Only Sofia-Elisabete

by Robin Kobayashi

  “Ssssstop,” I hissed out.

  “Oh, you little equivocator,” he murmured in my ear.

  Don Fausto delivered another sly pinch, and so, I gave him a sharp elbow. He grunted loudly.

  His lordship’s worried voice rang out in the darkness, “Is anything the matter, Don Fausto?”

  “Be not concerned, Lord Scapeton. Hey, hey, hey!”

  In the course of the evening drive, Don Fausto must’ve pinched me a thousand times—it certainly felt like it. By then, I had become seized with a nervous terror that, if I caused a scene, he would cancel the loan to my family. Back to my stepfather I would go, to be locked up in a convent for the rest of my days. I despaired at being blamed for everything that went wrong in my world.

  Tito’s warning echoed loudly in my ears: Do nothing. Say nothing. Pretend the bad never happened.

  Just when things were already so nightmarish for me, I alone witnessed, by the light of an oil street-lamp, a cloaked figure knife another man. He surely did so, with a thrust of his arm, before his victim plumped down onto the street. The quickness of the assassination made it seem unreal. Was the killer an Exterminating Angel, a member of the secret society that had been formed to eliminate liberals? My wild imagination convinced me of it. Tito’s voice urgently told me again: Say nothing. Do nothing. Pretend the bad never happened.

  When, finally, we drove up to our house, Lord Scapeton alighted first. I got up in hot haste, desperate to escape the atrocities I had seen and been subjected to during our drive. But Don Fausto barred my way with his walking-cane, and he forced me to sit. He ordered that Emmerence be handed down first. The moment her back was turned, he clutched my arms, wild with desire, for the sultry heat had made him excitable.

  “You are practically perfect for me,” and he sprayed me like a skunk, with his double p’s, ruining my new evening gown.

  He leaned in for a deadly kiss. Having averted my face at the last second, I cringed as he slobbered my cheek. Revolted by it, I shoved him off. What a night of unexpected horrors! And now, I owned an ugly secret, because one maidenly shriek, one shout of protest would have announced to the whole of Madrid that Don Fausto and I had been alone together in his carriage.

  Scrambling out of the conveyance, I nearly fell onto the street, to the great gasps of onlookers. His lordship caught me in his arms, seriously displeased with me and my lack of deportment. But I didn’t care a straw what he thought. Somehow, I cloaked myself in pretended apathy. What better way to conceal my fear and disgust? Looking away, I struck an indifferent attitude, not giving Don Fausto, that ancient lecher, the attention to which he was due as a nobleman and my uncle’s friend.

  “I apologize, Don Fausto, for my niece’s impoliteness.” His lordship shot me a murderous glance.

  Don Fausto crooned out, “Sofía es una mujer de mundo, hey, hey, hey!”

  The old rascal fixed his lewd eyes on me. Why had he called me a woman of the world? I certainly didn’t feel sophisticated in the ways of Madrid society.

  “Good night, Don Fausto.” Lord Scapeton stood silently, his jaw tense, as his friend’s carriage rolled off.

  I would catch it now. Following his lordship into the house, I asked to be excused, hoping to escape a sentence of punishment. But he grasped my wrist very hard.

  “I wish to speak with you, woman of the world,” he growled out, “before you retire for the night. I’ve a great mind to send you back to your stepfather, and heaven preserve you from his bad temper if I do, because you will no longer be under my protection.”

  I sat at the dressing-table, numb of mind, staring into the looking-glass.

  Emmerence gasped. “Why is your cheek so red? Are you ill?”

  “Deathly ill.” I had nearly scrubbed it off to remove the stain of that loathsome kiss.

  “Oh, how you exaggerate.”

  She brushed out my hair while she questioned me about my incivility. At first, I hesitated. When, in a faltering voice, I accused Don Fausto of monstering me with his pinches, she expressed doubt—given that I didn’t say anything at the time, and given my indifference afterwards, as if nothing of that sort had happened.

  “A highly-respected nobleman and a particular friend of Lord Scapeton’s would surely conduct himself like a gentleman,” was her reasoning.

  “Oh yes, a real gentleman.”

  “Don Fausto has serious intentions towards you.”

  “But he is ancient!”

  “He is smitten. The poor fellow cannot help but be outspoken in his adoration for you.”

  I groaned and sickened at the thought. Did she really approve of Don Fausto despite the huge difference in our ages?

  She went on, nevertheless, “No more lies. Why, in heaven’s name, were you rude?”

  If my dear friend thought I told a thumping lie, who, then, would believe my story? She might say I had imagined the whole thing. Since the truth didn’t satisfy her, what would? Must I invent something ridiculous, a silly scene from a trashy love-story, that she would find convincing? I decided to test my theory.

  “Trapped alone with him inside the carriage, I had no means of escape,” I told her, with feigned breathlessness. “Don Fausto leaned into me, to say how much I captivated him. ‘You rattle my senses’ were his exact words. Disgusted, I pushed him and his rattled senses away but, to my horror, this excited him even more. ‘Young tigress, I beg you to relieve my suffering,’ he murmured lasciviously. So, I gave him a sharp elbow, thinking it would cool his ardor. ‘O what happy tiger am I!’ he moaned out in pleasurable pain.”

  Emmerence reddened, completely believing this piece of tragical mirth.

  A loud rap at the door made me jump out of my chair. Lord Scapeton had arrived, and he wore a dark countenance. Emmerence quietly excused herself. Before his lordship could utter a word about sending me back to my evil stepfather, I pleaded with him to take me home to England.

  “I am miserable here. Miserable!”

  His livid eyes bored into me. “A wanton girl like you ought not to be let loose in English society.”

  “I can be the pink of politeness.”

  He scoffed at me. “I wager you cannot go a week without saying or doing something ill-bred.”

  I struck a defiant attitude in return. “What will be my prize when I win?”

  “You will be bound for England as is your wish.”

  “Your word of honor?”

  “Upon my word, I shall take you myself.”

  “And if I lose?”

  “You must give me your word of honor to marry Don Fausto.”

  “What! I shan’t marry that old stinker. He’s a lecher of the lowest sort.”

  He shrugged. “As they say in Spain, an amorous old man is like a winter flower.”

  “We do not suit.” I shuddered violently, unwilling to tell him the extent of it, when it was clear to me that he would take Don Fausto’s side.

  “Come, come,” and he lost his patience. “Marry him, produce an heir and be done with it. Don Fausto is not long for this world, and your chance will be gone.”

  “Uncle, how can you speak so?”

  With an angry sigh, he directed me to sit at my dressing-table. Opening my jewelry box, he took out the pearl necklace with diamond clasp. He secured it round my neck.

  “Don Fausto will leave you a wealthy widow,” he remarked.

  “His riches do not tempt me.”

  “No? He purchased the gowns, the shoes, the bonnets, even this pearl necklace. He wishes these things to be marriage gifts. Did you not like them and tell him so?”

  I gasped out, “I thought you had purchased them for me. What a shabby trick, uncle.”

  Ignoring my outburst, he went on, “As a widow, you will have more freedom to come and go as you please. Consider it.”

  “The price for such freedom is too high.” Suddenly the necklace felt like a noose.

  “Do not be foolish, niece.” He cast me a stern look in the mirror. “That is the best prize fo
r any woman of means.”

  I wrinkled my brow. He seemed to be speaking in code.

  “You must always be discreet, however,” he added, “to avoid scandal and gossip.”

  His meaning about taking a lover was clear now.

  “I am not like Doña Marisa! How presumptuous of you.”

  He humphed, with that man-of-the-world attitude of his. “Well, then? Do we have a wager?”

  I shook his hand. In my zeal and determination to get home to see my father, I thought of only winning the wager, confident that I could do so.

  “Within a week or much less, given your inclination to disobey rules of conduct, you will lose this wager,” said he.

  “I won’t lose.”

  “You will lose,” he repeated, “and thank me one day for it.”

  I once read in an ancient English play that a valiant man is his own fate and fortune. The Spanish, too, have a saying that fortune presents her hand to a daring man. Boldness came naturally to me, but on the battlefield of love, it was one thing to fight off the depraved Don Fausto, or to skirmish with the fierce Teresa Blanco, and quite another to reveal my weakness for Mr. Munro. Could I speak my heart to him if given the opportunity? I knew I would regret it if I didn’t.

  But winning my wager came first. Courage and matters of the heart must wait, at least for one week. That morning, I rose earlier than usual, and I prayed fervently that the hand of Providence would guide me today to be demure, discreet and “pink, pink, pink polite” as my mother would say. How could things not be easier, given our plans to visit the museum—a quiet place where one must speak in hushed whispers?

  The Royal Museum of Painting, nowhere near completed, resembled a barracks. Lord Scapeton pronounced it “the ugliest edifice ever seen.” The museum contained several saloons displaying hundreds of Spanish and Italian paintings. There, in the Spanish saloon, surrounded by oppressive images of saints and martyrs in attitudes of suffering, I came upon something interesting: an enigmatic work of art by Diego Velázquez. A group portrait, its center of attention was the Infanta, the Princess Margarita Teresa.

  Just five or six years old, the princess was attended by her ladies-in-waiting while two dwarfs off to the side attempted to humor her. And there, as if reflected in a mirror, stood her parents, the king and queen, posing for their portrait, and watching her disapprovingly. The princess’s stubborn, somewhat defiant, countenance spoke to me, because I was like that girl, dressed in finery, being cajoled into good behavior.

  I was thinking this, of the poor little girl’s situation and my own, when I descried Mr. Munro standing in the distance. He regarded me fixedly. Once Emmerence and Lord Scapeton moved on, to discuss another Velázquez—they always being engaged with their intellect—I did the unthinkable. I joined Mr. Munro, never mind the impropriety of conversing with him alone and the danger of doing so. Headstrong and foolish I was.

  “May I wish you joy?” His tone was a mixture of sadness and disappointment.

  “For what?”

  He rapidly blinked away his hurt. “It’s said that Don Fausto is your lover, dressing you in such finery to please him.”

  “A lie,” I implored him to believe me.

  “Hmm,” and he twitched his nose in disapproval at my elaborate French walking dress, most particularly my outrageously large-brimmed hat ornamented with white marabout plumes, it being à la mode. This infuriated me that he thought me inconstant, not to mention immoral, as though I were a silly strumpet.

  “Señorito Kitt, I have been constant to you, but you have not been to me,” I told him rather indignantly.

  His brow clouded. “You are constantly in my thoughts, day and night.”

  This made me want to laugh. “Dreaming of me, indeed, while you’ve been serenading your little sweetmeat—the enticing mazapán Teresa. When may I wish you joy? It’s said that you are her novio.”

  “Teresa calls every young man her novio. She has a string of novios. In fact, so many that she confuses their names.”

  “Well! She clearly knows your name. I have observed your flirtation and intimacy with her. You cannot deny it.”

  He sighed deeply, and most certainly not a long love-sigh.

  With fire in my eyes, I sighed in frustration. I would not be outdone in this battle of sighs.

  He stepped closer, pleading in his soft warm voice, “Why must we quarrel when we know what it is, the thing we really want to say to one another?”

  Still miffed, I said nothing.

  “You’ve always been truthful with me,” he said this encouragingly. “You’ve never traded in ambiguities or affectations or empty flirtations.”

  A whiff of his honey-rosemary scent just then reminded me of Cádiz and how sorely I missed him. Scarcely a moment elapsed after that before stinging tears formed in my eyes. Though I tried to articulate my thoughts while maintaining my composure, what came out instead was a tremulous lovesick plea, betraying my innermost emotions and confusion.

  “Señorito Kitt”—my voice broke—“am I not the girl for you?”

  He slid his gloved hand into mine. “You are the girl of my heart.”

  Instantly happy, we grinned at each other—pleased, relieved, forgiven. Convinced his declaration meant he would do anything for me, I begged him to help me return to England.

  “Emmerence will be my chaperone—she must! Our journey will take us to Zaragoza, and then over the Pyrenees, and from there to Bordeaux and finally to England.”

  He swallowed hard. “I wish more than anything to help you, to guide you home, given your poor sense of direction, when the preferred route is the Bayonne Road through Burgos, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I have promised to visit Hopper and Pilar in the north for a few days, after which I must hasten away to Glasgow, where my father has summoned me home.”

  My jealous heart spoke out, “Will Teresa accompany you to the north, to see her sister?”

  A beat of time passed.

  “She talks of nothing else, but it is impossible.”

  Ought I to have resented Teresa? Consumed with suspicious thoughts, I wondered whether Mr. Munro had told her yet it was impossible, despite her entreaties. I wondered whether he was telling me everything about his plans, or, rather, her likely insistence that they marry. Wounded by his polite rebuff, I released his hand, my own dropping heavily to my side.

  “I fear our fates are not intertwined,” I reflected aloud.

  “You must be patient,” he advised me. “By and by, we shall meet again, you can be sure of it.”

  “By and by is always too late, as they say.”

  “Come, now.”

  But I would have none of his heroic patience.

  “Don’t you see? I have the courage this very minute to love you beyond mere words, to make bold choices. But what of you?”

  “That is unfair,” said he in a dolorous tone. “I cannot offer my hand in marriage yet. I have no money. And things at home are more complicated for me than you understand.”

  I choked out in misery, “Complicated! I have risked everything to speak with you. I chose you over everyone else I love. Now I must suffer the consequences, for surely my uncle has seen us speaking alone.”

  His eyes widened. “What consequences?”

  “I’m afraid that I’ve done something stupid,” and I sobbed behind my hand. “I gave my word of honor to marry Don Fausto if I did anything improper. If I had behaved well for a week, I could have gone home to England.”

  He cast down his eyes but said nothing. He offered nothing. He did nothing. Believing him irresolute, I hung my head in despair. How foolish I had been!

  “Well … then … good-bye,” I whispered out, sick of heart.

  “Sofia, wait.” He reached out to me.

  Hurt beyond measure, I simply fled. I had not gone more than ten running steps, when I collided with Lord Scapeton. How long had he and Emmerence been standing there, watching us? His lordship grasped my arm, a
nd he hurried us off.

  “Pray, what time is it, uncle?”

  “Half past eleven.”

  I gave him a rueful smile. “Three and a half hours I survived, without committing a blunder.”

  “Blunders can be learning experiences. Regardless, you are bound in honor. Do not break your word.”

  “My word of honor …” Because of my folly, everyone dear to me in England would be lost or further out of reach in time.

  “Marriage to Don Fausto guarantees you a life of ease and comfort in Madrid,” said he in a matter-of-fact manner. “Come, let’s get on. There’s a marriage settlement to be drawn up, and then the reading of the banns.”

  Still, hearing those words, so practical and necessary for a marriage, I couldn’t imagine myself as, nor could I bear to be, the seventh wife of Don Fausto. I held onto, till its end, this fast-fading hope that Mr. Munro would help me, despite everything. Had he remained standing, his hand outstretched, reaching for me, or had he already gone off to prepare for his journey home?

  My emotions vibrating in a dizzying whirl, I attempted to release myself from his lordship’s grip to look for Mr. Munro. But it was no use. My uncle held me prisoner for now.

  8. Pilgrim

  Sullen clouds languished in the Madrid sky, unable to burst forth into rain. They shifted to the east, then north, unsure of their destination. Eventually they wandered over the Guadarrama mountains in bitter exile, never again to capture a painter’s eye, or to obscure a summer’s moon, or to glance at themselves in the shimmering Manzanares. The next morning, and the morning after that, more clouds made their glum appearance, but they, too, were afterwards rumored to have suffered a similar fate.

  At the Puerta del Sol, the heart of the city where a thousand rumors circulated each day, the Madrileños in their cloaks of brown gathered to learn what they could not otherwise in the press. The rumor-mongers whispered that Don Fausto de Bobadilla, a septuagenarian, was courting the fifteen-year-old natural grand-daughter of an English earl. “Lucky number seven!” and they suppressed a laugh, because Don Fausto—Fausto meaning lucky—was quite unlucky, having lost six wives already.