on my arm.
“Thank you, Beatriz,” Federico said. “But Carla and I are not quite ready yet. Don’t worry about Becquer. 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 Becquer 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, Becquer’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 Becquer 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, Becquer had a new lover.
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 Becquer 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.”
“Becquer — I was thinking of Becquer. 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 Becquer? 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 Becquer 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 Becquer 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. Becquer is not gay. In all the years I have known him, I was his only male lover. And, please believe me, Becquer would never force anyone.”
