by Tove Jansson
Down in the town they were met by music.
“Another small drop, Viktoria,” said one of the colonists.
“No, thanks. Maybe not right now.”
They left the car and made their way slowly through the crowds in the narrow streets. Josephine clung to Viktoria’s arm, shouting cheerfully, “Make way! Make way! I’ve captured a real professor!”
It was extremely embarrassing.
Balloons everywhere, shouts and laughter. Small children riding through the crowds on their fathers’ shoulders, a howling cherub in a bright yellow wig, a miniature devil with horns, a Zorro, clouds of confetti rising from the square ahead.
“Please, Miss O’Sullivan,” Viktoria pleaded, “let go. I really don’t need to go any closer.” But she was pushed on relentlessly, tightly hemmed in by a strange procession of color and movement under a rain of flowers and sprigs of olive. Many of the dancers were wearing masks, violent faces of mockery, ecstasy, unbearable pain. To Viktoria their gestures seemed out of control, their colors chosen to hurt the eye—and now they were approached by tight, silent rows of children in costume. Viktoria’s eyes fastened on a solemn little girl and with a thrill of recognition she told herself, Yes, that’s the Infanta of Velázquez. So beautiful. The Inquisition marched by, followed by the Most Beautiful of All under an arch of mimosa and almond blossom. Viktoria thought she looked frightened. Then came the cobwebbed figures of the Dead Forest, followed by several marching whiskey bottles. Viktoria turned to smile at Josephine, but Josephine had vanished.
I must try and describe all this to Hilda. I’ll write this very evening; it’ll cheer her up. Just look, all these people getting to live out their dreams, play a part, finally become someone else. It’s wonderful. Why don’t we have carnivals at home—my goodness, we certainly need them. Here’s a woman whose dream was to be a brave and gallant Robin Hood: Look at the long feather in her hat! And those excited men dancing their dream of being women, with their glorious bosoms!
The music grew wilder. She saw a toreador and his bull playing a passionate game with each other. People shouted and pressed forward. It was a splendid fiesta!
A black sedan full of bandits rolled into the square. And in front of it, on an empty patch of naked street, there was X—dancing, as dark as the car, slashing the air around her with a long, gleaming knife. A kitchen knife, in fact. The music had changed to España Cañi. Then Viktoria saw Josephine rush out into the street—Josephine, also with a knife in her hand. “Josephine!” she cried. “Stop! Come back!”
The two women circled each other in front of the bandits’ car. They lunged, retreated, and the crowd cried bravo and clapped hands in time with the music. Viktoria shouted again, “Stop! Pericoloso! Dangerous!” But no one paid her any attention. The two women had begun to stamp on the ground, approaching each other, circling close and dancing away again. Their dance had now captured the crowd’s complete attention. Josephine was having difficulty staying on her feet. Someone behind Viktoria said they weren’t doing the right steps and weren’t really Spanish at all. Viktoria turned around and hissed, “Shut up, you idiot! You don’t understand what’s going on! This is a matter of life and death.”
The procession moved slowly on and Viktoria followed, pushing forward, unapologetically. She saw Josephine stagger and drop her knife. X picked it up and gave it back to her, and they continued circling each other like cats in a backyard. Josephine’s dogs ran back and forth as close to X as they dared and yapping as if possessed. And the music played on. But now the procession had slowed and stopped. Josephine staggered against the radiator of the bandits’ car and clung to it with both hands. X advanced on her slowly and Viktoria shrieked, “No!” X raised her knife and quickly, with a couple of slashes, she sliced off Josephine’s red braids, threw them contemptuously on the street and walked away.
The crowd drew back to let her pass; it had all happened very quickly. The music switched to “Never on Sunday” and Viktoria was suddenly trapped in the tightly packed crowd and wanted only to go home. Eventually she managed to escape from the square to some deserted streets and sat down outside a café to rest her legs. A man came up and said, “Sorry to bother you. I’m American. You called me an idiot.”
“And so you were,” said Viktoria wearily. “When someone is stamping her feet, it doesn’t make any difference whether or it’s ‘Spanish’ or not. People stamp their feet because they’re angry. Where do you think I could find a taxi?”
“My car’s just around the corner,” the man said. “I’m from Houston, Texas.”
All the way up to the village he told her about his family and his job. They exchanged addresses and promised to send postcards.
Stretched on her bed in the cool darkness Viktoria tried to make sense of what had happened. The vendetta had clearly reached a dramatic climax. And now, thought Viktoria, Josephine will just have to find a new way to do her hair—and X will be even more unpopular and isolated. She’s the loser, she behaved badly. I must try to be fair. It’s natural to root for the underdog, but what does sympathy have to do with justice? Josephine was the one I promised to help. But X interests me more—I’m not objective.
It was the same way with my students—it mattered so much to them which side I was on. They would drive me to despair by seeing everything in black and white. Is there such a thing as a real absolute, a true either/or? Or is everyone somehow right in their own way, and because I understand that, it makes me indecisive and wishy-washy, trying to tolerate each point of view? But those parties I used to give for my students were an attempt, perhaps an awkward one, or too timid, but an attempt nonetheless, to get them out of their tight little cliques and be friendly and civilized and listen and understand each other a little better. My parties were a good idea. I think I should try it again. A party for the whole colony? No. Just for Josephine and X.
The telegram came later that evening. ‘Mom died this morning just fell asleep but it seems strange dont worry tell Jose if roof leaks dont worry Elisabeth.”
At first Viktoria felt she ought to go home and help. But maybe not. She sat at the table and read the telegram over and over. What was that about the roof? Why should it start to leak? How peculiar. After a while, she went up onto the terrace and emptied a couple of pailfuls of water on the roof. None of the water came through.
And then suddenly, with surprising intensity, Viktoria found herself grieving for the lost friend of her youth—Hilda, who never understood how easily she could have stopped being difficult.
I’ll throw out that horrible squid! And take in the saucer I put out for the cats. They don’t drink milk, these Spanish cats—not even the cats here are normal.
That evening Viktoria went to the café and ordered a Cuba Libre. She asked José what the wild cats drank when they were thirsty.
José laughed. “They lick up the dew.”
That night Viktoria lulled herself to sleep by imagining she was an independent Spanish cat finding an opportune dew cup at dawn (if dew cups even grew in this country).
Viktoria wrote out invitations to her party, taking a lot of trouble with the formal wording and calligraphy. The supper would take place at José’s, the only restaurant in the village. It was behind his café, a terrace with a magnificent view over the valley, perfect for summer tourists passing through.
This will do nicely, Viktoria thought, and went to discuss her plans with José. There were a lot of people in the café. She greeted José and Catalina and invited them to take a glass with her because she needed advice on an important personal matter. Catalina smiled and said no, thank you, she was too busy, but José carried two Cuba Libres to a table by the glass doors to the terrace. Viktoria came straight to the point. “I’m planning a formal supper with two guests and I want it to be a really good one. I have confidence in your culinary experience and I’d like to discuss the menu. Isn’t lamb the right choice for the main dish?”
“Definitely,” said José, enthusiastical
ly. “I suggest cordero con guisantes.”
“That sounds excellent,” said Viktoria, nodding thoughtfully as if she were an expert. “And as a starter—I mean entremeses?”
“How about gambas fritas?”
Viktoria knew gambas were prawns. She made a dismissive gesture; people always had prawns at formal dinners back home. “Perhaps something more—exotic?”
“Erizos naturales?”
“Well, it depends,” said Viktoria cryptically, not wanting to ask for a translation. “But we must have mimosa on the table, masses of it. Not almond blossoms, we have to think about the poor almonds. And the wine?”
“Privilegio del Rey,” José answered firmly. “Privilegio del Rey without a doubt. Would you like to taste it, Professor? It’s very renowned.”
“With pleasure.”
José fetched two large glasses and Viktoria tasted the wine. She nodded graciously and asked about the vintage. They continued their earnest discussion. The villagers followed the conversation carefully; they could tell it was very important.
José asked, “Which would you prefer, Professor, ensalada verde mezclada or chalotas y remolachas?”
“Ensalada verde of course.”
“Of course,” agreed José appreciatively.
“And cheese,” said Viktoria.
“Just cheese? No dessert?”
“I think just cheese is more elegant. And then coffee.”
José lifted his hands. “My dear Professor, that’s impossible, unthinkable! You can’t have a real supper without postre! Crema de Café Dolores yanes, pastel infanta, platanos a la Canaria, amor frío—”
“Is it so very important?” asked Viktoria in astonishment. “What was that last one called?”
“Amor frío.”
“Doesn’t that mean more or less ‘cold love’?”
“More or less.”
“Then it couldn’t be better,” said Viktoria, and giggled. “Only one other important detail: There have to be oranges on the table, a large bowl. Complete with leaves.” She could see that José didn’t like the idea; he looked suddenly crestfallen. Then she took out her invitation cards and asked if he’d be so kind as to arrange for them to be delivered; it would be more polite than sending them by post.
Their conference was over.
The next day word went round that the unsociable professor was giving a dinner in style at José’s. The detail about the oranges was considered highly amusing. And the combination of guests was a topic of general discussion. So far as anyone knew, neither woman had declined the invitation. Everyone could see that this completely altered the picture, which must now be judged from an entirely new angle, depending, of course, on the outcome of Viktoria’s dinner.
The crucial evening itself was mild and beautiful. Viktoria dressed with particular care; the pearls were for her guests but the chinchilla was to impress the colony. The café was full of villagers but there was no one on the terrace. The colony was anxious not to appear inquisitive.
The guests arrived on time from different directions, Josephine without her dogs. Viktoria rose to welcome them. José appeared in a white apron and served Privilegio del Rey.
“So good of you to come,” Viktoria said. “I’d like to drink to your health because, among other things, I believe you to be two very enterprising and courageous women. We’ll raise our glasses to the spring, to new beginnings.”
Josephine had been to a hair salon in town and was now crowned with an astoundingly large bush of red hair.
“How kind,” she said. “How very kind.”
Viktoria’s guests were extremely wary; they looked as if they had come to take an examination.
Viktoria made a sweeping gesture encompassing the magnificent landscape, the mountains, and the flowering valley and said, “You know, in the days when I had students, so many of them longed to travel, maybe to places like this, sometime in the future when they’d be able to afford it. We often spread out a map of the world and talked about where we would most like to go. It was such fun.” Viktoria turned to X and asked her how she had come to choose this particular village.
X shrugged and said, “For a long time I cared for an elderly relative. When she died I inherited her house.”
“Do you ever feel homesick?”
“No. But I do sometimes think about lawns.”
“Of course, lawns!” Viktoria energetically agreed. “And meadows. Here you can’t get onto the grass; it’s reserved for the orange trees. Of course, you could go into the mountains—there are no fences up there.”
“It’s nothing but stones,” said Josephine. “I tried.” She broke off as José came out on the terrace to serve them. When he’d gone, she repeated herself impatiently. “Nothing but stones. And it’s so dark indoors. Always dark.”
“Yes,” said Viktoria. “But all you have to do is go outside. Am I right?”
Her guests didn’t answer. There was a long silence. X was eating but Josephine merely toyed with her food.
Viktoria tried again. She told some amusing stories about her students, about her own impracticality, how they’d always lent a hand, the same way Josephine had helped her build a fire or the way Miss Smith had let her rest that time she was tired and feeling ill.
“You weren’t feeling ill,” X interrupted calmly and confidently. “You were perfectly fine. You were out sniffing around on her behalf.”
“Quite true, Miss Smith,” Viktoria answered lightly. “I behaved badly. But in all honesty, do you think it’s proper to go around threatening to kill people and making faces at their cleaning lady?”
Josephine laughed and finally began to eat her food.
“As for you, Josephine O’Sullivan,” continued Viktoria, determined to be fair, “is opera really the only music you’ve got?”
“No,” said Josephine angrily.
José was there again, fussing about and asking if everything was satisfactory. “Thank you, absolutely perfect,” Viktoria said. “Could we have another bottle of your excellent wine?” He bowed and went away. The wine came.
Viktoria looked out across the valley and said, “How quiet it is.”
“Quiet,” X remarked. “You’ve a weakness for quiet, haven’t you? And there’s no real need to talk if people are comfortable with not expressing every little thought. Wasn’t that how you put it?”
Viktoria went red. “Any statement can lose its meaning if it’s repeated in a distorted form,” she said stiffly.
Josephine gave Viktoria a meaningful look, smiled sourly, and shrugged.
The meal continued.
The oranges were beautifully arranged, each fruit still with its own green leaves. Viktoria picked one up and remarked that José had really done his best with them.
“An affectation,” said X. “Does he think we’re tourists? Nobody here eats oranges.”
Viktoria said, “It was my idea, not José’s. Think of the oranges as a decoration, a sort of symbol.”
“Of what?”
“A dream perhaps, a symbol of the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden. Something unattainable. I absolutely believe in oranges.”
“I so understand,” Josephine exclaimed. “There’s nothing wrong with having oranges on the table! In Russia they had apples. I know what Viktoria means. She’s unusual.”
“To put it mildly,” said X very drily.
On the main road below the terrace, several small boys stopped and started pointing, shouting something in Spanish again and again.
“What do they want?” Viktoria said.
X looked at Josephine and explained carefully. “They’re saying there’s that woman who made a scene at the carnival, the one by the bandits’ car.”
“They don’t mean me, they mean her!” Josephine shouted. “She was the one who went wild! Viktoria, you saw what happened!”
Viktoria had a sudden impulse to scold them. Girls, girls! she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. José came out and chased away the young
sters with a flood of animated Spanish.
The sun had dropped behind the mountains, and the evening chill set in as soon as it was gone. Viktoria was suddenly angry. “Ladies,” she said, “for me the carnival was unbelievable. And I understand how the excitement could make anyone lose their head and go a bit wild. Believe me, I’ve lost control of myself more times than I like to remember. But afterwards I try to forget and hope others can do the same.” She signaled to José to bring another bottle. “This is a very good wine. It should be drunk in a calm and thoughtful atmosphere. Ladies, what shall we drink to?”
“To you,” Josephine burst out. “To justice! The justice that always wins out over foul play!” She had already had a few drinks before leaving home, just to be on the safe side.
“And how do you like her new hairdo?” said X, not touching her wine.
Viktoria corrected her. “How do I like Josephine’s new hairdo? I think it makes her look younger.”
She was rather tired now and decided to turn the party over to her guests. She excused herself and took refuge in the ladies’ room. The view from that window was no less beautiful, but she hardly noticed. It was a bit cruel to leave the two of them together, she thought. I could have stayed. Now they’re sitting there in silence. I’ve failed. I should have learned by now to let people sort out their own problems. I’m like some kind of sheepdog, running myself ragged to round everyone up and get them organized. The thought amused her. She decided to order some cognac with the coffee.
As she was going back through the café, José came up to her conspiratorially and whispered, “How’s it going?”
“It’s going fine, I think,” Viktoria said. “It’s working out. The food, the wine, the decoration—everything was perfect. I think we’ll have some cognac with our coffee.”
Her guests were sitting bolt upright. They had clearly been having a discussion.
“Dear Viktoria,” said Josephine, breathless with excitement. “We’ve been thinking—”
“Thank her first,” X broke in.
