Isabella

Even the strokes in each letter and the way Brians had avoided adding the surname spoke of a strong feeling. It was not only guilt that was eating away at the defender of lost causes, but also desire. She left the photograph on the table and flicked through the notebook. All the pages were written in a clean, distinct writing that was obviously feminine. Only women write this clearly, without hiding behind absurd flourishes—at least when they’re writing for themselves and for nobody else. Alicia turned back to the first page and began to read:

My name is Isabella Gispert, and I was born in Barcelona in 1917. I’m twenty-two years old and I know I will never reach my twenty-third birthday. I write these words knowing for certain that I only have a few days left to live, and that I will soon have to leave behind those to whom I am most indebted in this world: my son Daniel and my husband Juan Sempere, the kindest man I have ever known. I will die without having merited all the trust, love, and devotion he has given me. I’m writing for myself, taking with me secrets that don’t belong to me and knowing that nobody will ever read these pages. I’m writing to reminisce and to cling to life. My only wish is to be able to remember and understand who I was and why I did what I did while I am still able to do so, and before the consciousness that I already feel weakening abandons me forever. I’m writing even if it hurts, because loss and pain are the only things that keep me alive, and I’m afraid of dying. I’m writing to tell these pages what I can’t tell those I love, for fear of hurting them and putting their lives in danger. I’m writing because as long as I’m able to remember, I will be with them one more minute . . .

For a whole hour Alicia lost herself in the pages of that notebook, oblivious to the world, the pain, or the uncertainty in which Leandro’s visit had left her. For an hour, all that existed was the story told by those words, a story that, even before she reached the last page, she knew she would never forget. When she came to the end and closed Isabella’s confession over her chest, her eyes were veiled with tears, and all she could do was take a hand to her lips and suppress a scream.

* * *

This is how Fernandito found her, a little later. After knocking a few times on the door and getting no reply, he stepped in and saw her curled up into a ball, crying like he’d never seen anyone cry before. He didn’t know what to do except kneel down and put his arms around her, while Alicia moaned with pain as if someone had set fire to her heart.

6

Some folks just can’t win, Fernandito told himself. He’d spent years dreaming about holding Alicia in his arms, and when at long last it happened, the resulting scene proved to be the saddest he could ever have imagined. He propped her up and stroked her head gently, trying to calm her down, not able to think what else to do or say. He had never seen her like that. In fact, he’d never imagined her like that. In all the fantasies Fernandito had placed over the years on the private altar of his adolescent yearnings, Alicia Gris was always indestructible, hard as a diamond that cut through everything.