by Walter Ellis
Two hours later, after an awkward lunch with her mother, she was ready to go. Just as she was closing her suitcase, there was the sound of a car in the driveway. She looked out. A tall, heavily-built man in his mid-thirties was standing next to a taxi, paying off the driver. He wore a heavy brimmed hat and she couldn’t see his face. But she would recognise that neck and those shoulders anywhere. Luder! She could feel herself start to panic. She was out of time before she began. How could he have got here so soon? Seconds later, there was a knock at her bedroom door.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” Doña Vitoria said. “Felipe is here. Come down and meet him. You two have a lot to catch up on.”
The Argentinean was standing in the hallway, still wearing his homburg hat. There was a swagger to him, even in repose. He looked up, smiling. He had perfect teeth.
“Isabellita! My angel! It has been too long. Come and let me greet you.”
The very sound of his voice made her cringe, though the smile that broke across Luder’s features put her mother in mind of the film star Walter Pidgeon, one of her favourites. He seemed to her quite irrepressible.
Mierda! What was she to do? “Felipe!” she said, trying to keep a quiver out of her voice. “This is so unexpected. How did you get here so quickly?”
“Quickly? Not quick at all. It’s been an age, my dear. But, please, don’t stand all night up there on the stairs. Come down to me that I may embrace you.”
“Yes,” said her mother, prodding her daughter sharply in the small of her back with a podgy finger. “Hurry down to greet your fiancé.”
Isabella descended the steps slowly, one at a time, as if drawn inescapably to her fate. As she approached the bottom tread, Luder bounded forward and threw his arms about her. She gasped. “Let me look at you. Ah, yes, now I remember why I wanted to marry you.” Without warning, he planted his lips on her mouth and pressed her hard against him, causing memories of the afternoon in the barn to come flooding back. Then he withdrew, holding her by the shoulders, like a hangman steadying his victim before the drop. “Isabella,” he whispered. “For years I have dreamed of this moment.”
“The thought of you has invaded my sleep also,” she muttered.
A puzzled look crept over the visitor’s sallow features. “What was that? What did you say?”
“I said I never thought it would really happen.”
“Ah. Of course. Well, good things come to those who wait.”
Isabella looked away, unable to think of a riposte that would not sound like an accusation. Luder stared at her, saying nothing. It was as if he had acknowledged the barrier that still existed between them and was trying to work out a different, more lateral, approach. Mercifully, the silence that followed was broken by her father’s voice echoing across the hall from the front door of the house. Colonel Ortega had set off from the Interior Ministry as soon as he heard about Luder’s surprise visit and now stood in the door clutching an attaché case.
“Felipe!” he shouted. “You’ve arrived. But this is wonderful!”
“Father!” said Isabella, pulling herself free of Luder’s grasp and running to the door. “You told me Felipe would not get here for another week at least.”
Colonel Ortega embraced his daughter. “Yes. You must be so pleased to see him?”
Isabella glared at her father before turning round to face Luder. “Felipe,” she began. “This has all been too much for me to take in. I’ve had no time in which to prepare. Would you excuse me? I shall be as quick as I can.”
“But of course,” he said. “Though I can hardly bear to be parted from you.” Reaching out and grasping her hands, he spun her round like a dancer.” We have the entire evening ahead of us. More than that, we have a lifetime.”
Isabella shivered and shrank back from his grasp. It was not only revulsion she felt. She was also aware of a deep-seated dread – a dread more visceral than anything she had experienced in her 21 years of life. It felt as if the threat was to her very soul.
She hurried upstairs, intending to fetch her bag and make her way down the servants’ staircase to the rear door of the house. Her mother was standing in her room, unpacking her things and replacing them in her wardrobe and drawers. “Please, my dear,” she said, “you must learn to be grown up about your problems. Running away from home is juvenile. Besides – where would you go?”
Isabella looked for a moment as if she was about to say something, but then sat down on the bed, waiting for her heartbeat to return to something like normal. Her mother was right, she realised. Not in the way she intended, but right nonetheless. She was a big girl now – a woman – and she could not simply walk out on her problems, no matter how terrible they seemed. If she bolted, the police would be called. Her father would insist on a city-wide search. It could end up with her being linked not only to Romero, but to Bramall as well. After that, anything could happen. It was frightening to realise that she had stumbled into something so much larger than herself. But that was how people grew – by becoming involved in issues outside of their immediate concerns. What mattered now – what truly mattered – was that she should keep her word and play her part, however small, in the fight against Fascism. There were so many lives at stake; so many people depending on each other. When she realised how foolish she had almost been, and how cowardly, she felt ashamed.
“Are you all right, dear,” her mother asked. “You’re looking very pale.”
“I’ll be fine, mama. I’ve had a bit of a shock, that’s all.”
“Take it from me,” said her mother, “it’s the first step that’s the hardest.”
Dinner was fixed for 9.30. Isabella took a bath, hoping to ease some at least of the tensions bunching up in her body. She began to wonder if she might not get something out of the situation that had been forced on her. After all, Luder was a friend of the Germans, with contacts all over the place. Perhaps he knew the Nazi plans for Gibraltar. If he did, maybe she could persuade him to tell her. She lay back in the hot, soothing water, laced with fragrance, trying to imagine herself as a seductress. But then she shuddered and hid her face behind her hands. She sat up suddenly, spraying water all over the bathroom floor. She couldn’t do that. Not with him. It was too horrible.
She needed to discover what exactly Luder had in mind for her. Whatever plans there were, she had to be in a position to counter them. There would be talk, presumably, of a wedding – which month, which church, even which country. She would be asked who she wanted to have as her principle bridesmaid and who would be maids of honour. Beyond that, arrangements would be out of her hands.
That was what was so incredible about it all – and so hateful. No one asked her what she wanted. Luder hadn’t asked her for her hand in marriage, he asked her father. What century were they living in? Only four years before, the people of Spain had been offered their freedom. The Communists and the Anarchists joined with the Socialists and the liberals to map out a new future for the country in which the old ways would be swept away. Women were to have been among the chief beneficiaries, They would have the vote and they would be free to aspire to positions in society that up to then were the preserve of men. It was a golden moment, when everything seemed possible. No doubt that was why her father sent her away. He did not want his daughter to be contaminated by revolutionary ideals. But the moment vanished as quickly as it came. The ancien regime was once again the latest thing. The Army, the aristos and the priests were back in charge.
Well, she would not have it. Felipe Luder and her father might think that they could dispose of her life as if she were a farm animal in a market. But they were in for a rude awakening. Her independence was not a commodity, to be bought and sold. Bramall would help her. She was in no doubt of that. But tonight? Tonight she would be on her own. There was no point in arousing suspicion and setting everyone against her. No. She would stoop to conqu
er – offering honeyed words that would put them all at their ease. Only when she was ready to act decisively would she stand up and tell them exactly what she thought of them. That is when they would discover the real Isabella Ortega, and it would be a moment she would remember for the rest of her life.
At any rate, that was the plan.
She reached for the shampoo and lathered her hair. Still in the bath, she knelt with her head below the tap, running her fingers down the thick strands of her hair, rinsing out the suds. The water gushed over her head and shoulders. Just for a second, she felt clean and pure, as if she was reborn. Then she heard her mother’s voice, telling her to hurry up and come downstairs.
Luder stood up when she walked into the courtyard 20 minutes later. She wore a black dress, black stockings and a short string of her grandmother’s pearls around her neck. The delicately patterned mantilla she had chosen was of fine-spun silk, and the effect, as it fell from her still damp hair to settle around the naked expanse of her shoulders was devastating.
She spoke first. “Good evening, Felipe – Mother, Father. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“It was worth the wait just to look at you,” replied the Argentinean, with a passable attempt at gallantry. He walked across to where she stood and kissed her three times on the cheeks, once on the left, twice on the right. Then he reached for her hand to guide her to a chair next to his.
Colonel Ortega looked on approvingly. His daughter looked beautiful. Just as important, she appeared to be making an effort not to spoil things by giving everyone the benefit of her opinions.
Over dinner, served in the main dining room, with the shutters and windows thrust open to the evening, Luder gave a virtuoso performance.
He had been to New York and gone shopping at Tiffany’s. For Isabella’s mother, he bought a gold bracelet, studded with sapphires. Doña Vitoria was almost overcome with gratitude. “Felipe,” she began. “You shouldn’t have.” She held out her arm as the Argentinean deftly encircled her wrist with the heavy band and pressed the clasp ever so gently, yet firmly, until it clicked into place. “Look, Raoul,” she said, extending her arm at full stretch towards her husband. “Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you ever saw?” Colonel Ortega nodded and smiled. One day, he thought, he too would be able to buy gifts such as these.
Luder turned next to Isabella, who was watching him guardedly, fearful of what was coming. Twisting off his chair, he descended to one knee, grasping her right hand between both of his. It was like a scene from Rossini. “I have been away from your side for far too long,” he began. “It has been three years since our engagement was agreed, and during all that time I have barely seen you. For that, I ask your forgiveness.”
Still holding on to her right hand with his left, he reached into the pocket of his dinner jacket and withdrew a tiny box, inscribed with the name of New York’s most famous jeweller’s. Opening it with his thumb, he held it up so that she could see the ring inside. It was fashioned, she could tell, from the finest white gold, set with emeralds to match those in the bracelet he had just given to her mother. She could not deny it. It was a triumph of timing and taste.
He let go of her hand, which she did not dare withdraw, and extracted the ring, which he then held up, as if it were the Host at mass. “This ring,” he said, “is the symbol of the love I bear for you. I would be proud if you would wear it as a sign that we are betrothed and will one day be married in the sight of God.”
Doña Vitoria thought she would pass out with pleasure.
Luder slipped the ring onto the third finger of Isabella’s right hand, in the Spanish manner. It fitted exactly. “The stones match your eyes,” he said, “though they are, of course, not half so bewitching. If it needs adjusting …”
“No, it’s …”
“ – perfect,” said her mother.
“Quite,” said Isabella. She felt as if she was about to be sick.
The dinner dragged on like a penance. Throughout, Isabella could feel the unfamiliar pressure of the ring on her finger. It felt as if it were burning her skin. She kept twisting at it beneath the table. Luder, mindless of her discomfiture, clearly felt the evening was going splendidly and was happy to regale his audience with his adventures. In New York, he had met the mayor, Fiorello LaGuardia, and one of the city’s leading gangsters, Carlo Gambino. “Both small men,” he said, indicating with his hand that neither came up to his shoulders. “But like the city itself, bursting with energy.”
“Yes,” said the colonel, “but what if Churchill persuades the United States to join the war?”
Luder shook his head. “Don’t worry about that. Isolationism is the new American creed. They want only to be left alone to expand their industry. Everyone I met assured me that Roosevelt would never go to war with Germany. He and his advisers – and practically the whole of Congress – consider that it is up to the Old World to sort out its problems.”
He beamed at the colonel, for whom this latest piece of intelligence was intended as the best of good news. The he moved on to his main topic of the evening. America, it turned out, didn’t impress him nearly as much as the Reich. Berlin, he assured them, was awe-inspiring.
“It is the true city of the future. It puts poor Paris in the shade. There is not only wealth there but great culture. When you stand in the Führer’s study in the new Chancellery, you feel as if you are at the epicentre of the world.”
Colonel Ortega gasped. “You were in Hitler’s study?”
“Why, yes! Heydrich took me there. The Führer, I regret to say, was elsewhere at the time, but I could feel his aura. It was incredible. Like nothing else I have experienced.”
The colonel understood. He had felt the same thing when informed once by the minister that the seat on which he was sitting had once been occupied by Mussolini.
“We have so much to learn from the Führer,” Luder was saying – as I’m sure the Caudillo would be the first to agree.”
Luder, thought Isabella, was like a malign Medici. His conversation moved adroitly from banking, to property, to farming, to plans for the construction of a new opera house in Córdoba and a new presidential palace in Buenos Aires, then on to world domination. Her parents were transfixed. He brought to their world the sweep and dynamism of the frontier, combined with an international experience of which, as yet, they could only dream. He seemed to them the perfect amalgam of the virtues of Spain and Germany. To Luder, whatever was undesirable in life could be sloughed off, like the skin of a snake. Argentina would resolve its economic and political difficulties and assume its rightful place as the leading nation of Latin America. Spain, after the vicissitudes of recent years, would be restored to greatness at the head of a new world empire by the boldness and clear-headed vision of the Caudillo. There could be no turning back. Fascism had to be grasped with both hands. “I promise you,” he said, within two years, the New Order will be confirmed across our continent, from the Atlantic to the Urals. Bolshevism will be swept away, like the Moors, or the heresies of old, and the Jews, the eternal canker in our midst, will be cast out as Christ cast out the money lenders from the Temple. It will be glorious, and we, seated around this table, will be part of it.”
Isabella listened to all of this in silence, remembering what her father had said to her and her commitment to Bramall. She did not demur when the Argentinean raised his glass to the defeat of the “world Zionist conspiracy,” merely substituting, beneath her breath “Nazi” for “Zionist.” When the colonel praised the progress being made by the Spanish government in repressing every form of dissent, she said nothing, twisting and twisting at her new ring, wishing she could wrench it off and fling it into the street beyond.
The empty dinner plates were removed, and while they waited for the cheese to be brought Doña Vitoria attempted to raise the subject of the wedding. Luder, to Isabella’s surprise, did
not respond. He would, he announced, be ready to discuss such matters later in the week, when he was better rested after his journey. It was enough, apparently, that he was now formally engaged. Colonel Ortega, conscious of the fact that this could have been more delicately put, leaned across the table to his daughter. “Do not trouble yourself,” he said. “Felipe and I, together with your mother, will ensure that it is the best day of your life.”
“Thank you, father,” she said, smiling demurely, “I have every confidence in you.”
Ortega offered an embarrassed smile.
Later, as the colonel and Luder settled down to brandy and cigars, Isabella retreated with her mother to the courtyard, where it was still warm and the cicadas were in full voice. The sky was black and ablaze with stars.
“I have to say, darling,” Doña Vitoria announced, sipping from a glass of white wine she had brought with her from the table, “you made quite an impression this evening. I could see that your father was extremely pleased – and relieved. So, now that we are alone, tell me … what are you up to?”
“I don’t know what you mean, mother.”
“I think you do. That performance in there might have fooled your Papa. He is, after all, only a man. But I could see right through it.”
“Oh yes? And what did you see?”
“I saw a young woman biding her time, trying very hard not to offend anyone. And it made me wonder who was fooling whom, and to what end.”
Isabella felt a flush of alarm course through her. “You know very well, Mama, that I do not love Felipe and would never choose him for my husband. But I have to face facts, do I not? Isn’t that what you and papa are always telling me?”
“And what facts would those be, exactly.”