It was a candid picture, obviously amateurish as the top of Bécquer’s head was cut off and neither of them was looking at the camera. Yet it was terribly effective at conveying the easy rapport that existed between them.
“They are close,” I said.
“It doesn’t mean they are lovers,” Federico said. But there was doubt in his voice.
It was only as I turned back the pages to compare the picture of my son with the others, that I noticed the difference: Bécquer was not in them. Bécquer was not in any of them, because his picture would have given away the fact that he didn’t age. But then, why had he kept this picture of him and Ryan?
I looked up and met Federico’s eyes.
“You are right, Carla, something is different in Bécquer’s relationship with Ryan. Still, I don’t believe Bécquer has forced him. Please, let me talk with Bécquer. Let me ask him what Ryan is to him. I promise I’ll report to you what he tells me.”
“No.”
I stood to go, but Federico grabbed my arm. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Carla. But you must understand, I won’t let you hurt Bécquer either.”
“As if I could.”
“Don’t pretend with me.”
“Pretend?”
Federico stared at me for a long time and I knew he was reading my feelings and resented him for it, but could do nothing to stop him. Finally, he shook his head. “Either you’re good at hiding it or you really don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“About the glass.”
“Know what about the glass?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“I see. You don’t trust me, but I must trust you. I don’t think so.”
Federico sighed. “You’re right. If you are to trust me, I must trust you too. But before I do, promise you won’t ever repeat what I’m about to say.”
“We call ourselves immortals, but that is a misnomer,” Federico told me when I promised. “We can die.”
“How?”
“You really don’t expect me to answer that, do you? Let’s say we heal fast. Any wound we receive disappears almost instantly once the object that caused it is removed. But a cut from glass doesn’t close as fast, and the loss of blood leaves us vulnerable.”
“You heal fast. How fast are we talking?”
“Let me show you.”
From somewhere about his person, he produced a pocketknife. Holding the blade in his right hand, he ran it over his left palm. Briefly, the line he traced filled with blood then closed again, or so it seemed to me for, as I looked, my vision blurred. As my knees gave way, I fell into darkness.
Chapter Six: The Kiss
When I came back to my senses, I was lying on the four-poster bed I had seen through the French doors that opened into Bécquer’s room. I tried to sit, but the walls started spinning, so I gave in and laid back once more against the pillows. Through the cotton cloud that filled my mind, I heard angry voices coming from the anteroom. Bécquer’s voice and Federico’s. Then Bécquer’s again, louder this time.
“Why did you bring her here?”
So much for my hope that he never learned I had been in his room. I didn’t have to strain my ears to hear Federico’s answer for he was also shouting.
“Because you forgot to tell her this was a costume party, and your dear Beatriz didn’t waste time to point it out to her. I came to find her a mask.”
“What does it matter whether she is wearing a stupid costume or not?”
“It matters to her.”
“I see. What would I do without you, Federico? I guess being straight has its disadvantages. I miss those subtleties in women you see so well.”
“So you’re straight? Still?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I’m straight.”
“Then why did you frame the picture of her son?”
“Ryan.” Bécquer’s voice was softer now, almost inaudible. “His name is Ryan.”
“You love him,” Federico shouted. “You love this boy. Don’t deny it. I know you too well. Your voice changed when you said his name.”
“Yes, I love him. But it is not what you think.”
“Stop lying to me, Bécquer. I’m tired of it. You know I’d give my life for you a thousand times. The only thing I ask is that you tell me the truth. And you haven’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I asked you this morning if you had a new lover, and you said you didn’t. But it was a lie.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you were ashamed of confessing that you had taken a boy and forced him against his nature. Or maybe not ashamed, maybe he has resisted you. Has he? Is that why you signed Carla, to have an excuse to be close to her son?”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“I think not. I feared that Beatriz was going to get you in trouble with the Elders. Now I hope she will. The only thing I regret is that I won’t be here when it happens because I’m leaving. Now.”
“Calm down, Federico. You’re overreacting as usual.”
“Goodbye, Bécquer.”
“Federico!”
I had left the bed upon hearing Federico’s accusations and Bécquer’s weak denials and, as the door slammed close behind Federico, I slid the French doors open and entered the anteroom.
“Is that true?” I asked to Bécquer’s back.
Bécquer turned.
Despite the fury that burned inside me, my breath caught in my chest, for he was a vision of beauty in his three-piece black suit, the jacket open to reveal a white shirt, a red vest, a white rosebud caught in its lapel. His black hair, slightly longer than fashionable, came almost to his shoulders, framing his handsome face that, even now flustered in anger, had the beauty of a Michelangelo statue come to life.
In a swift movement, Bécquer was by my side. “How much have you heard?” he asked, a trace of irritation in his voice.
“Answer me. Is that why you chose me? To be close to my son?”
His eyes glowed red. “No. I chose you because you have the gift. The gift of turning words into stories. The gift and nothing else in a world that is blind to beauty and deaf to song. And thus, you, like me when I was alive, like all of us with an artist’s soul, struggle to survive, but not quite make it, for we have no mind for business. That is why I chose you. I thought you needed me. I thought I could be of help to you.”
“I may need you, but my son is not the price.”
“I agree. He’s not. I never meant him to be.”
“Then why do you have his picture?”
“Because … ” For the first time ever, Bécquer struggled for words. “Would you please take a seat, Carla, I — ”
“No. Tell me.”
He hesitated for a moment longer. “All right.” He took a deep breath. “I have his picture because Ryan is my descendant.”
“Your what?”
“My descendant. His great grandfather, your grandfather, Carla, was my grandson.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Bécquer shrugged. “It’s the truth. I was human once, you know, and I had children.”
You’re my ancestor was all I could think. This man to whom I was, undeniably attracted, was my ancestor. I started shaking.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit?”
I shook my head. But when he grabbed my arm and guided me to the sofa, I didn’t resist.
Bécquer didn’t sit, but walked to the curtains that covered the wall and, after drawing them aside, stood by the window, his eyes lost in the distance as if reading a story in the darkness outside. Finally he turned and, pulling out a chair that stood by the desk, dragged it over and sat heavily, facing me.