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.” Becquer’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, Becquer. 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, Becquer.”
“Federico!”
I had left the bed upon hearing Federico’s accusations and Becquer’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 Becquer’s back.
Becquer 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, Becquer 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, Becquer 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?”
Becquer shrugged. “It’s the truth. I was human once, you know, and I had children.”
“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.
Becquer 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.
“All right. Here is the truth. You’re a descendant of my wife’s third child. But you are not biologically my descendant for the baby was not mine. My wife and I had parted ways more than a year before his birth. She had left me for she loved somebody else.
“When her son was born, I recognized him as mine, out of shame perhaps, or as I wish to believe, out of concern for the baby who would have been shunned otherwise. So, in a way, I didn’t lie to you before because legally he was my son and later when he came to live with me, I loved him as such.”
The warmth in his voice when he talked betrayed the strength of his feelings. I sighed deeply, relieved to learn he was not my ancestor for his love for this boy — who in that time long ago when he was human had caused him so much shame — had only increased my attraction to him.
“Thank you for telling me.”
He shrugged. “Do you believe me now?”
“So you knew about me and my children all these years. Why did you approach Ryan now?”
“No, I didn’t know about you until recently. When I became immortal, I had to give up seeing my children. I followed them from afar over the years — my children and their children and their children’s children — making sure they were all right.
“Then, for personal reasons, I left Spain in 1936, at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. When I came back, years later, I couldn’t find my descendants anymore. That monstrous war had swallowed them, and erased all trace that I had ever been alive.”
“My grandfather died in Madrid the first year of the war,” I explained to him. “My grandmother moved north after it ended, with their son, my father. That’s why you couldn’t find him.”
“I know. I ran a search on you.” He smiled his disarming smile as I glowered at him. “Don’t get upset. I read your book first then got curious about you, a Spaniard whose last name was Esteban. Could it be we were related?”
“But your last name is — ”
“Dominguez, actually, not Becquer. But Emilio took his mother’s name, Esteban, when he was of age after he learned the truth about his birth, I guess.
“You are his descendant. I had no doubt,” Becquer continued. “And when I learned you had a son, I had to meet him.”
“I have a daughter too.”
A fleeting smile played on his lips. “I don’t do so well with girls.”
I was about to give him some feminist speech about his blatant misogyny when I remembered Madison’s moody behavior of late and let it pass. I wasn’t doing well with girls these days either.
“How did you meet Ryan?” I asked him instead.
“I arranged to give a talk at his college and approached him afterward. When I discovered he played guitar, I told him to call me for I knew Matt’s band was looking for a new member. He called a week later and I invited him to come over to meet Matt.”
“You gave him your card?”
