Golden Earrings

by Belinda Alexandra

  ‘Do you want to leave?’ Margarida whispered to me.

  I shook my head. ‘No, really, it’s all right,’ I assured her.

  But it wasn’t. Along with other Spanish compositions, Gaspar performed ‘The Maiden and the Nightingale’ by Granados, the piece he had played at the Cerdà family’s supper the first time I’d met him. Every moment of that evening came back to me in vivid detail. I remembered the intense expression on his face, and the way the piano had seemed to be a continuation of his arms. I recalled the calming effect he’d had on me when I’d panicked and fled to the dining room.

  Gaspar finished playing and the audience rose to applaud him. He stood up from the piano and bowed. He straightened and for a split second our eyes met. The feeling of something unfinished, something longed for but never realised, pierced my heart.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said to Margarida.

  We stood up to leave, but before we could reach the door, we were mobbed by people who had recognised Margarida as one of the new Socialist candidates running for the Cortes.

  ‘Good on you for standing up to the landowners!’ a man in a coat patched at the elbows told her.

  ‘Please ask for better working conditions for women,’ begged a mother clutching a small child.

  While most people gathered around Margarida were supportive, one man wearing overalls folded his arms across his chest and said to her, ‘You’ve never belonged to a union, you’ve never worked in a factory and you think you can represent us!’

  If someone had confronted me that way, I would have shrivelled on the spot. But Margarida was made for politics.

  ‘That’s true,’ she agreed. ‘But I can read and interpret the legal documents that your employers throw at you and, because of that, I can stand up for your rights.’

  A young man in a tram conductor’s uniform gazed at her admiringly. Even though my sister towered a good foot over him, it didn’t seem to bother him. ‘You’re very beautiful for a politician,’ he said. ‘Why aren’t you married?’ He flashed her a flirtatious smile.

  It occurred to me that if Margarida had been so inclined, she would not have hesitated to marry someone from the working class. She was brave enough to defy society’s norms. I wasn’t. That was how I’d lost Gaspar.

  Despite our attempts to reach the door, more people gathered around Margarida, giving her suggestions for reforms or asking her to solve a personal issue. Margarida wasn’t fazed by the attention or the demands. She looked everyone straight in the eye and told them what she honestly thought.

  I remembered a story that la Rusa had told me that illustrated my sister perfectly. La Rusa said that she had met my sister and me when Margarida was a child and I was a baby in a pram. Our nursemaid had taken us to the flower markets where la Rusa was helping a friend of her father’s with her stall. Margarida had held out her hand to the little urchin la Rusa without a moment’s hesitation. That was Margarida all over. She was different to everybody but she could get along with anybody. She had even managed to twist my strict father around her finger. The exceptions, of course, were Conchita and don Carles: certainly there was no love lost there.

  ‘Evelina?’

  The sound of Gaspar’s voice jolted me from my thoughts. When I saw him standing in front of me, I realised that time and distance had not changed the intensity of my feelings. The longer we were apart, the stronger they grew. I realised what I had been waiting for and what I had let slip through my fingers because of my lack of boldness.

  ‘Come to see me this evening,’ I whispered to him. ‘Francesc and his parents are in Madrid.’

  My voice sounded strange even to myself, but in that moment I was determined not to allow myself to be thwarted ever again.

  A serious expression came over Gaspar’s face. Hadn’t he heard me correctly? Did he disapprove? I stared at him, trying to understand the source of his hesitation, but before we could speak further, the crowd around Margarida swelled even larger and we lost sight of each other.

  That night at dinner, I pushed and prodded at the rice and tomato on my plate until I admitted to myself that I had no appetite. Penélope was married now, and I was alone in the house. I sat by the fire, my heart racked with pain. Gaspar had not sent a message and it was now ten o’clock. He wasn’t coming. My feelings for him were so powerful that I hadn’t counted on the fact that his for me might have faded. Then a terrible thought came to me: what if Gaspar had married since I had last seen him and nobody had told me?

  I sent the servants to bed early so I could be alone in my misery. But no sooner had I returned to my chair in the drawing room than there was a soft knock at the front door. I rushed to open it and found Gaspar standing before me. A feeling of radiant happiness washed over me, dispelling all the self-doubt of a moment before.

  I ushered him inside, and we studied each other’s faces affectionately for a long while before he said, ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier. I had another concert to play at this evening. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get away!’

  I shook my head. So that had been the source of his hesitation. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now that he was here. I invited him to the drawing room and we both sat down in the chairs by the fire.

  ‘I’ve sent the servants to bed,’ I told him. ‘But I can make us some tea.’

  Gaspar gave me a long and tender look. He stood up and tried to say something, but for once he was lost for words. Instead, he pulled me to him and pressed my cheek to his chest.

  I could not believe that Gaspar was holding me in his arms, that anything about the moment was real. I had been married for seven years but I had no sexual experience. Yet everything seemed natural. I was peaceful and happy when I led Gaspar to the bedroom and we pressed our bodies together. The passion that I had been denied burned over my skin. Even when we got older and life took its toll, I never lost the flame in my heart for Gaspar that was ignited that night.

  When dawn broke the next morning, Gaspar and I lay in the tangle of bedclothes and gazed into each other’s eyes.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered. ‘But we won’t be able to go on like this — not after Francesc returns.’

  In his voice I heard a mingling of joy and sadness. It matched my feelings perfectly.

  For the next week, Gaspar and I did not think about Francesc returning or being separated again. I went in disguise to his apartment, telling my household’s servants I was staying with my parents. There we made love until our skin was raw from kisses and our flesh bruised from our ardent embraces. It was the most heavenly and heady seven days I have ever known.

  The day Francesc and his parents were due back and Gaspar and I had to part, I did not feel as devastated as I had expected. From Gaspar’s tranquil manner, it seemed that he felt the same way. To have had a week of each other was more than we’d ever expected life to grant us; and although I would always wish for more, I felt gratitude for what I had been given.

  Only, as it turned out, Gaspar had left me with something more than sentimental memories.

  ‘You are sure you are going to have a child?’ Francesc asked me.

  I nodded.

  He fell silent, spreading his fingers on the desk in front of him and contemplating them for a while. If Francesc had been a typical man, there would have been a terrible scene over my ‘unfaithfulness’; there would have been shouts, tears and recriminations. But I could only guess at what he was thinking.

  Although Francesc had never been able to perform his duty to me as a husband in a physical way, and we had been sleeping in separate bedrooms for a few years now, we had never spoken of our unconsummated marriage to each other. We had both been conspirators in the secret. Now, even indirectly, we had to admit the truth to each other. I realised that la Rusa had been correct when she had said that my falling pregnant to Gaspar would relieve Francesc from the suspicion that something wasn’t right in our marriage. So now Francesc and I were to be schemers in another secret: pretending that the chi
ld was his.

  ‘You were discreet?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I told him, unable to meet his gaze.

  ‘Someone of good breeding, I hope? Someone who won’t talk?’

  I nodded. For some reason, I could not bring myself to tell Francesc that the father of my child was his cousin. But, to my surprise, he guessed.

  ‘Was it Gaspar?’

  I nodded, feeling my face redden.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, standing up. ‘When you feel ready, we will announce it to my parents.’

  I was relieved. So Francesc would recognise the child as his own.

  He gave me a peck on the cheek. It was the second-last intimate conversation he and I were ever to have together.

  After we announced my pregnancy, Francesc treated me with courtesy but kept me at an even greater distance than he had before. At first, I wondered if he was hurt that I had been unfaithful to him with Gaspar. But then I realised from the way he looked whenever he saw my growing stomach that my body revolted him even more than it had when I was a virgin. While it hurt me to be found so repugnant, I bore it with grace. My greatest wish had been granted. I was aware of it every time the child kicked inside me.

  I was in the seventh month of my pregnancy when the Civil War broke out. I was visiting Mama and Conchita when the news came to us.

  While Mama and Conchita were embroidering clothes for the new baby, Feliu and I were reading a book. At eight years of age, Feliu was a miniature version of Xavier. Whenever Xavier was with him, Feliu knew that he had his father’s undivided attention. They both had a special glow in their faces when they spent time together.

  When we had finished reading, Feliu turned to me with a serious expression. ‘After the baby is born, will you still love me?’ he asked, looking at me with his big eyes.

  ‘I’ll always love you!’ I assured him. ‘You are my special Feliu.’

  His question moved me — and saddened me too. I glanced at Conchita. She wasn’t a bad person. I enjoyed her company and she could be generous, but why was she so cold to her son? Couldn’t she see how much he needed her love? Conchita’s whole life was spent pampering herself, fixing her hair in front of her dressing table, choosing beautiful gowns. But who got to enjoy the spectacular results? She had distanced her husband with her vanity and selfishness and she couldn’t even give any affection to her own child.

  The telephone rang and I heard the maid summon Margarida, who was up from Madrid for a while. After a few minutes of silence, I heard Margarida shout, ‘But this is serious! The workers have to be armed! The first thing the army will do is seize the telephone and radio buildings — they must be stopped!’

  Mama and I exchanged glances. I was tempted to run to the study to see what had happened but then Xavier came home.

  ‘Pare!’ he called, rushing into the room. ‘Is Pare at home?’ he asked us. From the pallor of his face, I could see something was wrong.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s something going on,’ he said. ‘There has been an uprising of the army in Morocco and it seems to be spreading to garrisons all over Spain. Members of the government and other prominent people have been arrested here in Barcelona this morning.’

  ‘So it’s a rebellion by the army against the Republic?’ I asked.

  Mama looked up from her sewing and sighed. ‘We’ve been through all this before,’ she said. ‘I suppose we are going to be banned from using Catalan in public again?’

  Margarida finished her telephone conversation and joined us, along with Pare. ‘No, Mama!’ she said. ‘This is not a rebellion like the one led by Primo de Rivera. He at least was a reasonable man. The general at the heart of this is Francisco Franco.’

  I recalled the name and it sent shivers down my spine. In 1934 there had been a revolt by miners in Asturias. It was put down by Franco, whose methods were so brutal and so ruthless that when the Left returned to power in 1936, Franco lost his position with the War Ministry and was sent to the Canary Islands where it was hoped he wouldn’t cause any more trouble.

  ‘If the army isn’t loyal to the Republic how will the rebels be stopped?’ asked Pare.

  Margarida sat down next to Mama. ‘The Republic needs to arm the unions and the workers. They are the ones who will fight for it,’ she said.

  Mama raised her eyebrows. ‘But the Anarchists will use the opportunity to turn this chaos into a revolution if you give them guns.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Margarida. ‘But perhaps a revolution in Spain is preferable to a country crushed by a brutal army. The rebels claim that they are saving Spain from the “Reds” and from anti-Christian forces, but what they really want is power. I can’t see their aim as being a better standard of living for the Spanish people.’

  We fell silent. Margarida’s words had a strangely prophetic ring to them. I looked at my family and the menacing shadow of doom I had sensed over the years washed over me. Only this time, it was much stronger.

  Mamie looked at me with sorrow in her eyes. She kept touching her shoulder as if it pained her, a gesture I had never seen her make before. I sensed her exhaustion and, although it meant that I would be left in suspense again, suggested we recommence the storytelling tomorrow.

  In truth, she had left me with plenty of new information to digest, not least that my mother had initially been brought up as the daughter of Francesc Cerdà, not Avi. I couldn’t wait to hear how that issue was resolved.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Evelina

  Dearest Margarida,

  I have almost told Paloma all she needs to know about the fate of our dear brother and the Montella family. But as I relate the story, I realise that I must be careful. Sometimes Paloma misses the obvious, but at other times she is very sharp. I do not want to reveal to her the one thing she doesn’t need to know. If she found out, it would destroy her peace of mind for good …

  THIRTY

  Paloma

  When I arrived at the cinema where I was meeting Jaime to see Le Sauvage, I got more than I’d expected. Jaime was standing in the foyer, looking handsome in his butterfly-collar shirt and platform shoes, but he wasn’t alone. Carmen was there too, with Isabel, Vicenta, Ernesto and Mercedes. The only adult missing was Félix, who was at home minding Ricardo and Víctor.

  Jaime kissed me chastely on the cheeks. ‘I’m sure you know the saying: Fall in love with a Spaniard, fall in love with his family,’ he said. ‘Now that they know we are seeing each other, I don’t think we are going to have much chance of being left alone if we want to go out at night.’

  I grinned at the irony of it. I thought about what Mamie had told me so far about her family in the 1930s: Xavier having a mistress; Mamie herself being unfaithful to her homosexual husband. And here were Jaime and I in 1975 — the days of sexual liberation and women going braless — being chaperoned by his family.

  I greeted Carmen and the others with kisses before we walked into the cinema. Although I laughed along with everyone else at the antics of Catherine Deneuve as Nelly, a woman desperate to avoid going through with a marriage, I couldn’t help thinking of Mamie and what she must have felt being forced to marry someone she didn’t love.

  After the film, when we gathered in a café for a glass of wine and I looked at the happy faces of Jaime’s family, I thought of Mamie again, at home alone. She had forbidden me from riding the Métro late at night, preferring that I took her car instead, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about me going out alone with Jaime. She had seemed happy for me when I told her about Jaime, but she hadn’t asked me anything about him. It could have been because she had faith in my sensible nature, or perhaps it was because her parents had interfered so tragically in her love life that she didn’t want to do the same with me.

  When it was time to go home, Jaime was allowed to walk me to my car while everyone waited for him back at the cinema.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he said, grimacing. ‘They do it because they care ab
out us, not because they are prudes. They don’t want us to move too quickly and then regret it. I think they really like you.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m happy they care about us. Besides, it makes me think of what it must have been like for la Rusa. Didn’t you say she went everywhere with her gypsy clan?’

  Jaime nodded. ‘I’m not sure if they were as crazy as my family — but maybe.’ He grinned before kissing me briefly on the lips. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, OK?’

  On my way home, I thought about Jaime’s family again. They were so involved and ‘together’ in everything they did. My mind drifted from Xavier, to Mamie and Avi, to Mama and Papa, and then to Feliu. Why was my family so shattered?

  I arrived home and found Mamie was still up, sipping a cup of tea. She was ready to tell me more of her story. Perhaps she would be able to explain the mystery of my fractured family.

  ‘I have always believed that the Republican government could have won the war against Franco,’ Mamie said. ‘Once the decision was finally made to arm the workers, they fought with spirit. After all, the Anarchists and Communists among them had years of street-fighting experience. They were helped by those members of the army and police who had remained loyal to the Republic. Franco’s forces became known as “the Nationalists” but they didn’t have the whole nation’s support. At first, they were simply called “military rebels” because that’s all they really were. The Loyalists managed to defeat Franco’s coup in the major urban centres, including Madrid, in a matter of days. This meant the gold reserves and the communications networks remained in the hands of the Republican government. The military coup could have been stopped as quickly as it began — only we were betrayed.’

  I knew my Spanish history well enough to understand the betrayal Mamie was referring to. Franco’s ‘Nationalist’ army requested help from its Fascist allies, Germany and Italy. The Germans and Italians seized the opportunity to test the weapons they had been developing in a real war and within days the rebels received military equipment and transport. But when the Republican government turned to Britain and France for help, it was faced with their policy of non-intervention.