Only Sofia-Elisabete

by Robin Kobayashi

  “Mind you shade your face with your fan,” Felipa called out after me, worried that I would turn browner.

  Picking up my skirts, I dashed up to the roof-top terrace in want of fresh air or I would suffocate. One could always find solace amongst the potted limes, oranges and lemons, the prickly pears, the sweet-smelling pomegranate blossoms, the cheerful carnations and roses. I asked myself for the thousandth time: where are you now, Antonio, and do you ever think of me? Brooding about it, I meandered towards the parapet from where I could view the busy scene below.

  In the coffee-houses, the ice-houses, the confectioneries, in the streets and plazas, the comely Gaditanas of Cádiz walked about without escorts. Emmerence, who had joined me on the roof-top, frowned at them, her scorn undisguised for those customs which she thought detrimental to my proper moral growth. I assured her that Tito, being very strict, would surely lock me up to protect my innocence, just like he did years ago when I, a mischievous child, had spoken to the Gaditanas from my balcony. Zia warned him then that an evil star had ascended.

  “He’s superstitious, even though he has a scientific mind.” In Tito’s world, the contradiction of it made perfect sense to him.

  Emmerence untied my basquiña. “You obey your grandfather, yet you disobey Don Rafael.”

  “Tito places many restrictions on me, but he disciplines me with love, just as my father does.”

  Her eyes widened. “You spoke to a robber and placed yourself and everyone in danger. How could Don Rafael not fall into a rage?”

  “A fig for what he thinks. Besides, it was Antonio and not a robber.”

  She gasped out, “How could you speak with that—that coxcomb!—without a chaperone present?”

  “Don Rafael is a monster. I shan’t ever forgive him for causing a scene and embarrassing me.”

  “Your stepfather was in the right and you know it.” She removed my mantilla, which she briskly draped over her arm.

  A long moment passed, and then I said, “I won’t be allowed to return to Sevilla.”

  “Now, now. Don Rafael’s temper will improve with time.” Emmerence patted my cheek. “Tout a une fin.”

  “You say nothing is forever, yet Don Rafael is forever.”

  “But he is not, because we are here in Cádiz with your grandfather,” she reminded me.

  I conceded her point. “Oh, Emmerence, pray do not become cross with me for being in love with Antonio.”

  She handed me my fan to shade my face. “What could you want from him? For what do you dare to lose your self-respect?”

  “I shan’t lose my self-respect. But I must know”—I pressed the open fan to my lips—“what my unbelievable love story is.”

  She sighed, and I knew my stubbornness tried her patience.

  Suddenly the oddest noise, like the deep hoot of a steam-boat, came from within. Only one human being in existence could make such a miserable fuss, and that was Felipa. Emmerence and I exchanged a knowing glance.

  “Don Fulano,” said she.

  “Oh, aye.”

  I halloo’d the servant on the roof-top whose main occupation was to mind the chickens and mice and frogs. He stood tending the mojama, hanging these long strips of tuna that had been cured in salt, to dry them in the sea-breeze.

  “Sí, Señorita Sofía?”

  “Quick! Bring us a mouse for Don Fulano,” I told him.

  Tito had caught a black-striped serpent, a six-footer, one summer day as it glided in the cool waters of the Guadalquivir. It bit him with its small teeth, but Tito quickly popped it into a sack. The serpent, once resigned to its fate, became tamer than a dog and much cleaner than one, rarely leaving a mess for you to step in and ruin your silk shoes. Because of that, the serpent, whom Tito had dubbed Don Fulano, was given complete freedom to creep about the house, including the spare-room, where for some reason he loved to lounge, coiled underneath the bed to surprise unsuspecting guests.

  Only Tito and I, with our shared eccentricities, understood Don Fulano, who spoke reptilianese to us. Truly, Don Fulano was a most amiable serpent, very well-mannered, always flicking his forked tongue to how-do-you-do you, and he never hissed unless someone like Felipa upset him.

  “O Dios!” cried Felipa in a panic. “Save me from that deceitful and cunning serpent.”

  “Don Fulano is probably hungry—”

  “See how it goes on its belly?” She pointed her fan at him. “San José punished the serpent for trying to bite the infant Savior during the Holy Family’s flight to Egypt—”

  “Felipa! It’s feeding time.”

  She heard me now. The superstitious Andaluza ran off, not wanting to watch it.

  Some days Don Fulano craved a tasty mouse, other days a juicy frog, and on fish-days, he always ate live fish. Today would be a mouse-day. I, the brave young lady, covered my face with my fan until the servant assured me the mouse was “all gone.” Don Fulano refused to pursue a dead mouse tied to a string, even though we tried to trick him, by jerking the string, that the mouse was still alive. Like every predator, reptiles believe nothing is more delicious and satisfying than the prey they have caught themselves after an excellent chase.

  “Don Fulano, come here.” I patted the seat of my chair.

  The serpent wrapped himself about my neck and arms, his scales as smooth as glass.

  “I missed you. Did you miss me?”

  His forked tongue darted out of its sheath.

  “Imagine if I could turn you into a human being, we could carry on a rapid conversation in Castilian, and I could tell you about my Antonio.”

  Flick, flick, his tongue replied in reptilianese. The best thing about this serpent was that he always agreed with me. We thought alike, as friends ought. I reflected how I didn’t have any real friends of the masculine sex besides Antonio. But did he and I think alike? I supposed we must; otherwise, I would not be in love with him.

  With Don Fulano settled comfortably upon my shoulders, I took the serpent down to the patio for a stroll. There, amongst our noble palm trees, whose broad fronds tickled themselves in the breeze, I practiced walking very gracefully, my fan a-flutter before me, my feet, hands and head in perfect harmony of motion.

  “Look at me, Don Fulano. I’m walking in the Sevillian way.” Captivating I could be if I just put my mind to it.

  We circled the dragon tree, with its thick tuft of sword-blade leaves and its gnarly trunk that exuded a dark-red resin called dragon’s blood. The tree reminded me of Tito in some ways, because if he didn’t agree with something you said, then heaven protect you from his sharp tongue.

  Would Tito approve of Antonio? He must, because I couldn’t stop pining for my handsome majo, with his thin black moustache that begged to be kissed. In my dream state, I re-lived our daring fandango, clapping my hands to the rhythmic beat of an old dancing song.

  Tú me dices, que soy loco,

  Yo te lo confieso, sí,

  Pues tan solo de este modo,

  Te hubiera querido á tí?

  (You say I’m a fool,

  I grant, it is true,

  For, if I were not,

  How could I love you?)

  My companion and I traversed the patio in that manner, I, tapping out my tap-too and singing my song for Antonio, when a slight cough came from the corridor. I hadn’t noticed our guests standing there. A bespectacled man, not yet thirty, with sandy hair and bushy eyebrows, stepped forward just as the clouds shifted overhead to reveal pieces of golden sky. He cast a wary look at the serpent wrapped round my neck.

  “Buenas tardes,” I greeted him.

  “Señorita, por favor, we wish to speak with Señora Gómez,” he requested in Castilian.

  “I am she,” I told him, using a grown-up tone.

  “My name is Horatio Hopper,” he continued in Castilian. “The British Consul has given me a letter of introduction to Don Luis de Luna.”

  “Ah! Welcome to Casa Luna.”

  I swept forward with a pleasing gesture of my
hand, twirling two fingers in the way of Zia. Mr. Hopper nodded at someone who had accompanied him.

  “May I present Kitt Munro, my student, who is assisting me with my research?”

  A young man, about twenty, stepped forward. His boyish-looking hair shone in the waning sunlight, and I couldn’t decide whether it was more brown or gold. He certainly wore many happy freckles on his cheeks and nose. Curious about him, I changed languages, speaking now in English.

  “May I present Don Fulano?” I patted the serpent. “Don Fulano, this is Señorito Hopper and Señorito Munro.”

  Mr. Munro grinned. “Don Fulano is an interesting name for a snake.”

  I detected a Scottish accent.

  “Don Fulano says, ‘My name means Sir Thingamy.’”

  He laughed at it, very much amused.

  “How long is it?” asked Mr. Hopper, who, it appeared, was also Scottish.

  “Don Fulano boasts, ‘I’m a thirty-footer.’” A typical Andaluz, Don Fulano loved a good exaggeration.

  This time Mr. Hopper laughed.

  “It seems to have a large lump there, near its throat. Is it ill?” Mr. Hopper adjusted his spectacles in a studious manner, and in those few seconds, I observed his sea-turtle nature—a solitary creature submerged in an intellectual world of his own, rarely coming up for air.

  “Don Fulano says ‘that is, or was, my dinner—a terrified mouse.’”

  Mr. Hopper turned pale.

  “Don’t you know—a mouse frightened is half-cooked?” I explained to him.

  With an arch smile, I turned to his friend, Mr. Munro, to see whether he, too, was faint-hearted.

  “The lump is quite large, do you not agree, señorito?”

  “Yes,” was his steady reply.

  “Slowly it shifts to here, and then here, and then over there.” I pointed to the various parts of the serpent’s long stomach.

  “How very interesting.” He spoke like a man of science.

  “And finally, all gone!” I snapped my fingers.

  Mr. Hopper wiped the perspiration dripping from his forehead, while his young companion stood motionless, his gaze fixed on me. They say you can tell a person’s character by his eyes. This Mr. Munro and his ethereal blue-greys wished to challenge me, as if he knew me better than I did. I am not afraid of you, Mr. Munro. I flashed my eyes at him because, in that moment, I was the invincible, the fearless, the mysterious Zia, a famous curandera. Oh, how I wanted to be like her, beautiful and clever, and curing everyone with potions.

  “Your English is excellent and without the Andalucian lisp-like pronunciation,” remarked Mr. Munro, unperturbed.

  I lisped out, “I thank you, kind sir,” thinking it funny. It made him laugh.

  Just then, Zia appeared, along with a servant who carried a tray of glasses filled with agua fresca, the snow-water from the sierra delivered each day to our water-deprived city.

  “A happy good evening to you.” She gave the men a welcoming gesture of her hand, her bracelets clinking as she twirled two fingers.

  “Good evening,” they replied. Mr. Hopper was still sweating.

  Zia glanced suspiciously at me. “What have you done to our poor guest?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I mumbled.

  “Niña mía, your dueña says it is time for bed.” Zia smirked at me.

  Ay! Why did she have to say that? I colored with embarrassment, not wanting the señoritos to think I was a silly child who must retire early.

  Mr. Munro stared at me. “You are not Zia Gómez? Who might you be then?”

  Zia’s joyful laugh rang out. “She is Sofia-Elisabete Belles, the granddaughter of Don Luis.”

  “Ah, Señorita Belles,” murmured Mr. Munro.

  “Pray, call me Sofia-Elisabete,” said I.

  He started at my boldness. “I … thank you for the honor.”

  “My dear sir, we are not betrothed, as is your custom, if you call me by my Christian name.”

  “Well and good, Sofia-Elisabete.”

  “Well and good, Señorito Kitt.”

  Don Fulano and I took our leave of them, I walking in the Sevillian way. When I reached the colonnade, I impulsively hid behind a column. Slowly I slid round it to get another glimpse of Mr. Munro, only to be caught at it. He had been watching me. What an odd expression he wore—half-confounded, half-fascinated—as though I were a strange creature with wings or something.

  Miss Curious, being me, had to know the business of these Scotsmen. Miss Curious, despite the danger of it, leaned precariously over the iron railing of the first-floor gallery, to peer at the Scotsmen speaking with Tito. Miss Curious giggled softly into her hand. Tito’s bald head glistened because he had rubbed it good and hard with cocoa-nut oil.

  The Scotsmen had come lately from Gibraltar, where they and their knowledgeable guide, someone named Julián Paz, had observed the migration of thousands of birds—swallows, cuckoos, woodpeckers, owls, bee-eaters, spoonbills, plovers, grebes and many dozens more. Prior to that, their guide had assisted them in Barcelona, Valencia and Granada, collecting stories and legends, which Mr. Hopper hoped to publish under the title, Tales of the Wild and Wonderful in Spain. Would Don Luis be so kind as to tell them his story?

  “Tito!” cried I. “I want to hear the story.” A story I had heard many times, it told of how he met my grandmother Jacinta in Portugal.

  “Princesita mía! Come down here then.” He winked his eye twice at me, and I caught his meaning.

  Prepared for our little trick, I joined everyone in the patio. Tito embraced me, kissing my cheeks one after the other, while I slipped something into his hand. He introduced me as his favorite granddaughter, his little princess.

  “Tito, I am the only granddaughter you have.”

  “Well, then, you are my clever and lovely granddaughter, and just fourteen years of age.”

  I blushed to my eyes. “I am nearly fifteen and grown up.”

  “Impossible,” he teased me. “When is your birthday?”

  “Oh, Tito, you know it’s the third of June.”

  “Hmm. How very convenient, is it not, that you have returned to Cádiz in time for your birthday?”

  I shrugged innocently, not wanting him to know about Antonio. But he and everyone in the Luna household must have heard by now, about the trouble I had caused, because Felipa loved to gossip.

  “We shall discuss this, you and I,” and he shook his finger at me. “But first, I must tell our guests about The Magic Oranges.”

  Mr. Hopper sat before a table, with his pen and ink, ready to transcribe the story.

  “There once lived a wealthy man named Soares in Portugal,” began Tito. “He claimed that a Soares orange was as sweet as a spoonful of wild honey that melted on your tongue and dissolved into your heart. What a braggart! Everyone knew that nothing could beat a Valencian orange for juice and a Sevillian orange for marmalade. Do you not agree, señoritos?”

  They both nodded.

  “One day, a handsome Genoese trader named Don Luis journeyed from Cádiz to sample a Soares orange. Dios mío! What a wretched orange it was. He spat it out in disgust and was about to pitch the remains of it against the bark of the tree when a graceful figure roaming in the grove caught his eye.”

  I blurted out, “My beautiful grandmother.”

  Tito shushed me. “What a vision she was, this daughter of Soares! Her name was Jacinta, and she bewitched him with her green cat-eyes and scent of orange blossoms, these blossoms arranged artfully in her plaited black hair. She teased him mercilessly, and he, being in love, followed her deep into the grove, where she dissolved into his heart.”

  “Jacinta Soares …” murmured Mr. Hopper as he scratched away with his pen.

  Tito continued on, “Jacinta, who wished for Don Luis to stay in Portugal, enticed him with a peeled orange, which she held in her hand. He said to himself, ‘I would rather eat a scorpion than another Soares orange.’ Suddenly, she bit into the orange, whereupon she stuck out her tongue, atop o
f which sat a dazzling orange diamond—a very rare thing, indeed.”

  “I’ve never heard of an orange diamond,” said Mr. Munro.

  “Well, it surely was,” replied Tito. “Now, Don Luis, being a very wise man, told himself, ‘I ought to give these Soares oranges another chance.’ Each evening thereafter Jacinta tempted him with another orange. Each evening he was awarded another diamond. Orange after orange, diamond after diamond—soon he lost count of the days.”

  “You became rich,” said I.

  “Rich in love,” Tito corrected me. “Don Luis pledged to marry Jacinta, and he gave her an ancient key as a token of his affection. Then he returned to Cádiz, where the sirens named Trade and Money had beckoned him. When, a year later, he journeyed to Portugal to claim Jacinta’s hand, he discovered that she had married a poor Gallego, with whom she had a daughter. Heartbroken by her inconstancy, he sailed back to Cádiz. And there, he passed his days, miserable and alone in his grand white house by the sea.”

  Mr. Munro sighed. “How immensely sad.”

  “But that’s not the real ending. My Tito hasn’t told you the best part.”

  “You tell them the best part,” Tito urged me.

  And so I did. “Though Jacinta named her daughter Maria Isabel, she called her Marisa because the girl dearly loved to laugh—risa meaning laughter. Then the war broke out. Jacinta became a grandmother after her daughter had fallen in love with an English officer, but he never returned for them. Thereafter, Jacinta became ill and, with her last breaths, she begged her daughter to find her natural father, Don Luis. She gave her an ancient key that once belonged to him.”

  “It was the key that I gave Jacinta.” Tito buried his face in his hands.

  “Oh, Tito,” and I held my tongue, worried about him.

  Having collected himself, he said, “Go on.”

  I concluded with, “Three years passed, when Marisa, who had married a Spanish nobleman, finally sought her father in Cádiz. When she claimed to be his natural daughter, Don Luis declared it impossible. He was a childless man. She then showed him the ancient key, the key her mother had given her, and it opened his heart. And that is how Don Luis became a father and grandfather.”