The letter

The door buzzer sounded.

Javier stopped speaking.  “Who is this?”

He wasn’t expecting anyone else to call.

Out of long-accepted habit, Carlos slowly raised himself.

“I’m sorry Paco...." Javier continued his point.

Carlos spoke into the intercom.  “Hola!”

“Hola!  Buenos dias!”  came a thin voice.  “Are you Sr. Rodriguez?”

“No.  I am Carlos.  What do you want?”

“I’ve come to see Sr. Rodriguez.  My name is Juan Miguel.  Juan Miguel Gonzales.”

In the living room, the conversation stopped.

Javier went to the balcony.

“Hola!  On the street! Let me see you!”

A man in his late thirties or early forties stepped back into the road and stared up.

“Sr. Rodriguez?”

“Si.  What of it?  Who are you?”

“I have a letter from my mother.  For you.”

“Can’t he just post it?” queried Paco, suspiciously.

Carlos, who was now behind them at the window, nudged Paco.  “Quiet, old man.”

“Who are you calling old? Hah!”

Javier leaned in from the balcony.  “Let him in.”

The lock buzzed.  “Come in.  We are on the third floor – a la derecha.”

The three stood facing each other in the room. 

“Do you know him?” asked Paco.

“Gonzales, Paco.  Juan Miguel Gonzales.”  Javier sat down.

Paco looked at Carlos.  Realisation spread across his face.

There was a gentle knock at the door.

“Come in.” Carlos instructed.  “It’s open.”

A tall dark-skinned man entered the living room.  Javier guessed he was from the South, Andalucía.  His hair was black, turning to grey along its sides.  He held an envelope in his hand.  He looked at all three in turn.

“Sr. Rodriguez?” he asked the room.

“I am Javier.”  Javier didn’t move from the spot.  “How did you know where to find me?”

“It has taken months.  My mother died two years ago.  She left many things – nothing of value.  Before she died, she gave me this letter.  It is addressed to my father.”

“Miguel.”

“Yes.  Miguel.”

“I see.  Miguel is dead, Juan.  Almost one year ago.”

“I know.  My mother said if it was too late I should find you.”

Carlos cut in.  “Why don’t we sit down?  Would anyone like a drink?”

All three looked to Carlos and nodded.

“Coffee?”

“Something stronger for me.” Javier answered.

Carlos brought a bottle of wine and four glasses.

They sat in the cramped living room facing each other, oblivious to the sounds of the town below.

“I didn’t know Miguel had a son.”  Javier spoke looking Juan straight in the eye.  “In all the years I knew him, he never spoke of you.  Before he died, I would never have thought that this could be true, but…”

“We have learned a few things about him since he died.” put in Carlos.

“Bad things?” asked Juan.

“No.” Answered Javier.  “Not bad things.  Just things we didn’t know.”

“How long did you know him?” 

“A very long time, Juan.  A very long time.  How did you know to come here?”

Juan placed his glass on the table beside him.