After an hour thrashing around on the bed, I gave up the attempt at a siesta, pulled on a robe and headed to the kitchen. The letter lay on the table. I put on my glasses and read it for the tenth time that day. Posted in Barcelona six weeks ago, it was addressed to my late father in Dublin. From there, it had been "forwarded" back to my Barcelona address by the lawyer who had taken care of his affairs. It arrived that morning, weeks late and unopened. Hardly cause for complaint: after all, the man wasn't paid to work for me.

Crawling like spiders all over the expensive embossed notepaper, Spanish words begged my father to visit Doña Mercedes, who used to be Doña Catarina's maidservant. In the tiny margin along the left side of the page, somebody had written in a neat and tidy hand, "This is urgent, señor. She has something to tell you. Do not let her die a troubled woman." The names had meant nothing to me.

The idea of a letter to my dead father from a Spanish maidservant intrigued me. I was aware that he had visited Spain when I was very young, although we never talked about it, not even when I decided to live there. He couldn't speak the language. That was the excuse he used for not accepting my invitations.

"I can't speak Spanish and I'll feel foreign," was his standard answer every time I raised the question. "I'm not getting any younger. You know how it is."

I did, indeed. That was precisely why I kept asking him to visit, so that he could see the things I had achieved. But he never did. I suspect that he blamed me for not going back to take care of him when my mother died

Immediately after breakfast, I dialed the telephone number that was printed on the Residencia Gaudí notepaper. I quickly ascertained that Doña Mercedes was still alive. She could not take the call herself, but I made an appointment to visit that afternoon. Then, I arranged to take the day off work. I told them to deduct it from my vacation. Without my father's medical bills to pay, I was at last saving to buy a house and I'd rather cut my vacation than lose a day's pay.

Of course, the telephone calls to Dublin would cost a fortune, but by midday, I had confirmed that Catarina was in fact Catherine, my grandfather's sister. A wealthy Anglo-Irish family of her acquaintance introduced her to a group of Spaniards who invited her to be their children's English tutor. In the summer of 1898, at the age of twenty, she had sailed for Spain, leaving Ireland forever.

Although we lived with my grandparents for many years, I was nine the first time Catherine's name was mentioned. My father announced he was going to Spain for two weeks in the summer, and that's when my grandfather remembered his sister. Families at the time, certainly my family, often placed people "in the hands of God" and then never talked about them again. Fathers also took holidays without their wives. I saw nothing unusual in any of this.

The house buzzed with excitement. Dad and Grandfather searched the attic and uncovered two yellowing letters. In one, Catherine announced that she was to be married to a Spanish hidalgo, a nobleman. In the other, written several years later, she said that her husband and her parents-in-law had died in the recent 'flu epidemic. With these letters, and the help of the Spanish Embassy, my father managed to find her latest address. He wrote immediately, requesting permission to call on her. This solicited an immediate response: he must come and stay for as long as he wished.

A few weeks later, he visited his aunt for the first time.
Catherine had long since become Doña Catarina. She lived in Barcelona, in a huge mansion with marble floors and a wrought-iron gate. She had almost forgotten how to speak English. Coming from our modest background, my father was impressed by her comfortable way of life. People came in every day to clean, cook, and do odd jobs. There was also a live-in maidservant inherited, along with the house, from her dead husband's family.

His Spanish aunt took to my father at once. Having had no children of her own, she was thrilled with this person "of her own blood." She showered him with gifts: silver filigree crosses, rings for my mother, Spanish shawls, fans and lace mantillas. I recall sitting on the bed as a very small child, watching him unpack these things. I remember the excitement when he distributed them among the family.
Shortly after his fourth visit, the maidservant wrote with news of Catarina's death. When he got the letter, she had already been buried, so my father never returned to Spain. Not even to visit me.

By my calculations, all of that happened twenty-five, maybe even thirty, years ago. If Mercedes was the maidservant, whatever could she have to tell my father now?

At a few minutes after three, I climbed into the taxi. The city was still asleep in the sweltering heat. After giving the driver the address, I settled back and drifted off to sleep until the taxi pulled up at my destination.

Residencia Gaudí was a luxury old people's home located in
an exclusive suburb on the Tibidabo, a hill just outside of the city. The building was magnificent; a Moorish palace set among lush palm trees, with colorful flowers cascading over walls and trellises. A private nurse in a white uniform led me along a corridor of rich mosaics to the self-contained suite that had, presumably, been occupied by Doña Mercedes since the death of her employer all those years ago.

In a wheelchair by the window, white head bent, a black-clad figure sat facing the gardens. The nurse turned her around to look at me. From the dried-parchment face of the chair's birdlike occupant, two enormous black eyes blazed feverishly at me.

"You've come from Pedro Cunningham!" It was an announcement, made in a surprisingly strong voice.

"No, señora," I said. "Peter Cunningham was my father. He died last year."

She looked confused. It was odd to think that I was about the same age as my father had been the first time he met this woman, for I felt sure she was indeed his aunt's maidservant.

"I was much younger then, but I lived for Catarina, you know," she said, removing all doubt. "Then she died and left me nothing!"

Doña Mercedes started to shake violently. The nurse was by her side at once, holding something under her nose.

"Don't agitate yourself so, señora," she said soothingly. "Speak to this lady. Then you will be calm."

The old woman closed her eyes and leaned her head against the high back of her chair. Not knowing what else to do, I sat in the nearest armchair and waited. The nurse left the room. I stared out into the gardens, sure that Doña Mercedes had fallen asleep. Five minutes passed like that. When she opened her eyes again, they were bright. She looked refreshed, but her voice was much weaker when she spoke.

"Please make Pedro understand." Clearly, she still thought I was an envoy. "An old woman with no family and no income, in the Spain of Franco, that was bad. Catarina left everything to Pedro: her house, her jewels, her money, everything. I could not find myself with no home, no security, you see?"

Her meaning dawned. My vision blurred and I felt numb, a mere observer. The nurse had come back, I realized. Standing behind the wheelchair, she put a calming hand on the old lady's shoulder and Doña Mercedes continued.

"I was to take care of everything. My signature was good for all the documents." I strained to hear her nearly inaudible mumble. "I sold the house and the furniture, and all her jewels."

Glancing distractedly around the room, she waved her white lace handkerchief in the air, a sweeping gesture to encompass her surroundings.

"I needed all the money to pay for this, a place where I would be safe. There was plenty when they invested it. But there will be none left when I die."

The two women looked at me, waiting for a reaction.

"Let me get this clear. You were afraid, because you thought you would be left without a home?"

"Yes, yes, you understand." Doña Mercedes nodded excitedly.

"So, you …" The pressure of blood pounding in my head distracted me. I coughed, and began again.

"You sold my father's inheritance so that you could be safe in luxury for the rest of your life. Is that what you're telling me?" Was that voice mine?

Doña Mercedes was still nodding. "And now I will die today, tomorrow, very soon. I need forgiveness. That is why I wrote. Who will forgive me before I die?" Her anxious eyes devoured me, pleading. She bleated something else, but the sense eluded me. She began to wail.

Without taking my eyes off her, I fought not to be sick. I stood up, suddenly desperate to leave. She held out her shaking hands, but I did not take them.

"You've wasted my time, señora," I snapped. "For forgiveness, I can't help you. Speak to a priest!"

When I got back, the city was alive in the cool of the early evening. I walked along the Rambla and then decided to buy myself something in El Corte Inglés. On my way there, I passed by my office and called the Residencia Gaudí. Doña Mercedes would rest in peace.

Six months later, I left Spain. I have never been back.

^