Golden Earrings (28 page)

‘You’re
all
here!’ he said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘I’ve organised a table at the front so that Evelina can see la Rusa’s amazing feet.’

Margarida smiled at Gaspar, but threw daggers at me with her gaze when he wasn’t looking.

‘Are you playing tonight?’ Xavier asked Gaspar.

‘No, I took tonight off especially to see la Rusa again. I’ll take you round to meet her after her performance. She’s really something.’

‘I’ve heard of her,’ said Xavier. ‘But I’ve never had the chance to see her perform. Apparently she’s danced for the King and Queen?’

Gaspar laughed. ‘Indeed! Despite two hours of lectures by the King’s staff beforehand on royal protocol, she still treated him like he was anybody else on the street. His entourage was shocked, but I think he was amused. Even Alfonso knows when he is beaten in greatness.’

The hostess arrived to tell us that our table was ready. We turned to follow her.

I flashed my most innocent smile at Margarida. ‘I’m staying?’

She shrugged. ‘Just be discreet and don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself, all right? You are only staying until la Rusa performs and then you are going home!’

On the way to our table, we passed Soledad Manzano and her sisters, who were sitting with the daughters of the Almirall dynasty. All of those girls were chaperoned as closely as I was but none of them seemed surprised to see me there. They merely nodded at me as if I were a member of an exclusive club who had been a bit late in paying her dues.

‘I’m glad you could come tonight, Evelina,’ Gaspar whispered to me once we were seated. ‘I wasn’t sure if they were going to allow you. Apart from Muslim women, Spanish women are the most carefully guarded in the world, even here in Barcelona.’

‘Too true!’ I said, and laughed. A thrill of excitement ran through me. So he
had
been keen for me to come.

‘Where’s Francesc?’ Gaspar asked. ‘Is he still in England? I haven’t had a chance to catch up with my aunt and uncle yet.’

All the magic of the evening disappeared when Gaspar mentioned Francesc’s name. For that night, at least, I wanted to imagine the possibility that I could marry Gaspar and dance the tango with him in Buenos Aires and listen to jazz all night in Havana. But by saying Francesc’s name, Gaspar had shattered those dreams. Had he done it intentionally? After all, Francesc was his cousin. Or was it simply that Gaspar did not think of me the same way I thought of him?

I did my best to appear cheerful as the waiter brought us a supper of wild mushroom omelettes and artichokes with cream, as well as a bottle of fine champagne, which Margarida didn’t let me taste. The show began with a Russian cabaret singer and a Spanish comedian. After dessert was served, the master of ceremonies introduced la Rusa as a hot-blooded gypsy
bailaora
.

The curtain opened and before us stood a woman with a mane of wavy hair and eyes like onyx. She was wearing a black dress with a red lace bolero jacket, and stood like a statue as the orchestra began to play. After a minute or so of utter stillness, during which the air of suspense in the audience became palpable, her eyes suddenly sprang to life and she bestowed a gaze on us that was at once haughty and dignified. Then she stamped her foot — one! two! three times! — like a bull preparing to charge, and began to dance in counterclockwise circles. I had never seen anything like it. Her castanets sounded like rattlesnakes; her feet beat the floor like bullets. Her fierceness challenged everything I believed about dance, about softness of movement and refinement. She was like a savage and yet every wild movement of her body was precise, from her turns to her
zapateados
.

The audience ‘Ooh’d’ and ‘Ah’d’ before falling silent, dazed by the sheer explosion of energy before them. As la Rusa
danced, I found myself thinking, this woman is full of anger and violence, but I couldn’t look away. I was as drawn in by her magnetism as everyone else was.

The music stopped, but la Rusa continued with some wild spinning turns before a furious finale in which she accompanied herself with her own percussive footwork and
palmas
, as the gypsies did when they danced. The audience rose to its feet, applauding and cheering.

La Rusa did not curtsey, as Olga had taught me to do in ballet, or make a humble bow as the Russian cabaret singer had done when she’d finished her act. She stood still, regarding us with her hands on her hips. In many ways the arrogant manner in which she looked down at us was shocking, but probably the most shocking thing about it was that it was justified. Unlike Conchita, la Rusa’s features were not of perfect proportions — she had a large mouth, a broad nose and sharp cheekbones — and yet she possessed the kind of beauty that put women like Conchita in the shade. The sheer force of her conviction in who she was mesmerised the audience. She was the most captivating person I had ever seen.

I turned to say something to Xavier, but was taken aback by the expression on his face. He was regarding la Rusa as if a thousand thoughts were rushing through his mind at once. While I had been fascinated, it was clear to me that something much stronger had overcome him. The disturbing feeling I had experienced that day in the Old Cemetery when I had spied Xavier and Margarida at the paupers’ plot returned to me: a dread of something sinister lurking in the future.

Mamie’s voice slipped away and she became lost in her thoughts. I sat on the edge of my bed, spellbound by the image of la Rusa that Mamie’s story had conjured in my mind. I decided that I would accept Jaime’s offer to see the film of la Rusa dancing — I felt impelled to witness this force of nature for myself. From
the description Mamie had given of la Rusa as a strong, self-possessed woman, I understood why it was hard for people who had known her to believe that she had committed suicide.

‘Mamie,’ I said, when I felt brave enough to speak, ‘when you said that Xavier was betrayed by someone he once loved … a wild animal that he thought he’d tamed … did you mean la Rusa? Was she the one who turned on him?’

Mamie didn’t answer me. She showed no indication that she had even heard me. After the argument we’d had that morning, I wasn’t brave enough to repeat my question. It was left hanging in the air like an unsolved mystery.

I
hurried to my dressing room after my return performance at the Samovar Club, the sound of the audience’s applause ringing in my ears. The star dressing room had been refurbished and was an elegant haven of full-length mirrors and Louis XV chairs. I pulled off my dress and shoes and wrapped myself in a silk robe before flopping onto the chaise longue. The room was quiet now that el Ruso had banned Diego and the others from visiting it. In New York, Raquel had started a fire while frying sardines in my dressing room in Carnegie Hall. El Ruso had footed the bill for the damage but hadn’t forgiven my clan. ‘When are you going to wake up?’ he’d demanded. ‘They are using you!’ But el Ruso didn’t understand how much I dreaded being alone: that noise and activity kept me safe from my memories.

Without the presence of my clan, the dressing room didn’t smell of fish but of roses and lilies from the bouquets spread across the dresser and end tables. I rubbed my temples and closed my eyes, intending to rest for a while before joining el Ruso and some important guests for a celebratory dinner later. But even with the sound of the orchestra in the background and the clomping footsteps of the chorus girls running up and down the stairs, the room was too quiet. I sat up and wandered to the dressing table to read the cards that accompanied the
bouquets.
You are the sparkling diamond of the city
, the Mayor of Barcelona had written.

There was a package too. I tugged away the ribbon and tore open the tissue paper to find a hand-embroidered shawl inside, with vibrant crimson roses stitched onto the cream silk and its four sides finished with hand-knotted fringing. It would have been worth a few thousand
pesetas
. I picked up the envelope that had been tucked inside the box, wondering who would have given me such a gift. Inside was an invitation to a bullfight signed by Salazar. My heart sank. I hadn’t seen him since my Villa Rosa days and had hoped he’d forgotten me. I cringed when I remembered his cruel face and the deranged look in his eyes.

I sat down on the dressing table stool and rubbed my feet. Although flamenco, gypsies and bullfighting were intertwined, I had never been to a
corrida
and had no desire to go. Teresa, Carme and many other women in Damas Rojas had spoken vehemently against bullfights, calling them ‘spectacles of torture and death’. I simply saw them as unfair. The bull had to face not only the matador but also
picadors
on horseback and
banderilleros
who repeatedly stabbed him to weaken him. I’d heard they even rubbed olive oil in the bull’s eyes while it was still in the stall so it couldn’t see properly. It was only when the bull was exhausted from blood loss and pain that the matador moved in for the kill. Where was the courage in that? If the bull killed the matador — which I would consider a victory on its part — it was still killed. The one-sidedness of the fight made me think of my father shouting his protests against the Civil Guard before being shot in the neck. I shuddered at the memory of his blood flowing out of him. Even after all these years it gave me a razor-sharp pain in my heart.

I shoved the shawl into the bottom drawer of my dresser. I’d burn it when I had the chance. There was a box of chocolates from Zakharov on my dressing table and I ate a sweet, creamy one to get rid of the bitter taste in my mouth.

A knock sounded at the door. I didn’t answer at first. While I missed my clan, I’d set a rule that wherever I performed no audience members were permitted to visit my dressing room. In South America they’d had to position armed guards near my door to keep the crowds under control. Since I became famous, everybody wanted to know me — or at least to say that they had met me. Every word I muttered was noted down by reporters who jostled with each other to fire questions at me: ‘La Rusa, what’s your favourite food?’; ‘What do you do on your days off?’; ‘Describe your ideal man.’ I preferred to greet my admirers and sign autographs at the stage door where I had some chance of getting away. I loved stimulation and to be diverted, but deep down I did not really like people.

The knock sounded again. ‘La Rusa, I have some guests who want to meet you!’ It was Gaspar’s voice. I sighed. For Gaspar, I always made an exception.

‘Come in,’ I answered, tugging on a pair of slippers.

When I looked up to see who Gaspar had with him, I did not recognise the Montella siblings immediately. All I saw were three smartly dressed, youthful individuals with eager expressions. They bore the healthy, well-scrubbed look of people with money.

‘La Rusa, let me introduce you to some good friends of mine,’ Gaspar said, waving to them to come inside. ‘May I present to you Xavier Montella and his sisters, Margarida and Evelina.’

At the sound of the Montella siblings’ names I was hit by a confusion of feelings — a mix of anxiety and fury that made my mind whirl like a boat caught in a stormy swell. For twenty years, the Montella family had been the object of my hate and now its heir and his two sisters were standing right before me! The serpent in my heart uncoiled and rose in fury, but it did not strike. Why, I did not know. Perhaps its instinct told it to wait for the right moment.

The threesome took my hesitation as the reticence of a haughty
star, which seemed to make them keener to tell me how much they had enjoyed my show.

‘You were stunning, senyoreta!’ Margarida said. I remembered her as the innocent girl who had held my hand without reservation before being scolded by her nursemaid.

‘Your precision is inspiring,’ gushed Evelina. She was graceful and refined, as I’d imagined she would grow up to be.

It was Xavier Montella who surprised me the most. I’d always supposed that he’d turn out a replica of his father: pug-nosed, self-assured and arrogant. But then I realised he must be the same Xavier whom Gaspar had mentioned the day he had taken me to the café after senyora Dávilo had transformed me: the Xavier who had been sent to Italy on a grand tour; who was an aficionado of flamenco; and who played piano for the Socialist Club. With his fine features and intelligent eyes, he was strikingly handsome. His eyebrows were the same chestnut colour as his hair. I found it disconcerting to realise that, up close, my arch-enemy was beautiful. I remembered the day I had seen him at the sweatshop with his parents and the way he’d looked at me, as if he were both fascinated and puzzled.

He was staring at me that way now and I realised that he had recognised me. I felt like a soldier who, after months of training, is faced with the enemy and finds himself unable to fire his gun.

‘Thank you,’ I managed to say. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed the show.’

‘I was the first person to compose music for her,’ Gaspar said proudly.

I barely heard the young women as they prattled on: Margarida expressing how impressed she was to see a woman who was unafraid to dance in a masculine way; Evelina telling me about her own Spanish dance lessons. Only Xavier remained silent, his concentration on me intense.

‘Well, we’d better leave you to get ready for your dinner,’ said Gaspar finally.

He gave me parting kisses while the others shook my hand. Xavier’s grip was warm and firm but I quickly withdrew from it so he wouldn’t feel me trembling.

‘Yes, thank you again,’ I said.

After Gaspar and the Montellas left, I sat down at the dressing table, trying to catch my breath. I stared at my reflection before wiping away my make-up, smearing mascara and crimson lipstick over my face until I resembled an angry kabuki mask. What had I expected? What did I think I was going to do to the Montellas when I saw them again? Shout at them, accuse them and their kind of being murderers? If I wanted revenge, I had to be better prepared than that. I laid my head against the cold glass of the mirror, suffering a sense of helplessness so complete that it turned everything black.

The following night, after I had finished my act and was heading towards the stage door, Xavier Montella approached me.

‘Forgive me, senyoreta,’ he said. ‘I would like to speak to you.’

What was Xavier Montella doing in the backstage corridor? Was he another deranged Salazar? But I didn’t see the same madness in Xavier’s eyes as I did in the bull breeder’s. Nonetheless, I gave him the severe expression I saved for persistent admirers. ‘I really don’t have time,’ I told him. ‘I must get home.’

‘Of course,’ he said. But he didn’t move. ‘Perhaps you will allow me to take you to dinner?’

Is he out of his mind? I wondered. Could he really have no idea how much I despised him? Or did he, like so many rich men, think that all dancers were whores and easily bought?

Xavier smiled. ‘Excuse me, senyoreta, for being so forward. I am sure that many men, captivated by your charms, invite you to dinner. But you see, I have a special reason for asking you. During the general strike of 1909 a boy and girl came with a woman to a factory owned by my father. The woman’s name was
Teresa Flores García. She was exiled to Alcañiz, along with the boy, where she died a few months later. The boy was taken with the other exiles to be sent to Valencia, but he escaped en route and was never found. I tried to discover the fate of the girl but she seemed to have vanished.’ He took a step closer to me and peered into my face. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I believe that girl was you.’

I was careful to keep my expression impassive but it was difficult to do so at the mention of Ramón’s name. My brother had escaped somewhere on the way to Valencia? I shivered when I remembered Gaspar saying that the punishment for an exile returning to Barcelona was death. Although I longed for my brother even after all these years, I’d resigned myself to the fact that we would probably never find each other again. It had been too long.

‘Why are you so interested in the girl’s fate?’ I asked him. ‘You obviously have used your contacts to find out about her brother.’

Xavier sighed. ‘Because since that day … I have been haunted by her face: the hunger on it … and something else. She was about eight years old but she seemed ancient. As soon as I was old enough to do so, I made investigations about what happened to her. But I was years too late.’

Xavier’s story was so strange. It was not what I had expected of him. He didn’t sound like a presumptuous society man at all. Rather, he gave me the impression of someone who was deeply compassionate. But how could that be? To be a compassionate person and a wealthy heir was a contradiction in terms.

My gaze fell to his silk suit, then to his manicured hands and polished patent shoes. Anastasio’s blood had paid for that affluent lifestyle. The serpent within me stirred and hissed a warning. There were plenty of starving, homeless children in the city. Why didn’t Xavier Montella help them instead of obsessing about one young girl? I was not going to assuage his guilt by saying the girl had grown up to become an international star who divided her time between an apartment in Paris and a ranch
in California, and who had jewellery boxes overflowing with diamonds and pearls. Mine was a miraculous exception to the fate of most of the homeless and orphaned children of the city.

I lifted my chin and stared Xavier in the face. ‘You are mistaken,’ I told him. ‘That girl was not me. But I do know the family you are talking about. They were cousins of mine and that is why I resemble the girl. On the whim of a Civil Guard sergeant, she was not taken with her brother and guardian into exile. Instead, she was placed in an orphanage where she was beaten so badly she died.’

Xavier turned pale. The devastated expression on his face shocked me. For a moment I felt sorry for him. But my sympathy faded when I remembered my family and what had happened to them.

‘Now, please excuse me,’ I said, stepping past him and out the door.

That night I could not stop thinking about Xavier Montella. I remembered the boy at the sweatshop on the day of the general strike and the way he had regarded me with those earnest eyes. Then I remembered Xavier’s tortured expression when I’d lied about the fate of the girl he had wondered about for so long. I rolled over and clutched a pillow to my chest. Why was it that as I had plunged my dagger into Xavier Montella’s heart, it was my own heart that had cried out and bled? As if by stabbing him, I had mortally wounded myself.

The night after my encounter with Xavier Montella, I was leaving the club when he appeared in the corridor again. He must have been bribing one of the bouncers to get access to the dressing rooms; I would have to speak to el Ruso about it. I slowed my step. If I was truthful with myself, I was afraid of Xavier Montella. Perhaps it was an ancestral fear of the rich and powerful, handed down by my family who, before they had suffered as poverty-stricken industrial workers, had been
starving peasants in Andalusia. They had been at the mercy of landowners and had no more rights than slaves. Although I was a woman used to holding my own, something about Xavier Montella made me feel like clay in his hands.

I took a breath and straightened my spine. No, I was la Rusa now, not a poor urchin, and I was not going to be afraid of anyone.

‘Why did you lie to me?’ Xavier demanded. ‘Your name is Celestina Sánchez. Your brother was Ramón Sánchez.’

‘Are you a police interrogator now?’ I asked, determined that Xavier Montella would not put me on the defensive.

‘I asked Gaspar what your real name was,’ he said. ‘Why did you tell me that you weren’t the girl I saw at the factory that day? Why did you lie to me?’

His voice quivered, but there was no trace of anger in it, simply a distress that might have moved me if I hadn’t hardened my heart. Whatever Xavier Montella wanted, I wasn’t going to give it to him. I’d lost everything that was most precious to me because of his family.

‘And in your investigation did you enquire what happened to the girl’s father and older brother?’ I asked.

Xavier held my gaze for a moment before answering. ‘Your brother, Anastasio Sánchez, was killed in Morocco. I don’t know about your father.’

The serpent reared its head, preparing to sink its venom into vulnerable skin.

‘My brother was killed in Morocco defending the Montella iron ore mines!’ I shouted at him. ‘My father was shot when he protested that only young men from poor families were being sent to war, while the rich stayed home and played tennis and drove fancy cars they bought with the blood of others!’