Travelling Light (12 page)

Women, thought Viktoria, difficult at school from the very first class. Boys were easier; you knew where you stood with them. She sat down by the roadside, took out her bottle of juice and her
Guide for Tourists
and started thinking about the road home, all uphill. It was getting too hot again now. It was always either icy cold or too hot.

A car came driving down from the village and stopped and hooted; a door slammed open and out came Josephine with her dogs. She staggered and sat down laughing in the road. “Mrs Viktoria!” shouted someone from inside the car. “Come with us to the fiesta! Carnival! Hurry up, they may have started already!” Josephine’s face looked even smaller framed between two plaits of her
astonishingly
red hair. She had a ribbon over her head and glass beads round her neck and, as far as Viktoria could judge, was meant to look like a Red Indian. There was a knife in her belt. She shouted, “You’re my prisoner, Professor!”

Viktoria stood up and asked if it was a real carnival.

“The biggest one all year,” Josephine assured her. “Everyone does just what they want, and to hell with everybody else, just footloose and fancy-free! Hurry up; we haven’t got all day! We stopped at your place but you weren’t there. This is Mabel and Ellen and Jackie. Here, have a tipple of this! We’re going to a party!”

It was whisky again. They drove down the hill at a dizzying speed. One of Josephine’s friends had started singing. Viktoria looked out anxiously for X; it wouldn’t do at all for X to see her with Josephine, in the bosom of the colony, deserting to the enemy camp. She crouched down and tried to make herself invisible, thinking bitterly, What do I mean, deserting? Which way? If Josephine had seen me walking down the road with X, what would she have thought? And anyway, does it really matter what they think?

Down in the town they were met by music.

“Another small drop, Viktoria,” said one of the colonists.

“No, thanks. Maybe not right now.”

They left the car and made their way slowly through the crowds in the narrow streets. Josephine clung to Viktoria’s arm, shouting cheerfully, “Make way! Make way! I’ve captured a real professor!”

It was extremely embarrassing.

Balloons everywhere, shouts and laughter. Small children riding through the crowds on their fathers’ shoulders, a howling cherub in a bright yellow wig, a miniature devil with horns, a Zorro, clouds of confetti rising from the square ahead.

“Please, Miss O’Sullivan,” Viktoria pleaded, “let go. I really don’t need to go any closer.” But she was pushed on relentlessly, tightly hemmed in by a strange procession of colour and movement under a rain of flowers and sprigs of olive. Many of the dancers were wearing masks, violent faces of mockery, ecstasy, unbearable pain. To Viktoria their gestures seemed out of control, their colours chosen to hurt the eye – and now they were approached by tight, silent rows of children in costume. Viktoria’s eyes fastened on a solemn little girl and with a thrill of recognition she told herself, Yes, that’s the Infanta of Velázquez. So beautiful. The Inquisition marched by, followed by the Most Beautiful Of All under an arch of mimosa and almond blossom. Viktoria thought she looked frightened. Then came the cobwebbed figures of the Dead Forest, followed by several marching whisky bottles. Viktoria turned to smile at Josephine, but Josephine had vanished.

I must try and describe all this to Hilda. I’ll write this very evening; it’ll cheer her up. Just look, all these people getting to live out their dreams, play a part, finally become someone else. It’s wonderful. Why don’t we have carnivals at home – my goodness, we certainly need them. Here’s a woman whose dream was to be a brave and gallant Robin Hood: look at the long feather in her hat! And those excited men dancing their dream of being women, with their glorious bosoms!

The music grew wilder. She saw a toreador and his bull playing a passionate game with each other. People shouted and pressed forward. It was a splendid fiesta!

A black sedan full of bandits rolled into the square. And in front of it, on an empty patch of naked street, there was X – dancing, as dark as the car, slashing the air round her with a long, gleaming knife. A kitchen knife, in fact. The music had changed to España Cañi. Then Viktoria saw Josephine rush out into the street – Josephine, also with a knife in her hand. “Josephine!” she cried. “Stop! Come back!”

The two women circled each other in front of the bandits’ car. They lunged, retreated, and the crowd cried bravo and clapped hands in time with the music. Viktoria shouted again, “Stop!
Pericoloso
! Dangerous!” But no one paid her any attention. The two women had begun to stamp on the ground, approaching each other, circling close and dancing away again. Their dance had now captured the crowd’s complete attention. Josephine was having difficulty staying on her feet. Someone behind Viktoria said they weren’t doing the right steps and weren’t really Spanish at all. Viktoria turned round and hissed, “Shut up, you idiot! You don’t understand what’s going on! This is a matter of life and death.”

The procession moved slowly on and Viktoria followed, pushing forward, unapologetically. She saw Josephine stagger and drop her knife. X picked it up and gave it back to her, and they continued circling each other like cats in a back yard. Josephine’s dogs ran back and forth as close to X as they dared and yapping as if possessed. And the music played on. But now the
procession
had slowed and stopped. Josephine staggered against the radiator of the bandits’ car and clung to it with both hands. X advanced on her slowly and Viktoria shrieked, “No!” X raised her knife and quickly, with a couple of slashes, she sliced off Josephine’s red braids, threw them contemptuously on the street and walked away.

The crowd drew back to let her pass; it had all happened very quickly. The music switched to “Never on Sunday” and Viktoria was suddenly trapped in the tightly packed crowd and wanted only to go home. Eventually she managed to escape from the square to some deserted streets and sat down outside a café to rest her legs. A man came up and said, “Sorry to bother you. I’m American. You called me an idiot.”

“And so you were,” said Viktoria wearily. “When someone is stamping her feet, it doesn’t make any
difference
whether or it’s ‘Spanish’ or not. People stamp their feet because they’re angry. Where do you think I could find a taxi?”

“My car’s just around the corner,” the man said. “I’m from Houston, Texas.”

All the way up to the village he told her about his family and his job. They exchanged addresses and promised to send postcards.

Stretched on her bed in the cool darkness Viktoria tried to make sense of what had happened. The vendetta had clearly reached a dramatic climax. And now, thought Viktoria, Josephine will just have to find a new way to do her hair – and X will be even more unpopular and isolated. She’s the loser, she behaved badly. I must try to be fair. It’s natural to root for the underdog, but what does sympathy have to do with justice? Josephine was the one I promised to help. But X interests me more – I’m not objective.

It was the same way with my students – it mattered so much to them which side I was on. They would drive me to despair by seeing everything in black and white. Is there such a thing as a real absolute, a true either/or? Or is everyone somehow right in their own way, and because I understand that, it makes me indecisive and
wishy-washy
, trying to tolerate each point of view? But those parties I used to give for my students were an attempt, perhaps an awkward one, or too timid, but an attempt nonetheless, to get them out of their tight little cliques and be friendly and civilised and listen and understand each other a little better. My parties were a good idea. I think I should try it again. A party for the whole colony? No. Just for Josephine and X.

The telegram came later that evening. ‘Mum died this morning just fell asleep but it seems strange don’t worry tell Jose if roof leaks dont worry Elisabeth.’

At first Viktoria felt she ought to go home and help. But maybe not. She sat at the table and read the telegram over and over. What was that about the roof? Why should it start to leak? How peculiar. After a while, she went up onto the terrace and emptied a couple of pailfuls of water on the roof. None of the water came through.

And then suddenly, with surprising intensity, Viktoria found herself grieving for the lost friend of her youth – Hilda, who never understood how easily she could have stopped being difficult.

I’ll throw out that horrible squid! And take in the saucer I put out for the cats. They don’t drink milk, these Spanish cats – not even the cats here are normal.

That evening Viktoria went to the café and ordered a Cuba Libre. She asked José what the wild cats drank when they were thirsty.

José laughed. “They lick up the dew.”

That night Viktoria lulled herself to sleep by imagining she was an independent Spanish cat finding an
opportune
dew-cup at dawn (if dew-cups even grew in this country).

Viktoria wrote out invitations to her party, taking a lot of trouble with the formal wording and calligraphy. The supper would take place at José’s, the only
restaurant
in the village. It was behind his café, a terrace with a magnificent view over the valley, perfect for summer tourists passing through.

This will do nicely, Viktoria thought, and went to discuss her plans with José. There were a lot of people in the café. She greeted José and Catalina and invited them to take a glass with her because she needed advice on an important personal matter. Catalina smiled and said no, thank you, she was too busy, but José carried two Cuba Libres to a table by the glass doors to the terrace. Viktoria came straight to the point. “I’m planning a formal supper with two guests and I want it to be a really good one. I have confidence in your culinary experience and I’d like to discuss the menu. Isn’t lamb the right choice for the main dish?

“Definitely,” said José, enthusiastically. “I suggest
cordero con guisantes
.”

“That sounds excellent,” said Viktoria, nodding thoughtfully as if she were an expert. And as a starter – I mean
entremeses
?”

“How about
gambas fritas
?”

Viktoria knew
gambas
were prawns. She made a dismissive gesture; people always had prawns at formal dinners back home. “Perhaps something more – exotic?”

“
Erizos naturales
?”

“Well, it depends,” said Viktoria cryptically, not wanting to ask for a translation. “But we must have mimosa on the table, masses of it. Not almond blossoms, we have to think about the poor almonds. And the wine?”

“
Privilegio del Rey
,” José answered firmly. “
Privilegio del Rey
without a doubt. Would you like to taste it, Professor? It’s very renowned.”

“With pleasure.”

José fetched two large glasses and Viktoria tasted the wine. She nodded graciously and asked about the vintage. They continued their earnest discussion. The villagers followed the conversation carefully; they could tell it was very important.

José asked, “Which would you prefer, Professor,
ensalada verde mezclada or chalotas y remolachas
?”

“
Ensalada verde
of course.”

“Of course,” agreed José appreciatively.

“And cheese,” said Viktoria.

“Just cheese? No dessert?”

“I think just cheese is more elegant. And then coffee.”

José lifted his hands. “My dear Professor, that’s
impossible
, unthinkable! You can’t have a real supper without
postre
!
Crema de Café Dolores yanes, pastel infanta, platanos a la Canaria, amor frío
…”

“Is it so very important?” asked Viktoria in
astonishment
. “What was that last one called?”

“
Amor frío
.”

“Doesn’t that mean more or less ‘cold love’?”

“More or less.”

“Then it couldn’t be better,” said Viktoria, and giggled. “Only one other important detail: there have to be oranges on the table, a large bowl. Complete with leaves.” She could see that José didn’t like the idea; he looked suddenly crestfallen. Then she took out her invitation cards and asked if he’d be so kind as to arrange for them to be delivered; it would be more polite than sending them by post.

Their conference was over.

The next day word went round that the unsociable professor was giving a dinner in style at José’s. The detail about the oranges was considered highly amusing. And the combination of guests was a topic of general
discussion
. So far as anyone knew, neither woman had declined the invitation. Everyone could see that this completely altered the picture, which must now be judged from an entirely new angle, depending, of course, on the outcome of Viktoria’s dinner.

The crucial evening itself was mild and beautiful. Viktoria dressed with particular care; the pearls were for her guests but the chinchilla was to impress the colony. The café was full of villagers but there was no one on the terrace. The colony was anxious not to appear inquisitive.

The guests arrived on time from different directions, Josephine without her dogs. Viktoria rose to welcome them. José appeared in a white apron and served
Privilegio del Rey
.

“So good of you to come,” Viktoria said. “I’d like to drink to your health because, among other things, I believe you to be two very enterprising and courageous women. We’ll raise our glasses to the spring, to new beginnings.”

Josephine had been to a hair salon in town and was now crowned with an astoundingly large bush of red hair.

“How kind,” she said. “How very kind.”

Viktoria’s guests were extremely wary; they looked as if they had come to take an examination.

Viktoria made a sweeping gesture encompassing the magnificent landscape, the mountains and the flowering valley and said, “You know, in the days when I had students, so many of them longed to travel, maybe to places like this, some time in the future when they’d be able to afford it. We often spread out a map of the world and talked about where we would most like to go. It was such fun.” Viktoria turned to X and asked her how she had come to choose this particular village.