Juan Moisés De La Serna - Fatima - The Final Secret

“Sorry! Sorry!” she said as she turned to me. “Let me introduce you to…,” and looking at me she said:

“How scatterbrained of me! I don’t even know your name.”

“As scatterbrained as ever, you haven’t changed a bit,” the old bookseller said and laughed. “I remember that first time we met, the shy curious girl who needed to ask something, but her shame kept her from even speaking. How I asked you to write it down for me so I could find out, because your words came out so broken that there was no way to understand you. Do you remember what you wrote?” the old man asked leaning into her ear.

“No,” she replied, a little surprised by the unexpected question.

“Well I do, I haven’t forgotten it, despite all the time that’s gone by. You wrote on that paper in big letters, so I could read it properly, ‘Everything you have about the Virgin and the Apparitions of Fatima.’ Yep, that’s right, that’s what she wrote for me on that piece of paper,” the man said looking at me. “I, a communist recognized by everyone, let out a huge laugh that was heard throughout the store, and you tearfully asked me for forgiveness. I still don’t know why, because you hadn’t done anything to offend me.”

“Well, let’s get back to today, as I’m an old man, I live more and more in the past and in my memories, which are certainly more fun than daily life, where nothing different ever happens. Every day is the same, nobody comes in here and I spend the morning with the duster, going over the old books so that the dust doesn’t accumulate too much. It can’t be left even for a single day, and in the afternoon sitting in the doorway enjoying a coffee and taking a little sun, if the sun has deigned to visit us that day, and if not, I drink my coffee sitting by the heater so that these old bones don’t protest too much, if that’s even possible. And how are things in your life?” he asked her suddenly, as if he were just realizing that she was still there.

“Pilar, you didn’t get married, right? Do you still have that little gray kitten that gave you such good company, and that kept ruining that cushion you were so fond of?”

“That was a hundred years ago, how can you remember all that?” she asked laughing.

“Come on, you’re exaggerating!” he answered. “Yes, it’s true that the years have indeed passed. You had pretty brown braids back then, and now I see some gray hair in there, which you surely haven’t colored yourself,” he said quietly.

“No, they’re natural,” she replied with a sad smile, “how time flies!”

“Okay, okay, let’s leave this melancholy behind… and you told me you had come with this young man… but I haven’t let you tell me why,” he added, looking at me.

“Well, it’s almost the same as that first time,” she responded, “to learn everything you have about ‘The Apparitions of Fatima,’ which seems to be something that interests him, and as you know, that’s my area. I was very happy that someone had reminded me of this, and I told him that I would help him find that information, some of which I’m sure he can find around here somewhere.”

“Young man,” the old man said suddenly, “are you a believer?”

Surprised by his question, I answered him haltingly:

“No, but does that matter?”

<<<<< >>>>>

It was a subject that was very clear in my mind and that I had discussed for a long time with family and friends, but when I arrived at University, the belief that you can be a good person without believing in anything became stronger, and that was my philosophy of life.

It was hard for my mother to understand, because she had always been very involved within the parish and had tried to get the five of us to continue with those religious beliefs and practices.

“Let the kids find their own way, they’re honest and good people, and they’ll learn their beliefs over time and make their own decisions,” said my father.

He always accompanied her to mass, but he didn’t get involved in anything else, leaving us with freedom and decision-making power, which my mother told him was not good for our future.

One day, knocking on the door of my room, asking for permission to come in, my older sister Carmen told me she’d been talking with Don Ignacio, the priest at our parish, who had known us since we were little, who had baptized us and with whom we had made our First Holy Communion.

“What happened if you didn’t believe in anything?” That was the question she told me she had asked. “What you had to do was look for answers, those that would convince you and don’t let yourself be swayed by the impositions of others.” That was the response that the priest had given her, and Carmen added, “But I didn’t say anything to him about you, I made it out as though it was a doubt that I was having.”

I thought about it for a few days, and those words from the priest helped me to have a talk with my mother, because the subject had caused some friction between us from time to time.

One day I was able to catch her alone at home, a rare thing! It was a rainy afternoon. I had organized to go out with friends for a game of soccer, but the rain was so intense that they told me on the phone that they had suspended it. My father was traveling; he had needed to go to Madrid for work. Carmen, my older sister, had gone with him, because she wanted to see some friends who lived there. She knew them from the beach at Sanxenxo and they had invited her on several occasions to visit the capital.

She had taken advantage of my father’s trip, and that way “He didn’t have to go alone,” as she put it, of course to justify them allowing her to go. I say that, but the truth is my father was grateful to have some company in the car, so he could chat with someone and the trip would not be so boring.

The twins had an important exam, so even though it was raining when it was time to go, they couldn’t stay at home, and Chelito, the little one, was in bed with the flu, and was sleeping after having taken her medicine.

“Mom, we have to talk,” I said, facing her, taking advantage of the fact that everything was quiet at home.

I still remember her face, as if I were seeing it in front of me now, her pretty brown eyes looked at me with interrogation, penetrating, wanting to guess what I wanted to say to her, like so many times before. I don’t know how she did it, but before I opened my mouth, she was already giving me answers for whatever it was I wanted to ask.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick? Have you caught the flu from Chelito? Have you been suspended?” she asked nervously, with such speed that before finishing a question, she already had the next one on the tip of her tongue and she wouldn’t let me say a word.

“No, wait, wait, let’s sit down for a little bit and chat,” I said taking her by the shoulders to reassure her a little.

“Well, before that I’ll prepare you a glass of warm milk, so you can energize your body,” she told me and before I could respond, she had already gone into the kitchen in two strides and put the pot on the stove with milk. She waited a little while for it to warm up, brought it to me, and told me while she handed it to me, “Take it warm, I’ve thrown in a little honey, just the way you like it.”

With the glass in my hands, feeling the warmth of the milk comfort me on that bleak afternoon, and being sat on the sofa next to her, which was strange in itself because the sofa was always full to watch the television and she normally had to sit on a chair, we now had the entire thing just for the two of us.

I don’t remember the last time we had a moment alone, she was always doing something.

“Well, tell me, you have me on tenterhooks,” she told me, “what do you want to talk about?”