Fatima: The Final Secret. Juan Moisés De La Serna

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.”

      I took a look at the book she had in her hands, it was in English, and it surprised me that she knew it, given how difficult it was. That language was my torment, French had been easy, but one day my father asked me:

      “Son, why don’t you study English?” just like that when he came into the house.

      “What for? I’m never going to England,” I said with wide eyes.

      “Well, you don’t know that, and it’s always good to learn new things,” he replied.

      “But Dad, I already have enough to deal with in my study books,” I protested to get out of it, “and I don’t have much spare time, do you really want to complicate my life further?”

      “Look, no more talk, I’ve seen an academy where they’re going to start teaching classes in that language and I thought it was interesting. I’ve been thinking about it on the way home and I think it would be good for you,” he responded, answering the question definitively in that way he did when he didn’t want to continue talking about something.

      My grandparents were eating at our house that day, and my grandfather intervened immediately, agreeing with my father saying:

      “These boys never want to make any effort, with the beauty of studying and a language is always interesting.”

      “Grandpa,” said Chelito, “beauty, beauty, sometimes it’s very difficult and boring what you have to read, and then there’s all the work they give you, why is it needed? I don’t get it.”

      “Listen child, I’m sure that, even though you don’t understand it right now, when you grow up you’ll understand, and you’ll thank your parents who have made you study.”

      “But why don’t you study as a grown-up? That’s when you need it,” she insisted.

      “Look, what would you think if your Mom only gave you food when you were older? How would you grow?” Grandpa asked her.

      “But it’s not the same Grandpa, otherwise I would get very hungry and I would surely even die,” said Chelito very seriously.

      “Well, it’s the same thing with your studies, you have to start them when you’re young and build upon them as you grow up. Look, young Manu,” he said looking at me.

      “Grandpa, I’m older now, please call me Manuel,” I said, half angrily.

      “But why do you want me to call you that? Then what do you have to call me?” he said in a surprised tone.

      Everyone at the table laughed and he went on.

      “Okay Manuel, because you’re so old you have to learn new things, so I think what your father says is right. English is interesting, I would have loved to have learned it, because sometimes I couldn’t read a book because I didn’t know it, and I had to settle for not knowing the content.”

      Tono, who had been eating quietly, which is rare for him, but since today there was a Russian salad, which was his favorite dish, said to Grandma, as he did whenever she made it:

      “Nana, you’re the best cook in the world.”

      Since it made Mom look a bit sad whenever he said such things, he would always thoughtfully say:

      “Well, you too Mom, don’t get upset, you do other things well, you know that.”

      “There can only be one who’s the best, who is it?” they asked him in jest.

      “It depends on what food you make Mom,” he said softly, “when you make lentils they don’t turn out very well, admit it.”

      It was true that he’d never liked them, and whenever she prepared them, he had to force himself to eat them, because Mom said that he couldn’t leave them; his body needed iron and that’s what lentils were full of.

      “I’m not a nail Mom, why do I want iron?” he would protest so he wouldn’t have to eat them.

      “Look Tono, you have to eat everything, your body needs it,” she answered and neither his protests nor his grumbles would work. He ended up eating the lentils like the rest of us.

      “And what about you Nana, because you don’t study it, you always say that ‘You can never know too much,’ because even if you have so many books, surely one more won’t matter,” Tono, who had stopped chewing, was saying.

      When he heard it, Grandpa took stock for a moment, looking at him.

      “Be quiet and keep eating, this does not involve you,” my father said.

      But it seems that he had made a good point, because my grandfather, although he had already turned 70, started studying English after that, and with all the enthusiasm of a little kid. When I went to his house, or when he came to ours, he was always speaking to me in English, as he said, “For practice.”

      The rest of the family found it amusing to hear us speaking something they didn’t understand. Chelito sat on Grandpa’s knees and asked him, “What are you saying? How do you say hello? And bread? And cookies? And cat?”

      “Girl, leave your Grandpa in peace, you’re pestering him,” Grandma scolded her.

      He ran his hand through my sister’s hair, saying:

      “Little one, know that that’s a good thing.”

      I know that my grandfather spent long hours studying, because as my grandmother used to tell me, “He was not a young man anymore and it was hard for him to remember those difficult words.”

      That suited him though, because he had a vision, to be able to talk to me with the new words he had learned and thus to make me apply myself more, because I had to know them in order to respond to the phrases he was directing toward me when we saw each other, either at his house, when I went to visit them or on Sundays,