Golden Earrings (26 page)

We stopped at the first café we found, which was full of tourists. Many Parisians hated tourists, but I loved seeing their animated faces and listening to their excited chatter as they shared stories of their sightseeing. I was glad that my city had such an enlivening effect on them. I was glad that today it had shared its magic with me. I had been training so hard these past few years that I had ceased to notice it.

Jaime and I ordered some tomato soup and bread. I reflected on his earlier observation that I was uptight. Then my mind drifted back to what Carmen had said in my first flamenco lesson — how the internal force of one’s spirit needs to combine with the spirit of the dance and the music. She had called that union ‘
duende
’.

‘Jaime, what exactly do flamenco artists mean when they talk about
duende
? In normal Spanish it means a poltergeist-like spirit.’

‘Now, there is a contentious topic!’ Jaime replied, rubbing his hands together. ‘Few artists can agree on exactly what
duende
is and whether it exists or not. Some say it is essential to flamenco, while others say it is nothing more than a fanciful idea coined by the poet and flamenco aficionado Federico García Lorca. I’ll tell you what I think it is: it’s that moment when any artist, not just a flamenco one, transcends their ego and channels into their art something greater than themselves.’

‘By something “greater than themselves” do you mean God?’ I asked.

‘Something spiritual and something universal,’ he explained. ‘It may be God or it may be something else. Musicians, dancers, writers, artists — they all talk about this moment of fusion between themselves and a greater force. Their audiences sense it too, and the effect is powerful. Athletes experience it as well: they call it “being in the zone”.’

I thought about what Jaime was saying. My father had talked about a similar experience when he was giving a concert,
although he had never given it a name. He’d told me how there were times when he’d been tired or unwell and had wanted to cancel a concert because he was afraid that he wouldn’t play to his best standard. But when he went out on stage, suddenly something else would take over and he would give one of the most inspired performances of his career and the audience would be ecstatic.

‘The gypsies never used the actual term
duende
,’ Jaime went on, ‘but I’ve read about how they often referred to a “demon” that would possess a performer at some point and transform a simple performance into an extraordinary spiritual experience. For them, that idea of
duende
was always connected to deep grief and the mystery of death.’

‘You know, in that first class I felt something,’ I told him, ‘even though we were doing the basic first step. I had a sense of having danced flamenco before.’

He nodded. ‘I saw it too. You had a profound connection to flamenco that made you stand out in the class. It wasn’t only that you’re a trained dancer; there was a presence about you. It’s interesting, because while you have a family connection to Spain, it’s through Catalonia. As you know, the Catalans are closer to the French and Italians in their way of thinking. But when you dance, you are pure Andalusian.’

I found what Jaime was saying interesting, but disturbing too. I had only seen la Rusa’s ghost on one occasion, but what if she was around me all the time and I simply couldn’t see her? Was that why she had given me the golden earrings, so that she could possess me through them? I thought about the research I’d covered at the Bibliothèque Saint-Geneviève:
Some ghosts are demonic and will possess you if you attempt to make any contact with them.
Hadn’t Mireille Fourest’s book also warned that ghosts retained the same personality they’d had when they were alive? If Mamie hated la Rusa so much, she must have good reason. The more I thought about it, the more I became
convinced that la Rusa was evil and the golden earrings were a bad omen.

I was even more perturbed when Jaime brought up la Rusa at the same time I was thinking about her.

‘You know, talking about
duende
, la Rusa was considered to be one of the most powerful possessors of it. I’ve read accounts of people crying and inflicting all sorts of harm on themselves because they were so moved by one of her performances. I do remember seeing a film with her in it — not one of her glitzy Hollywood ones, but a Spanish flamenco film made before the war. She really
owns
the dance she performs. There’s probably a copy of that film in the Conservatoire’s library. Do you want me to book a film room and we can watch it together?’

The idea of seeing la Rusa on film frightened me. It was one thing to listen to my beloved Avi on a recording years after his death, but to see la Rusa alive and animated … I wasn’t sure if I could face that. It might be inviting trouble.

Jaime seemed to have a sixth sense for knowing when I was uncomfortable about something. ‘What is it with you and la Rusa?’ he asked. ‘It’s more than interest in her as a phenomenal dancer, isn’t it? Does it have something to do with your grandfather?’

I wanted to tell Jaime the truth. But after the way I had shown up on his doorstep that morning, did I need to give him more reasons to think I was unstable? I knew that if I told him about la Rusa, he wouldn’t be so insensitive as to laugh in my face, but I was worried it would turn him off me. I lowered my eyes.

‘Come on, Paloma,’ he said quietly. ‘At some point you’re going to have to trust me. You’re going to have to let me inside that tough shell of yours.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Every Spaniard has a ghost, apparently. And I’ve discovered mine.’ I lifted my eyes to see that Jaime was looking attentively at me. I sighed and sat back. ‘This is going to sound crazy.’

Jaime smiled. ‘I’m Spanish. I understand crazy.’

I tried to imagine how the story of la Rusa’s otherworldly visit would sound to me if I were in Jaime’s shoes. Still, I took the leap, and relayed the story as factually as I could given the circumstances. I lost courage when I got to the part about the golden earrings, but something about Jaime’s open face made me press on anyway.

To my great relief, while Jaime was astonished by my story he didn’t seem to think less of me. ‘I don’t believe la Rusa’s come to harm you,’ he said. ‘You would have felt the danger from her straight away. As it turned out, you took her for a living person at first. I’m sure the visit has something to do with her connection to your grandfather — and perhaps that explains your grandmother’s negative reaction when you mentioned her.’

I reached out and squeezed Jaime’s hand. After my initial misgivings, I was glad that I’d told him about la Rusa: I desperately needed a confidante and a friend.

It was seven o’clock and dark when Jaime dropped me back at the apartment in rue Spontini.

‘Are you sure I can’t entice you to have dinner with me?’ he asked. ‘Maybe we can go dancing afterwards? Have you even been to a disco? I’d like to see you knock some people out when you lift your leg higher than your head.’

I laughed. He obviously hadn’t thought my story about my encounter with la Rusa to be so far-fetched that he didn’t want to see me again. It’s nice to have a Spanish boyfriend, I thought, and one who believes in ghosts.

‘I would have loved to go with you to a disco,’ I told him. ‘But I need to sort things out with Mamie. And Saturday night has always been our special night together.’

‘I understand,’ he said, touching my chin. And I knew that he did. He kissed me, and then restarted the Vespa. ‘Give me a call tomorrow, all right?’ he said, before heading down the road. ‘Let me know how you are.’

I quickly crossed the courtyard, afraid that la Rusa might reappear after we had spoken so much about her that evening. Conchita’s light was on in her apartment and I could hear her listening to the radio. I was tempted to drop in and ask her if she knew why Mamie hated la Rusa so much, but something stopped me. Instead, I continued up the stairs to our apartment. All the lights were off when I entered it. For a moment, I thought Mamie might not be home. But I was relieved when I saw her keys were still on the hook.

She wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, although she’d covered Diaghilev’s cage. There were no dishes in the rack. She must have gone straight to her room after the day’s classes were over.

I knocked on her door. ‘Mamie, I’m home. Are you there?’

There was no answer.

I knocked again. ‘Mamie, do you want some supper?’

Silence.

‘Mamie! Please say you are all right. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘I’m all right,’ her soft voice came back. ‘Just leave me alone.’

I went back to the kitchen and cut myself a slice of bread. I wasn’t hungry, but I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I wavered from the pleasure I felt about the afternoon I’d spent with Jaime, to the guilt about not having done any practice for my audition, to the upsetting feeling of being alienated from Mamie. In the end, I went to my room to read for a while, so I could put my mind onto something else.

It was almost ten o’clock when Mamie knocked on the door.

‘Can I come in?’ she asked.

‘Please,’ I said, sitting up.

Mamie was pale. It was obvious from her puffy eyes that she’d been crying. She sat down on my bed. I put the cover over her shoulders to keep her warm.

‘I’m so sorry, Mamie,’ I said. ‘I never meant to upset you. I won’t bring her up again.’

Mamie shrugged. ‘I am more shocked at myself,’ she said. Then she sighed and stared at her hands. ‘I didn’t always despise la Rusa,’ she said. ‘There was a time when I admired her greatly. Your grandfather introduced us, you know …’

A faraway look came into Mamie’s eyes. I sat back against the pillows, knowing it was time for another story.

For some reason, I had woken early that morning. The dawn light was seeping through the curtains of the bedroom I shared with Margarida. Although it was spring, the air was still chilly and I tugged the lace-trimmed quilt up to my neck and stared up at the ceiling light fixtures. With their domed glass and silver tips they reminded me of ramekins of crema Catalana, although Margarida said that to her they looked like breasts with elongated nipples. Gaspar Olivero’s face loomed up in my imagination, as it did every morning even though I hadn’t seen him for nearly a year. At first, when he didn’t appear at the opera again or at any of the social functions hosted by the Cerdà family, I was worried my mother had warned him away. But when I asked Xavier about him, he said that Gaspar had finished his law degree, but instead of joining a firm he was making a successful career of playing music in venues around Spain and South America.

While my ‘courtship’ with Francesc seemed to be progressing well, according to the doyennes of Barcelona society, he too had a propensity for disappearing for weeks at a time for some sporting activity such as skiing and mountain climbing, or vanishing to Europe or America for car-racing and baseball. And here I am, I thought, not even able to walk to the end of the street without a chaperone!

I turned and looked at Margarida. How had my sister done it? How had she avoided the smothering supervision that went
with being ‘eligible’ and secured for herself a kind of freedom unknown to all the other women in our circle? The latest idea she had was that Spain was soon going to be a republic again and she was going to join the parliament to represent women and the poor. I prayed to God that she wouldn’t express that idea to Pare, otherwise my parents might lock
me
up and throw away the key! When I thought about it further, I saw that Margarida could enjoy her freedom because she cared nothing for marriage or having children. I wanted children, so I had no choice but to obey the rules.

I rested my hands behind my head. I had resigned myself to the idea that I would have to marry Francesc, but that didn’t stop me thinking about Gaspar. I imagined scenarios where we would meet again at the Liceu, or at a soirée, and the Olivero fortune and name would somehow have been restored. Then my parents would agree that Gaspar and I were a good match. I had no idea how he felt about me — I couldn’t be anywhere near as exciting as the exotic people he must be meeting on his travels — but losing myself in these fantasies helped me cope with being powerless to control my own destiny or to choose for myself.

I was drifting back to sleep when Mama’s voice woke me. ‘Margarida! Evelina!’ The urgency in her tone roused me. I sat up to see her standing in the doorway in her dressing gown. ‘Come quickly!’

She looked pale and frightened. My first thought was something had happened to Feliu. ‘Is everybody all right?’ I asked.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Margarida, rubbing her eyes.

‘Just hurry!’ ordered Mama. ‘Before the servants wake up!’

Margarida and I jumped out of our beds and tugged on our dressing gowns and slippers before following Mama out of the room. My worst fear came to life again when she led us towards Conchita and Xavier’s apartment.

‘Is Feliu all right?’ I asked.

Mama turned and put her finger to her lips. ‘Yes, he’s fine.’

‘Crazy Conchita hasn’t stabbed Xavier, has she?’ Margarida asked.

Mama spun on her heels. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ she demanded. ‘A family does not make jokes like that about each other!’

Although it was unkind of Margarida to have said such a thing, I too had noticed that Conchita’s behaviour was becoming more erratic. Immediately after Feliu was born, she had been a doting mother. But as soon as he began to crawl and then walk, her attitude towards him changed. She treated him in the same standoffish manner she treated the servants. Even at only a year old, he often seemed bewildered by her coldness.

We continued up the stairs and into the apartment. Xavier was in the drawing room with Feliu asleep in his lap. My brother’s eyes were red-rimmed and the distressed expression on his face upset me. Mama led us into the bedroom where Doctor Castell was standing next to Conchita, who was prostrate on the bed with her wrists wrapped in bandages. She was lying still and staring at the ceiling; every so often she emitted a low groan.