Here I am, drinking a black coffee while I watch Cristina sleeping peacefully on the sofa. These small moments are what I truly value; they make me so happy that I find myself reminiscing about those lived during my childhood.
That summer, we had gone north to visit my Aunt Fruela and my Uncle Agustín. As the years passed, I understood that my parents had no biological relationship with them, yet they treated each other as if they were family, and they passed that feeling on to me.
As always, it was raining, but that was no impediment to my playing. They had no children, so whenever I visited, they showered me with whims and gifts. This, on the other hand, did not please my father, though he kept quiet out of respect. My playmate there was a St. Bernard named Rufo; when he ran, he splashed so much drool that I ended up soaked. In those days, I wasn’t as fastidious as I am now.
I watch as Cristina turns over to keep dozing; her hair covers her face. I brush a lock aside so she can breathe. I take a small sip of coffee and continue with my memories.
It was my birthday. By that date, almost all my friends were always away on vacation. My parents had given me my gift in advance back in Córdoba; I never liked receiving them early, but they explained it might get damaged during the trip and it was better to give it to me beforehand. They were probably right; it turned out to be a gigantic remote-control car and a regulation football.
However, that summer was going to be different—special. They brought out the cake and sang “Happy Birthday” in unison.
“Blow out the candles,” Aunt Fruela said, smiling.
And so I did. Then, Uncle Agustín gave me a gift kept in a wooden box, which had “221B Baker Street” carved into it. At first, I didn’t understand. I opened the box, and inside was a checkered cape, a deerstalker hat, a magnifying glass, and a toy pipe that blew soap bubbles. I looked at them in surprise, and all I managed to say was a “Thank you.” Then my Aunt went to the tea room and brought another package, which she gave me with a face full of happiness.
“Here, perhaps when you open this other gift, you’ll understand the meaning of the first.”
My parents watched expectantly—a scene I remember so well that it sometimes appears in my memory like a Cinemascope film.
I unwrapped the package covered in brown paper illustrated with old-fashioned airplanes. It was tied with a bright maroon cord. It was a book. Ugh… I thought, but what I said was very different: “Thank you very much.”
“What is it?” my father asked.
“A book,” I replied politely.
“But what a book!” Uncle Agustín exclaimed, looking at me with joy.
“The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Hound of the Baskervilles,” I replied with enthusiasm when I saw the cover illustration featuring a wolf with enormous jaws, baring its teeth in a rabid and menacing way.
“The important thing is the character with the pipe; you’ll realize that soon enough,” my aunt clarified.
For three days, I hardly looked up from the book, until one day during dinner, Aunt Fruela mentioned she hadn’t been able to find her pearl necklace for two days. That was when the idea struck me to use the costume for something more than just wearing it while I read. There was something about Sherlock that made me identify with him.
“I’ll find out where the necklace is!” I exclaimed excitedly, knowing this was an adventure just like the ones Sherlock Holmes lived—a detective adventure.
“Come on, forget the stories and let’s call the police,” asserted my father, who had never been very gifted in the imagination department.
“Dear, I’m so sorry! Was it very valuable?” my mother asked, ignoring my father’s comment.
“It had more sentimental value than economic,” she emphasized, taking Uncle Agustín’s hand.
I pulled on my deerstalker hat, turned to my aunt, and hugged her. “I’ll find it.”
For days, I searched for clues and footprints with my magnifying glass—which wasn’t made of glass but of transparent plastic. I looked in every corner of the house, on every step of the stairs, in the kitchen (even knowing my aunt never set foot there), in her dressing table. I was desperate, discouraged. Perhaps finding clues wasn’t so easy or obvious! But Sherlock never gave up. I took my pipe, loaded it with soap, crossed my arms, and blew bubbles to concentrate. And as I did, I looked out the window and saw my canine friend, lying with his snout splayed across the grass.
“Aha! I have it!”
I went running downstairs and bumped into Uncle Agustín.
“Careful, you’ll fall.” He patted my hair. “Have you discovered where the necklace is?”
“I think so. ‘The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.’”
My uncle looked at me thoughtfully and smiled.
I continued down and ran like the devil into the garden. I dashed across the lawn, and Rufo came running toward me playfully; I thought he would knock me over.
“Wait. Good boy!”
He sat down, gave me one paw and then the other. I petted him and then entered his kennel. I took my magnifying glass, and there it was—the chewed necklace, or what was left of it, for pearls were missing.
“You thought I wouldn’t find you!” I shouted at the necklace.
I grabbed it and ran back into the house, Rufo chasing me with great strides.
“I have it! I’ve discovered it!” I shouted while waving the battered necklace.
Everyone turned to give me their attention.
“Darling! You did it!”
Aunt Fruela hugged me tight, and Uncle Agustín placed his arm around her shoulder.
“How clever you are!” my mother exclaimed.
“Congratulations!” my father said, as brief as always.
I felt so happy I shouted:
“I know what I want to be when I grow up! I’ll be a detective.”
“You’re going to be Columbo!” my father replied ironically.
I looked at him puzzled. Who was this Columbo? “No, I’ll be like Sherlock Holmes.”
My Uncle Agustín replied: “You’ll be better than him.”
I still remember how he looked at me with pride and affection. Sometimes I long for the tickle of his mustache on my cheek when he gave me fatherly kisses. Never for a moment did I think that one day I would discover how Uncle Agustín had been murdered. He spurred me to want to be an inspector, and to want to be “the best” in real life. In part, that was one of the reasons for always wanting to improve and give my best.
I stood up to leave the cup on the countertop. As I returned to the armchair to pick up a good book and enjoy reading, Cristina opened her eyes and asked for a coffee with milk. I leaned in and kissed her.
“Of course.”
I set the book down and walked to the espresso machine. Cristina rubbed her eyes, put her hair in a bun, and with a half-smile, picked up the worn book: The Hound of the Baskervilles.
“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes,” Cristina remarked, peeking her head over the back of the sofa.
Rafael turned to look at her, leaning against the counter with his feet crossed. As he watched her, he thought that she was the personified evidence of his happiness.