Lilia's Secret (28 page)

Dolores shook her head and turned back to Andrés. ‘One night La Doña was lying in bed and I was brushing her hair. She was rubbing her hands as if to get rid of spots I couldn't see. She always did this, but it was more agitated than usual. I asked her, was anything wrong. “No,” she said, “nothing.” But she didn't stop with her hands. So I asked her whether she was frightened of dying. And again she said no. Then she said, “I am more frightened of living.” It was terrible hearing those words.

‘“I've lived too long,” she said. “I've seen terrible things and I've done some of them. But the worst …” and she stopped. Her hands were darting about. I put mine over them to stop them. She looked at them then and said, “Thank you. Thank you Dolores for standing by me. Nobody else has.”

‘“No, that's not right,” I told her. “You haven't let anybody else.”

‘“True” she said. She was honest like that.

‘“The worst thing, the very worst,” La Doña said that night, “was my daughter.” I thought she meant El Tigre's first wife, Amalia. I knew how much she'd loved that girl. It had made El Tigre fierce with jealousy. I thought she treated me so badly because I was not Amalia.

‘But she'd given birth to a daughter before El Tigre.'

Bill and I exchanged glances. I thought of Padre Miguel and Magdalena and wished they were with us. ‘What happened to her?' I asked.

‘Doña de Las Flores had her daughter when she was just seventeen,' she went on. ‘She was still a
soldada
and living up in the hills. But the war was almost ended, so she and her Spanish husband came down out of the mountains to live with her mother. Her father and the rest of the family had been killed in
the war, and her mother was blind and needed looking after. There was not much money, but they put vegetables into the garden again and talked of their plans, and they had their second baby.

‘One day her daughter got a fever. It was high and Doña de Las Flores was beside herself. She was mopping her daughter's little body, and feeding the baby and looking after her mother.

‘Towards night her husband went out to buy tobacco, and he never came back. All that night she worried about him, as she sat beside her daughter, patting and caressing her.

‘La Doña was certain that her husband must have been arrested by the government. There were still a lot of disappearances. The next morning she managed to get a message to her comrades, but nobody could help her. And in the afternoon there was still no sign of him. La Doña was frantic with worry. She saw her daughter was improving, so she took her shawl and set off running to the police station. She knew that if she didn't find her husband within twenty-four hours he would turn up in a ditch somewhere.

‘You see, she would have died for him, and they'd saved each other's lives so many times when they'd fought together in the war.'

‘Bloody Spaniard,' Ramiro said under his breath.

‘She looked everywhere, spoke to everyone. Nothing! Finally she went to the army barracks. No woman ever went near there unless they were paid for it, and even then many of the prostitutes would refuse to go. But Lilia de Las Flores was a very brave woman. You can imagine what happened there, but for nothing. No news of her husband.

‘When she got home her mother was in the rocking chair
holding La Doña's daughter in her arms, stroking her forehead. La Doña was suddenly seized with panic and ran to check the baby. Her little girl's body was cold as wax.'

There was a pulse in the room that didn't belong to any of us.

‘She buried her in her garden,' Dolores continued. ‘She wanted to keep her close.'

I put my hands over my eyes. The feet I'd seen were her daughter's.

‘What was her baby girl's name?' I whispered.

‘Lilia.'

Ramiro cried out. ‘Lilia?' he asked. ‘She called her child after herself?'

Bill, Andrés and I all looked at Ramiro. He turned to Andrés. ‘
Dios mío
, the day I saw her crying inside her quilt … I thought she was crying for herself. But … it was for her dead baby.' He put his face in his hands.

‘You must have known this,' I said to Ramiro, ‘if you were so close to her?'

‘Not during the Spanish years,' he said into his hands. ‘It was too heart-rending for me. The colours around her were blinding and had nothing to do with me – they shut me out.'

He lifted his head to face us. ‘It means her greatest grief was not the Spaniard. It was her daughter. And that makes all the difference in the world.'

‘None of it was your business,' Dolores spat out at him. ‘None of it. You should have kept away from her.'

She turned back to us. ‘The worst of it is that her husband hadn't been picked up by the military. He'd just gone out for
tobacco and kept going. Sick of the settled life. Six months later people reported that they'd seen him in Cuba and later in Spain. He'd simply abandoned her.'

I couldn't say that I saw colours in that moment, but I felt grief as if it was a living thing. It was heavy and dense and I breathed shallowly.

‘That's what she told me on those nights,' Dolores went on. ‘I soothed her to sleep like a baby. All the servants would harass me when I went downstairs, looking for an explanation of the wailing they'd heard. But I would take my food back upstairs to be close by her. I knew her time was nearly gone. And she was glad of that.'

Dolores crumpled back in her chair and closed her eyes. ‘And that is why I clean her house and tend her garden, even twenty years later.' She paused. ‘Somebody has to try to make it up to her.'

So Lilia tried to keep her daughter alive by reliving the pain of her death under that quilt every night. What a pact with the devil. You can have your child but only in the moment of losing her, over and over and over.

It's what I had wanted with my father. Grief keeps the dead alive.

I made a little pocket of clean air with my hands, trying to block out the smell of the detergent used on the glass of the telephone booth. I was waiting to be connected to my mother.

When the call came into the booth, I jumped and grabbed the receiver. ‘Mum?' I said tentatively. But it was still ringing at the other end. I waited for the answering service to click on.

‘Hello.' Her voice had more cracks in it than I remembered; the kind of voice that's thinned over the years like broth.

‘Mum?' I said again.

‘Darling,' she replied. ‘What time is it?'

I laughed. ‘Five o'clock here. You've been trying to get hold of me, Mum?'

‘You didn't tell me you were leaving the country!'

‘No,' I agreed.

There was a short silence.

‘I do have something to say to you but I don't want to do it over the phone,' she said in a weary voice. ‘When are you coming back?'

‘Andrés is here now, so I don't know when we're coming back.'

‘What about your job?'

‘It's OK – they know where I am.'

Another silence.

‘You won't take my advice anyway,' she said.

‘No.'

I heard her sigh.

‘I'm getting married again.'

‘What?'

‘I'm getting married to Robert.'

‘Robert who?'

‘Robert.'

I knew who she meant. ‘I didn't know he was still alive.'

‘He's creaky in his bones, but they still move.'

‘Have you been in touch with him all along?' I accused.

‘No, dear.'

It was my turn to be silent.

‘He married another woman,' she said.

‘What?' I exploded down the phone. ‘Did he dump you? Is that why you came back after Dad killed himself?'

‘No,' she said quietly.

‘What're you saying?'

‘Darling. Your father wasn't a happy man for a long time. He said it was as if a black wolf was gripping him by the throat.'

‘What the hell are you talking about, Mum?'

‘No need to swear, dear,' she said mildly.

‘Yes, there bloody well is,' I said tightly. ‘If Robert had buggered off with somebody else, why didn't you come home?'

‘How do you think I got there so quickly after your father's death?' she asked. ‘I was on my way.'

‘And Dad knew that?'

‘Uh-huh,' she said.

‘So why did he kill himself?'

‘I've asked myself that question every morning for the past twenty years. There isn't an answer and I've decided to stop asking.'

I took in her reply then decided to change tack. ‘How can you marry that man, after everything?'

‘You don't know him, dear. You always were too quick to judge.'

‘Too quick to judge?' I blasted. ‘He dumped you twice.'

‘Once, really.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘He did break my heart. We were dating when he went away up north with your father and fell in love with Jude. But after she died he got back in contact with me. I went to see him; he wanted to marry me. But I told him I couldn't stay.'

I shook my head in confusion. ‘Why?'

‘Look, dear, I needed to get away from your father because it was too hard, him being so dark all the time. There was no joy in the man. But when I went to Robert I realised I couldn't hurt your father. And Robert felt the same. They were cousins; they'd been best friends.'

‘But you loved Robert?'

‘Never loved anyone else, not for fifty years.'

‘So how could you leave him to go back to Dad?'

‘I had all of you,' she said.

‘Why didn't you marry Robert after Dad died?'

‘Robert didn't want you kids. I couldn't leave you.'

Tears blurred my eyes.

‘You mean you couldn't be with the man you loved because of us.'

‘Don't see it like that, darling. Don't cry, sweetheart,' she soothed. ‘It's all in the past. Long gone, long gone.'

My shoulders heaved. ‘Mum, why didn't you tell me before?'

‘Oh, darling. You're so sensitive. It would have been too much for you when you were younger. And then you moved up to Sydney, and you know, you're always busy.'

There was no note of blame in her voice.

‘Oh, Mum. I'm so sorry.'

‘Shhh, sweetheart. Shhh. It's all in the past.'

‘But how can you go back to a man who didn't love you enough to take your kids?'

‘I was black myself for years after,' she said. ‘But I guess he just knew himself. He already had two children and he wasn't good with them, so how was he going to manage seven more? In the end,' she sniffed, ‘I think he was right. It would have been an unhappy life for all of us. We both knew he was a man who needed a woman, so of course he married again. He loved his first wife, but the next one he married for other reasons.'

‘Are you crying, Mum?'

‘A little, dear.'

‘Why did it take you so long to find him again?'

‘We lost touch. He was a good husband to his second wife. He was with her for thirty years – he nursed her through cancer. She died a few years back. Just before last Christmas we met at his sister's funeral. We didn't say much but he wrote me a letter, and I wrote back, and then we eventually met again, and here we are.'

I breathed deeply to steady myself. ‘Mum, are you happy?'

I heard her inhale. ‘Yes, dear. Very. Thank you for asking.'

‘When is the wedding?'

‘When you can get home. We don't want to wait. We mightn't have much time left.'

‘Oh Mum, we'll come home straightaway. You make the arrangements and we'll be there.'

‘Thank you, dear. I'd like that.'

I stayed in the booth after I'd hung up, until the woman came over to knock on the glass. It felt as if I was creaking as I unfolded. I paid my bill without even making the money exchange back into Australian dollars in my head. I walked back to where I was going to meet Andrés.

My mother had a story. It was mine as well. My husband was not the only one with family stories.

Somebody once told me that the only responses to catastrophe are art, irony or indifference. Now I have another – it's compassion.

I saw Andrés waiting for me in the square. I raced over to him and threw myself into his open arms. He grinned at me. ‘You love me,' he said.

‘I love you.' I confirmed. ‘Let's go back to Marta's and make a Mexican baby.'

He lifted me off my feet and swept me in a circle. I could see people smiling at us as he grabbed my hand and pulled me after him.

‘Maddy,' said Padre Miguel, ‘we've been waiting for you, haven't we, Bill?' He rubbed his hands as he swivelled towards Bill and Magdalena, who was taking off her apron to sit with us. ‘Tell! Tell!'

‘Tell what?' I asked suspiciously.

‘Well … you know … the update,' Padre Miguel replied.

‘I haven't told them anything, I promise,' said Bill when I turned to him accusingly.

The padre laughed. ‘We've seen Ramiro. He looked at us with his goggling eyes. But he didn't make much sense … nothing, really, at all. He just came, he drank coffee and he left.' Padre Miguel made a motion, zipping his lips together.

‘Were you here, Bill?' I said.

He nodded. ‘But I think he was too agitated to notice me.'

Padre Miguel was suddenly grave. He turned to clasp Andrés' hands.

‘I am so sorry for your family and all their pain. What a tortured soul your great-grandmother was.'

‘Thank you,' Andrés said, and sat at the table, drawing me to the chair beside him. ‘What a tragedy! First her husband abandoned her, then her baby died, the saviour of the revolu
tion, then she lost Amalia, the daughter she had always longed for.' He turned to Bill. ‘But that's no excuse, Bill, I know. I am so very sorry about your father.'

Padre Miguel, Bill and Magdalena exchanged glances. ‘It's not certain,' Padre Miguel finally said.

‘What isn't?' Andrés asked.

The padre hesitated. He let go of Andrés and sat back on his chair.

‘What? What?' I prompted.

‘We could be wrong,' the priest finally said.

Magdalena shrugged her shoulders. ‘We're not in a court of law. And he has all of eternity yawning before him.'

Padre Miguel cleared his throat. ‘Ramiro was a little unhinged when he was here.'

‘His suit was crushed. And there was a dark spot on the lapel,' Magdalena said.

Andrés looked confused but I nodded my comprehension.

‘Mother of God,' Magdalena broke in. ‘It's not like he was in the confessional. Tell them.'

‘It's not clear who killed the husbands,' said Padre Miguel.

I gripped the table and half rose. I turned to Bill. ‘So your father …?'

Bill cleared his throat. ‘Ramiro didn't say anything exactly incriminating.'

‘Nothing black and white,' the padre added.

‘He kept saying how wrong he'd had it,' Bill said.

‘He rocked backwards and forwards in the very chair you're sitting in, Andrés,' Magdalena said. ‘He kept asking Padre Miguel for forgiveness. He seemed confused, taking the padre for God himself.' She crossed herself and kissed her thumb and
index finger. ‘Padre Miguel can sometimes mix that up, but nobody else has made the mistake before.'

Padre Miguel allowed himself a little smile but Andrés pressed ahead. ‘Wrong about what?'

The priest waved his hands in the air. ‘Wrong, wrong, we couldn't make out how.'

Bill blew his cheeks out. ‘It had to do with Lilia. He seemed to think that Lilia losing her little girl changed everything.'

‘He seemed to think,' Padre Miguel said slowly, ‘that it may have meant she wasn't in mourning all her life for the Spaniard, as he had thought.'

‘He was suggesting that if he'd known her grief was for her baby he would have done things differently,' Bill added.

I looked at Andrés and shook my head. ‘Are you saying you think it was Ramiro who got rid of her husbands?'

Bill, Magdalena and Padre Miguel all nodded.

‘It seems the most likely conclusion – not the Spaniard, and not the last one, who was quite old when he died. But …' he spread his hands in his characteristic way.

‘How do you feel about that, Bill?' I asked.

He faltered for a moment. ‘I'm no fan of Ramiro, as you know, so when we first figured out what he was getting at I was pretty agitated.'

When Padre Miguel had translated for her, Magdalena raised her eyebrows. ‘Bill, you were furious,' she said, doing a pantomime of arms flaying the air. ‘The padre had to separate Ramiro from you while his second cousin's nephew came to get him.'

Bill looked shamefaced.

‘No, no, no, Bill,' said Padre Miguel. ‘No need to be ashamed. This is normal, this is right. This is your father.'

‘
Gracias
, Padre,' Bill said. ‘I guess I was pretty fired up.' He turned back to Andrés and me. ‘But I was talking it over with Padre Miguel and Magdalena. I feel … I feel a lot of things. I mean – it seems likely Ramiro bribed Lilia's servants to poison my father's friend, George, and my father.'

‘It's not clear that the servants knew what they were doing,' Padre Miguel added quickly.

‘Yes,' said Bill. ‘I'm glad I finally know what happened. I feel almost peaceful about it … now,' he added. ‘And I can't help feeling terrible for Lilia.'

There was a moment of deep silence as we all thought about her.

Andrés was the first to break it. ‘What do we do about Ramiro then?'

Padre Miguel turned to squint at Bill. ‘That's a question for you. It was your father.'

Bill looked at each of us but finally said to Padre Miguel, ‘We should clear her name.'

Andrés nodded thoughtfully, stroking my healed wrist. ‘But there's time …'

Padre Miguel and Magdalena expelled their breath audibly. ‘That's settled then,' said Padre Miguel. ‘He is not firm in his mind, and he has suffered. We'll wait until Ramiro is dead. I don't think we'll be waiting long.'

‘By the way, Bill,' Padre Miguel continued, ‘I found out your father was buried with the paupers because of the law. At that time all gringos were interred in that section of the graveyard, and the ground is not very good there, very unstable, so they can't use heavy concrete. That's why there is just the little cross and their names.' He spread his hands wide. ‘No conspiracy, after all.'

‘Another good thing to know, thanks, Padre,' said Bill. We sipped the coffee Magdalena had made for us, contemplating the facts before us. Bill was the first to speak. ‘I talked to Carole.'

‘Good, good,' said Padre Miguel.

Bill smiled faintly. ‘We'd like to build a clinic specialising in midwifery here in honour of Lilia.'

Andrés leant forward. ‘Thanks, Bill, that's a great idea.' He paused and looked at me. ‘But my family couldn't contribute. Juan is the wealthy one and he'd never do it.'

‘No. My family and I will fund it,' Bill broke in.

‘This is more than kind, Bill,' Padre Miguel intervened. ‘But even in Mexico these things cost millions of dollars.'

Bill smiled. ‘Actually, we have millions of dollars.'

We all stared at Bill. ‘Truly, this is a day for surprises!' Padre Miguel finally clapped his hands. ‘I like my friends even more when they have a lot of money.'

Bill went on. ‘We'd like Dolores to run it. Of course she'll need training and help, but we can organise that.' He turned to Andrés. ‘And we'd like your family to open it. We think it could be ready in a year and of course the project will pay for your costs, and for the rest of your family. I understand you have sisters and cousins? They should all be here.'

Andrés and I were speechless.

Padre Miguel chimed in. ‘This is very important, what you are doing, Bill. I already have a name for it. Let's call it ‘the Clinic of New Flowers.' We nodded at him. ‘I'm going to forbid people calling their baby Marta or Maria once a whole clinic is named after Lilia.' He rubbed his hands. ‘This will be a new era for this town.'