Dreaming of Spain Page 4

  The articles ranged from only a few years to decades old, some written in English, some in Spanish. Did Abuela know these people in the stories?

  Drumming her fingers on the table, Charlotte debated whether to mention the album when she returned to the hospital. What to do? What to do?

  Stuffing it in her tote bag to figure out later, Charlotte went back to the task of finding something to bash open the trunk. After scrounging through a couple more drawers she decided a wooden rolling pin might do the trick. Heading back to the spare room, she eyed the stuck latch. After a couple of well-aimed swings, a dull thud reverberated and her arms flew up in victory. “Yes!”

  Charlotte took out the stacks of the blankets her grandmother had crafted over the years. A tinge of sadness overcame her as she realized she’d never sat down with Abuela and learned the art of crochet. Her grandmother had been so enthusiastic about teaching her, but something always got in the way.

  Removing the last blanket, Charlotte stared into the dark trunk. A 1970s orange, yellow and brown floral sheet was wrapped around a flat oblong shape. Was this it?

  Carefully taking the bundle, Charlotte unwrapped the gaudy material to reveal a wooden frame. Turning it around to view the artwork, her heart beat fast and a tinge of envy ran through her.

  Oh, to have the talent to paint like this.

  At the center of the painting was a gitana clad in a deep red dress with her ample cleavage slightly exposed. Tucked behind her ear was a red rose, and thick, dark hair flowed down her back. The woman’s large brown eyes looked up at the stars twinkling in the inky sky as she stretched her arms upwards, her long legs carrying her above the campfire flames. The thick brushstrokes gave the impression of movement, as though the woman could come to life at any moment and continue dancing across the room.

  Placing it on the bed, Charlotte stood back and rubbed her sweaty hands on her jeans. There was no signature so she turned it over but found nothing there as well. Why was the painting unsigned?

  Carefully wrapping it back in the sheet, Charlotte grabbed her tote bag, left the house, and slowly walked the few blocks to the tram. A feeling of inadequacy overcame her. There weren’t any timid dibble dabbles of paint in this artwork. Instead, the canvas bore broad, strong brushstrokes. In the past, Charlotte had tried to fake a similar confidence but had failed dismally. The seascapes she’d loved to paint were pretty, but they lacked intensity. Perhaps if she’d had that kind of self-assurance Charlotte’s only art exhibition wouldn’t have taken a massive nose dive. Abuela had bought a painting--it was just a shame she was the only one.

  She allowed her body to sway in the easy rhythm of the tram as they glided towards St Thomas’s Private. By the time she got to the hospital, the nugget of impatience that had been gnawing at Charlotte had morphed into a large, heavy ball. For a fleeting second Charlotte wondered if her grandmother was the woman depicted on the canvas but the hair coloring was wrong. Who was it then? Did Abuela even know?

  When Charlotte entered the room and closed the door, she’d found her grandmother sitting up in bed, with her hair brushed and a hint of rosiness in her cheeks.

  “You look well rested.”

  “Last night was the first one I’ve slept through in ages.” Abuela slowly hoisted herself against the pillows. She nodded towards the painting wrapped in the floral sheet. “It might have something to do with this.”

  “But you’ve had this for a long time, right? Why would me retrieving it now make any difference to your sleep?” She handed over the artwork and pulled the chair close to her grandmother’s bed.

  “There’s a very good reason.” Abuela’s eyes didn’t meet her granddaughter’s.

  Charlotte waited for the conversation to continue but Abuela sat in silence, her hands resting on the fabric. Behind the door came the dulled sound of rattling trolleys, hurried footsteps and ringing phones.

  “I need you to do me another favor,” Abuela eventually said, fixing her gaze on Charlotte.

  “Okay.” She drew it out.

  Abuela stroked the fabric. “You have a valid passport, yes?”

  “Of course. I’m always traveling for work …” Charlotte narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. “What are you angling at?”

  “I need you to go on a little trip for me.”

  Charlotte waited for Abuela to finish but nothing was forthcoming.

  “To where?”

  “Spain.”

  “What?” She didn’t mean for it to come out as a shriek but after spending her whole life witnessing her grandmother’s refusal to talk about her birth country, this came as a total surprise. “Why?”

  Abuela looked at the ceiling, as if summoning the courage to say what she needed to. “My father gave me this painting when I was a teenager. Have you looked at it?”

  “Yes.” Charlotte shuffled on the chair. “I couldn’t resist. Did he paint it?”

  Abuela shook her head. “No.”

  “Then who did?”

  “I will get to that. What did you think of the style?”

  She bit her lip, thinking how she could put the emotions into words. “There’s so much movement … fire … energy. There’s no doubting this artist had an amazing amount of talent. It’s strange it wasn’t signed, though.”

  “And that’s the point.”

  “What is?”

  “The point is that I don’t know who painted it. When my father gave it to me he said there was a special story that went with it. He said I needed to be older—twenty-one—before he told me. I tried to use my charm but he flat out refused to say anything, which was unusual for him as he didn’t have a stubborn bone in his body.”

  Charlotte kept her voice low. “And he died before you turned twenty-one.”

  “Yes. I don’t think the heart truly recovers when we lose someone we love. A little piece breaks off and is forever lost.” Abuela gave a sigh. “I don’t want to go to my grave not knowing. I realize I’ll never get my father back but I would like to know who this artist is and the only way to find out is to go to the source.”

  “Which is?”

  “Granada.”

  “Where you were born?” A tingle raced across the back of her neck. It had been years since she’d heard the word Granada fall from her grandmother’s lips. An image of the photo album flashed in her mind and Charlotte pulled it out of the tote bag and held it up. “Does your request have something to do with this as well?”

  “Where did you … oh, right. I should have put it away from prying eyes.”

  “I wasn’t prying, it was sitting in plain view on your kitchen table.” Charlotte cocked an eyebrow.

  “I hadn’t planned on breaking my hip and going to hospital.”

  “I know. So, you would have hidden it again, huh? Maybe I was meant to see it. Maybe— “

  “Don’t start with that fate piffle. You saw it because I had an accident and couldn’t put it away.”

  Perhaps Abuela had a point. After all, Charlotte wasn’t sure fate actually existed. “So why put this album together? What’s the significance?”

  Once again Abuela’s eyes turned towards the heavens, then a moment later she focussed on Charlotte. “My connection with Spain is complicated. I’d already been reflecting on my life before the accident, as us oldies do, and even though I’ve tried to avoid it for many years, memories of Spain kept forcing their way into my conscious.”

  “But the articles date back decades ago.”

  Abuela puffed out her cheeks. “With the number of Spanish speakers in Australia, it’s not that hard to find magazines and newspapers written in my native language. Sometimes I’d come across an article that was of interest and I’d keep it.”

  “Yet you never showed them to me. You could have used those to help me understand.”

  “I could have done a lot of things to help you connect with your heritage, I know.”

  “So why did you cut these partic
ular articles out and stick them in an album? There has to be more to it than simply taking a trip down memory lane.”

  Her grandmother concentrated on the brown floral sheet while she tapped the edge of the bed with her fingers. “There is so much you don’t know, my dear girl.”

  “Then tell me, Abuela. I’m here to listen.”

  “When you get to my age, you start reflecting on the things you should or shouldn’t have done. I don’t expect you to understand— “

  “So all this talk about refusing to remember the past was bullshit?”

  “Charlotte!”

  “Sorry. It was BS?”

  Abuela narrowed her eyes but her smile won over. “I won’t deny that I kept those articles because of nostalgia and I’ll also admit that my life in Spain wasn’t always as horrible as I have led people to believe. But it was my past, and one I still don’t want to share.”

  “Not even with me?”

  “Not even with you, sweetheart.”

  “So you don’t trust me?”

  “Darling, I trust you more than any other person who has placed feet on this earth. That’s why I need you to go to Spain and find out who this artist was. Maybe then I can piece together the story behind this painting. For whatever reason, my father felt it important enough to give to his only daughter. This painting has haunted me for years.” The smile lines around Abuela’s eyes deepened. “An intelligent young woman has often said she wanted to learn more about her Spanish heritage. Maybe now is the time.”

  “I really want to help, Abuela, I do, but I’m slammed with work and I’ve got that upcoming trip to see my clients in the bush and— “

  “And you will always be busy with work. It controls you. There is so much more to life than being a slave to the corporate world, you know.”

  “Don’t let Dad hear you say that.”

  “Bah!” She flicked her hands. “Ian would do well to have some downtime also.”

  “You’re not going to suggest he comes with me?” she asked as panic rushed through her chest.

  “Goodness no! I love my son but no one should be forced to spend twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week with him. Not even your mother could do that and she has the patience of a saint.”

  Charlotte smiled inwardly.

  “I’ll have to talk to Dad. We’re also in the middle of massive negotiations with— “

  “You leave it with me. This is a special request to tie up a loose end in my life and he can’t deny his own mother’s wishes while she lies in hospital feeling poorly.” She faked a cough then winked.

  “You are so naughty.”

  “I like to call it mischievous.”

  “You’re that as well.” Charlotte nodded towards the painting. “Without a signature you know, I have my work cut out for me.”

  “A challenge never hurt anyone.”

  “True.” Charlotte entwined her fingers with her grandmother’s. “Are you really sure you want me to go? You’ve been so unwell and if I stayed I could help more. Maybe if I did some googling, made some enquiries via email or called— “

  “No. This needs to be done the old-fashioned way, face-to-face.”

  “My Spanish is crap.”

  “There should be enough people there who speak English and can help.”

  “I’ll need to get Steve to take over my clients and …” Her sentence trailed off when she noticed Abuela’s stern expression. “Fine, I’ll stop making excuses.”

  “If you don’t want to do it …”

  “Oh no! That guilt angle may work on everyone else but it has no effect on me—I know you too well.”

  “So you’ll go, yes?” Abuela’s tone had a pleading edge to it, something Charlotte rarely heard.

  A small ball of hesitation mixed with excitement grew in her belly. For years, she’d studied and dreamed about going to Spain but had put it off for Abuela’s sake. Now, Charlotte had her chance, she should be jumping out of her skin with enthusiasm. But travel and new places caused anxiety. It had taken Charlotte numerous visits to England and the United States before she felt comfortable there, and even then, only in the cities she frequented for insurance conferences or meetings. Then there was the whole issue of leaving her grandmother behind when she was so sick …

  When she looked into Abuela’s large blue eyes, compassion overtook Charlotte. “It’s that important to you?”

  “Of course it is. I’ve held on to this painting for nearly eight decades—it’s traveled to England, to the outback and here to Melbourne. It’s the only legacy from my father and it means the world to me.” She unwrapped the fabric and studied the painting as though she was seeing it for the first time. Abuela’s eyes glossed over and a sense of peace settled around her. Quietly, she said, “I may have been afraid to revisit my past but the last few days have made me realize how fragile life is.” When she looked at Charlotte, Abuela’s eyes held immense sadness. “I know that sounds strange coming from someone in their nineties but most of us tend to go through life with the ridiculous notion that we’re invincible, that we won’t ever die. Then we lose someone we love and we might spend some time contemplating the fragility of life and making promises to live it to the fullest but we quickly get stuck into our routines again. We forget the promises we’ve made to ourselves to appreciate each day, follow our dreams, and never take anything for granted. It’s human nature.” Abuela rested her hand on Charlotte’s. “And now I’ve finally realized that the only thing I want more in this life is to uncover the story behind this painting.”

  “So you would go if you could?”

  Her nod was slow and deliberate. “Now I’ve found the courage, I’m too old and ill to travel, so it’s up to you, sweet lass.”

  “You realize this is an absolute shot in the dark, right? The artist is long gone and without a signature— “

  “I know, but if anyone can do it, you can. Put that analytical mind and those research skills of yours to good use and see what you can come up with.”

  “You’re not taking no for an answer, are you?”

  “Do you want to say no?” Panic flickered in Abuela’s eyes.

  “How can I?” Charlotte smiled. “You could sell underwear to a nudist.”

  Abuela laughed. “Or steak to a vegetarian.”

  “That too.”

  Abuela looked at the painting again. “It truly is a beautiful piece of work.”

  “It is.”

  Her grandmother continued staring at the artwork, a slight frown on her forehead.

  “What is it?” Charlotte asked.

  “When was the last time you picked up a brush?”

  “Oh no, we’re not going there.”

  “But you’re so talented! Your father was wrong to— “

  “I will go to Spain for you but I will not get into this conversation once more.” Charlotte tilted her head to the side. “Is this part of the reason you want me to research the artwork—because you think it will inspire me to paint again?”

  “Well, it did cross my mind.”

  “It won’t happen. I’m done with painting.”

  Abuela lifted her shoulders then let them fall, feigning nonchalance. “If that’s what you tell me.”

  “It’s true!”

  Holding up her hands, Abuela said, “She protests a little too much.”

  Charlotte shoved her hands on her hips then realized it only made her grandmother’s statement true. “Like you, I have a past that I don’t like to visit.”

  A dainty laugh fell from her grandmother’s lips. “You are too young to have a past that haunts you.”

  “What about Drew?”

  She lifted her shoulders then let them fall. “You can’t fight nature. I know he broke your heart and I’m very unhappy with him for that but he is a good soul. He just messed up.”

  “You’ve always had a soft spot for him.” Charlotte grumbled. “I would have thought you’d be o
n my side.”

  “Oh darling girl, I am always on your side! The way he went about things was horrendous but he’s human. Just like me. Just like you.” She let out a sigh. “Would it make you angry if I say I miss him coming around with you for Sunday roasts?”

  “I miss him not being there too. I also miss those crazy desserts he’d bring.”

  Abuela laughed. “Remember when he made that green and red jelly concoction with the berries?”

  “That was disgusting!”

  Abuela’s expression turned serious. “Sweetheart, the first heartbreak is the hardest. But you’re young. You’re attractive and smart. Someday you’ll look back on that time with Drew and not feel so angry or hurt. Maybe some sun in Spain and talking to handsome men— “

  “Abuela! Seriously!”

  “Why not? I don’t expect you to work on this twenty-four hours a day. Go. Meet interesting people. Have fun.’ Abuela wrapped the painting back up and handed it to Charlotte. “It’s probably worthless but for me, it’s the most priceless thing on earth. Guard it well, Charlotte, and know that your great-grandfather’s hands once held this with pride and it was given to me with all his love. There’s history in this artwork, and it’s up to you to find out who painted this so I can finally put this mystery to rest.”

  Charlotte stood and kissed Abuela on the cheek. “I’ll pop back later.”

  “Good, then you can show me your flight tickets. The sooner you leave the better.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” Charlotte said, laughing.

  “Yes, you’re nothing but a pest. Now go!” Abuela pointed at the door, her lips twitching as she tried to keep a straight face.

  “You are so mean.” Charlotte fake cried as she left the room and walked straight into a tall and skinny wall. She looked up and found Steve frowning.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Charlotte let out a small laugh. “I’m just messing around with Abuela.”

  “So she’s feeling better?”

  “Yup.” Charlotte leaned in close. “I’m still worried, though.”