Golden Earrings (17 page)

‘Gaspar is studying law,’ Xavier said. ‘And he’s brilliant at it. He’ll be all right. He doesn’t need his family’s money.’

‘And he’s an accomplished pianist and artist too,’ added Margarida. ‘He accompanies the star acts at a prestigious theatre on las Ramblas, and some of his drawings are being exhibited in Josep Dalmau’s gallery, where Salvador Dalí is shown. He’s quite a genius!’

I studied Gaspar Olivero again. How could anyone have such a range of gifts — and have developed each of them to such a high level? I was intrigued.

At that moment, Gaspar turned in my direction. He saw me and smiled. One corner of his mouth lifted slightly higher than
the other, which I found charming. Without thinking, I smiled back. I can’t describe what happened at that moment. I had not spoken a word to him, but suddenly I felt as if my heart was rising up in my chest. It seemed to float out of the top of my head and drift towards Gaspar Olivero! I quickly looked away.

‘Who is Salvador Dalí?’ asked donya Esperanza. ‘I don’t believe I’m acquainted with the Dalí family?’

Mama shot Xavier and Margarida a chastising look. ‘It is commendable that Gaspar is trying to make his way in the world rather than relying on the charity of his uncle and aunt,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that he will marry a respectable girl and be happy.’

We all knew, without Mama saying it, that by ‘respectable’ she meant middle class. In Mama’s eyes, there were ‘good’ girls from rich families, ‘respectable’ ones from middle-class families, and ‘unfortunate’ ones from poor families.

‘Oh, but the shame of it all,’ said donya Esperanza, unwilling to let go of the grimmer aspects of the Oliveros’ situation. ‘They had to sell their box at the Liceu. It had been in the family since 1850.’

‘I know,’ said Xavier, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. ‘We are sitting in it!’

The uncomfortable silence brought on by Xavier’s statement was relieved by the general silence that followed the dimming of the lights and the commencement of the performance. I was intrigued by the story of
Turandot
— which was about a princess who challenged her suitors to answer three riddles or forfeit their lives — and by Puccini’s beautiful music. But donya Esperanza, who had little enthusiasm for opera, wanted to talk. I wouldn’t have minded so much if she didn’t have such a fascination with the morbid.

‘You know, I was here that night in 1893 when that anarchist dropped his bombs into the audience,’ she whispered to me. ‘It was terrible. Twenty-two people were killed and many others
badly injured. There were legs, arms and heads everywhere. Blood and bone splattered onto the stage. They say that a lady’s hand, with a diamond ring on every finger, fell into the first violinist’s lap …’

Donya Esperanza had told me that story many times before and, as a result, I couldn’t look down into the stalls without imagining that horrific scene. I thought that if I didn’t add to the conversation, she might move on. But she had another story, one I hadn’t heard before, to top that one. ‘And that section over there, that’s where Enriqueta Martí used to sit. Who knew, as she sat there in all her finery, that she was a serial killer?’

I shouldn’t have reacted but, without thinking, I turned to donya Esperanza, aghast.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, her eyes widening with the thrill of having an audience on whom to inflict her gory tale. ‘She used to murder street urchins. Then she would cut them up and boil their bodies to make beauty creams for the high society of Barcelona!’

This last story was too much for Mama who leaned over towards us. ‘Donya Esperanza, please … Evelina is sensitive. You’ll give her nightmares.’

‘But it’s true,’ protested donya Esperanza, neither offended nor chastised. ‘Martí found her clients for her potions
here
.’

Mama shook her head. ‘I’ve heard that too, but I can’t think of one person who would have bought such an atrocious concoction! The very idea of harming children! I am sure it was a rumour sent around by the Communists to make the workers hate us even more.’

‘Well,
somebody
was buying it,’ said donya Esperanza, bemused by Mama’s scepticism. ‘It was in the police reports. I’ve always had a suspicion that one of Martí’s clients was …’

Thankfully, before donya Esperanza could implicate anybody who would — rightly or wrongly — be held in my mind forever after as a villain of the most heinous kind, the music for the opera swelled in volume.

The act came to an end shortly afterwards and it was time for the interval. The boxes on the prestigious levels of the Liceu opened onto wide passageways that were designed for promenading. My mother linked arms with me and ‘promenaded’ me swiftly in the direction of the Cerdà family’s box. Margarida and Xavier accompanied us, while Pare stopped to chat with don Bartomeu Manzano, donya Josefa’s husband.

A blonde woman of statuesque proportions was heading in our direction on the arm of a distinguished-looking gentleman. The woman’s champagne silk dress shimmered like the chandeliers that lit the passageway and she had crystal blue eyes like a doll’s. They were the kind of looks that would normally turn heads — and people’s heads were turning, but, strangely, in the opposite direction to her. While people nodded greetings to the man, they ignored the woman.

As she and I passed one another, we caught each other’s eye. The woman stopped, as if about to engage me in conversation, but I felt a tug on my arm and turned to see Mama shake her head. She gave a shake of her head and moved me forward. The blonde woman’s face fell. I was surprised at my mother’s behaviour. Mama had a strong sense of propriety but she was never rude to anyone. What had the beautiful woman done to deserve being so severely snubbed?

When Mama stopped for a moment to chat with donya Elisa and Conchita’s sisters, Margarida sidled up to me. ‘That was the heir to the de Artigas fortune and his second wife. They live in Paris. She’s an American,’ she said.

‘Why were people so rude to her? Even Mama! Surely not because she’s a foreigner?’

My sister shrugged. ‘They snub her because she’s not from our circle. She’s the daughter of an American shopkeeper who happened to capture the heart of a very rich man.’

‘So she doesn’t come from a wealthy family,’ I said, still not comprehending the reason for the cold-shouldering. ‘It doesn’t
mean she’s not a decent person. After all, she’s el senyor de Artigas’s wife, not his mistress.’

‘Ah,’ said Margarida, raising her finger. ‘You are not thinking like the group, Evelina. And that can be fatal. You see, she’s not from our circle but
she has married a man from our circle
. What does that mean? It means there is one less matrimonial prospect for a daughter of one of Barcelona’s good families.’

Xavier, who was listening in on our conversation, added, ‘It’s the same reason why the English get so put out about people marrying “above their station”.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘she’s much more beautiful than any of the women in our circle, except for Conchita, of course. No wonder el senyor de Artigas married her.’

Xavier smiled. ‘Our Evelina of the romantic heart, whatever are we going to do with you?’

‘Olga has been filling your head with romantic notions,’ Margarida chided me. ‘Don’t think there aren’t other debutantes trying to elbow their way into the Cerdà family. Maria Dalmau, for one. You are friends, yes? Well, let’s see what happens when Francesc Cerdà shows more interest in you because you are prettier.’

I noticed Mama glance from donya Elisa to the clock. We were going to have to make haste if we were to see the Cerdà family before the next act. Luckily for us, Francesc Cerdà’s mother must have had the same idea. I turned to see her hurrying towards us.

‘Donya Rosita, this is very late notice,’ the Marquesa said to my mother. ‘But we are having supper after the opera at our home. It will only be a few people. We would like you and your family to join us if you are free this evening. My mother is too elderly to come to the opera now, so we try to give her some entertainment at home. My nephew, Gaspar, will play the piano for us. Perhaps Xavier would also honour us with a piece or two?’

Normally, for such a spontaneous change of plans, Mama would have consulted Pare before making a decision. But as Pare was nowhere to be seen, Mama told the Marquesa that we would be delighted to come.

The final act of
Turandot
was so full of tragedy and triumph that even donya Esperanza stayed quiet for the aria ‘Nessun Dorma’. But time dragged for me. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, I was dying to meet Gaspar Olivero. I was glad when the curtain came down and I heard Mama say to Pare that we had better start making our farewells as we were going to the Cerdà family’s supper. It took us forever to leave the Liceu: the society reporters wanted to photograph me in my new dress; donya Josefa stopped us to remind Mama about a charity lunch; and senyor Dalmau asked Pare what he thought about the performance and Pare had to make something up. It was a relief when our driver pulled up in the Hispano-Suiza and we all piled inside.

The Cerdàs’ house on the passeig de Gràcia was one of the grandest in Barcelona. Behind its magnificent stone façade was an entrance hall with a domed ceiling, lacquered columns and marble sculptures of goddesses by Josep Clarà. As was the fashion in many aristocratic houses, each room had a different colour scheme and style. As the butler led us to the drawing room, we passed through a medieval-style library with burgundy walls, gargoyles, and a suit of armour in the corner. From there we were directed into a Far East-themed hallway featuring an oriental rug runner, embroidered silk curtains and a chest of black lacquered wood with a dragon carved on it. By the time we reached the inner reception area and stopped a moment to admire the classical columns and fountain that conjured up images of Ancient Greece, it felt as though we had made a journey through civilisation in the span of five minutes.

‘You might live here one day,’ Margarida whispered to me.

She was joking but her words sent a chill through me. I was at home with my family in our tranquil and elegant house with its smooth parquetry floors and the clean lines of the Homar and Busquets furniture. The Cerdàs’ house was a palace, but I couldn’t see myself being comfortable in it. And who was Francesc? What did I know about him? How should I decide whether or not I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him? The pulse in my temple began to throb. I stumbled on the hem of my dress but luckily Xavier caught me.

We were ushered into the drawing room, where the curtains, blinds and tablecloths were all the same lavender damask. Cerdà ancestors stared down at us from their gilded frames. The Marqués and Marquesa, the only occupants of the room besides an elderly lady in a wheelchair whom I took to be the Marquesa’s mother, rose to welcome us. They were both statuesque and fair-skinned, more like Nordic gods than Spaniards.

‘You are the first to arrive,’ said the Marqués. ‘The others have been held up.’

As we already knew each other, there was no need for introductions, but pleasantries about the opera and enquiries into each other’s health had to be exchanged. Fortunately, my mother answered on my behalf. I felt my old anxiety about being around people I didn’t know well returning. My hands and feet had turned cold.

But then the Marquesa turned and addressed me directly. ‘I’ve been admiring your dress all evening, Evelina,’ she said. ‘Did you have it made here or is it from Paris?’

My larynx tightened and I found it hard to breathe. I opened my mouth but I seemed to have lost my tongue. ‘Tha-a-ak you,’ I stuttered.

The Marquesa raised her eyebrows in astonishment, not sure if she had heard me correctly. Mother paled. Pare stared at me, horrified. All Olga’s good work had flown out the door.

‘She was cold in the car,’ said quick-thinking Xavier, putting his arm around me. ‘I’m afraid she’s caught a bit of a chill.’

My brother spoke with such ease and confidence; I would have given anything to be like him.

‘Ah, yes,’ said the Marquesa, nodding sympathetically. ‘I was the same at her age, always cold. It’s this time of year. A warm evening can suddenly turn chilly. We didn’t have the fire lit tonight because once this room fills up, it can get stuffy. Perhaps Evelina would like a cup of tea?’

‘Oh, that’s not necessary,’ said Mama.

‘It is no trouble at all,’ insisted the Marqués, ringing for a maid.

The Marqués and Marquesa were being kind, which made me all the more embarrassed. I hated being the centre of attention. My one comfort was that Gaspar Olivero wasn’t in the room to witness me making a fool of myself.

The tea arrived, and at the same time we heard the sound of voices coming through the reception room. The butler opened the door and announced the arrival of the other guests. Thankfully, their appearance took the attention away from me. Because the Marquesa had said that the evening would be a small, informal affair I was surprised to see that the Dalmau and López families had been invited, along with other significant members of Barcelona’s elite. Suddenly the room was crowded with people. Francesc arrived but there was no sign of Gaspar.

My head began to throb again and I had trouble breathing. I tried to imagine everyone as a chimpanzee, but my panic had already taken hold and I couldn’t laugh it off. It was bad enough to have an anxiety attack in my own home, where I could escape to some familiar room until I felt more comfortable. But what to do when I was in someone else’s house? I looked to Xavier, but he was involved in lively conversation with the Marqués. Margarida had somehow ended up across the other
side of the room talking to Francesc. I wouldn’t have been able to reach her without encountering a whole lot of other people.

I put down my teacup and inched my way to the back of the room, trying to find some clear space. I noticed a door, slightly ajar, and thought that if I could escape the crowd for a while, I would calm down enough to get through supper. I slipped through the doorway and found myself in a room that was decorated more tastefully than the others we had seen. The carved cherrywood furniture was upholstered in a soft apple-green and the curtains were a pale gold yellow. It was as though I had stepped into a forest. A long dining table had been set with silver cutlery and Art Deco plates and glassware. There was also a grand Bösendorfer piano in the corner. I gathered this was where we would be eating supper. On one wall there was a marquetry panel depicting nymphs dancing the
sardana
in a glade. In an effort to calm my racing mind, I tried to guess the types of woods that had been used. Walnut? Olive? Jacaranda? Xavier would know. I sank into an armchair in the corner of the room and rested my aching forehead in my palm.