I wasn’t sure what my father knew or suspected, so I decided to tread carefully.
‘He told me he was imprisoned in Montjuïc Castle and that he managed to escape with the help of a man called David Martín. Apparently you knew him.’
My father was silent for a while.
‘Nobody has dared to say this to my face, but I know there are people who at the time believed, and still believe, that you mother was in love with Martín,’ he said with such a sad smile that I knew he considered himself one of them.
My father had a tendency to grin the way some people do when they’re trying to hold back their tears.
‘Your mother was a good woman. A good wife. I wouldn’t like you to think strange things about her because of what Fermín may have told you. He didn’t know her. I did.’
‘Fermín didn’t insinuate anything,’ I lied. ‘Just that Mum and Martín were bound by a strong friendship and that she tried to help him get out of the prison by hiring that lawyer, Brians.’
‘I suppose he will also have spoken to you about that man, Valls …’
I hesitated for a second before nodding. My father saw the consternation in my eyes and shook his head.
‘Your mother died of cholera, Daniel. Brians – I’ll never know why – insists on accusing that man, just a bureaucrat with delusions of grandeur, of a crime for which he has no evidence or proof.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘You must get that idea out of your head. I want you to promise you’re not even going to think about this.’
I sat there with my mouth shut, wondering whether my father was really as naïve as he appeared to be or whether the pain of her loss had blinded him and pushed him towards the convenient cowardice of survivors. I recalled Fermín’s words and told myself that neither I nor anyone else had any right to judge him.
‘Promise you won’t do anything stupid, and you won’t look for this man,’ he insisted.
I nodded without conviction. He grabbed my arm.
‘Swear you won’t. For the sake of your mother’s memory.’
I felt a pain gripping my face and realised I was gnashing my teeth so strongly they were in danger of cracking. I looked away but my father wouldn’t let go of me. I stared into his eyes, and until the last second, thought I might be able to lie to him.
‘I swear on my mother’s memory that I won’t do anything while you live.’
‘That is not what I asked you.’
‘It’s all I can give you.’
My father dropped his head between his hands and took a deep breath.
‘The night your mother died, upstairs, in the flat …’
‘I remember it clearly.’
‘You were five.’
‘I was four.’
‘That night Isabella asked me never to tell you what had happened. She thought it was better that way.’
It was the first time I’d heard him refer to my mother by
her name.
‘I know, Dad.’
He looked into my eyes.