‘This is the season of the horse fair,’ he explained. ‘The town will be teeming with extra life and colour, there’ll be lots to see.’
He left the car in one of the squares and, after a drink and some tapas, the pair parted company, giving Ramón the chance to pick up a few things he needed and Alexandra the welcome opportunity of exploring a little on her own.
She strolled haphazardly around the narrow calles. The breeze had dropped, the sky was serenely blue and there was a magical quality in the air, which was saturated with the heady fragrance of jasmine and orange blossom. Like that first afternoon in Puerto de Santa María, Alexandra wandered through the cobbled backstreets where the windows of the whitewashed houses were guarded by curved grilles rimmed with spikes. She couldn’t help thinking of submissive women, kept prisoner in their golden cages; she wondered about their destiny and about her own mother, who couldn’t bear to live that life. Then there was Esmeralda, born into wealth and status, who had nonetheless decided to spread her wings and fly out of the enchanted garden. For the chance of true happiness, Alexandra would have done the same in a heartbeat.
Lost in thought, she barely noticed that she had come out of a side street into one of the main thoroughfares, full of large crowds milling about. Many of the women were dressed in long, polka-dot ruffled skirts, with embroidered paisley shawls, flowers and mantillas, high combs in their hair. Horsemen strode through the throng, attired in white shirts and ties with wide-brimmed, flat-topped hats, tight-fitting jackets and soft leather boots. And then there were carriages and horses; everywhere Alexandra looked there were horses, the majority decorated with fancy harnesses in brilliant hues, brass ornaments, ribbons and bunches of flowers: the Jerez Horse Fair was in full swing.
Alexandra kept walking, taking in the festival energy of the town. There was nothing caged about this atmosphere, she mused. Here the women were more like birds of paradise set free, however illusory that might be, she noted cynically.
She drifted along the margins of the crowd, eventually coming to the fringes of the town, where the buildings, in faded dusty pinks and browns, had a rundown look. Alexandra continued to walk, absorbed in her own thoughts, until suddenly she found herself on the edge of an open space lined with palm trees, many of which had horses and mules tied to them. At the far end of this clearing, two corner walls of a ruined building, punctuated with arches, rose high into the air, and a cluster of tents was pitched in the shade cast by them. Her eyes were drawn to a large group of gypsies, jostling about in an abundance of music, dancing and laughter.
The gitanas were wrapped in shawls of dark red and fuchsia, the only splashes of colour against their black dresses or shabby white blouses. The men, who wore blue handkerchiefs around their heads, under their hats, stood in groups, shouting and laughing, gesticulating rapidly as they spoke, their bronzed faces creasing in a multitude of expressions. Elsewhere, mules were being handled by their drivers, who had deep blue sashes encircling their waists, while women called out from tables covered in baskets of oranges and wine gourds. There were horses everywhere, tied up together with ropes or being led round the dusty encampment under the sharp gaze of prospective buyers. The air was impregnated by their smell and the constant snorting and neighing.
Alexandra stood at the edge of the clearing a moment, mesmerized by the scene, drunk with the magic of the atmosphere. A horse fair or a gypsy fête? she wondered apprehensively, her hand resting on a palm tree. A horse and a couple of mules tethered to the next tree stood munching grass from an old hat on the ground, now and then blinking stoically at her. She was just about to turn and leave when she thought she glimpsed Salvador. Despite the unusual attire of patched shirt and baggy trousers, she was sure it must be him.
He stood at the entrance to one of the tents that was hung with coloured lanterns. Half-turned from Alexandra, he was towering over three gypsies, with whom he was talking. The first looked more Mexican than Spanish, with a huge moustache and an enormous pagoda-like straw sombrero; the second was thin and wiry, an older version of Pedro, with a navaja tucked into his belt. But it was the third, a hawkish-looking man with a deep scar etched into his weathered face, who stopped Alexandra in her tracks: it was the knife-sharpener.
The men seemed to be talking quite amiably with Salvador. Next to them, a couple of rabbits were roasting on a spit, which they turned occasionally. Two guitarists and a fiddler sat close by, thrumming their instruments. Crouched around a great fire, hung with cooking pots, a group of women and children were throwing pine cones and sun-dried branches over the flames, which leapt up from time to time, casting a rosy glow on their faces. Then, without warning, the trio of musicians stood up and started to play. Thrum, thrum, thrum, went the guitars, while across the deeper chords the fiddle with its strange tuning threaded a shrill pattern of monotonous arpeggios.
Three young dancing couples lined up, face to face, and began swinging to and fro. Soon they were joined by another pair. Alexandra’s eyes were drawn instantly to the woman, who tossed her mane of raven hair, golden-brown shoulders gleaming against her white, low-cut blouse. Like a copper butterfly, she seemed to quiver with life, from her bare, beautifully shaped ankles to the tips of the glittering half-moon hoops that swung from her ears. With a pang, Alexandra recognized Marujita and she felt a hand grip her heart fiercely. Afraid she might be seen, she edged closer to the palm.
Now the dancing duel began. Marujita raised her hands and clapped them sharply above her head. Bracelets jingled on her arms, and her bare feet stamped the earth. Her partner was much older, dark-skinned and obviously Spanish, but Alexandra didn’t think he was a gypsy. Indeed, he looked every bit the aristocrat in his expensive shirt and trousers. The rhythm of the music was pagan and exciting; Marujita’s dancing had a wild beauty as her long hair nearly swept the dust, her slim body arching and swaying towards her partner, seemingly wanting to be touched even though she repeatedly eluded him. Even from this distance, Alexandra could see the passion in the gitana’s eyes: she looked in love. Was Marujita trying to incite Salvador’s jealousy, or was she finally giving up her hold and turning to pastures new?
For an instant Alexandra was compelled to glance away from the dancers towards Salvador. What was his reaction? His tall, dark figure stood at the entrance to the tent, his profile visible through the shimmering air around the flames. He seemed unaware of anything but Marujita, his attention wholly captured by her. Instinctively, she knew that his eyes were unsmiling, damascened steel in his haughty face. What was he thinking? Why was he here with Marujita and the gypsies? Alexandra felt a rising sense of panic, a need to get away from this place. She didn’t know how much more her weary heart could take. Her mind ached with confusion, to the extent that she felt completely numb. Still she remained as though mesmerized by some hypnotic spell.
Marujita and her partner finished their dance to hoots and claps from the assembled gypsies. Without so much as a glance at Salvador, she and the older man disappeared beyond one of the arches.
Alexandra moved away from the tree, and as she did so, she saw Salvador murmur something to the thin, wiry gypsy and pat him on the back in a farewell gesture before striding off. The gypsy watched him go before nodding to the knife-sharpener. At this, the scar-faced man stepped inside one of the tents. A moment later, propelled by a great kick from the gypsy’s foot, a figure was sent sprawling through the opening. He landed on his knees, and Alexandra could see that his lank pale hair was plastered to his bowed head in bloodied clumps. All of a sudden the mood of the crowd changed, though it was no less intense. Instead of the jokes and laughter, she could hear hisses and catcalls.
The man had a rope tied around his neck and his shirt was in tatters, open to the waist. Through the ripped fabric, Alexandra could see reddish-purple bruises and bloody scrapes and she wondered, hand to her mouth, if he’d been dragged across the ground or beaten. A gasp escaped her when she realized that a bloody ‘V’ had been carved into the skin of his
chest.
Alexandra’s eyes widened in shock: Fernando Lopez.
What was he doing here? Did Salvador know? She thought not, judging by the way the gypsies had waited until he had left before bringing Lopez out. She watched in horror, not daring to move. Should she interfere or call for help? These were gypsies, she realized. What was it her grandmother had told Salvador: ‘They live by the navaja’? If all she’d heard about them was true, she should leave well alone.
The knife-sharpener circled Lopez, who was cowering, breathing heavily, his ferrety eyes darting about, looking for an escape. Grasping a handful of the prisoner’s lank hair, the gitano pulled out his navaja from the inside of his waistcoat.
‘No por favour, no, please, I’m begging you. I’ll just go, I’ll leave you alone, I’ll never come back. Prometo, I promise! Just don’t …’ Lopez’s voice was almost a scream.
But the gitano merely sneered at him and sawed off a hank of hair. The crowd of gypsies roared in grim appreciation and slowly began to stamp their feet. Another handful of hair, another swipe of the knife … The stamping continued. Some spat on the ground and hollered. The knife-sharpener hacked away three or four times until what was left of the steward’s hair stood in matted tufts.
‘Oh yes, gajo scum, you’ll never come back! And if you ever lay a hand on one of our people again, I’ll string you up by the heels over the fire and roast you like a pig.’ He paused to deliver a kick to the steward’s kidneys. ‘That would be proper vengeance but for now, you’ve got this to remind you …’ And with these words, he picked up a bottle and poured a clear liquid over the bloody ‘V’ on the other man’s chest.
‘You’ve been protected for too long, Lopez.’ His last words were almost drowned out by the shriek from the steward as the alcohol bit like acid into his open wound. ‘Today, we’ve been merciful, very merciful indeed, but only because it suits us. If you show your face again, hijo de la bruja, you son of a bitch, you’ll feel our venganza on more than your skin … I’ll rip you from ear to ear and feed your remains to my dog!’
With that, the knife-sharpener hauled Lopez to his feet. The steward took off, stumbling through the crowd of jeering men and women, some of whom threw bits of food or the contents of their cups at him as he passed, the rope still around his neck.
As if to signify that Lopez wasn’t worth breaking the festivities for another moment, music from the guitars struck up again and the gypsies continued chatting and carousing. Alexandra watched as Lopez staggered across the clearing towards the line of trees where she was standing. She disliked the man intensely and couldn’t help thinking he had brought this upon himself with his brutal treatment of these people, but the humiliating scene she had just witnessed appalled her.
It was only as he drew level with her, and paused to wrench the rope from his neck, that Lopez saw Alexandra. She took a step towards him. ‘Fernando, are you—?’
‘Get away from me!’ he hissed. ‘Le juro a Dios, I hope they get eaten up by the disease they spread. Gypsy scum! I’ll drink to their corpses.’
He made for the horse tethered to one of the palms and untied it. With some effort, he hoisted himself into the saddle. Bringing the horse’s head around with a yank of the reins, he leant over and spat on the ground at Alexandra’s feet. ‘You bastards are no better. Hipócritas y putas, hypocrites and whores, the lot of you, under your high-andmighty ways. Burn in hell, where you belong!’
And with a final sneer at Alexandra, Lopez galloped off.
She stood there, stunned. Would she ever escape this madness? At that moment, her determination to leave El Pavón gripped her more keenly than ever. Alexandra turned and quickly walked back the way she had come. She must return to the hacienda and make plans for her departure.
* * *
Once at El Pavón, Alexandra went to find her grandmother to inform her of her plans to return to England. She contemplated telling the Duquesa about Lopez, but thought better of it. It was unlikely the steward would show his face at the hacienda again, and she had no desire to complicate the already difficult conversation she was about to have with the Duquesa. It would be hard enough to deliver the blow that she’d decided to leave.
Her grandmother listened in silence but Alexandra was keenly aware of the distress she was causing. She tried clumsily and somewhat evasively to justify her hasty departure without much success. Using work as a pretext for leaving, she hoped her explanation would be plausible enough without having to go into the other reasons. It wasn’t totally without truth: a few days earlier, she had received a short letter from her agent, asking how the new novel was going and when it might be finished.
‘Is this anything to do with Salvador?’ the dowager asked, eyeing her granddaughter pointedly.
‘Of course not, Abuela,’ Alexandra answered quietly. She had deliberately omitted any mention of him. ‘My publishers are becoming concerned that I haven’t yet sent them the new manuscript. They paid me an advance and I need to submit the first chapters for review,’ she concentrated on holding her grandmother’s gaze. ‘Such things are better done face to face.’
Doña María Dolores nodded sadly but made no comment, obviously not taken in by her granddaughter’s lame excuse, and when Alexandra, suddenly overcome with guilt, wrapped her arms around the old lady, she felt the Duquesa stiffen slightly.
On the pretext of a headache, Alexandra retreated to the solitude of her room and didn’t go down for lunch. She had no wish to endure the searching glances and prying questions of her family, particularly her stepmother, who would doubtless be jubilant at the news of her imminent departure; nor did she wish to be the object of Mercedes’ spiteful insinuations. This was hard enough without all their interference and meddling. Besides, she might run into Salvador. Just the idea of facing him was enough to make her want to flee although, knowing him, he would make himself elusive for the next few days, which would give her time to sort herself out.
In the early afternoon, she went down to the library to return the books she had borrowed during her stay. She hoped she wouldn’t meet anyone there. It was siesta time, that sacred hour of the afternoon when Spaniards retire to the coolness of their rooms, blinds drawn, to escape the stifling heat. However, she was irked to find Doña Eugenia and Mercedes seated on the sofa, working at a large tapestry.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said her stepmother, on seeing Alexandra. ‘I’m told you’re leaving us.’ She made no effort to hide a triumphant smirk.
‘Yes,’ Alexandra replied softly. She didn’t look at her stepmother but went straight over to the bookshelves on the far side of the room, which held rows of leather-bound volumes, each one engraved in gold with the family crest. Alexandra was fond of this somewhat austere room. Many times she had come here seeking refuge when she was feeling lonely or homesick. Somehow it reminded her a little of home, and the thought that this was probably the last time she would ever set foot in it made her wistful.
‘This decision to leave El Pavón is rather sudden, isn’t it?’ continued Doña Eugenia, with feigned surprise.
‘I must deliver my manuscript in person,’ Alexandra replied coolly.
‘Nonsense! There’s nothing wrong with our post. Where would we be if we had to hop on to a plane every time we needed to send anything abroad?’ her stepmother continued relentlessly, still watching her closely.
‘My dear sister doesn’t want to tell us the real reason for her departure, I’m sure,’ suggested Mercedes, with a surreptitious glance over her shoulder.
If Alexandra had been watching she might have noticed the glance, but instead it was the sound of rustling paper that drew her attention. She turned towards it and sucked in her breath. Salvador was sitting in a corner of the room, holding a newspaper, almost hidden from sight behind an antique Japanese painted screen. His presence threw her into confusion. She felt faint; the walls were closing in on her, and all she wanted to do was flee the stifling tension of the confined space that held them all, like mic
e in a cage.
‘Such a pity you’re leaving so soon,’ Mercedes went on, cheerfully mocking. ‘You’ll miss the ball I’m having for my birthday.’
‘How naïve you can be, querida,’ snorted her mother. ‘Those sorts of balls are only for the amusement of innocent young girls of your age. I’m sure Alexandra would rather be in London with its more permissive social scene.’
Determined not to rise to the bait, Alexandra hastily made for the door, not trusting her own tongue. But just as she reached it, Ramón came into the room.
‘Ah, there you are, Cousin,’ he smiled. ‘I went up to your room to see if you were feeling better but you weren’t there. Here, this should be interesting,’ he said pointedly, as he handed her an envelope. ‘It’s just arrived for you. There’s a messenger in the hall waiting for your reply.’
‘For me?’ Alexandra was genuinely surprised. Then, as Ramón gave her the letter, and she immediately recognized the Herrera family crest embossed on the grey envelope, she hastily shoved it into her pocket. She was uncomfortably aware that everyone else in the room had probably registered the provenance of the note too.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Mercedes said, bristling with curiosity. ‘Or maybe you already know what it says,’ she went on mockingly, a smile curling the corner of her mouth. ‘Let me guess … has my sister a mysterious lover … perhaps someone we know … won’t you give us a hint … or …’
‘That’s enough, Mercedes,’ a deep voice cut in coldly. ‘Act your age!’ Salvador’s face was in shadow but Alexandra knew that tone only too well and could imagine his expression.
Mercedes stopped dead. She wrinkled her nose mischievously like a recalcitrant little girl who had been caught doing something naughty. Salvador stood up, folded his newspaper, and let his gaze wander for a moment through the open French doors. Outside, in the golden light of the early afternoon, the lawn stretched like an emerald carpet as far as the blueish shadows of the willow walk. He sighed, placed the newspaper on the coffee table and walked out on to the terrace, but not without Alexandra noticing his eyes as they flashed momentarily at her; they were storm-coloured, a dark grey, like the threatening skies of a mythical sea when Neptune himself was in a rage, a look that filled her with dread. How had things reached this point, where the gaping chasm between them held so many unspoken truths, unresolved anger and painful misunderstandings she had to leave? Salvador seemed beyond her reach now, and the realization froze her heart.
Indiscretion Page 36
