“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 Becquer’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
“Which, by the way, were not widely known when he was human. All his life, his human life, Becquer struggled and failed to be recognized as a writer, but that is another story. What matters here is that Becquer 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.
“Becquer 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 Becquer 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 Becquer 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, Becquer 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.
It was a candid picture, obviously amateurish as the top of Becquer’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: Becquer was not in them. Becquer 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 Becquer’s relationship with Ryan. Still, I don’t believe Becquer has forced him. Please, let me talk with Becquer. 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 Becquer 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 Becquer’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. Becquer’s voice and Federico’s. Then Becquer’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
