The Dancer and the Raja

by Javier Moro

  The darkness of the night makes her fears seem greater. She is afraid that her life, which for the last year has seemed like a dream, may suddenly become a nightmare. Will she be able to get used to living there? If Bombay seems so far away and exotic, what will Kapurthala be like if it does not even appear on the map? Is what’s happening really happening to me? she wonders, as she dries her sweat and tears with the edge of the sheet. The border between sleep and reality seems so tenuous to her that she feels a kind of dizziness. How can it be otherwise, if all that is happening to her is like a fairy tale? How can she get a hold of reality if reality slips away from under her feet and vanishes, and the dream becomes true?

  Madrid was a fiesta when she saw him the first time. The city had been at fever pitch for several months with the preparations for the wedding of Alfonso XIII—her king, the one who sent her the mother-of-pearl fan—and the English princess, Victoria Eugenie of Battenberg, who had been born at Balmoral Castle and had converted to Catholicism at the Miramar Palace, on the banks of the River Urumea. People talked about nothing else but the “royal wedding,” perhaps because for the long-suffering people of Madrid it was also a way to forget the constraints of their day-to-day lives. The program of festivities taking place before the wedding included a performance of the opera Lucia de Lammermoor at the Theatre Royal, fairs and regional dancing, military parades, choral competitions, a battle of flowers in the Retiro Park, a royal excursion to Aranjuez, and even the inauguration of the “Maria Victoria” working-class district in Cuatro Caminos. The great composer Breton, who had written La verbena de la Paloma, had composed a wedding march especially for the occasion. The Maison Modèle, a shop in Carretas Street, offered the most elegant range in hats, dresses, and corsets “brought from Paris, for ladies of the Court and provinces who come to the wedding.”

  Also from Paris, on May 28, 1906, the “Train of Princes” arrived, on which were traveling a large number of members of European royal houses: Frederick Henry, Prince of Russia; Louis, Crown Prince of Monaco; Eugene, Prince of Sweden; Luis Felipe, Crown Prince of Portugal; Thomas and Isabel, Duke and Duchess of Genoa … and to represent the King of England, George and Mary, the Prince and Princess of Wales. The chronicle in La Epoca ended with overflowing enthusiasm: “Make way for Europe! Europe is coming to Spain, Europe is coming to the wedding of Don Alfonso XIII. Spain has not disappeared from the world! Spain is alive!”

  The arrival of the train was a major event. Madrid was in the mood for dreaming. The whole Delgado family joined the crowds to see the retinue with their own eyes making the trip from North Station to the Royal Palace, where the illustrious guests were going to pay their respects to the king. The city had never before seen such a procession of dignitaries. The people came out onto the streets to take in a little of the opulence of those aristocrats who rode by in sumptuous carriages. Anita and her sister, Victoria, managed to make room for themselves in the crowd to watch the show “from front-row seats.” And what a show! In a Hispano-Suiza convertible, the tall and distinguished Albert of Belgium appeared, with his impressive retinue, followed by Franz Ferdinand, the archduke of Austria, dressed in a splendid military uniform, standing in a carriage, also surrounded by his dukes and counts, and so on until the most important delegation, that of the Prince and Princess of Wales, who were accompanying the bride, whom the people of Madrid affectionately called “La Inglesita.”

  “Look, Victoria, look!” What Anita’s eyes suddenly saw challenged the imagination. Standing in a huge white carriage, a prince who looked as though he came from a story in Arabian Nights gazed augustly left and right, observing the city and its people, waving his hand or politely nodding his head. Wearing a turban of white muslin fastened with a brooch of emeralds and a plume of feathers, dressed in a blue uniform with a silver sash, with his beard carefully coiled up in a little net, and his chest covered in medals and a necklace of thirteen strings of pearls, His Highness Raja Jagatjit Singh of Kapurthala embodied perfectly the idea held of an Oriental monarch. A personal friend of the Prince and Princess of Wales and of Don Alfonso de Borbon, whom he had met in Biarritz, in Madrid the raja represented “The jewel of the Crown,” that immense country known as India, overseen and administered by the British. Anita and her sister, Victoria, stood stupefied and openmouthed at this apparition, wondering whether he could be a Moorish or Cuban king.

  That night, as every night, the Delgado sisters had to fulfil their contract as curtain raisers. They crossed the Puerta del Sol to get to the Central Kursaal, a games court where ball was played in the daytime and which at night the owners turned into a café concert. They turned the back wall into a stage, lined up chairs in the middle of the court, and on the other half they improvised a café, with chairs and tables; they offered a “variety” show, the latest fashion imported from Paris. In Madrid, the theater critics complained that many serious theaters had gone over to “the other side,” to a frivolous genre. Even the Zarzuela Theatre was in decline. Perhaps the success of the variety shows was due to the fact that people wanted to forget their hardships.

  Anita and Victoria made up a duo known as the Camellias, and they acted between the different numbers to make the wait seem shorter during scene changes. On the program that night were no less than la Fornarina, Pastora Imperio, Bella Chelito, the Bird Man, and Mimi Fritz. At ten o’clock sharp the Camellias came out on stage dressed in short, bell-shaped skirts, a shocking bright red, with stockings to match. As soon as they heard the strumming of the guitar they began dancing flamenco sevillanas, and then seguidillas and finally boleros. They were not the best dancers in Spain, but their Andalusian gracefulness amply compensated for their lack of technique. That was sufficient for them to be successful as curtain raisers at the Kursaal, which that night had a full sign hanging. An audience of the most varied kind filled all the tables: many foreigners linked to the royal families invited to the wedding, politicians, journalists and correspondents, and the usual faithful Bohemians: Romero de Torres the painter, Valle-Inclán with his flowing beard, a journalist known as the Audacious Gentleman, the writer Ricardo Baroja, the nephew of Don Pio, a young Catalan from a well-to-do family called Mateo Morral, who said he was a columnist and who had just joined the café meetings, although he rarely opened his mouth. “A dark, silent man,” as Baroja would describe him. And above all there was Anselmo Miguel Nieto, a young painter from Valladolid, tall and thin, with penetrating dark eyes, who had come to make his way in Madrid. Anselmo never missed a night at the Kursaal because he was in love with Anita. With the excuse of painting her portrait, he had become friendly with her and had met her parents. Uncertain of her own feelings, she simply let herself be loved.

  That night all the talk was of the discovery—which occurred in the morning, on the bark of a tree in the Retiro—of an inscription carved with a knife, which had managed to shake the whole of Madrid, especially because it appeared after a series of death threats received in different ministries and even in the Royal Palace: “Alfonso XIII will be executed on his wedding day. Unrepentant” ran the inscription. The imagination of those present had been deeply impressed. “What kind of terrible man and at what moment of devilish solitude could he have carved that?” they asked each other half seriously, half jokingly. “Would he smile sardonically like the bad men in Sherlock Holmes, a very popular character of the time?” “Would he have a black beard?” Would his eyes gleam?”

  “Let the king and queen get away and get married in an unknown country, on a desert island, if possible!” exclaimed Don Ramón del Valle-Inclán.

  The regulars always sat in the same place, behind the first box, in a corridor that ran the length of the premises. There they could socialize after every act with Pastora Imperio or la Fornarina, the witty dressmaker who had moved up to being a cabaret singer singing Don Nicanor or Frufru. They did not mix with the Camellia sisters because their parents appeared punctually at the end of the dancing to take them home, “i
n case,” said Don Angel, “they are taken for what they are not.” But the beauty, youth. and Andalusian grace of the sisters made them very popular among the regulars at the Kursaal. Ricardo Baroja described Anita thus: “Tall, with clear, unblemished skin and very dark hair, huge, languid eyes. Her features, not yet firmly established, promised to achieve the classical beauty of a Greek Venus when her youth blossomed.”

  A tall, distinguished foreigner, surrounded by a group of people, must have been thinking the very same thing, having taken a seat at a table close to the stage. The man could not take his eyes off Anita and seemed entranced by the music. The sound of the guitar reminded him of the sarangi, a very popular instrument from his country, and the castanets were like the tabla. But the melody was different from anything he had ever heard in his life.

  Anita did not immediately recognize him because she was so involved in following the steps of the dance. Besides, the man was wearing a dark flannel suit and a white shirt with a starched collar. But his insistent gaze caused the girl to notice him. Oh my God, the Moorish king! Anita suddenly told herself and, on recognizing him, she almost stumbled in shock. There was the raja, smiling, captivated by that beauty who must remind him of the women of his own land. “He is a handsome Indian type,” the Audacious Gentleman, who was present at the scene, would write. “His body, very tall, is slender, vigorous and firm. His copper-coloured skin contrasts with the whiteness of his clean, white teeth. He is always smiling sweetly. His big, shiny, dark eyes have an ardent, dominating look.”

  Once the performance was over, Don Angel and Doña Candelaria, who were waiting for their daughters to finish changing behind the curtain that served as a dressing room, saw a short, very polite man approach them, speaking nervously. “Good evening, I am the raja’s interpreter. He is sitting at that table over there. I work in the Hotel Paris, close to here, where His Highness is staying … Would you agree to come and have a glass of champagne at his table? The raja was very impressed with your daughters’ performance and would like to offer you …”

  Don Angel looked at him in surprise, while his wife looked indignant.

  “Tell His Highness that we are very grateful,” Don Angel replied politely, “but it is late, it’s almost midnight. The girls are very young. You understand what I mean, don’t you?”

  At the furious look the lady gave him, the interpreter chose not to insist and went back to the prince’s table. “What does that Moor think my daughters are? Tarts?” exclaimed Doña Candelaria indignantly as she dragged the girls toward the exit.

  While he was in Madrid, the raja went to see Anita dance every night. He must have been the only customer who paid to see the curtain raisers and not the famous cabaret singers advertised on the poster. One night, before the girls’ performance and the dreaded presence of Doña Candelaria, the interpreter went over to the dressing room.

  “Señorita, I have this for you from His Highness …” The man handed her a thick envelope. Anita opened it: it was full of money. She looked up at the prince’s emissary.

  “There are five thousand pesetas there,” the man went on. “His Highness wants you to go to his table, you know, just to talk …”

  Anita’s look reflected the humiliation she had just suffered. The interpreter gestured to her not to raise her voice. But it was already too late.

  “Tell that Moor that I might be a poor girl, but I have my honor! Who does he think he is? How can he think I would sell myself for money, however much it is? Tell him he’s a pig! Tell him not to come anywhere near me, and don’t you say another word to me!”

  After the show, Anita burst into tears “like an idiot” and it was the regulars who consoled her. Her mother was also there, explaining what had happened to Ricardo Baroja. “The thing is that king loves my daughter. But no, in the name of God, he’s a Mohammedan!”

  “Mohammedan?”

  “Yes. One of those who has a harem. He’ll take her away and we’ll never see her again …”

  The next day the doorbell rang in the Delgados’ modest flat. The person who opened the door was Anita because her mother had gone to the market with her sister. She could see nothing but flowers. The bouquet was so big it hid the poor delivery boy. “Oh my God! Where am I going to put all this?” The flowers came with a letter from the raja. Anita read it slowly because she had difficulty reading, and besides, because she had slept so little because of the upset, her eyes were swollen. The prince made his apologies: “It was not my intention to upset you, and much less to insinuate something that I could not even imagine. I beg you to accept these flowers as a sign of my deepest respect toward you …” Anita sat down at the table in the tiny dining room and sighed. Then she looked at the flowers again. They were camellias.

  6

  On this hot night when she cannot sleep, Anita remembers that other night when she had not slept either. She had felt offended, insulted deep inside by a man she hardly knew. It had been her first experience as a woman in the male jungle. She herself had been surprised at the intensity of her reaction. Now, with hindsight, it seemed childish. She should have laughed.

  Tonight she is tormented by the aftertaste of that feeling that left her unable to sleep. Even though she struggles to avoid it, she finds it hard not to let herself be affected by the feeling she has been manipulated. She had her life worked out, her modest job, her flirtation with Anselmo Miguel Nieto, who had even openly declared his love for her, her sister, whom she adored, her parents, her girlfriends … A whole universe that tonight seems warm, cosy, and welcoming. Why did a dazzling Moorish king have to appear in her normal, happy life and launch her into a world of luxury and exoticism that she does not know and cannot enjoy?

  She is sufficiently lucid to know that she should not think in this way, but deep in her heart she feels sorry for herself. She has been weak when she should have been strong. She fell into his arms—into his bed—too soon. She was not able to resist. Yes, the fault is hers; a woman of her age knows what she is doing. Or at least, she should. But he should have waited a little longer …

  The cawing of the crows cuts through the air laden with warm mist. The effluvia of the sea rise to the suite. It smells of something indefinable, a mixture of the smoke from the little camping stoves in the street where the poor people make their food, dampness, and a different vegetation. The smell of India.

  Suddenly she feels that if she could flee, get on a boat and go back to Europe, she would without a moment’s hesitation. Reversing her steps, rewinding the film of the last two years of her life, finding herself back in her world, the warmth of her family, feeling the cold of Madrid again, the smell of dog-roses that comes down from the mountains in springtime, the crispiness of freshly made churros, laughing again at the gossip in her tenement, posing again for Anselmo … My God, where is all that now! Until today she felt that at any moment she could unravel the threads, that with one stroke of the pen she could stop time, choose, say yes, say no, live her life more or less as she pleased. But in the heat of that night of anguish she realizes that it is going to be impossible to retrace her steps. She feels hemmed in by destiny, far away from everything, alone. It is almost hard for her to breathe. She realizes that if Dr. Willoughby confirms her pregnancy in the morning, there is no going back. Her life is no longer a game. Now things are for real.

  That a prince from India should want to carry Anita off was such an unusual event that it galvanized the curiosity of many people. The Camellias became famous because of it, although they would have preferred to be known for their talent. In the circle of Bohemians and intellectuals, there was an enormous amount of intrigue and gossip. Would the raja succeed in carrying off our Anita? That was the question on the lips of all the regulars, especially when they looked toward his box and saw Anita’s mother involved in lengthy conversations with the Indian and his interpreter. The news that filtered out from those conversations spoke of the raja’s desire to ta
ke Anita away for a while to Paris to educate her in the art of being the wife of a king, and then to marry her. A real fairy tale, too pretty to be true. Anita, for her part, felt flattered by the interest she had aroused in that personage. But she could not take it seriously. “… you’re not enough to make me your beloved,” she sang to him coquettishly, warning the interpreter not to translate the words.

  Anita was too young to think seriously about love. She had only flirted a little with Anselmo Nieto, who was twenty-three and lived a Bohemian’s life in Madrid. Anita enjoyed his company, and although he was more in love with her every day, not imagining the competition that had appeared out of nowhere, their relationship was nothing more than a close friendship.

  The more Anita rejected the raja, the more determined he was to have her. He was crazy about her. One had only to observe him sitting in his box, engrossed in the performance of the curtain raisers. The contrast of Anita’s figure, which, when she was still, seemed sweet and serene, with her uncouth air and her brazen, unrefined way of speaking, drove him wild. Once the dance was over, he sent his interpreter again and again to invite her. Sometimes Anita accepted and turned up accompanied by Doña Candelaria. The regulars could see her mother shaking her head in refusal from a distance. The raja was silent, always looking at the young woman. One night, in his box, he invited them to have dinner after the show. She did not accept, of course.

  “What about lunch? Couldn’t you come and have lunch with His Highness?” inquired the interpreter.

  Anita looked at her mother and sister, Victoria, for guidance. Suddenly Doña Candelaria nodded, and the raja must have felt the tide beginning to turn in his favor.