A Gate to the Past

A Gate to the Past

The call came before sunrise. Those are the calls you dread. You hope it’s a wrong number but fear the worst: Maybe one of your kids died in a fiery crash or an old friend’s in the emergency room. Or, if you’re lucky, it’s just one of your ex-wives wanting to get back together for a second try.

“Good morning, this is David. Is it daylight where you are?”, I spoke into my landline. I seldom got calls at that number anymore but was reluctant to abandon it.

“Yes, it’s a sunny afternoon here in Barcelona. I’m calling on behalf of a client. To whom am I speaking?”, a woman said in good English with a faint accent.

“I’m David Patton in New Mexico. What’s this about?”

“I’m an attorney. My name is Beatrice Morena. I’m processing a will for a deceased client and you may be a beneficiary. All I’ve got is a name, a photograph and an age to go by. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure.”, I said, suddenly awake.

“Can you tell me your age?”

“I’m 47. How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

“Do you have an internet connection?”

“Yes I do”

“Ok, you can find my business website at Morena Abogados in Barcelona and send me an email. Then I’ll call you back at this number. Will that work for you?”

“Alright. Give me 20 minutes. I’m still half asleep.”, I said, hanging up and walking down the hall to my home office. My internet connection is fast, but the coffee maker is slow. In 10 minutes, I had Ms. Morena’s law firm on my screen. It looked legitimate, but my Spanish was rusty. What the hell, I thought, and sent a brief email to trigger a second call. The phone rang minutes later.

“Hello, this is David.”, I answered.

“Thank you for your patience Mr. Patton. Doing business over the phone is tedious but bear with me. I need to ask a few more questions to verify your identity. Can you tell me your middle name?”

“Tiberius”, I answered. “Mom was a Trekkie.”

“Yes, I know the term. Captain Kirk’s middle name. We have Star Trek here too. I think you might be the David Patton I’m looking for. There can’t be that many 47 year-olds named Tiberius. I’ll need to see your picture. The photo I have is a black and white of a teenage boy. Do you have photos of yourself from that age?”

“Yes, but that might take some time. Give me an hour.”

I found the photo album in 2 minutes but wanted time to think. What if the photos matched to Ms. Morena’s satisfaction? That could open a big window of possibilities. I walked out on the front porch and studied the far mountains for a while. It’s what I do when something unexpected comes into my life. Going back inside, I scanned three photos and sent them with a few words about the time frame and location of each. 10 minutes later she was back.

“Hi again. The pictures match. Is this a good time to talk?”

“Yes, it’s a good time. You’ve got my complete attention.”

“Good. Let me explain a few things first and then you can ask questions. Alright?”

“Yes.”

“OK. You are one of several beneficiaries defined in the will of a man who recently died. He wanted to remain anonymous, so I can’t tell you his name or the amount of the bequest at this time. It’s not huge, but enough to pay for a trip to Barcelona.”

“Fair enough. I have enough personal leave to cover a week, but I need a few days to finish a project at work. Do you Skype? Maybe we could connect online in a few days. That will give me time to organize my thoughts and come up with some questions. How’s the weather over there?”

“Yes, I’m familiar with Skype. Let me know when you’re ready. The weather here is wonderful this time of year. By the way, Barcelonans dress like Americans. And I prefer to be called Beatrice.”

I called in sick to devote some thought to this surprise event. Then I went to the internet to see where Barcelona was. Of course, you call your mother with questions about the past, and I did.

“Good morning Mom. How’s the weather over there?” Mom lives in San Francisco at Aquarius, an urban commune of older hippies. I grew up there, but escaped when I figured out I had no future in that life style. We have little in common and our conversations are mostly small talk.

“I got an interesting call this morning from Spain from a lawyer tracking down beneficiaries in a will. Does that ring any bells?”

“Hi David. The weather here is rotten. Where in Spain?”

“Barcelona. Didn’t you live there for a while?”

“I lived in a lot of places back then. You know, sex, drugs and rock and roll. I never lived in Barcelona but spent a few weeks there with the Marauders when Chico was with the band. He was a rich kid as I recall.”

The Marauder’s were a Liverpool band with a short life span. That was before my time, but I remembered their music at Aquarius. Mostly flowers and unicorns if you know what I mean.

“Do you think Chico and I might be related? I mean, that’s the only connection I can think of between me and Barcelona.”

After a long pause, mom responded. “Maybe. His hair was dark and curly like yours. Does it matter? That was long ago when everything seemed possible. Too bad it didn’t turn out that way. I wrote him some letters, but he never answered them.”

Mom’s answers seemed credible enough but insufficient. My next call was to Sandy, my ex-wife who remains a friend so long as we keep politics and religion out of our conversation. More importantly, I trust her and value her advice.

“Hi David, what’s up? Are you seeing anyone?”

“No, are you?”, I responded in our ongoing banter. “Got a minute?”

“Sure. Is this business or social?”

“Let’s start with business.”, I said and explained the call from Barcelona and my mother’s comments. “What do you think? Is this a scam?”

“Hard to tell. Let me call a contact in Barcelona. What’s the name of the attorney there?”

In an hour she called back with a positive report. Morena Abogados was a legitimate law firm and Beatrice Morena was well known in the legal community. I thanked her for her help and agreed to buy her lunch the following day as compensation.

I bought a ticket to Barcelona that afternoon and called Beatrice to set up a Skype call. After settling where I would stay, she agreed to meet me at the airport. In our conversation, I learned she had been an exchange student in Austin and liked country music. I wondered if she was single but followed my rule of never asking that question first. Women manage relationships anyway so it’s better to wait.

A week later, I landed in Barcelona. After collecting my bag at the carousel and going through the customs line, I put on a red hat so Beatrice could identify me in the crowd. I spotted a sign with my name as I came down the escalator and waved. After introductions, we found her car in short term parking and drove to her office. There, I was introduced to the daughter of my benefactor. Her name was Marta Santiago. With Beatrice translating, Marta explained that she was as baffled as I was when she read my name on her father’s will. When I told her of my mother’s association with a bass player for the Marauders nearly 50 years earlier, she looked at me with a knowing smile.

“My father was a musician as a young man. He was the black sheep of the family. The prodigal son who was ashamed of his family name and took the name ‘Chico’ to hide it. Your face reminds me of him; I suspected this when I read the will. As I see you in person and hear your voice, I am certain you are my brother. A DNA test would settle the mystery, but as a formality only. I have something for you.”

Opening her purse, she handed me a small, tattered, black book. Inside were poems written to a flower child who valued freedom over love. A picture of a laughing couple was tucked between the pages. The woman in the photo was my mother as a girl.

I stayed in Barcelona three weeks to get to know my new family and sightsee. Beatrice took time off work to be my guide. I never realized the heavy influence left by the Romans and Moors. The size of my inheritance of $20,000 was less than I had hoped for but meeting my father’s family was a gift. On the flight back to New Mexico, I called mom and told her of my discovery. Her answer was not unexpected.

“That doesn’t surprise me at all. How much money did he leave you? Whatever it is, I hope you’ll send some of it my way. I’m not getting any younger.”

The minute I returned to work I knew I wouldn’t stay. My world was larger now. After a month I requested a year’s leave to reevaluate my life. I needed to return to Barcelona to learn more about my Spanish family. And to see what Beatrice had in mind when she finally asked me if I was single.

A Gate to the Past

The call came before sunrise. Those are the calls you dread. You hope it’s a wrong number but fear the worst: Maybe one of your kids died in a fiery crash or an old friend’s in the emergency room. Or, if you’re lucky, it’s just one of your ex-wives wanting to get back together for a second try.

“Good morning, this is David. Is it daylight where you are?”, I spoke into my landline. I seldom got calls at that number anymore but was reluctant to abandon it.

“Yes, it’s a sunny afternoon here in Barcelona. I’m calling on behalf of a client. To whom am I speaking?”, a woman said in good English with a faint accent.

“I’m David Patton in New Mexico. What’s this about?”

“I’m an attorney. My name is Beatrice Morena. I’m processing a will for a deceased client and you may be a beneficiary. All I’ve got is a name, a photograph and an age to go by. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure.”, I said, suddenly awake.

“Can you tell me your age?”

“I’m 47. How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

“Do you have an internet connection?”

“Yes I do”

“Ok, you can find my business website at Morena Abogados in Barcelona and send me an email. Then I’ll call you back at this number. Will that work for you?”

“Alright. Give me 20 minutes. I’m still half asleep.”, I said, hanging up and walking down the hall to my home office. My internet connection is fast, but the coffee maker is slow. In 10 minutes, I had Ms. Morena’s law firm on my screen. It looked legitimate, but my Spanish was rusty. What the hell, I thought, and sent a brief email to trigger a second call. The phone rang minutes later.

“Hello, this is David.”, I answered.

“Thank you for your patience Mr. Patton. Doing business over the phone is tedious but bear with me. I need to ask a few more questions to verify your identity. Can you tell me your middle name?”

“Tiberius”, I answered. “Mom was a Trekkie.”

“Yes, I know the term. Captain Kirk’s middle name. We have Star Trek here too. I think you might be the David Patton I’m looking for. There can’t be that many 47 year-olds named Tiberius. I’ll need to see your picture. The photo I have is a black and white of a teenage boy. Do you have photos of yourself from that age?”

“Yes, but that might take some time. Give me an hour.”

I found the photo album in 2 minutes but wanted time to think. What if the photos matched to Ms. Morena’s satisfaction? That could open a big window of possibilities. I walked out on the front porch and studied the far mountains for a while. It’s what I do when something unexpected comes into my life. Going back inside, I scanned three photos and sent them with a few words about the time frame and location of each. 10 minutes later she was back.

“Hi again. The pictures match. Is this a good time to talk?”

“Yes, it’s a good time. You’ve got my complete attention.”

“Good. Let me explain a few things first and then you can ask questions. Alright?”

“Yes.”

“OK. You are one of several beneficiaries defined in the will of a man who recently died. He wanted to remain anonymous, so I can’t tell you his name or the amount of the bequest at this time. It’s not huge, but enough to pay for a trip to Barcelona.”

“Fair enough. I have enough personal leave to cover a week, but I need a few days to finish a project at work. Do you Skype? Maybe we could connect online in a few days. That will give me time to organize my thoughts and come up with some questions. How’s the weather over there?”

“Yes, I’m familiar with Skype. Let me know when you’re ready. The weather here is wonderful this time of year. By the way, Barcelonans dress like Americans. And I prefer to be called Beatrice.”

I called in sick to devote some thought to this surprise event. Then I went to the internet to see where Barcelona was. Of course, you call your mother with questions about the past, and I did.

“Good morning Mom. How’s the weather over there?” Mom lives in San Francisco at Aquarius, an urban commune of older hippies. I grew up there, but escaped when I figured out I had no future in that life style. We have little in common and our conversations are mostly small talk.

“I got an interesting call this morning from Spain from a lawyer tracking down beneficiaries in a will. Does that ring any bells?”

“Hi David. The weather here is rotten. Where in Spain?”

“Barcelona. Didn’t you live there for a while?”

“I lived in a lot of places back then. You know, sex, drugs and rock and roll. I never lived in Barcelona but spent a few weeks there with the Marauders when Chico was with the band. He was a rich kid as I recall.”

The Marauder’s were a Liverpool band with a short life span. That was before my time, but I remembered their music at Aquarius. Mostly flowers and unicorns if you know what I mean.

“Do you think Chico and I might be related? I mean, that’s the only connection I can think of between me and Barcelona.”

After a long pause, mom responded. “Maybe. His hair was dark and curly like yours. Does it matter? That was long ago when everything seemed possible. Too bad it didn’t turn out that way. I wrote him some letters, but he never answered them.”

Mom’s answers seemed credible enough but insufficient. My next call was to Sandy, my ex-wife who remains a friend so long as we keep politics and religion out of our conversation. More importantly, I trust her and value her advice.

“Hi David, what’s up? Are you seeing anyone?”

“No, are you?”, I responded in our ongoing banter. “Got a minute?”

“Sure. Is this business or social?”

“Let’s start with business.”, I said and explained the call from Barcelona and my mother’s comments. “What do you think? Is this a scam?”

“Hard to tell. Let me call a contact in Barcelona. What’s the name of the attorney there?”

In an hour she called back with a positive report. Morena Abogados was a legitimate law firm and Beatrice Morena was well known in the legal community. I thanked her for her help and agreed to buy her lunch the following day as compensation.

I bought a ticket to Barcelona that afternoon and called Beatrice to set up a Skype call. After settling where I would stay, she agreed to meet me at the airport. In our conversation, I learned she had been an exchange student in Austin and liked country music. I wondered if she was single but followed my rule of never asking that question first. Women manage relationships anyway so it’s better to wait.

A week later, I landed in Barcelona. After collecting my bag at the carousel and going through the customs line, I put on a red hat so Beatrice could identify me in the crowd. I spotted a sign with my name as I came down the escalator and waved. After introductions, we found her car in short term parking and drove to her office. There, I was introduced to the daughter of my benefactor. Her name was Marta Santiago. With Beatrice translating, Marta explained that she was as baffled as I was when she read my name on her father’s will. When I told her of my mother’s association with a bass player for the Marauders nearly 50 years earlier, she looked at me with a knowing smile.

“My father was a musician as a young man. He was the black sheep of the family. The prodigal son who was ashamed of his family name and took the name ‘Chico’ to hide it. Your face reminds me of him; I suspected this when I read the will. As I see you in person and hear your voice, I am certain you are my brother. A DNA test would settle the mystery, but as a formality only. I have something for you.”

Opening her purse, she handed me a small, tattered, black book. Inside were poems written to a flower child who valued freedom over love. A picture of a laughing couple was tucked between the pages. The woman in the photo was my mother as a girl.

I stayed in Barcelona three weeks to get to know my new family and sightsee. Beatrice took time off work to be my guide. I never realized the heavy influence left by the Romans and Moors. The size of my inheritance of $20,000 was less than I had hoped for but meeting my father’s family was a gift. On the flight back to New Mexico, I called mom and told her of my discovery. Her answer was not unexpected.

“That doesn’t surprise me at all. How much money did he leave you? Whatever it is, I hope you’ll send some of it my way. I’m not getting any younger.”

The minute I returned to work I knew I wouldn’t stay. My world was larger now. After a month I requested a year’s leave to reevaluate my life. I needed to return to Barcelona to learn more about my Spanish family. And to see what Beatrice had in mind when she finally asked me if I was single.

A Gate to the Past

The call came before sunrise. Those are the calls you dread. You hope it’s a wrong number but fear the worst: Maybe one of your kids died in a fiery crash or an old friend’s in the emergency room. Or, if you’re lucky, it’s just one of your ex-wives wanting to get back together for a second try.

“Good morning, this is David. Is it daylight where you are?”, I spoke into my landline. I seldom got calls at that number anymore but was reluctant to abandon it.

“Yes, it’s a sunny afternoon here in Barcelona. I’m calling on behalf of a client. To whom am I speaking?”, a woman said in good English with a faint accent.

“I’m David Patton in New Mexico. What’s this about?”

“I’m an attorney. My name is Beatrice Morena. I’m processing a will for a deceased client and you may be a beneficiary. All I’ve got is a name, a photograph and an age to go by. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure.”, I said, suddenly awake.

“Can you tell me your age?”

“I’m 47. How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

“Do you have an internet connection?”

“Yes I do”

“Ok, you can find my business website at Morena Abogados in Barcelona and send me an email. Then I’ll call you back at this number. Will that work for you?”

“Alright. Give me 20 minutes. I’m still half asleep.”, I said, hanging up and walking down the hall to my home office. My internet connection is fast, but the coffee maker is slow. In 10 minutes, I had Ms. Morena’s law firm on my screen. It looked legitimate, but my Spanish was rusty. What the hell, I thought, and sent a brief email to trigger a second call. The phone rang minutes later.

“Hello, this is David.”, I answered.

“Thank you for your patience Mr. Patton. Doing business over the phone is tedious but bear with me. I need to ask a few more questions to verify your identity. Can you tell me your middle name?”

“Tiberius”, I answered. “Mom was a Trekkie.”

“Yes, I know the term. Captain Kirk’s middle name. We have Star Trek here too. I think you might be the David Patton I’m looking for. There can’t be that many 47 year-olds named Tiberius. I’ll need to see your picture. The photo I have is a black and white of a teenage boy. Do you have photos of yourself from that age?”

“Yes, but that might take some time. Give me an hour.”

I found the photo album in 2 minutes but wanted time to think. What if the photos matched to Ms. Morena’s satisfaction? That could open a big window of possibilities. I walked out on the front porch and studied the far mountains for a while. It’s what I do when something unexpected comes into my life. Going back inside, I scanned three photos and sent them with a few words about the time frame and location of each. 10 minutes later she was back.

“Hi again. The pictures match. Is this a good time to talk?”

“Yes, it’s a good time. You’ve got my complete attention.”

“Good. Let me explain a few things first and then you can ask questions. Alright?”

“Yes.”

“OK. You are one of several beneficiaries defined in the will of a man who recently died. He wanted to remain anonymous, so I can’t tell you his name or the amount of the bequest at this time. It’s not huge, but enough to pay for a trip to Barcelona.”

“Fair enough. I have enough personal leave to cover a week, but I need a few days to finish a project at work. Do you Skype? Maybe we could connect online in a few days. That will give me time to organize my thoughts and come up with some questions. How’s the weather over there?”

“Yes, I’m familiar with Skype. Let me know when you’re ready. The weather here is wonderful this time of year. By the way, Barcelonans dress like Americans. And I prefer to be called Beatrice.”

I called in sick to devote some thought to this surprise event. Then I went to the internet to see where Barcelona was. Of course, you call your mother with questions about the past, and I did.

“Good morning Mom. How’s the weather over there?” Mom lives in San Francisco at Aquarius, an urban commune of older hippies. I grew up there, but escaped when I figured out I had no future in that life style. We have little in common and our conversations are mostly small talk.

“I got an interesting call this morning from Spain from a lawyer tracking down beneficiaries in a will. Does that ring any bells?”

“Hi David. The weather here is rotten. Where in Spain?”

“Barcelona. Didn’t you live there for a while?”

“I lived in a lot of places back then. You know, sex, drugs and rock and roll. I never lived in Barcelona but spent a few weeks there with the Marauders when Chico was with the band. He was a rich kid as I recall.”

The Marauder’s were a Liverpool band with a short life span. That was before my time, but I remembered their music at Aquarius. Mostly flowers and unicorns if you know what I mean.

“Do you think Chico and I might be related? I mean, that’s the only connection I can think of between me and Barcelona.”

After a long pause, mom responded. “Maybe. His hair was dark and curly like yours. Does it matter? That was long ago when everything seemed possible. Too bad it didn’t turn out that way. I wrote him some letters, but he never answered them.”

Mom’s answers seemed credible enough but insufficient. My next call was to Sandy, my ex-wife who remains a friend so long as we keep politics and religion out of our conversation. More importantly, I trust her and value her advice.

“Hi David, what’s up? Are you seeing anyone?”

“No, are you?”, I responded in our ongoing banter. “Got a minute?”

“Sure. Is this business or social?”

“Let’s start with business.”, I said and explained the call from Barcelona and my mother’s comments. “What do you think? Is this a scam?”

“Hard to tell. Let me call a contact in Barcelona. What’s the name of the attorney there?”

In an hour she called back with a positive report. Morena Abogados was a legitimate law firm and Beatrice Morena was well known in the legal community. I thanked her for her help and agreed to buy her lunch the following day as compensation.

I bought a ticket to Barcelona that afternoon and called Beatrice to set up a Skype call. After settling where I would stay, she agreed to meet me at the airport. In our conversation, I learned she had been an exchange student in Austin and liked country music. I wondered if she was single but followed my rule of never asking that question first. Women manage relationships anyway so it’s better to wait.

A week later, I landed in Barcelona. After collecting my bag at the carousel and going through the customs line, I put on a red hat so Beatrice could identify me in the crowd. I spotted a sign with my name as I came down the escalator and waved. After introductions, we found her car in short term parking and drove to her office. There, I was introduced to the daughter of my benefactor. Her name was Marta Santiago. With Beatrice translating, Marta explained that she was as baffled as I was when she read my name on her father’s will. When I told her of my mother’s association with a bass player for the Marauders nearly 50 years earlier, she looked at me with a knowing smile.

“My father was a musician as a young man. He was the black sheep of the family. The prodigal son who was ashamed of his family name and took the name ‘Chico’ to hide it. Your face reminds me of him; I suspected this when I read the will. As I see you in person and hear your voice, I am certain you are my brother. A DNA test would settle the mystery, but as a formality only. I have something for you.”

Opening her purse, she handed me a small, tattered, black book. Inside were poems written to a flower child who valued freedom over love. A picture of a laughing couple was tucked between the pages. The woman in the photo was my mother as a girl.

I stayed in Barcelona three weeks to get to know my new family and sightsee. Beatrice took time off work to be my guide. I never realized the heavy influence left by the Romans and Moors. The size of my inheritance of $20,000 was less than I had hoped for but meeting my father’s family was a gift. On the flight back to New Mexico, I called mom and told her of my discovery. Her answer was not unexpected.

“That doesn’t surprise me at all. How much money did he leave you? Whatever it is, I hope you’ll send some of it my way. I’m not getting any younger.”

The minute I returned to work I knew I wouldn’t stay. My world was larger now. After a month I requested a year’s leave to reevaluate my life. I needed to return to Barcelona to learn more about my Spanish family. And to see what Beatrice had in mind when she finally asked me if I was single.