The Dancer and the Raja

by Javier Moro

  Gradually she began to stop missing the constant presence of her family, whom she saw once a week, at the same time as she strengthened the bonds of friendship with Mme Dijon. The Frenchwoman proved to be loving and willing at all times but was still strict in carrying out her mission. She knew when to treat Anita as a child or a woman according to the circumstances. She would spend an afternoon in the apartment cutting and embroidering clothes with Anita, the same as she would go with her to the top of the Eiffel Tower, or ride with her on horseback in the Bois de Boulogne, or wait patiently for her to finish her tennis lesson. She enjoyed initiating her in Paris life, with its tearooms, its big stores, its cinemas, its theater halls and exhibitions. Anita, with wide eyes, soaked up the atmosphere of the great city. She noticed everything, from the way the women moved smoothly in their dresses—she too learned to hold up her skirts to go downstairs “letting her taffeta petticoats be seen”—to even the buttery smell in the patisseries, the French custom of eating lamb almost raw, or the legendary ill-humor of some Parisians. She turned out to be a gratifying pupil, easy to manage, who learned fast and never needed to be told the same thing twice. She had determination, an open, humble attitude toward what she did not know, and unlimited curiosity. That is what Mme Dijon informed the raja, who from afar felt the satisfaction of a job well done.

  On her birthday, her companion surprised Anita with a cake she had ordered that had a hundred candles. They were all lit.

  “But I’m only seventeen!” she exclaimed.

  “It’s so you live a hundred years, and so they are all happy years,” Mme Dijon had replied. Anita, moved, hugged her warmly.

  Then in the sitting room of the apartment she found a silver traveling case, a gift that filled her with emotion because it evoked the long journey she had ahead of her. She also found, together with two tickets to see the classical ballet at the Opéra Theatre, her favorite kind of show, some pretty mother-of-pearl opera glasses that she had asked for so that she could see the dancers better. Her love of dancing, which was a part of her, had found fertile ground in Paris to develop further. Every week she went to a show.

  And so the months went by, with lessons, car rides, and evenings at the theater. An orderly life, of which Anita was able to take advantage to gain refinement and become a woman of the world. She ended up speaking French well and writing it better than Spanish, but there was no way of getting rid of her strong Spanish accent. It made her anxious, although Mme Dijon calmed her by telling her it gave her a very attractive, exotic touch. Her parents also got by in French, especially her sister, Victoria. She had an American boyfriend who was “very handsome and very rich.” She had met him at a reception in the British embassy to which the raja, before he went away, had invited the sisters. His name was George Winans, and he came from a well-known family in Baltimore. He talked nineteen to the dozen and was the epitome of the ladies’ man. He said he had invented a car that was electrically propelled and he thought he would patent it and produce it in one of the factories his father owned in Switzerland. Anita had not liked that uncouth suitor; she thought he was a boaster. But she did not dare to say anything to her sister, in order not to spoil her excitement.

  The Delgados were tired of living in Paris, where they knew practically no one. In spite of the luxury that surrounded them, they were burning with desire to get back to Madrid to enjoy their new status. For them the future could not be fairer. They daydreamed their plans to move to a big flat, to hire servants, or even to perhaps buy a car … Their honor was the only thing that kept them in France. To enjoy a triumphant return to Madrid, they knew they first had to get the girl married, even if it was in the cold offices of some French town hall. That formality would set them free, opening the doors to the good life, opulence and security. But that required the raja’s presence.

  And the prince was taking longer than expected to appear. He had announced his arrival several times, and each time he had canceled the journey at the last moment, always for reasons beyond his control. The wait seemed so long to Anita that she began to harbor doubts. Does he still love me or has he got over it and that’s why he isn’t coming? And what if he comes and he doesn’t like me anymore? At any rate, a wait of six months, when you are seventeen, seems to go on forever.

  One day, when she was returning to the hotel from her protocol lesson, she thought she recognized a familiar figure striding back and forth in the entrance under the arcade in the rue Rivoli, as though waiting for someone. Once in the hallway, Anita realized who it was: “It’s Anselmo!” He had not recognized her because of her clothes and her fashionable hairstyle. But she had. He was the same as ever, with his Bohemian air and his dry Castilian face, which made him look like a bullfighter, as sinewy as a vine.

  “I’ve come to paint in Paris,” he told her. “I’ve finished my course at the San Fernando Academy and I’ve dived in … This is the capital of the world for art …”

  “Well, you’re very brave, and I congratulate you.”

  That night they all had dinner together in her parents’ apartment. Anselmo brought fresh news from Spain, although nothing significant had happened since they had left. The political atmosphere was still quite hot; meanwhile, King Alfonso XIII and his “Inglesita” were baptizing their child that very same week on the French Côte d’Azur, “as if they couldn’t give a damn about what’s happening in Spain,” Anselmo protested. As for everything else, the statue of Cybele remained in the same place, the most widely attended gatherings now took place at the Candelas milk bar, and Don Ramón’s beard was getting longer and longer.

  Doña Candelaria was not at all pleased by the visit of that “penniless artist” who was in love with her daughter and who could bring all her monumental projects tumbling about her ears, and when he had left, she warned Anita not to see him again. That advice was enough for her to do exactly the opposite. The next day they arranged to meet at the entrance of the Ambroise Vollard gallery, the dealer who had discovered the impressionists. Among the Provence landscapes, nudes, and scenes of lunches on the banks of quiet rivers, Anselmo asked her if she was happy. With no hesitation Anita answered, “Yes, although the situation is a little strange. I’m learning a lot of things, everything is new for me, but I don’t really know how all this is going to end. The raja has been away for a long time, and sometimes I wonder …”

  “But does he love you or not?”

  “I think he loves me … Otherwise, what would we be doing here?”

  “And do you love him?”

  Anita stood there thinking.

  “Yes,” she said after a long pause.

  “You don’t sound very convinced.”

  “It’s just that it’s all so unreal … Sometimes I dream I wake up and find myself back in bed in my cold room in Madrid, leading the same life as before … And when I really wake up and find myself in the hotel room, looking at the breakfast they bring me on a silver tray … I don’t know whether I’m awake or asleep!”

  They laughed happily. Anita went on, “Sometimes I wonder if he really exists … We hardly know each other, but what I do know is that he treats me like a queen, and that makes me feel something for him … call it what you like.”

  “Anita, what a mess you’ve got yourself into! I was coming to suggest a much more exciting adventure …”

  “Oh yes?” she said ingenuously. “Tell me.”

  “I’ve rented a room in Montmartre, near where my friend Pablo Ruiz lives, who, by the way, is from Málaga; I think you’d really like to meet him. The room has a leak or two and it’s on the sixth floor with no lift, I’m not going to lie to you. But the view over the rooftops of Paris is much more romantic than the one you have from your hotel room … Shall I go on?”

  “Of course …” she said, smiling.

  “I suggest you come and live with me.”

  “Bread and dripping with you, isn’t it?”

&n
bsp; “More or less …” he said, giving her a look burning with passion.

  Anita looked at him with tenderness and showed him her hand where the diamonds on the engagement ring the raja had given her shone. Anselmo changed his tone and began to talk seriously. “I’m offering you real love, Anita. And happiness, which has nothing to do with all the money of your Moorish king …”

  “Don’t call him that!” she interrupted.

  Anselmo was surprised by the virulence of her reaction. He seemed to understand that he had lost the game.

  “I’ve missed you a lot.”

  “Me too …, at first. But I’ve changed, Anselmo. I’m not the girl I was before.”

  “Of course …” he said in resignation, hiding his hands so that she could not see they were trembling with emotion.

  They ended up spending the afternoon at Pablo Ruiz’s studio, who signed his pictures with his mother’s maiden name, Picasso. The ceilings were very high, with skylights that let in the leaden light. Anita enjoyed the Spanish atmosphere with people her own age, without the presence of her parents. She laughed uproariously at Pablo’s jokes, a witty womanizer from Málaga who continually flirted with her. The walls were covered with his pictures, which Anita did not like at all because he painted dislocated faces and bodies, and for that reason she did not think he would have a very brilliant future before him. It was the beginning of cubism. And she felt completely at home in that atmosphere of Bohemian artists, because it was similar to what she had known in Madrid. That was her world. But in spite of Anselmo trying to get her to see that, and however much she felt it might be so, she had no alternative but to hold on to the tenuous fairy tale in which she was playing the part of Cinderella. Anyway, it was a relief to think that if the fairy tale burst like a soap bubble, she had the world of her old artist friends to fall back on.

  The riding lesson was her favorite moment of the day. A landau with the coat of arms of Kapurthala picked her up punctually and after driving along the Champs-Elysées, it took one of the roads that go into the Bois de Boulogne, where the most select riding club in the city was. That day Anita went alone, without Mme Dijon, who had stayed behind in the hotel apartment claiming a crise de foie, a liver attack, for having eaten too much. Anita thought the expression was very funny because in Spain she had never heard anyone complain of their liver. Spaniards said they had a belly or stomach ache and left their livers for the doctor to deal with.

  The Bois de Boulogne was prettier than usual that day, or at least that is what she thought. The end-of-summer light filtered down between the trees, tingeing the foliage a whole range of different greens. It had rained the night before and it smelled of damp earth. The ground was soft, and she thought it was a perfect day to go for a ride after the lesson, instead of staying and going round and round the paddock. Spot was the name of her mare, a Spanish-Arab whose white coat was spotted with gray and who had a tail the same color. She belonged to the stables the raja always kept in Paris. Spot was a docile mare and easy to ride, able to respond in a lively way if the rider demanded it of her. She was without doubt Anita’s best friend after Mme Dijon.

  The teacher gave her permission to go out for a ride, as long as she kept to the path that went round some small ponds and lakes and up and down the hills in the park. She had already been out before on her own, and she had always come back delighted. It was like intensely enjoying a moment of pure freedom, in communion with the mare and with the exuberant vegetation in the woods.

  That morning she dared to try out trotting and cantering. She enjoyed the change from one rhythm to another, which Spot did precisely and gently. She liked to feel she was controlling the mare, and she had completely lost all fear of her. That and the force of the wind in her face gave her a dizzying sensation.

  But at a certain moment, Anita noticed that Spot was getting excited and she had to pull hard on the reins for her not to break into a gallop. Even so it was hard to keep her under control. What can she have seen? Anita wondered. Why is she getting upset? She soon found out: another rider was following her. She could hear the trotting of a horse getting closer and closer, as she leaned back as hard as she could to slow the mare. But her efforts made no difference and what she had always been afraid of happened: Spot stopped obeying her instructions and bolted, hurtling across the countryside at a full gallop, exactly what the teacher had forbidden. Anita felt panic-stricken, but she stuck in the saddle and managed to keep her balance. She remembered what to do in such cases: gently pull the reins to one side so the horse would gallop round in a wide circle at first and then closer and closer until she could stop it. But she had no time to do that: the rider who was following her was catching up. She could hear the animal’s panting getting closer. Anita cursed him with her whole repertoire of Andalusian insults, while the rider overtook her and got hold of Spot’s reins, slowing down the mad race until both horses were trotting and then walking.

  “You have to be firmer with Spot,” said a familiar voice. “You’re in control, not her.”

  It was the raja. He had arrived in Paris the night before after attending the christening of Alfonso XIII and the Inglesita’s child in Nice. He had called Mme Dijon to organize the meeting with Anita in the Bois de Boulogne. The lady was not ill; she was the accomplice of her master, who had wanted to surprise his beloved in a romantic way.

  Anita was pale. The shock and emotion of seeing him again had left her exhausted.

  “It was not my intention to frighten you, but these animals are very competitive. Don’t forget that Spot was a champion when she ran in the races, so she does not like to be overtaken. Otherwise, you ride very well and with a good style.”

  “Thank you.”

  The raja smiles as he looks at Anita getting her breath back. She is very pretty with her hair in a mess, her cheeks red, and her temples shining with beads of sweat.

  “Mme Dijon has also told me you’ve learned French very well. I’m proud of you, Anita,” he adds with his usual rather paternal tone.

  “Merci, Altesse. I wished to be equal to the confidence you have placed in …”

  She had tried out the phrase a thousand times, because a thousand times she had imagined the scene of their meeting again. But now it sounded hollow to her. So she changed her tone. “I am very happy to see you again, Your Highness. I came to think you had fallen in love with a prettier girl who was more charming than me, and that you would not be back …”

  “I haven’t stopped thinking about you for a moment, Anita,” the raja says, laughing.

  “Nor I, you, Highness.”

  That day was the first they spent together and alone, tête-à-tête, as the French say. At night they had dinner at Chez Maxim’s, which also offered the best French cancan in the whole of Paris. Anita was resplendent. She had had her hair done carefully, and the emerald earrings the rajah had given her gave a touch of light to the pale beauty of her face. It is true, she was not the same as in previous months. Her gestures, her way of serving herself, of looking, of putting her fork to her mouth or cutting her meat had little to do with her coarse manners of before. The lessons with the ambassador’s widow had taken effect. When she spoke, she was more amusing than before because she mixed Spanish words and not very orthodox French words. The raja seemed very proud of his “handiwork.” He had managed to change the girl: in fact, dressed and made up as she was that night, she did not seem like a girl. She was a splendid young woman. But what moved him most was that for the first time he could notice that she was taking an interest in him. She asked him questions about Kapurthala, about his recent journeys, about his health and about his tastes. She was uninhibited, and perhaps without realizing it, she was speaking to him like a woman speaks to her man. The raja found it hard to hide his jubilation.

  When the show was over, they left the restaurant and sent the chauffeur away. They walked back across the Place de la Concorde, this time ar
m in arm “like lifelong sweethearts,” but now it did not matter because Anita wanted it to be so. The temperature was delightful, and at that moment Paris was the most romantic city in the world. She had opened her heart to him, giving free rein to the flood of feelings and emotions she had been repressing for months, like the waters of a dam when the floodgates are opened. So she did not dare to interrupt the pleasure of the first and only day of intimacy they had had. They went up to the suite in the Meurice Hotel and, by the heat from the marble fireplace in the bedroom, he initiated the first caresses; he did it so carefully that his suggestion that she undo her dress seemed natural. While she did that, he went into his dressing room; when he came back, he was wrapped in a snow white dressing gown, which he dropped on the floor before slipping into bed. She followed him like a frightened fawn. He took her hand, clenched in fear, nibbled her fingers and then stroked the curve of her neck, the soft hair on her arms …, and so on until, all unawares, she felt him touching her breast. Anita felt a shiver of pleasure all over her body and was glad to be in near darkness so that he would not suspect the redness of her cheeks. Then she gave herself to him, with no fear, but with pain, leaving a crimson carnation of blood on the sheets as a token of that night of love.