Lost Cause by John Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

heavy.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I replied, although I was glad to set it on the floor.
    â€œMy name’s Laia,” the girl held out her hand. “Welcome to Barcelona.”
    I shook her hand. “Thank you. I’m Steve, but you know that.”
    â€œI do, and I have some things for you, but sit down.” Laia indicated a high-backed chair. “I will fetch them and get us a cup of coffee. If you haven’t had too much already.”
    â€œCoffee would be nice,” I replied, “but not too strong.”
    â€œYou do not like our café solo . Don’t worry, I make regular American coffee.”
    Laia left the room, and I had a chance to gather my scattered thoughts. My concerns about no one at the address knowing anything about my task had proved groundless. The opposite seemed to be the case, and my mind was full of questions: What had my grandfather said in his letter? Who was this girl, Laia? And what connection did she have to what I was supposed to do?
    All these questions raced around my brain, but I didn’t really mind not knowing. Laia’s eyes dominated my thoughts. I smiled. I doubted DJ was meeting beautiful girls on his mountain.
    â€œYou look happy,” Laia said. She was carrying a tray with a tall silver coffee flask, a smaller jug of milk, a sugar bowl and two cups.
    â€œJust glad to be here,” I said.
    Laia placed the tray on the table in front of me. “Please pour yourself a cup as you like it. I like mine black.” As I busied myself with the coffee, she went to an ornately carved sideboard, knelt and pulled out a small battered suitcase.
    The suitcase was a faded checked pattern in black and brown. Where it was scuffed, it appeared to be made of cardboard, although the corners were reinforced with leather strips. It was considerably smaller than an airline carry-on bag and sported a number of old-fashioned stickers, including one for something called Trans-Canada Air Lines and another for Canadian National Steamships. It was closed by two locking silver clasps on the front.
    Laia set the suitcase on the table beside the coffee cups and sat down beside me. We both stared at the suitcase for a long time. Was the answer to my mystery inside? What did the suitcase and its contents mean to Laia?
    â€œHave you looked inside?” I asked eventually.
    â€œI cannot,” Laia replied. “It is locked and there is no key.”
    I almost laughed out loud. “Yes, there is,” I said, pulling my keychain from my pocket. The old key looked the right shape to fit the suitcase’s locks. I reached forward and then stopped. I was excited and nervous at the same time. I doubted the suitcase contained a simple answer, so what would I find inside? More mysteries?
    Laia noticed my hesitation. “Perhaps you should read this first,” she said, producing a new white envelope she had been holding by her side. “It came with the letter from the lawyer. It is addressed to you.”
    I put the keys down, took the envelope and tore the flap open.
    Hello again, Steve,
    If you are reading this, it means you have taken me up on my challenge and are in Barcelona. I hope you have met Maria and that she has agreed to help you and has introduced you to the collection of memories in my old suitcase. That is where you should begin.
    I find myself envying you and the discoveries you are about to make, but some of the things you will find out will be hard. I know they were almost impossible for me to live through. That is a life lesson I learned in Spain: the most wonderful passion can exist alongside the most brutal pain. But I must allow you to find things out in your own way.
    I can visualize every scrap of paper in that suitcase, and there have been countless hours over the past decades that I have sat and imagined going through it as you are about to do. That suitcase contains a piece of my life. A piece that no one except Maria knows about