I sat down on a bench and watched the people strolling past. A slim woman walking a dog caught my eye. She was wearing a rust-coloured jumpsuit with slingback shoes. Her stride was confident and she looked chic. Then I realised it was Audrey I was admiring! How differently you see a person when you no longer despise them, I thought.
‘Audrey?’ I called.
She turned around and took off her sunglasses. She was an attractive woman, I had to admit. She had captivating green eyes.
‘Are you heading home?’ I asked her.
I glanced down at the dog. I would have imagined Audrey owning a pedigree poodle or a Bichon Frisé, but this dog was a mutt. A very cute mutt with enormous brown eyes and a shaggy caramel-coloured coat, but a mutt nonetheless.
‘Yes, I am going back to the apartment,’ she said.
I sensed she was wary of me. I couldn’t blame her.
‘Is it all right for me to see Papa?’
I realised how our roles had changed. It used to be Audrey accosting me on the street. I bent down and patted the dog to hide my embarrassment. He smelled like green apple shampoo. He might have been a mutt but he was a pampered one.
‘You are always welcome to see your father,’ Audrey replied. ‘But I don’t want to be the messenger for either of you any more, is that understood? Whatever you need to sort out, you sort it out between yourselves.’
I straightened up. ‘I’m sorry I treated you the way I did. I didn’t understand.’
Audrey was taken aback by my apology, but then she shrugged. ‘You are young, you were upset … it happens.’
I nodded, humbled by her graciousness. As we walked to the apartment she asked about my first performance with the Ballet and when rehearsals began.
‘I have another month’s break and then we’ll be rehearsing for Swan Lake,’ I told her. ‘It was the first ballet my mother performed in too.’
The concierge opened the door for us.
‘Come on, Pelé!’ Audrey called to her dog when he strained at his leash to greet an Afghan hound passing by with its owner. I smiled to myself. Pelé? Audrey had named her dog after the famous Brazilian soccer player. There was so much about my stepmother that surprised me.
As we climbed the stairs to the apartment, Audrey said, ‘We didn’t get to celebrate your father’s birthday with you. I was thinking that you and your grandmother might like to come on a holiday with us to Saint-Tropez before you start with the Ballet? Pierre will come too.’
‘And Pelé?’ I asked, bending down to give the dog another pat. I’d always wanted a dog.
‘Of course,’ she said, smiling.
Audrey told me that Papa was practising in his studio on the next floor up. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, kissing my cheeks and then leading Pelé into the apartment. She gave me a wave before she shut the door.
Papa was playing ‘El Corpus Christi en Sevilla’ by Isaac Albéniz. It was the piece of music that he had given me on the cassette. I felt a twinge of pain when I remembered how abominably I had responded to his attempts to reach me. The piece was so evocative of Spain it was almost as if Papa had known that I needed to come to terms with that part of myself.
I waited until he had finished playing before slipping through the door into his studio. He turned when he heard me. I was struck by how much he looked like his old self in this room. His hair was shorter, of course, but that was the only real change. The cosy space was a reflection of him with its simple polished floor and lopsided bookshelves sagging under the weight of hundreds of novels and music scores. A black-and-white photograph of a ballerina above the mantelpiece caught my eye. I realised it was a picture of me performing an arabesque, taken a couple of years ago. I thought of the picture I had drawn of my family in the scrapbook: me holding hands with Mama and Mamie, and Papa standing apart. I didn’t want it to be like that any more.
Another framed photograph of me caught my eye. I was four or five years old and standing in front of the clocktower of the Gare de Lyon.
My father turned to where I was looking. ‘You used to be so happy to see me when I came back from touring,’ he said. ‘Your mother and grandmother had to hold on to you so you wouldn’t tumble over in your excitement to embrace me.’
‘I’m still happy to see you, Papa,’ I told him. ‘I’ve just been very confused.’
He studied me a moment before moving over on his piano stool and making a space for me to sit next to him.
‘I’m sorry for the way I treated you,’ I told him, sitting down. ‘I’ve missed you.’
Papa put his arm around me. ‘I never was very good with words, Paloma,’ he said. ‘It’s why I became a musician. I’ve been thinking a lot since our last conversation. I really did have the best intentions … but I went about everything the wrong way. The last person I ever wanted to hurt was you.’
It felt good to be close to my father again. His warm grasp was comforting, especially in the aftermath of all I had learned yesterday. It was ironic that while everyone else in my life seemed to have changed, Papa was still who he had always been.
‘Audrey is busy with meetings next week and Pierre has examinations,’ he said. ‘I was thinking you might like to come to Vienna with me … if you are free?’
I remembered the trip we had made there together when I was seven, getting around the city in an old Volkswagen and eating sachertorte in elegant cafés.
‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything,’ I told him.
My father smiled at me and rubbed my arm. I smiled too … and then we both laughed. And just like with Mamie, I sensed the bond between us had been restored.
When the curtain rose for the second act of Swan Lake and I and the other dancers of the corps de ballet pranced into the silver-blue light of the Paris Opera’s stage, I experienced the most magical moment of my life. Tchaikovsky’s beautiful music swelled around us as we configured and reconfigured our swan maiden formations, using our wrists, elbows, arms and shoulders to convey the graceful sweep of wings. The corps de ballet of the Paris Opera was the most famous in the world for its precision — every arm, leg, and head had to be positioned exactly so as to create a sense of perfect unison.
When Odette — danced by the beautiful and lyrical Dominique Khalfouni — rushed onto the stage to beseech Prince Siegfried and his hunting companions not to harm the swans, I was deeply moved. There was so much in the story I could relate to everything I had heard from Mamie, Feliu and Ramón about what had happened in Spain. In the same way the swan maidens’ fates were tied to the love story of Odette and Prince Siegfried, I felt that my life and my identity were inextricably linked to what had happened in the past. In the final act, when Siegfried told Odette of how he had been tricked by the evil Odile and her father, and the lovers ended their lives so they could be united in death, I saw a parallel with the tragic stories of Xavier and la Rusa.
The opening night of Swan Lake was special to me in another way too: I was making my mark as a unique dancer. Mademoiselle Louvet had told Arielle Marineau about my flamenco studies. Having transformed from my detractor into my champion, Mademoiselle Marineau had in turn spoken to Raymond Franchetti, who recommended that I rehearse for the part of the Spanish dancer in the ballroom scene. My mother had been younger than me when she was accepted into the corps de ballet, but this was a ‘first’ all of my own. The part usually went to a more senior dancer; in being cast for it, I was being showcased as a possible future étoile with the company. I may have only been half-Spanish, but I used every ounce of Andalusian blood in my veins to bring the ballet-flamenco dance to life. I performed my swooping backbends and soft zapateados while imagining that la Rusa was out there in the audience, watching me with the same pride she had once felt for Mama.
After the performance, I ran to the foyer to meet my family and friends. Mamie was there with Micheline. Jaime rushed towards me, grinning proudly from ear to ear. Carmen and the rest of the family were there too, along with Gaby and Marcel. But it was when
I saw Papa, Audrey and Pierre that I felt most elated. Papa and I had enjoyed ourselves in Vienna together. Along with Mamie, I felt like I had a family again.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I told my father. ‘It means a lot to me.’
Papa smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.’
I should have been exhausted by physical exertion and overexcitement after the opening night of Swan Lake. Instead, I lay in bed wide awake for most of the night. About four o’clock in the morning, I was struck by an urgent desire to dance. I climbed out of bed and slipped on my leotard and leg warmers. When I opened my dresser drawer for my hairpins and headband, I noticed the Russian box in the corner. I lifted it out and examined the golden earrings again. I ran my finger around their smooth loops: I still didn’t fully understand their significance. I took them with me to the studio.
For most of my life I had risen early to practise, but dancing this long before dawn was a record even for me. I turned on the lights of the studio and placed the earrings on a window ledge. As I began my warm-up stretches, I contemplated how much my life had changed. I used to be so alone. Now I had a wonderful boyfriend, who had also brought into the picture his lively Spanish family. I was reconciled with my father, and had gathered along the way a stepmother and stepbrother as well as a couple more pets. Although it was difficult for me to adjust to the knowledge that Mamie wasn’t my true grandmother, hearing her history and understanding her faults and strengths had made me love her more deeply. I was now a member of one of the best ballet companies in the world, and I was becoming an accomplished flamenco dancer. I smiled when I thought about how far I’d progressed from being a perfectionist loner to someone described as ‘charismatic’!
That day when I had first encountered la Rusa, I’d had no idea who she was. Now I understood the vital role she had played in my heritage. Ramón had said that the possessor of the golden earrings who dared to take them to the Otherworld could return to a loved one three times. La Rusa, my grandmother, had come to steer me in the direction of a bigger and happier life.
I wondered why she had given the golden earrings to me instead of my mother. Perhaps she had thought my mother was strong like her, and that I needed her more. As this thought went through my mind, I perceived a change in the atmosphere. Something like the tingle of an electric current passed over my skin. I knew that when I turned around, la Rusa would be there.
This time, when I contemplated her dignified face, I didn’t feel afraid. I thought of what had happened to her: the injustices and tragedies she had suffered. The very idea of them made my heart heavy.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I told her. ‘I’m sorry for everything you suffered. You deserved better.’
La Rusa tilted her head slightly and stared at me.
She can’t hear me now, I thought. In whatever dimension she exists in, she can’t hear my voice. I decided I would communicate with her in a way I knew she would understand.
I began with palmas, clapping out a rhythm for a soleá, the dance of loneliness, solitude and estrangement. I had felt all those things after Mama’s death, but how much more had la Rusa experienced them! With the marking of my feet, the rhythmic movement of my arms and my melancholy turns, I tried to express to her my sorrow and sympathy. She had known the extremes of life: abject poverty and vast wealth; great love and great loss. She had been gravely misunderstood and falsely accused by those she had loved and for whom she had made so many sacrifices. I used my escobilla, my rhythmic footwork, to show her how much my heart ached for her. She was my blood grandmother and I had never known her.
I performed a slow turn, but when I came face to face with la Rusa again she sent me a mocking smile. I was confused when she performed a llamada of her own, lifting her leg, turning and then throwing down her arm proudly before clapping out another rhythm. She was making a call to commence an entirely different flamenco rhythm. I recognised it immediately: an alegrías — the dance of joy.
My puzzlement turned to amazement when I witnessed the fire and passion that burst from la Rusa’s slight frame. She was elegant and proud with a defiant spark in her eyes. Then I understood: la Rusa was not going to allow anyone to feel sorry for her. She was telling me that she had made her choices and she stood by them.
My pity was replaced by admiration. La Rusa was every bit the extraordinary dancer that Mamie had described. She was precise, wild, intense and flirtatious all at the same time. She danced playfully and touched her arms to her chest before extending them to me, inviting me to join her. I matched the rhythm of her zapateados and was soon lost in our dance of celebration. Waves of happiness rushed between us, and I felt the power of her celebrated energy.
She brought the dance to a sudden stop, before gracefully placing her hands on her hips and lifting her chin proudly. It was then I noticed she was wearing the golden earrings.
‘Olé!’ she said, and vanished.
I stood where I was for a few minutes, catching my breath and realising that I had experienced what was most likely my last encounter with la Rusa’s ghost. She didn’t want me to think of her with sorrow but with joy. I remembered the inscription she had requested for her tombstone: All honourable causes eventually succeed even if at first they fail. Ramón had told me that la Rusa had wanted to honour Xavier, who had taught her that the spirits of good people, even if they die in defeat, return in future generations to continue moving the human race forwards to higher and better things. I thought of la Rusa and Xavier, Avi, Margarida and my great-grandparents — how all of their spirits lived on in me.
Perhaps that was the message of the golden earrings: out of darkness and suffering can come hope, joy and progress.
I went to the window ledge and saw that the earrings had gone. The circle was now complete.
I placed my hand where the earrings had been. ‘Thank you,’ I said, looking around me. A gentle warmth brushed my skin. I sensed that while la Rusa and the earrings had disappeared, her love would always remain.
‘Thank you,’ I said again.
The studio was still and silent, but I knew that my gratitude had been heard.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The causes and effects of the Spanish Civil War are complex. Golden Earrings, as a work of fiction, does not attempt to explain all aspects of the war from all perspectives. Readers who would like to know more about the Spanish Civil War might enjoy starting with Helen Graham’s The Spanish Civil War: A Very Short Introduction and proceed to further reading from there.
The Paris Opera Ballet is considered one of the finest companies in the world. In the examination scene I use the names of the real-life director of the ballet school in 1976, Claude Bessy, and the director of dance, Raymond Franchetti, to create a sense of time and place. However, Arielle Marineau is a fictional character created for dramatic purposes and is not based on any actual person associated with the ballet or its school at any time.
Likewise, while Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Helena Petrovna Blavatsky are historical figures who wrote about the supernatural, the ‘contemporary French psychic’ mentioned in this tory, Mireille Fourest, is fictional.
Golden Earrings is set partly in Barcelona which is situated in the region of Catalonia. The area has its own language and character. Catalans largely think of their region as separate to the rest of Spain and to discourage this tendency to separatism the use of the Catalan language in public life, as well as other cultural markers, have been banned by dominating powers at various times in history. The two instances mentioned in this book are the period of Miguel Primo de Rivera’s dictatorship (1923–1930) and during the rule of Francisco Franco (1939–1975). I have used both Catalan and Spanish phrases and terms in the novel, depending on the background of the character who is speaking, to give the novel a sense of place and a certain atmosphere true to the country overall as well as this unique region. In order not to confuse readers unfamiliar with Spanish or Catalan, I’ve taken some liberties with the use of punctuation; for ex
ample, Hola! instead of ¡Hola! I’ve also used capitals for words such as Pare, Mama and Avi when they are used as character’s names.
A brief guide to the Spanish and Catalan honorifics is given below:
don
don
doña
donya
señor
senyor
señora
senyora
señorita
senyoreta
A SPECIAL NOTE TO MY READERS
I would like to take this opportunity at the end of my fifth novel to say a special thank you to my readers. It is thinking of you all and your enjoyment of a good story that keeps me at my desk, day after day, determined to give the very best of myself to each book.
Thank you so much for the letters and cards that you send me. I keep every one, and when I find myself stuck, exhausted or discouraged in some way, I often take a letter or two out and re-read them to get me moving again.
The relationship between author and reader is a special one. While I use my words to create characters and plots, my readers use their own imaginations and life experiences to recreate my original intentions in their own unique ways. This means there are as many versions of Golden Earrings as there are readers. I truly enjoy this sense of collaboration.
It is always a pleasure to hear from you, so please feel free to write to me if you wish:
C/-HarperCollins Publishers Australia
PO Box A565
Sydney South, NSW 1235
With love and gratitude,
Belinda Alexandra
Golden Earrings Page 49
