Fatima: The Final Secret. Juan Moisés De La Serna

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      It was Carmen, and her example, that made me change. Since she had lived away from home, when she came by, she seemed like someone else, more mature, more interesting. She always had something different to tell us, she shared her ideas with my parents, something that was unheard of before. She seemed like a different person altogether.

      My father used to say that, if he had known, he would have sent her away from home earlier. It was a joke of course, just tongue in cheek, because being the eldest, she was “His little girl.” Well, Chelito too, being the youngest, she was “His little one.” Everyone could see that the girls were his favorites, although that didn’t stop him from being demanding with them like he was with us. They didn’t get any bad grades, of course they never brought them to him if they did, but whenever they had an exam, he managed to help them out and explain things to them properly until they understood. That said, he also helped the three of us, I can’t complain about that, it was always very important to him for all of us to study, and that “we worked toward a good future for ourselves,” as he used to tell us, even though we were small and we didn’t know what those words meant.

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      Upon entering that place, where there were so many books all over the place, in an order that I’m sure the gentleman knew, but which at first glance just seemed like they were all over the place, with books piled up everywhere, I remembered once when I was little, when I went to my grandparents’ house and they were cleaning. I think it was because there had been a leak and the builders had to fix it, and then paint the room. I was so young that I still hadn’t started school and neither the twins nor the little one had been born.

      My mother took me to my grandparents’ house, because she had to “help Grandma with all that clutter,” as she put it. Well, that was what came to mind now, because it was the only time I’d seen so many bits and pieces accumulated, there were boxes everywhere.

      What struck me the most though was that my grandfather’s books, which were always so well positioned in their place, were now in heaps on the floor, yes, on the floor. How could that be? And there were so many of them…, so many, why would he want so many? Would he have read them all? Well, I don’t know if I had that thought at the time, or if it had come to me later, when I was a little older.

      Every time I entered his office I would ask:

      “Grandpa, have you read all these books? All of them? Every one?” There were books almost as far up as the ceiling and I was sure he couldn’t even reach up there.

      “Yes, young Manu, and many more,” he replied cheerfully, “and I’m sure you’ll do so too when you’re older, because I’m going to let you read all of them if you want to.”

      I was elated just looking at them, such colors, so thick, so many of them, and all placed there on their shelves. What patience he must have had to be able to have everything in order. He never let me touch them when I wanted to take one to see the pictures.

      “Little one,” he told me, “that’s not to be touched. When you’re older, if you behave yourself, I’ll let you see them.”

      Now, looking distractedly at all these piles in front of me, I thought about how difficult it must have been for my grandfather to place his books on the shelves again, and to leave them all in place following that cleaning of the room. Yet my grandfather continued with his order and his readings, which years later he shared with Carmen, who was interested in the same subject, because she studied law just as he did.

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      The owner of the bookstore had moved slowly, because he could barely walk. He assisted himself with an old cane, and still talking to us, he moved between the tables full of stacks of books to one in particular. With a trembling hand he pulled out two or three books from a stack and told me:

      “Here is everything you need young man, but I have to warn you about something.” Using a mysterious voice, he asked me softly, his piercing eyes fixed on mine, “So, if you’re not a believer, what are you?”

      “I’m an atheist,” I said very quietly, fearing his reaction, because I didn’t know how else I could answer.

      “But, a real atheist? Or one of those who’s just saying so because it’s fashionable?” he asked me.

      “A real one, what do you think? That it’s like a sweater that I can put on or take off when it gets stained?” I said a little seriously, because his observation had not gone down too well with me.

      “Alright, an atheist. You won’t like hearing this, but I don’t believe you are,” he said seriously.

      “I really am, I’m not deceiving you,” I told him softly, although I don’t know why we were talking quietly, only the librarian was there and she could hear us anyway.

      “Look young man, an atheist as I understand it, is someone who doesn’t want to know anything about anything,” he said very seriously, “and even less so when it comes to these matters. I’m not fooled, I’m already too old and I’ve seen many things, I can identify those people as soon as they open their mouths.”

      “Yes, you’re not wrong sir,” I said, “but we’re not all the same, I’m not searching for anything else, only the answers, scientific ones if possible, to some events that happened in one place, nothing more.”

      As the conversation appeared very tense, the librarian, Pilar, as I had heard her being called earlier, subtly asked:

      “Do you have anything new that would interest me?”

      “I always have something new, you know that, you’re the one who doesn’t want to visit me.”

      While they went on talking, I took a look at the books he had suggested to me. There were several, and I said to myself: “Why so many on the same topic? I think one will be enough.” Of course I didn’t realize that the subject was important enough to warrant so much being written about it, and I wasn’t aware that I was delving deeper and deeper into it.

      Pilar approached me, because the old man had gone to the door as the postman had arrived and from there we heard him say:

      “Hello, did you bring me something today?” he asked in a jolly tone.

      “Some document or other, it’s in here somewhere,” the postman answered.

      “It’s a good thing that at least someone remembers I exist, because if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t talk to anyone for days on end,” the old man told the postman from the doorway of the bookstore.

      “That being said, I see you have lots of company today. I’ll leave you to it, it seems that everyone’s decided to write today and I have a lot of work to be getting on with,” said the postman leaving.

      When he was alone, the gentleman slowly approached us again, while Pilar had begun to leaf through one of the books piled up in front of us.

      “I don’t know this one,” she said surprised, “when did it arrive?”

      “Exactly, I told you I had new material,” the man answered smiling, “because it’s been here, waiting for you to remember… yes, I think a few months back.”

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