gowns in centuries past. I set the painting back down and took the other frame. It was a photograph, a color picture of a young man I knew well. A picture of my son.
I started, my thoughts reeling in confusion. Why did Bécquer have a picture of my boy? And not just a picture among many, a collage of faces tacked to a cork, the way Madison kept the pictures of her friends. But an 8-by-10. A picture taken with care, framed with love. Love. The word brought to my mind Federico’s conversation in the car, his conviction that despite his denial, Bécquer had a new lover.