Golden Earrings
Page 16
‘It showed itself to you so that you would believe in its presence,’ Francisca told me. ‘But now you have to earn it.’
Early one morning, when I returned to the camp after a night of performing in bars, I found Francisca lying on her bed, clutching her lower back in pain.
‘What is it?’ I grabbed her hand. It was swollen like a sponge full of water.
She looked at me with compassion in her deep eyes. ‘Do not panic, little one. All is well.’
Not panic? Her fingers were like ice. Her eyes were puffy.
Francisca took a breath and rallied herself. ‘Look,’ she said, sitting up. ‘The fire is still burning. Why don’t you make some liquorice tea?’
I did as Francisca asked, taking the dried liquorice from among the tins of herbs she kept in her cupboard and boiling the water. I handed her a cup, and sat on the end of her bed. We drank the tea in silence, breathing in its strong aromatic fragrance. Colour came back to Francisca’s cheeks. Perhaps she would be all right, after all.
‘You rest now,’ I told her, pulling her blanket around her shoulders and propping her feet on a cushion. I stroked her forehead until she fell asleep.
Afterwards, I stepped outside and stared at the sea, trying to calm the terror that was seizing me. I had come to love Francisca deeply, and because of that I harboured a fear that my love would doom her, as it had the rest of my family.
EIGHTEEN
Paloma
When I returned home from my flamenco lesson and dinner with Jaime’s family, I was surprised to find Mamie still up. She was sitting at the kitchen table with only the stove light on. Diaghilev’s cage was uncovered but he was asleep, with his head tucked behind him, so Mamie must have been quiet for some time. If she had moved at all, Diaghilev, a light sleeper, would have been awake and playing with his toys. I’d forgotten to telephone to say I would be late when Carmen asked me to stay for dinner; and when I had remembered, it was too late to call. Mamie was usually in bed by ten-thirty.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to wake you up by ringing. Gaby and I got talking.’
Mamie gave me such a puzzled look that I thought she must have telephoned Gaby’s parents and discovered that I wasn’t with Gaby at all. What was I going to say?
‘I don’t worry so much if you have the car,’ Mamie replied. ‘But please call anyway.’
‘I will next time. I’m sorry.’
I filled the kettle and lit the stove to make camomile tea. I was too restless for sleep. Thoughts about Jaime, his family, la Rusa and the visit to my father’s apartment were making my head whirl. I placed the teapot and cups on the table, then strained some of the infusion into Mamie’s cup. When she lifted the rim to her lips, I noticed her fingers were stained with ink.
‘Have you been writing letters?’ I asked.
She glanced at me, lost in a dream, before she realised that I was speaking to her. ‘Talking about letters,’ she said, ignoring my question and reaching towards the bench, ‘this came for you today. It’s from the Ballet School.’
I took the letter and the opener she handed me. My fingers trembled as I slit the envelope and read the contents.
‘My request to re-audition through the school has been accepted,’ I told Mamie. ‘They have also approved me having private lessons with Mademoiselle Louvet.’
I glanced at Mamie, expecting her to repeat her speech about how I should be auditioning for other companies as well, not ‘putting all my eggs in one basket’.
Instead Mamie surprised me by saying, ‘Normally you would have to re-audition externally so it shows how highly they think of you. I want to you to concentrate fully on your preparation for the examination. I can manage the weekday classes on my own.’
‘Mamie, are you sure you’re all right?’
She stared at her hands and sighed. ‘I’ve been thinking about your grandfather,’ she said. ‘I want to tell you about him — and also more about Xavier. Are you too tired?’
I shook my head. I was in the mood to hear another story: I needed some distraction. My anticipation regarding the audition was now another thing I had to think about.
Mamie took a sip of tea and then began. ‘You see, Cemetery was not the only place where class mattered. There were other locations in Barcelona where society was rigidly stratified …’
‘Grand-plié, relevé … coupé fondu, développé, relevé … tombé, chassé, grand rond de jambe en l’air …’ Olga commanded in her Russian-accented French.
I was standing in front of the grand mirror in the ballroom of our house on the passeig de Gràcia, wearing a chiffon tunic with a long flounced skirt and tulle underlay, and following the instructions while Margarida accompanied me on the piano. Years of classical Spanish dance training had given me strong feet and ankles and a sense of balance, but the ballet positions and degree of turnout Olga demanded of me were not easy. I worked with determination to please her. If Olga remained indifferent after our daily lesson, I was deeply wounded and would spend the day locked away in my room. But if she praised me, I scampered around the house like a kitten.
Olga, with her arched eyebrows and satin-smooth skin, had achieved what my parents had hoped she would: she had broken my habit of stuttering and staring at my feet when people spoke to me. But she had achieved it by instilling in me the fear of disapproval; specifically, her disapproval. I was still nervous around people only now I was too terrified to show it.
Olga watched me perform a series of piqué passé turns across the room. She blew a stream of cigarette smoke between her blood-red lips and her eyes narrowed like a cat’s. If her expression had stayed that way, it would have meant another day spent in my room, but fortunately she smiled.
‘Maladets! Well done, Evelina,’ she said. ‘You are showing progress.’
The great clock in the hall struck the hour, indicating it was time for Olga to leave.
‘Ah,’ she said, sweeping her hand through the air before bringing it to rest on her heart. ‘I have no time for stories today, Evelina. I must hurry. I have to give a lesson to the nieces of the Marqués de Comillas. I promised him when I saw him at the Liceu.’
Margarida turned from the piano and grinned. She enjoyed making fun of Olga: mimicking the ballerina’s regal walk behind her back, holding her nose in the air and pointing her toes in front of her. I shook my head and looked away, not seeing what was so amusing. I worshipped the woman, which was how she managed to maintain such a hold on me.
I curtseyed to Olga, every muscle in my legs burning. I was disappointed that I wasn’t going to hear one of her stories about her life in Russia while I did my stretches. But her words of encouragement would set me working even harder in the next few days. I would do anything to hear ‘well done’ pass her lips again.
After Olga had been shown out of the house by the maid, Margarida turned to me. ‘Your teacher is a con artist!’ she said. ‘She speaks to you as if she is doing you some favour by teaching you rather than turning up for the money. I don’t believe a word of her stories! Really, how many men could have shot themselves after being rejected by her? And if so many of the male sex desire her, how come she is living by herself?’
‘Her great love was executed by the revolutionaries when he tried to help her out of Russia,’ I explained. ‘He was a prince. She could never love again …’
‘Bah!’ scoffed Margarida. ‘Have we met any Russian refugees who weren’t once princes or princesses?’
I shrugged and continued with my stretches. I valued Margarida’s opinion on most things, but not regarding Olga. Without my ballet teacher’s stories, my life would have been drearily boring.
Realising that I was ignoring her, Margarida opened the French doors and strode out onto the balcony. Now that Xavier had become a father and didn’t spend as much time with her, Margarida was restless. The scent of roses from the pots outside wafted into the room. The ballroom was one of my favourite spaces in the house; I loved everything about i
t: the ornate walnut piano, the chandeliers, the decorative wrought iron that wound around the windows and fireplaces like overgrown brambles. But I only liked the room when it was empty and peaceful like this, not when it was full of people.
Margarida returned from the balcony and shut the doors behind her. ‘Speaking about the Liceu,’ she said, ‘you are making your debut there in two weeks. Mama hasn’t told you because she’s afraid you will clam up again. But she and Conchita have been conspiring with the dressmaker to create you a suitable dress.’
‘I’m not dancing at the Liceu,’ I said. ‘Pare would never consent to that.’
Margarida laughed so much she nearly choked. ‘Not your dance debut, Evelina,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘Your social debut. Mama did the same thing for me — little good that it did. She is having a very grown-up dress made for you, and you will wear some of the jewels allotted to you in your dowry. When everyone sees you sitting like that in the box, they will understand that Mama and Pare are giving their permission for their sons to court you.’
I couldn’t be sure whether Margarida was teasing me or not. When I was younger, she had told me that babies were made by a man leaping on a woman the way male pigeons climbed on top of their females. When I’d asked Mama if that were true, she had blushed and told me Margarida had a vivid imagination. Margarida and I got along very well, but without Xavier’s company my sister was becoming obnoxious. I hoped that she was somewhat perturbed by the potential loss of me as well. As was the custom, Xavier and Conchita had been given an apartment on the third floor of our house, but if I married, I would have to live with my husband’s family. The idea of being separated from Margarida and the rest of my family didn’t appeal to me either.
‘Look at this,’ Margarida said, unpinning her hair.
I waited for the full mane to drop as she undid the roll, but it remained where it was. She smoothed her locks with her fingers.
‘You’ve cut your hair!’ I cried.
She chuckled. ‘It’s called a bob. It’s the latest fashion!’
‘Mama is going to kill you!’
Margarida gave me a wry look. I had to admit that she appeared fetching with her hair that way.
‘She won’t see it,’ Margarida assured me, arranging her short hair back into a roll. ‘I’ll keep it pinned up at home.’
I admired her daring. I would never have the courage to do such a thing. I was bound by some invisible force to always do what I was told. Besides, thanks to Margarida’s rebellious behaviour, my parents were twice as strict with me as they might otherwise have been.
While Margarida settled into Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables in the library, I decided to pay a visit to my nephew, Feliu, who had been born two months previously. He was the image of Xavier, with a perfectly shaped head and tender eyes. I was making my way towards the stairs, when I heard my father talking in the drawing room with Conchita’s father, don Carles.
‘Surely you can’t see murder as a solution to our issues?’ my father was saying.
The word ‘murder’ stopped me in my tracks. Pare was strict, conservative and religious. But don Carles, while all those things on the surface, was of the extreme right-wing persuasion — a fact we were only understanding now that our families were on intimate terms.
‘I don’t condemn the business owners who resort to it,’ don Carles replied, with a calmness that chilled me. ‘What choice are they left with but to hire assassins to get rid of those troublesome union leaders? How many innocent civilians have been killed by those scoundrels’ bombs? And what about the gangs roaming the streets of Barcelona? If the working class abandon their children, then what else can we do but deal with the problem? We must think of our own wives and children first.’
‘And how do you propose we deal with the abandoned street children?’ Xavier asked.
I was surprised to hear my brother’s voice. I had assumed he was upstairs with Conchita and Feliu.
I pictured don Carles fixing his steely eyes on Xavier and rubbing his black, bushy brows as he replied: ‘You cull them like you would any other pest species. It is they who grow up into revolutionaries and anarchists.’
I almost cried out in disgust. How could anyone who claimed to be religious propose such a thing? I imagined Xavier was similarly shocked. He and Margarida battled frequently with Pare over his conservatism, but my father’s views were not as extreme as those of don Carles.
Xavier replied with measured courtesy, but I detected the undertone of disdain. ‘Perhaps we might have fewer anarchists if we had a different political system — one that was fairer. The workers resort to revolutionary activity because they have no other hope of equality.’
Pare coughed. ‘Equality, Xavier? Now, I wouldn’t go so far as don Carles … but some people are born to rule while others are not. Women, for instance, were made by God to exist in the home. You were too young in 1909 to remember what Barcelona became when the working classes burned the churches and schools.’
‘You see,’ interjected don Carles. ‘You give them schools to improve themselves and what do they do? They burn them down!’
Xavier hesitated a moment before responding. ‘Actually, I’ve not forgotten 1909 at all. It’s the reason I feel as I do. The purpose of religious education is to keep the poor in their place. That’s why the government was so keen to execute Ferrer after the Tragic Week: his schools had a different objective. It’s easy to control people when they are illiterate.’
‘The government was too lenient in light of the damage caused,’ said don Carles. ‘They only singled out for execution one representative for each crime committed — one for destroying property, one for profaning the clergy, one for inciting a rebellion …’
‘They threw hundreds of people into gaol under terrible conditions,’ Xavier protested. ‘Many of them died of diseases or from the torture they suffered before their cases were ever tried. Others were sent into exile, where they faced destitution, starvation and the hostility of the locals.’
‘If you are going to refer to that flower seller again, Xavier,’ Pare said, ‘I feel no remorse about her. She wasn’t a simple working woman, she was a leader of Damas Rojas. She led the burning of convents, for goodness sake!’
‘She came to the dress factory on the day of the general strike,’ said Xavier, paying no attention to Pare’s objection. ‘She had two small children with her. Do you ever wonder what might have happened to those children after she was taken away? I do. I remember looking into the girl’s face. Her expression of hunger has haunted me ever since.’
‘Bah, you are too soft,’ said don Carles, finally showing his temper. ‘And softness will not help this city. The future will be tough and we will need leaders who aren’t afraid to make unpopular decisions. You must put aside your artistic dalliances and face reality.’
A maid entered the room from the other door to the drawing room, the one that connected it to the music room, and brought the conversation to a stop. She told Xavier there was a gentleman on the telephone for him. Xavier excused himself, and I heard him exit the room and make his way towards the study.
‘I should be getting along,’ don Carles told my father.
There was the sound of fabric rustling as the men rose from their chairs. I slipped behind a statue as the door opened and Pare and don Carles emerged. A maid appeared with don Carles’s hat and coat.
‘With all the foreign influences in the city these days, and the jazz clubs, young people seem to be entertaining strange ideas about a second republic,’ Pare told don Carles. ‘But experience always wins out in the end.’
My father was famous for his self-assuredness; many would even go so far as to call him ‘smug’. But on this occasion, he was clenching and opening his fists behind his back as if he was uncertain of something. I had the impression that he was trying to defend Xavier.
At the door, the men shook each other’s hands. But there was an unmistakable chill in don Carles’s manner.
From the grave tone of don Carles’s voice, it was clear that he was not giving Pare a piece of advice: he was making a threat.
I felt compelled to warn Xavier about what don Carles had said. When Pare returned to the drawing room, I ran to the study and entered it just as Xavier was putting down the telephone. He turned when he heard me shut the door. The frown on his face softened and he smiled.
‘Xavier … be careful … don Carles is very angry.’
My brother nodded and waved his hand. ‘He’s only saying what most people think. God almighty, they go on about their churches being burned — and this, the country of the Inquisition! How many innocent people did the Church burn at the stake?’
I couldn’t get what don Carles had said about culling the street urchins out of my mind. ‘Do you really think that’s what people feel about the children on the street? I mean … Mama does a lot of charity work in the Church orphanages.’
Xavier’s shoulders relaxed. He stepped towards me and clasped my hand. ‘The rich families of Barcelona have the power to end the starvation and suffering in the city and yet we do nothing but perpetuate it,’ he said. ‘How can we go to Mass every week and mouth prayers about God’s love for all humanity? I can’t stand being such a hypocrite!’
I looked into my brother’s eyes and saw how troubled he was. He had always hated injustice, but now I saw a deep unhappiness in his face that hadn’t been there before he’d married.
‘What worries don Carles,’ continued Xavier, ‘is that the way the Montella businesses are succeeding, we are eventually going to overtake the Güell and the López dynasties to become the most powerful family in Barcelona, and one day I am going to be head of the family. I promise you, Evelina, Barcelona will be a very different place then.’