by Iris Danbury
“Does a Spanish lady of Dona Elena’s type hold hands with a gentleman not yet her husband?” asked Nicola slyly.
“You’ve been reading about our very ancient customs when the ladies remained behind iron grills,” said Adrienne with mock severity. “We are more advanced now. To shake hands with a man does not give us the electric shock.”
“Sometimes it ought to do just that—if it’s the right man.”
But Sebastian and Elena had returned to the patio, and Nicola wondered if they had indeed been holding hands under the stars. A wave of insane jealousy swept over her, but she crushed it ruthlessly. To think of Sebastian in any way other than that of employer, doctor, uncle of Adrienne and possible husband of Elena was not futile but dangerous.
CHAPTER VI
When Nicola was making herself ready for the fiesta she had no inkling that the Eve of St. John would remain in her memory as one of the highest peaks of ecstasy she had ever experienced.
In the first place she had not realised that the party would be a foursome, Ramon and Adrienne, Sebastian and herself. By what mysterious magic Dona Elena had been persuaded or even hoodwinked to stay away, Nicola neither knew nor cared. No doubt Elena had seen a surfeit of festivals.
The evening began soberly enough with dinner at the yacht club in Barcelona, the Real Club Maritimo, of which Ramon was a member. From this elegant setting overlooking the harbour they could see rockets from boats or quays lighting the dark blue sky in coloured arcs of bursting stars over the water.
After dinner Ramon suggested they should all go to see the Montjuich fountains which he explained to Nicola always put on a special display on the eve of holidays. “So many changes and colours you will never have seen before,” he told her with pride.
A taxi took them as close as possible to the “Cascades,” Sebastian having sent Ignacio home.
Crowds stood about or sat on the wide flight of steps leading to the Palacio Nacional, families with children, laughing groups of young people, old couples who must have seen it all a hundred times. The changing colours and patterns of water almost mesmerised Nicola who could not take her eye away.
“You have fountains like this in England?” Adrienne queried with a touch of disbelief mingled with national pride.
“Not at all like this.” Nicola watched the gradual shading from mauve to blue, through green to yellow, back to orange and red, and saw how the colours were reflected dazzingly on the faces of the spectators.
After a while Sebastian guided her to a small cabin where they could see a man controlling the play of lights and water from a switchboard.
With a man’s passion for the way things work, Sebastian explained, “The operator can see the whole of the fountain from here and he can make so many endless changes that he need not repeat himself once for over two hours.”
“Let me go on believing that it’s all done by magic,” said Nicola, “with an army of goblins and elves to work this fairyland.”
An hour slipped by while they watched the unbelievable display. Then Ramon asked, “What now?”
Adrienne’s immediate answer was “Tibidabo!”
“Tibidabo?” echoed Sebastian. “But that’s right out on the hill.”
“I know exactly where it is,” she retorted. “But remember we must show Nicola Spain in all its moods, and fiesta in Barcelona is not complete without Tibidabo.”
“Very well. If you say so,” agreed Sebastian.
“Besides, it will do you good to let yourself go at the funfair,” Adrienne continued in what Nicola had come to recognise as her “bossy” voice.
On the way the taxi-driver slowed several times to allow his passengers to see spectacular fireworks in gardens; huge green ferns of fire, weeping willows in thin pink streams, set pieces in orange and green that whirled and disintegrated into a thousand stars.
On the top of Mount Tibidabo the huge church with the figure of Christ on top was floodlit.
“If we take the lift to the top,” Adrienne suggested, “we can see all the lights of the city.”
It was a remarkable experience to step into a lift and be conveyed silently to the high roof platform.
“In England we usually have to walk up hundreds of worn steps,” Nicola remarked, but she realised that these various church buildings were completely new and in fact not quite finished yet. Out of the glare of the floodlighting and the illuminations from the funfair below, she gazed at the distant city sparkling like a piece of jewellery flung down on black velvet.
“You can see the ramblas and the paseos like long streaks of light,” Sebastian murmured. “In between, the lights merge into each other, but you can see the harbour. Come here some time in daylight and you can see the most impressive view of the city.”
There were steps up and down to terraces to be negotiated, and Nicola, temporarily blinded by a revolving floodlight on a tower, almost stumbled. Sebastian caught her, steadied her, then firmly linked her arm in his so that she might feel safe. She was glad to leave it there.
At the funfair Sebastian cast off some of his inhibitions, it seemed to Nicola. He laughed at her when she was lost in the labyrinth and came up behind her and swung her about in a different direction. On the monorail Sebastian waited until they could secure front seats. “Are you frightened?” he asked.
She wanted to answer “Never with you,” but thought better of that give-away remark and said, “I’ll try to put up with it.” But as the car lurched round a corner, she gave a little squeal of fright, believing for a moment that she was about to take off into space. Sebastian’s arm went round her shoulders and she felt ashamed of her fears.
When doors loomed up ahead she braced herself for the terrifying impact, only to find that the car raced through them as they swung back to enter grottos with fairy lights and one with mermaids and an undersea atmosphere.
As soon as the trip was over Sebastian suggested that they should sample the seesaw, a contraption poised high on a transverse beam with two small cages at the ends. Here again when their cage was high off the ground the wonderful view of Barcelona spread out before them, and Nicola was conscious of Sebastian’s presence. Oh, if she could stay up here for ever with him, close against his side in the slowly revolving iron cage! But impatient passengers in the car below on the ground were eager for their turn and reluctantly Nicola stepped out of the cage, when it returned to ground level. Ramon and Adrienne walked ahead, happier together, it seemed to Nicola, than they usually were. But perhaps that was the effect of the fiesta and Tibidabo.
Dotted all over the fairground were sideshows and stalls for games, for drinks and things to eat; charros, those curving sausage-like lengths of batter fried in smoking oil, dishes of paella or potato omelettes made to order.
Sebastian suddenly darted towards a confectionery stall and bought a dozen tortas, flat cakes with candied fruit and pine kernels. “They are called “coquet,” he told Nicola. “Special for San Juan’s day. We should really eat them tomorrow, but it can’t be far off midnight.”
After the excellent dinner at the yacht club, Nicola was scarcely hungry, but the little cakes were delicious. Sebastian was munching away like a schoolboy in a forbidden kitchen.
Fire-crackers exploded everywhere, a band vainly tried to compete with the general din, people yelled and shouted, laughed and punctured each other’s balloons.
Nicola noticed a small roundabout with Ali Baba pots to stand in, So that children’s heads popped up unexpectedly or they crouched down to elude their parents watching for them.
“You have Ali Baba pots in your garden at the Villa,” Nicola said to Sebastian. “Are they just ornaments or do you use them for water or something else?”
He laughed at her question. “We don’t keep the sherry in them, true. Oh, all over Spain everyone uses them for different purposes. Long ago, in Andalusia, people used them for baths. They climbed a small ladder outside, descended another inside and stepped into the jar half filled with water. Onl
y their heads showed above the neck of the jar, so it was not only a private bath, but families or friends could continue their conversation, if they had enough pots.”
Nicola laughed in return, but was slightly sceptical about his tale until Ramon nodded and declared it was true.
Nicola was in a mood to accept any preposterous tale, for she had never known until now that Sebastian Montal could relax and behave like a carefree man out on an evening’s holiday. She was in a dream-like cocoon of delight and unwilling, even unable, to bother with the problems that surrounded her day-to-day existence.
When Sebastian had apparently exhausted all the sideshows and amusements he wanted Nicola to share, Ramon secured a taxi to take the party down to the yacht club by the harbour where he had parked his own car. Sebastian suddenly disappeared for a few moments and Ramon exclaimed, “Now where’s he gone?” Sebastian returned almost immediately waving a block of turron, a sweet made from honey, sugar and almonds.
“Are you afraid of starving?” Adrienne teased him.
“Nicola probably hasn’t tasted the special Tibidabo brand of turron,” he retorted.
Nicola was tremendously flattered that he should go out of his way to offer these small thoughtful kindnesses, yet she forced herself to treat the matter lightly. “I’m surprised that a doctor should encourage such orgies of over-eating,” she said.
“It’s a good thing occasionally to see how far one can tax the digestion,” was his unexpected reply. “That way we find out our limitations. Eating is like sleeping. You can always rest next day.”
“We shall certainly need to sleep all day tomorrow on the Clorinda,” said Adrienne with a yawn.
The taxi-driver declared that he could go no farther when he came to the old part of the city centre. The streets were jammed with people, processions, bands and bonfires. Ramon and Sebastian accepted this view and said they would walk through the crowded part and pick up another taxi elsewhere. Adrienne grumbled that she was already dead on her feet, but Nicola had suddenly discovered a new lease of wakefulness.
At the Plaza de San Jaime a band was playing for sardanas and in no time Sebastian had whirled Nicola into one of the circles of dancers. At a moment when everyone raised their linked hands to head level, Nicola found herself staring at a man on the opposite side of her particular ring. Surely it was the man who had come that night to Lisa’s flat, the same man who had denied knowing Nicola when she was in the wine-shipper’s office? Momentarily now she lost step in the dance and Sebastian gently corrected her. When she looked up again the man had gone and disappeared into the crowd of spectators lining the square.
The incident haunted Nicola all the way home when eventually the party left and were driven to Orsola by Ramon. She had to admit to herself that to her eyes many young Spaniards might resemble each other in looks, but was it only a coincidence that the man had almost immediately left the sardana circle when Nicola met his eyes?
On arrival at the Villa Ronda Adrienne sleepily promised that she and Nicola would be ready by about five o’clock in the afternoon to go aboard the Clorinda. Ramon called out “Goodnight” and drove himself back to the harbour. Adrienne tottered through the arched entrance of the villa and went up the main staircase.
Sebastian hesitated a moment. Then he said with all that restrained dignity that Nicola knew so well, “I hope it was a night to remember, Nicola. Have you enjoyed your first taste of a fiesta?”
She wanted to dance up and down like a seven-year-old after a party, but she, too, restrained herself. “I shall never forget it. The colour, the light, the gaiety—and—” She stopped abruptly. She had nearly added, “and you in your merriest of moods.”
“Good. I hope we shall be able to take you to other festivities. We need the excuse of a stranger sometimes to prod us into enjoying our own way of life.” Then he took Nicola’s hand and raised it to his lips. “Buenos noches,” he murmured. “Enjoy yourself on the Clorinda. I may be able to come to San Fernando in a week’s time.”
In a daze she went up to her room, glancing once over the wrought iron rail of the curving staircase. Sebastian was looking up at her. He smiled and raised his hand in salute. She was too disconcerted to do more than give a quick nod in return, then hurried along to her room.
Surely it was fortunate that she was due to leave for San Fernando within a few hours or she might have made a complete fool of herself. How stupid to believe that this one night’s peak of enjoyment meant anything but a typical instance of Spanish hospitality!
Sebastian had said almost that himself; that having a visitor was an excuse for indulging in the local gaieties.
How could she be so naive, Nicola asked herself, as to imagine herself in love with Sebastian Montal because he had acted the jaunty host and kissed her hand in spontaneous farewell before she left his house for a week or so?
No doubt many other girls had deluded themselves in the same way, for he had everything to make him most eligible: distinguished career, wealth, handsome saturnine looks and a certain unapproachability that beckoned women towards him like a moth to a candle flame. Yet every one of those girls had been ineffectual against his withdrawn indifference. Who was the woman he had loved so much that now all he had to offer was a hard shell of refusal?
As she lay in bed and dawn lightened the room so that the furniture emerged as blurred shapes, she told herself that the emotion she felt for Sebastian could not be love. She was no stranger to love. She had loved David with all her heart, and the time of their acquaintanceship followed by engagement had been nothing but enchanting happiness, delight in each other’s company, the sharing of simple pleasures and planning a home together. Not the faintest cloud had ever marred the sunshine of that period until he went on the Australian trip. Even then the weeks sped by, punctuated by his regular letters until that final blow.
When he had broken the engagement by marrying another girl Nicola had resolved that she would never again be taken in by false infatuation or by a lightly exchanged love.
Patrick had tested her reserve at the beach party only a couple of nights ago and she had easily withstood his ardour. Yet she could not so smoothly dismiss this growing involvement with Sebastian. She refused to place it deeper than that. This painful longing, this ache that seemed like a heart full of unshed tears, surely this could not be real love, but only an unworthy hankering, an envy to possess something that could never be hers.
In a way it was both a disappointment and a relief that she did not see Sebastian again before she and Adrienne left the Villa Ronda to start their yacht trip.
Inez, Adrienne’s maid, who was to accompany them to Majorca had packed for Nicola as well as Adrienne, so there was nothing to do and Nicola went into Sebastian’s study on the pretext of leaving everything tidy. The reality, she knew, was something different. She wanted to run her hands over the, back of his chair, to touch the things he had touched, his pens, his papers. Most of all, she longed to pull open the desk drawer in which lay the framed photograph of the woman who still retained his heart to the exclusion of any other.
Nicola clasped her hands tightly, willing herself not even to try if the drawer were locked. She could not stoop to this mean, despicable act. Even the thought brought a shamed blush to her cheeks and she ran out of the room as though a demon were pursuing her.
The prospect of a trip in the lovely Clorinda now riding at anchor in the harbour should have excited her, but she thought of the miles of sea separating her from Sebastian. Yet she welcomed the breathing space that a fortnight in San Fernando might provide. Perhaps by the time she returned she would have her emotions under better control and be able to view events in their proper perspective. She tried not to remember that Sebastian had promised that he might come later to Ramon’s house in San Fernando. At this moment, Nicola hardly knew whether she would be glad or sorry.
The Clorinda sailed during the early evening with much hauling of ropes from the mooring buoys and clanking of anchor chai
ns. Besides the crew of three or four men, Ramon had his skipper aboard, a stout, podgy man with a small dark moustache, expressive eyes and a gentle but authoritative manner. When the yacht glided out of the harbour and turned for the open sea, Adrienne pointed out to Nicola the Villa Ronda, a white patch set in a clump of green trees high up above the shore. Nicola wondered wistfully if Sebastian happened to be on the “Mediterranean balcony” watching the yacht’s departure, but that was a silly, vain thought that should never have entered her head. He was probably not yet back from his hospital duty in Barcelona.
Since there was no time-table hurry Ramon decided on a leisurely cruising speed, and the night steamer from Barcelona to San Fernando soon passed the yacht with much waving from passengers on the steamer’s crowded decks.
Nicola reflected on her good fortune to be travelling in such luxurious style, and Patrick’s remark echoed in her mind. “... the sort of life Lisa was looking for. Comfort, security and plenty of amusement. .
His words described Nicola’s present mode of life. Surely she could be content with that and not sigh for the moon as well!
Ramon’s chef, Juan, had apparently spent all day concocting a celebration dinner for the party on board. Gazpacho, the delicious iced soup, was followed by a zarzuela, an assortment of fried fish and seafood in a sauce of laurel leaves, wine and tomatoes. Then, as this was still San Juan’s day, the chef served his special version of the little round cakes appropriate to his name-saint.
Elena as hostess to her brother was at her most charming and Nicola was only too eager to comply with her mood. To be staying eventually in Ramon’s house and be at loggerheads with his sister would be undeniably uncomfortable.
