The Summer of the Spanish Woman

by Catherine Gaskin

  We sat there, talking about that, and other things for a time. And as the dusk began to fall, we toured, with Pepita, the top of the slope where the house sat. My vines which had been grown as a sun-shield had thickened and done well. We looked over the slopes of the vineyard where the pruned and shaped vines were beginning to take on their covering of green. ‘Although so much in debt,’ I said, ‘I am sad that the land is now all planted. There will be no more agosta, no more selection of the plants for each kind of soil and position, no more marking out and planting. I should be glad because now the labour will be less, and I may expect a full harvest. But not to be able to think, “Next year, if all goes well, I shall plant this slope …” It will be something missing from my life.’

  ‘Why should you stop?’ Luis asked. ‘There is plenty of albariza soil around Jerez still not under cultivation for the vines. So much that was never replanted after the phylloxera. Around Puerto and Sanlucar … more and more. Why stop?’

  ‘How nice to be rich, Luis,’ I laughed. ‘There is only the question of money. No ‒ don’t start again. Already this afternoon you have me dreaming of a stud. Now you would have me start to plan on being a major grower of grapes for sherry. Even dreams must end, Luis.’

  He sighed. ‘A pity. When you stop dreaming, your youth is over.’

  ‘I promise, then, not to stop dreaming, Luis. But let it stay a dream.’

  He smiled that unexpectedly gentle, beguiling smile, touched my cheek lightly with his fingers, took my arm, and we returned to the house.

  * *

  Conceptión herself came to enquire if Don Luis would be staying to eat dinner with me. She seemed to take it as a point of pride that he should stay. She was a skilful cook, and could make a piece of tough beef, stewed gently with her own blending of herbs, into something that would have graced Don Luis’s own table. The cupboards always yielded cheese and a little fruit. There was the wine I brought out from the Plaza de Asturias. She liked to make the table look pretty with Amelia’s pottery candle-sticks, and a few grape leaves. It was almost a command to Luis to stay, and he did. ‘I accept gratefully. It is a long, lonely table in my own house.’

  So we ate together, and caught up with the gossip of the town. There had been so little time since my mother’s illness to talk. We talked about the war, and the stalemate on the Western Front, the situation in Ireland, and I confessed that almost everything I knew of both subjects came through Edwin Fletcher.

  ‘Ah, yes ‒ the young Fletcher.’ The meal was finished. Conceptión had cleared the cloth, left brandy and port, and some nuts, built up the fire, and asked if there was anything else we required. ‘Leave a lantern for me, Conceptión, if you please,’ Luis said. ‘I must make my way back to my own house, and then ride into Jerez.’

  ‘You will need no lantern tonight, Don Luis. The moon is as bright as day.’ Then she nodded. ‘But Antonio has it ready for you, if you need it.’ She withdrew.

  ‘The young Fletcher,’ Luis continued. ‘Does he have plans to return to England?’

  I shook my head. ‘Only when he must. He will never go back into the Army. They have discharged him. And England is not a good place these days for those who are forced into a kind of idleness. He cannot work a full day yet, so that would prevent him taking any employment in England. Besides, the Marquesa is very persuasive with her money, and the Andalucian sun is more than anyone can pay him. I think he’s not strong enough yet to take the climate in England. Particularly the damp …’

  ‘And so you have one more to care for, Carlota. How we cluster about you.’

  ‘We? You have no dependence on me, Luis.’

  ‘Then what am I doing here?’

  ‘As a friend I value highly. As a …’ I hesitated, and then plunged on. The thought of the expected child had been so much with me since coming here; I was feeling rested, and at peace, so much more ready to accept this child, to love it. As I had once told Luis of my love for Richard Blodmore, so now I found myself telling him what no one else knew. ‘Luis, there is to be another. In the autumn I will have another child.’

  He turned his face fully to me. ‘Fruitful, always, Carlota. A blessing, this child.’

  I shook my head. ‘I have not been feeling so. Only since I came here have I been able to think of it calmly. A child must be loved, Luis. So far I have not been able to love it …’ I did not say any more, dared not. I could not say that this child had been forced on me, and that since that night my door had been locked against Carlos. Even to Luis I could not say such things.

  ‘You will love your child, Carlota. It is not in you to deny love … Not to the helpless, and those in need. All those who come within your reach are drawn in. I do not have any fears for this child. I wish …’

  He did not finish. From where she lay at my side, Pepita rose and gave a low growl. She had heard before we had the noise that suddenly erupted in the courtyard, the clatter of the horse’s hooves, the orders given, the loud, impatient voice. The peace was gone. It was Carlos’s voice.

  We heard Antonio’s voice, and Conceptión's, the unbolting of the doors, the hard ring of boots on the tiled floor. The door of the sitting-room was opened quickly, and crashed back to hit the wall. Carlos stood there and looked at us in silence for a moment. I recognised the signs of too much drink, and the dreaded temper aroused. He carried a saddle bag which appeared to be heavily loaded. Behind him, holding a lamp, Conceptión stood with a look of pleading on her face, as if to beg forgiveness for having to admit him. ‘Shall I take the bag, Don Carlos?’

  ‘You can get out. And tell Antonio to unsaddle. I’ll stay the night here.’ He slammed the door closed by kicking it. The saddle bag he simply dropped to the floor where he stood.

  ‘Well … well. Our good and true friend, Luis,’ he said. ‘How convenient to find you here with Carlota. It saves me another journey. But then it does not surprise me to find you here, you and Carlota being such good friends.’ He strode to the dresser, took a glass and poured brandy for himself. ‘I’m happy to see the best brandy is being served. After all, one does honour to one’s true friend with the best one has.’

  ‘Have you come all the way here to say just this, Carlos?’

  He turned and came to stand before us; he raised his glass with elaborate ceremony to both of us, and then drank deeply. ‘I’m a good deal more interested in what you have been saying.’

  I shrugged, trying not to let the fear that grew in me show. There was no predicting what Carlos would do or say in the heat of anger and wine. ‘The usual things. The war … the vines … the horses.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The vines and the horses. The same stimulating conversation that goes on at every meal in our house. What a pity you haven’t the learned Mr Fletcher to give you some additional points on the conduct of the war, and what is going to happen in Holy Ireland.’ He drank again, and paced the length of the room. As he walked, he saw Amelia’s poetry book on the dresser. ‘Ah, poetry, is it? That’s a change for you, Carlota. I didn’t know you read Spanish that well. I thought your Spanish was confined to the language of the stables. But no doubt Luis here has done the reading …’ He threw it down so that it fell open with the slender, beautifully-bound spine turned upwards. I saw Luis’s mouth tighten, but as yet he said nothing.

  Carlos drank again. ‘Can you imagine, Don Luis, how boring the company at my table is? I am surrounded by dreary women, and milk-sop men. I swear my sons are turning into girls before my eyes.’

  ‘Carlos, please …’

  ‘Carlos …’ He cruelly mimicked my tone, and went to the dresser for more brandy. ‘Whining women ‒ that’s all I have day and night. At least I used to have a bed-companion, but even that is now denied me. I might as well go and live with the Carthusians.’

  ‘Go any time you please,’ I said, and instantly regretted it. One did not talk like that to Carlos when he was in this mood. His face darkened.

  ‘Oh, so you’re independent of me now, are you? I was
all right to marry when you had gotten yourself with a brat, but now I’ve served my purpose, my time, I may be dismissed. After all, you’ve a plentiful supply of money. What do you need a man for?’

  ‘Carlos, this is not something to discuss before Luis ‒ before anyone.’

  Luis got to his feet. ‘Carlota, I think Carlos is not quite himself. No doubt he wishes to see you alone, but I think I will stay just a little longer.’ The mild-mannered man was gone. His tone was cold, and unshaken.

  ‘Stay!’ Carlos shouted. ‘Stay as long as you please. After all, don’t you own this place? Isn’t even the roof over my wife’s head owned by you? Can she dare throw you out?’ He turned on me. ‘A few days at the vineyard, you said. A few days of rest. Did you come here to discuss your vines and your mother’s horses? ‒ or did you come to discuss some future plans? Have you any more schemes ‒ ambitious plans on which I am not consulted? After all, why consult me? Why consult me when there is the rich and capable and helpful Don Luis to serve you?’

  ‘What are you saying? I don’t like riddles.’

  ‘Riddles, is it?’ He put down his glass, and overturned it. Then he went to pick up the saddle bag. We watched as he carried it to the big centre table, and undid the straps. I already guessed what was in that bag, and I was sick at the thought. The books, those familiar volumes bound in red morocco, tumbled out as he upended the bag. The candles flickered wildly. At the noise, Pepita growled again. I put a hand on her.

  ‘There are no riddles, Carlota. It is simply that you are in so-called debt to your good friend Luis here for more money than you will ever see.’

  ‘Those books are mine, Carlos. My personal property. Private.’

  ‘Private? What is private between husband and wife?’ he said. ‘Is not your property mine? ‒ and your debts are my debts?’ He was flicking the pages of one of the volumes, the newest one. ‘So unlucky for you, Carlota, that you took the household books with you, and that dreary drudge, Maria Luisa, has always to be so busy balancing her columns. How unlucky that I ventured to inquire into my wife’s affairs!’ He slapped down the book. ‘And what do I find? My wife is in debt to Don Luis for thousands of pesetas. No, not thousands ‒ hundreds of thousands! By the evidence of these books he owns this vineyard, he owns its produce for years to come, he owns the horses. For all I know he may even own the clothes on your back. I took that stupid bitch, Maria Luisa, and shook it out of her. Your mother’s income does not begin to pay for this expenditure. Nor does Don Ramon’s bank extend such credit. No ‒ only a very special creditor extends such loans. What puzzles me is that you bother to record it at all. Why not just take the money, and put nothing on paper? Why go through the farce of pretending you have paid the interest ‒’

  ‘Enough, Carlos! I lend my money where I choose. These are as sound investments as any man can make. Your own father would see that! He’s been in debt in his own time. Even to Carlota’s grandfather, he’s been in debt. The share of the bodega Lord Blodmore left to Lady Patricia is evidence of your father’s need for money. But he made the mistake of selling a part of the bodega. I have only loaned Carlota ‒’

  ‘You think me a greater fool than I am, Don Luis. How will this miserable little vineyard ever pay off these sums of money? For twenty years the harvests of this land will be owed to you. By the time everything is paid off, the vines will be exhausted, and it will be time to start all over again.’

  ‘You speak about debts,’ I said. ‘What of your own? What of the debts I have paid for you?’ My fear was lessening as my anger grew.

  ‘Debts? My debts? And why not? Didn’t Amelia’s will cover my trifling debts and give you a large surplus? And what of the jewellery she left to you? That could have paid your debts and mine as well. Or did …?’ Now he looked at Luis again, and a slow, insinuating smile grew on his lips. ‘Or did you demand that your wife make such a will, Don Luis? It would have been a convenient way to give Carlota more money, money which did not have to appear in these books. Respectable money. Money the town would say was a touching return of a great friendship. Were you really friends, Carlota? I always doubted it. What would a person like you see in a snivelling fool like Amelia? Why haven’t you sold the jewellery? You never wear it. A little prick of conscience, perhaps? Was your wife forced to make these gifts, Don Luis? A woman who is sick and weak will do almost anything to keep a few people about her. She would have signed anything you told her to sign. Are there any other arrangements you two have made, I wonder? Am I the only one in ignorance? Did that marvellous friendship cover a lot more? I wonder if the whole town hasn’t been laughing behind my back? No ‒ that couldn’t be the way of it. Everyone knows about Don Luis. Perhaps there is no more to it than quiet, cosy evenings like this. Does he just sometimes hold your hand, Carlota? Kiss you chastely, like a brother. That would not be beyond him, surely. There must be some return for debts ‒ as large as these ‒’

  Now Luis moved close to him. He said in Spanish, ‘Insults to myself I can bear. Coming from such as you, they are nothing. But insults to Carlota are something different. Insults to my dead wife are not tolerable. You are a corrupt and ignorant fool!’

  Luis hit him with great force across the face. Carlos had not been expecting the blow, and his head snapped back, and he staggered until his body came up against the table. One of the red bound volumes crashed to the floor. Beside me, Pepita was on her feet, tense, her body quivering.

  Carlos recovered himself quickly. ‘No man strikes me, and ever forgets it.’ He started towards Luis, but Luis went to meet him, and hit him again. Carlos, surprised that Luis would go on the attack, gathered himself together, and swung a blow, which Luis ducked neatly …

  I stood up, and still hesitated. To interpose myself would further inflame Carlos. ‘For God’s sake ‒’

  Carlos’s face was flushed and furious. He had obviously expected no such skill in Luis, and his drunken rage made him nearly incoherent.

  ‘All right, old man ‒ so you wish a fight of it. You’ll have it. I have no intention of rotting in gaol on your account. I had simply intended to make sure you cancelled every last peseta of debt which my wife says she owes you. But now I want more than that. I shall carve you up a little, so that when you shave every morning, you will remember me.’

  It was then he produced the knife, the Toledo blade with the black and gold damascene handle, the knife with which he had carved our intertwined initials on the eucalyptus tree an age ago.

  To my horror Luis actually laughed. ‘So you really are born of a gypsy! You fight with a knife.’ He made it sound amusing.

  With a cry of rage, Carlos flung himself toward Luis. Luis sidestepped again, but the knife caught the sleeve of his jacket and ripped through the cloth. Luis grabbed the hand which held the knife, deflecting it away. But it was true. Compared with Carlos’s youth, he was an old man, a strong and wiry man, but still twenty-odd years older than his opponent. He was lighter and more agile than Carlos, but in the end his age would defeat him. And the knife was no idle threat. At that moment Carlos broke from Luis’s grasp and the point of the knife slashed across the other man’s cheek. The blood poured out.

  It was then I screamed and flung myself towards Carlos, grasping, and trying to hold the hand that had the knife.

  ‘Carlos ‒ you are mad!’

  He paused just momentarily. ‘And you too, you little bitch!’ Reason wasn’t in him any more. He was not now thinking of the consequences of his act. Rage and jealousy had gone too far. With his left hand he slapped me across the face, and then when, with the shock of the blow, I dropped my hands from his arm, I felt the sharp bite of the knife in the flesh of my shoulder.

  I must have screamed again. I must have called something. Perhaps I gave a command, but I don’t remember it. Perhaps it was the blow across the face, rather than the knife wound which roused Pepita. With that terrible low growl she flung herself at Carlos with deadly purpose. This was no fight that she understood. All she c
ould have known was that I had been attacked by a man she had known all her life. But there never seemed a question of where her loyalty lay.

  Her size and strength were formidable. And she had no fear of the knife. She put the full weight of her body into the spring she made against Carlos, and he could not take the force of it. He fell, and in an instant her teeth were at his throat.

  He struggled and tried to roll away from her, but the huge paws clamped down on his chest. Unearthly sounds came from Pepita, the low, awful rumble in her throat, the sound of an animal going for the kill. Carlos slashed at her with the knife, and her body received terrible wounds. But still she didn’t give up. It seemed only seconds, but she had found the vulnerable place, and Carlos’s collar and shirt-front were already soaked with blood.

  ‘Carlota! ‒ call her off!’ Luis cried.

  I tried. I think I tried. I think I called her name. I put my hand on her collar and pulled. But did I hesitate just that few seconds too long? Did I actually call a command to her to halt, or did I say nothing? Pepita had seen me attacked, and she had tasted blood. She had herself been slashed by the knife, and what do we know of the mind of a wounded animal? At last, though, she responded to my tugs at her collar, and let go, but she still stood there, gazing down at him, growling, the blood from her own streaming wounds mingling with Carlos’s on the floor. Carlos rolled over, and lay limply.