Golden Earrings

by Belinda Alexandra

  ‘Come on, Margarida!’ said Xavier. ‘How often have we seen Penélope Cerdà there? Or Soledad Manzano and the other society girls? They won’t tell on each other. Francesc can’t say anything if Evelina is there with you and me. He hasn’t even formally proposed.’

  ‘It’s not Francesc I’m worried about,’ Margarida replied.

  ‘Who then?’ Xavier asked.

  Margarida said something I didn’t hear.

  ‘Well, forget Francesc Cerdà!’ Xavier said. ‘If he’s so interested in Evelina, what’s he doing in England this summer?’

  Margarida sighed. ‘You might have chosen differently if you had known about Conchita,’ she said. ‘But Evelina has no choice. I wouldn’t wish on her what I’ve been through to walk a different path. Be careful with her. Gaspar might be able to flit here and there, but for a woman, one break with society and that’s it.’

  ‘The Samovar Club.’ I rolled the words over my tongue as I lay on my bed that night. It conjured up exotic images of smoky-eyed women and Tyumen carpets.

  I thought about Conchita, convinced that all her possibilities in life were gone. I wasn’t a great beauty like she was, but I was in the bloom of youth. I didn’t want to end up feeling the way she did. I wanted to believe that life would always be full of possibilities, no matter what my age.

  I stood up and walked to the wardrobe, fingering the shell-pink dress Conchita had given me. ‘It’s your turn to be a society princess,’ she had said. Not much chance of that, I thought. I am going straight from maiden to married woman, thanks to Margarida!

  I thought about Gaspar Olivero. He had made a special point of asking Xavier and Margarida if I could go that night. What would they tell him? That I wasn’t interested? What would he think then?

  The house was still and silent. The servants had gone to bed. I slipped off my nightdress and stepped into the dress, admiring my transformed reflection. A society princess: it would only take a little powder and a dab of Chanel No 5. I smiled at my reflection and my reflection smiled back at me.

  There was a taxi cruising down the passeig de Gràcia. It never occurred to me when I hailed it that it might be dangerous to travel about on my own without a male escort. The only danger I had ever been warned about was the moral kind. I did my best to affect a sophisticated air when I gave the driver my destination. Fortunately for me, the only thing dangerous about the driver was his daredevil nature. But careering through the streets of Barcelona at breakneck speed only added to the thrill of the evening. For once in her life, Evelina Montella was doing something she was not supposed to do!

  When I arrived at the Samovar Club, the house band was playing and the dance floor was filled with glamorous men and women dancing the foxtrot. Everything seemed to sparkle and glimmer. The air was tinged with the scent of brandy, expensive tobacco and Bulgarian rose. The atmosphere was much more exciting than the staid luncheons and afternoon tea parties I usually attended. I told the hostess I was a guest of Xavier and Margarida Montella, and she led me to a private lounge with mirrored walls where I found my brother and sister drinking cocktails. Their eyes popped out of their heads when they saw me.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Margarida, rising from her seat.

  Xavier looked like he was trying not to laugh.

  Margarida grabbed my arm. ‘You are going straight home,’ she said. ‘I will not be responsible for leading you astray!’

  She was surprised when I resisted her, and we found ourselves in a wrestling fight when Gaspar walked into the lounge. Margarida let go of me for appearance’s sake. Gaspar was wearing a dinner suit with sateen lapels, and spats. He seemed to me more dashing than ever and it took all of my willpower not to ogle him.

  ‘You’re all here!’ he said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘I’ve organised a table at the front so that Evelina can see la Rusa’s amazing feet.’

  Margarida smiled at Gaspar, but threw daggers at me with her gaze when he wasn’t looking.

  ‘Are you playing tonight?’ Xavier asked Gaspar.

  ‘No, I took tonight off especially to see la Rusa again. I’ll take you round to meet her after her performance. She’s really something.’

  ‘I’ve heard of her,’ said Xavier. ‘But I’ve never had the chance to see her perform. Apparently she’s danced for the King and Queen?’

  Gaspar laughed. ‘Indeed! Despite two hours of lectures by the King’s staff beforehand on royal protocol, she still treated him like he was anybody else on the street. His entourage was shocked, but I think he was amused. Even Alfonso knows when he is beaten in greatness.’

  The hostess arrived to tell us that our table was ready. We turned to follow her.

  I flashed my most innocent smile at Margarida. ‘I’m staying?’

  She shrugged. ‘Just be discreet and don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself, all right? You are only staying until la Rusa performs and then you are going home!’

  On the way to our table, we passed Soledad Manzano and her sisters, who were sitting with the daughters of the Almirall dynasty. All of those girls were chaperoned as closely as I was but none of them seemed surprised to see me there. They merely nodded at me as if I were a member of an exclusive club who had been a bit late in paying her dues.

  ‘I’m glad you could come tonight, Evelina,’ Gaspar whispered to me once we were seated. ‘I wasn’t sure if they were going to allow you. Apart from Muslim women, Spanish women are the most carefully guarded in the world, even here in Barcelona.’

  ‘Too true!’ I said, and laughed. A thrill of excitement ran through me. So he had been keen for me to come.

  ‘Where’s Francesc?’ Gaspar asked. ‘Is he still in England? I haven’t had a chance to catch up with my aunt and uncle yet.’

  All the magic of the evening disappeared when Gaspar mentioned Francesc’s name. For that night, at least, I wanted to imagine the possibility that I could marry Gaspar and dance the tango with him in Buenos Aires and listen to jazz all night in Havana. But by saying Francesc’s name, Gaspar had shattered those dreams. Had he done it intentionally? After all, Francesc was his cousin. Or was it simply that Gaspar did not think of me the same way I thought of him?

  I did my best to appear cheerful as the waiter brought us a supper of wild mushroom omelettes and artichokes with cream, as well as a bottle of fine champagne, which Margarida didn’t let me taste. The show began with a Russian cabaret singer and a Spanish comedian. After dessert was served, the master of ceremonies introduced la Rusa as a hot-blooded gypsy bailaora.

  The curtain opened and before us stood a woman with a mane of wavy hair and eyes like onyx. She was wearing a black dress with a red lace bolero jacket, and stood like a statue as the orchestra began to play. After a minute or so of utter stillness, during which the air of suspense in the audience became palpable, her eyes suddenly sprang to life and she bestowed a gaze on us that was at once haughty and dignified. Then she stamped her foot — one! two! three times! — like a bull preparing to charge, and began to dance in counterclockwise circles. I had never seen anything like it. Her castanets sounded like rattlesnakes; her feet beat the floor like bullets. Her fierceness challenged everything I believed about dance, about softness of movement and refinement. She was like a savage and yet every wild movement of her body was precise, from her turns to her zapateados.

  The audience ‘Ooh’d’ and ‘Ah’d’ before falling silent, dazed by the sheer explosion of energy before them. As la Rusa danced, I found myself thinking, this woman is full of anger and violence, but I couldn’t look away. I was as drawn in by her magnetism as everyone else was.

  The music stopped, but la Rusa continued with some wild spinning turns before a furious finale in which she accompanied herself with her own percussive footwork and palmas, as the gypsies did when they danced. The audience rose to its feet, applauding and cheering.

  La Rusa did not curtsey, as Olga had taught me to do in ballet, or make a humble bow as the Russian cabaret singer had done when she
’d finished her act. She stood still, regarding us with her hands on her hips. In many ways the arrogant manner in which she looked down at us was shocking, but probably the most shocking thing about it was that it was justified. Unlike Conchita, la Rusa’s features were not of perfect proportions — she had a large mouth, a broad nose and sharp cheekbones — and yet she possessed the kind of beauty that put women like Conchita in the shade. The sheer force of her conviction in who she was mesmerised the audience. She was the most captivating person I had ever seen.

  I turned to say something to Xavier, but was taken aback by the expression on his face. He was regarding la Rusa as if a thousand thoughts were rushing through his mind at once. While I had been fascinated, it was clear to me that something much stronger had overcome him. The disturbing feeling I had experienced that day in the Old Cemetery when I had spied Xavier and Margarida at the paupers’ plot returned to me: a dread of something sinister lurking in the future.

  Mamie’s voice slipped away and she became lost in her thoughts. I sat on the edge of my bed, spellbound by the image of la Rusa that Mamie’s story had conjured in my mind. I decided that I would accept Jaime’s offer to see the film of la Rusa dancing — I felt impelled to witness this force of nature for myself. From the description Mamie had given of la Rusa as a strong, self-possessed woman, I understood why it was hard for people who had known her to believe that she had committed suicide.

  ‘Mamie,’ I said, when I felt brave enough to speak, ‘when you said that Xavier was betrayed by someone he once loved … a wild animal that he thought he’d tamed … did you mean la Rusa? Was she the one who turned on him?’

  Mamie didn’t answer me. She showed no indication that she had even heard me. After the argument we’d had that morning, I wasn’t brave enough to repeat my question. It was left hanging in the air like an unsolved mystery.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Celestina

  I hurried to my dressing room after my return performance at the Samovar Club, the sound of the audience’s applause ringing in my ears. The star dressing room had been refurbished and was an elegant haven of full-length mirrors and Louis XV chairs. I pulled off my dress and shoes and wrapped myself in a silk robe before flopping onto the chaise longue. The room was quiet now that el Ruso had banned Diego and the others from visiting it. In New York, Raquel had started a fire while frying sardines in my dressing room in Carnegie Hall. El Ruso had footed the bill for the damage but hadn’t forgiven my clan. ‘When are you going to wake up?’ he’d demanded. ‘They are using you!’ But el Ruso didn’t understand how much I dreaded being alone: that noise and activity kept me safe from my memories.

  Without the presence of my clan, the dressing room didn’t smell of fish but of roses and lilies from the bouquets spread across the dresser and end tables. I rubbed my temples and closed my eyes, intending to rest for a while before joining el Ruso and some important guests for a celebratory dinner later. But even with the sound of the orchestra in the background and the clomping footsteps of the chorus girls running up and down the stairs, the room was too quiet. I sat up and wandered to the dressing table to read the cards that accompanied the bouquets. You are the sparkling diamond of the city, the Mayor of Barcelona had written.

  There was a package too. I tugged away the ribbon and tore open the tissue paper to find a hand-embroidered shawl inside, with vibrant crimson roses stitched onto the cream silk and its four sides finished with hand-knotted fringing. It would have been worth a few thousand pesetas. I picked up the envelope that had been tucked inside the box, wondering who would have given me such a gift. Inside was an invitation to a bullfight signed by Salazar. My heart sank. I hadn’t seen him since my Villa Rosa days and had hoped he’d forgotten me. I cringed when I remembered his cruel face and the deranged look in his eyes.

  I sat down on the dressing table stool and rubbed my feet. Although flamenco, gypsies and bullfighting were intertwined, I had never been to a corrida and had no desire to go. Teresa, Carme and many other women in Damas Rojas had spoken vehemently against bullfights, calling them ‘spectacles of torture and death’. I simply saw them as unfair. The bull had to face not only the matador but also picadors on horseback and banderilleros who repeatedly stabbed him to weaken him. I’d heard they even rubbed olive oil in the bull’s eyes while it was still in the stall so it couldn’t see properly. It was only when the bull was exhausted from blood loss and pain that the matador moved in for the kill. Where was the courage in that? If the bull killed the matador — which I would consider a victory on its part — it was still killed. The one-sidedness of the fight made me think of my father shouting his protests against the Civil Guard before being shot in the neck. I shuddered at the memory of his blood flowing out of him. Even after all these years it gave me a razor-sharp pain in my heart.

  I shoved the shawl into the bottom drawer of my dresser. I’d burn it when I had the chance. There was a box of chocolates from Zakharov on my dressing table and I ate a sweet, creamy one to get rid of the bitter taste in my mouth.

  A knock sounded at the door. I didn’t answer at first. While I missed my clan, I’d set a rule that wherever I performed no audience members were permitted to visit my dressing room. In South America they’d had to position armed guards near my door to keep the crowds under control. Since I became famous, everybody wanted to know me — or at least to say that they had met me. Every word I muttered was noted down by reporters who jostled with each other to fire questions at me: ‘La Rusa, what’s your favourite food?’; ‘What do you do on your days off?’; ‘Describe your ideal man.’ I preferred to greet my admirers and sign autographs at the stage door where I had some chance of getting away. I loved stimulation and to be diverted, but deep down I did not really like people.

  The knock sounded again. ‘La Rusa, I have some guests who want to meet you!’ It was Gaspar’s voice. I sighed. For Gaspar, I always made an exception.

  ‘Come in,’ I answered, tugging on a pair of slippers.

  When I looked up to see who Gaspar had with him, I did not recognise the Montella siblings immediately. All I saw were three smartly dressed, youthful individuals with eager expressions. They bore the healthy, well-scrubbed look of people with money.

  ‘La Rusa, let me introduce you to some good friends of mine,’ Gaspar said, waving to them to come inside. ‘May I present to you Xavier Montella and his sisters, Margarida and Evelina.’

  At the sound of the Montella siblings’ names I was hit by a confusion of feelings — a mix of anxiety and fury that made my mind whirl like a boat caught in a stormy swell. For twenty years, the Montella family had been the object of my hate and now its heir and his two sisters were standing right before me! The serpent in my heart uncoiled and rose in fury, but it did not strike. Why, I did not know. Perhaps its instinct told it to wait for the right moment.

  The threesome took my hesitation as the reticence of a haughty star, which seemed to make them keener to tell me how much they had enjoyed my show.

  ‘You were stunning, senyoreta!’ Margarida said. I remembered her as the innocent girl who had held my hand without reservation before being scolded by her nursemaid.

  ‘Your precision is inspiring,’ gushed Evelina. She was graceful and refined, as I’d imagined she would grow up to be.

  It was Xavier Montella who surprised me the most. I’d always supposed that he’d turn out a replica of his father: pug-nosed, self-assured and arrogant. But then I realised he must be the same Xavier whom Gaspar had mentioned the day he had taken me to the café after senyora Dávilo had transformed me: the Xavier who had been sent to Italy on a grand tour; who was an aficionado of flamenco; and who played piano for the Socialist Club. With his fine features and intelligent eyes, he was strikingly handsome. His eyebrows were the same chestnut colour as his hair. I found it disconcerting to realise that, up close, my arch-enemy was beautiful. I remembered the day I had seen him at the sweatshop with his parents and the way he’d looked at me, as if he were
both fascinated and puzzled.

  He was staring at me that way now and I realised that he had recognised me. I felt like a soldier who, after months of training, is faced with the enemy and finds himself unable to fire his gun.

  ‘Thank you,’ I managed to say. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed the show.’

  ‘I was the first person to compose music for her,’ Gaspar said proudly.

  I barely heard the young women as they prattled on: Margarida expressing how impressed she was to see a woman who was unafraid to dance in a masculine way; Evelina telling me about her own Spanish dance lessons. Only Xavier remained silent, his concentration on me intense.

  ‘Well, we’d better leave you to get ready for your dinner,’ said Gaspar finally.

  He gave me parting kisses while the others shook my hand. Xavier’s grip was warm and firm but I quickly withdrew from it so he wouldn’t feel me trembling.

  ‘Yes, thank you again,’ I said.

  After Gaspar and the Montellas left, I sat down at the dressing table, trying to catch my breath. I stared at my reflection before wiping away my make-up, smearing mascara and crimson lipstick over my face until I resembled an angry kabuki mask. What had I expected? What did I think I was going to do to the Montellas when I saw them again? Shout at them, accuse them and their kind of being murderers? If I wanted revenge, I had to be better prepared than that. I laid my head against the cold glass of the mirror, suffering a sense of helplessness so complete that it turned everything black.

  The following night, after I had finished my act and was heading towards the stage door, Xavier Montella approached me.

  ‘Forgive me, senyoreta,’ he said. ‘I would like to speak to you.’