At the disturbing image my mind had conjured, my hands froze and the picture slid through my fingers and hit the wooden floor. This time the glass shattered.
The sound broke my reverie. I shook my head. What was wrong with me? The boy could not be Ryan, just someone who resembled him. I kneeled and lifted the picture. Over a dozen straight lines diverged from a central breaking point making recognition impossible. Holding the frame in my shaking hands, I removed the bigger piece of broken glass to uncover the boy’s face.
It was Ryan. No doubt about it. Ryan smiling as he had not done at me in a long time.
I swore in anger and disgust. Anger at Bécquer for stealing my son, disgust because he had charmed him with his powers, for I knew Ryan was not gay. I had seen him fall in love when he was barely two at the sight of a beautiful girl dressed all in black. I had seen his head turn 180 degrees to follow a pretty neighbor in a too-short skirt a couple of years ago. No, Ryan was not gay.
“Carla,” Federico’s voice called from the door.
I stood. Holding Ryan’s picture in front of me, like a priest would hold a cross to exorcise a demon. I advanced toward him. “Since when?” I demanded, my voice raw with hate.
Federico’s look of concern quickly changed to alarm as his eyes fell on my hands. “Stop,” he ordered. His voice, low but firm, entered my mind, overpowering my will. I stopped.
“Please, Carla, put it down. Whatever it is that has upset you, we can talk about it in a civilized way.”
The pressure in my mind had dwindled to almost bearable limits, as his tone changed from commanding to pleading. I didn’t move.
“Put. It. Down.”
Again his voice resonated in my head with an intensity that erased any resistance. Powerless I saw my hands moving, as if they didn’t belong to me.
“On the floor.”
I set the picture down.
“The glass.” Federico’s words burned bright red inside my head.
Confused, I hesitated for a moment. Then I noticed the piece of glass I still held in my right hand and bent again.
With a speed that was not human — as if I needed a reminder of that unsettling fact — Federico was at my side and, lifting me by the waist, pushed me against the wall.
“Why did you try to kill me?”
I felt the pressure of his mind on mine. A pressure that turned to pain so that it made thinking impossible. Or lying.
I shook my head. “I didn’t.” Even in my ears my voice sounded weak. “I did not try to kill you. How could I?”
“Don’t lie to me. Remember I can read your feelings. And there was murder in your mind.”
“Bécquer — I was thinking of Bécquer. Not you.”
His eyes, glowing red, stayed on mine but, as the pressure in my mind eased and disappeared, Federico set me on the floor and took a step back. “Why? Why do you hate Bécquer? What caused the sudden change?”
Too shaken to explain, I pointed at the frame lying on the floor.
Again Federico moved almost too fast for me to see. When he came back the picture was in his hands. “Do you know this boy?”
“He’s my son.”
Federico gasped. In the silence that followed I could almost hear his mind working along the lines mine had followed.
“You think Bécquer fancies your son,” he said at last, voicing my assumption. “You think they’re lovers. That is why you’re angry at him.”
I nodded. “What other explanation is there?”
“Does your son like men?” Unlike mine, Federico’s voice was even.
“No. That is why this is so very wrong. Apart from the fact that Ryan is only eighteen and Bécquer is what — two hundred years old? He has forced him. He has charmed him to do his bidding.”
Federico shook his head. “I understand your concern, Carla. But I think you’re mistaken. Bécquer is not gay. In all the years I have known him, I was his only male lover. And, please believe me, Bécquer would never force anyone.”
“That is a lie. You told me so yourself. You told me that he charms his lovers.”
“But the attraction must be there. And if your son is not gay — ”
“Don’t play with me. I know you can control humans. You did it with me right now. You are monsters.”
Federico moved back as if I had slapped him. Taking advantage of his hesitation, I ran to the door. But when I reached it, Federico was already there, blocking my exit.
“Carla, please. Wait. There is something you need to see.”
His tone was not threatening. It needn’t be. “Do I have a choice?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Gently but firmly, Federico steered me to the desk set against the far wall. He moved back the chair and, once I was sitting, produced a key — from where, I didn’t see — and opened the top drawer.
Careful, almost reverentially, he removed a leather-bound book and set it on the table.
“Open it.”
As I did what he ordered, I realized it was not a book, but an album, its thick pages yellowed with age separated by onion sheets. Each page held a photograph of a different boy. As I turned the pages, the pictures, yellowed with age and vignetted around the edges at first, became color prints, and the serious expressions in the boys’ faces gave way to playful smiles.
“No,” Federico said, reading my mind. “They are not his lovers, but the children he has sponsored over the years.”
I looked up.
“How much do you know about Bécquer’s life? His human life?”
“I know he died in his thirties. But, of course, he didn’t. So I guess I know nothing. Only that he wrote short stories and poems published under the title Rimas y Leyendas.”
“Which, by the way, were not widely known when he was human. All his life, his human life, Bécquer struggled and failed to be recognized as a writer, but that is another story. What matters here is that Bécquer had three children, three boys. They were young when he died, the oldest barely eight.”
“The boys in the frame,” I whispered.
Federico frowned as if not following my train of thought. Then nodded. “Yes. That painting is the only thing he has of them. That and his memories.
“Bécquer loved his children more than anything. ‘Take care of my children,’ he asked his friends shortly before his staged death. And they did. They published his work the following year, and Bécquer ensured it sold well to procure enough money for his children and his wife. Still, he missed them.”
“Couldn’t he see them afterward?”
“No. It’s forbidden. The Elders, the Immortals Council, if you wish, doesn’t allow it.
“That’s why to alleviate his longing, he took care of various children over the years. Orphans as Bécquer himself had been since the age of eleven, children with artistic talents, or just children he met who needed help. He gave them a chance at life, but never interfered afterward. There was nothing dark in their relationship, nothing he should be ashamed of. My guess is that Ryan is his latest interest.”
“Ryan is not an orphan, and he’s eighteen.”
“Is he gifted?”
I shrugged. “He’s good at music.”
Federico lifted the album. “If he’s one of them, he must be here.” He passed the pages forward, then stopped. I felt his intake of breath, as he slammed it close.
“What is it Federico?”
“Nothing.”
“Let me see.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then handed it to me. “Please don’t jump to conclusions. It’s just a picture.”
I didn’t notice anything unusual at first. Yes, Bécquer was standing close to Ryan, their hands touching. But it made sense in the context as he was directing Ryan’s fingers on the strings of the guitar my son was holding.