The Dancer and the Raja

by Javier Moro

  “Yes … if it’s for lunch, yes … as long as my mother and sister can come with me …” said Anita.

  The lunch took place in the dining room of the Hotel Paris, and the raja was as pleasant as could be. Anita had never been in such a “high-class” restaurant, as she said, and she liked the experience, more because of the rococo decoration and the attentiveness of the waiters than the food, because what she really liked was ham, potato omelette, and roast chicken. Everything else seemed insipid to her. The conversation was about the imminent wedding of the king of Spain. Anita looked at “her king” curiously, trying to imagine herself alone with that man who was so close to her and yet seemed so far away. He was quiet, deliberate, and proud without being distant. He was a perfect gentleman with dark skin and impeccable manners. He spoke six languages, had been all over the world, and rubbed shoulders with famous people everywhere. What’s this man doing falling in love with me? Anita wondered, sufficiently lucid to not really believe it. The interpreter interrupted her daydreaming, “His Highness tells me that if you would like to see the wedding procession, you can all come here tomorrow. He will not be here because he will be attending the ceremony at the Jerónimos church. You will be able to see it all perfectly from the balconies of his rooms.”

  It was time for coffee, and after Anita and her sister had said good-bye to go to their dancing class, the raja invited the interpreter and Doña Candelaria to move into a small private room to talk confidentially. It seems that Doña Candelaria’s eyes gleamed when she heard the raja speak about the “generous dowry” he was prepared to give them in exchange for Anita’s hand. A dowry that could well ensure peace of mind for the Delgado family ad vitam aeternam.

  “Your Highness, I can’t let you marry my daughter if she’s only going to end up in a harem, you know. I can’t do it, not for all the gold in the world …”

  “She won’t live in a harem, I can assure you. I have four wives and four grown-up children. I have married because it is the custom in my country, a custom that I cannot go against. I cannot divorce any of my four wives because it is my duty to make sure they lack for nothing for as long as they live. That is the tradition, and as sovereign of my people, I have to stick by it. But in fact I live alone, and if I want to marry your daughter it is to share my life with her. She will live in Western style in her own palace, with me. She can come back to Europe as often as she likes. I beg you to understand this, and I also beg you to explain it to Anita. If she accepts the situation, I will do everything in my power to make her happy.”

  Doña Candelaria left the Hotel Paris rather troubled. The certainty of the previous days had been rocked by the raja, who seemed like a well-bred man and spoke so sincerely. Now she was floundering in a sea of doubts, so she went into the Café de Levante. “All the money that Moorish king is offering for my Anita is quite a temptation,” she told Valle-Inclán. “But what about her honor?” she repeated. The Delgados had an obsession with honor, because that was all they had left. “What Anita should do is get married in Europe before she goes to India,” insisted Valle-Inclán, who had spent some time and effort investigating the raja. The results of his inquiries revealed that he was an extremely rich man, who ruled over the life and death of his subjects in a state in the north of India, and who had a reputation for being fair, compassionate, cultivated, a lover of progress, and “Westernized.” “It’s an opportunity Anita cannot afford to miss,” insisted the famous writer.

  The following day, May 31, the streets of Madrid were decked out in celebration: firecrackers, rockets, bells, laughter, shouts … The sun was shining brightly and the temperature was delightful. From the windows hung tapestries and decorations of flowers with coats of arms and good wishes for the king and the queen. When she went to the hotel with her parents, Anita felt as though all the people of Madrid knew each other personally, so intense was the common feeling of taking part in the same celebrations. Not only had the raja lent them his rooms so that they could watch the parade after the religious ceremony, but he had also ensured they would have as many sweets and cakes and as much coffee as they liked. “The ‘Moorish king’ is definitely a sensitive person,” said Doña Candelaria with a bun in her mouth.

  Anita watched the parade from the hotel balcony: horses with ceremonial harnesses, soldiers with showy uniforms, decorated carriages … It seemed as though the crowd trembled in anticipation. Heads were lifted to see better.

  “Here they come! Here they come!”

  To the sound of the “Royal March,” the carriage with the newlyweds came close to the corner of the Hotel Paris and the Puerta del Sol. The ringing of the bells mixed with the applause and shouts of good wishes. Women with white mantillas cheered from the balconies. From behind the windows of the carriage the king and queen waved and smiled happily. They were husband and wife now. A foreign princess had just become queen of Spain—and it was a love match. Could I be a princess on a foreign throne? Anita suddenly wondered. It was the first time that idea went through her head, and she reproached herself for it. But she loved the fervor of the crowds, that procession among a people that proclaimed its faith and love for a princess it hardly knew. How lovely it is to feel flattered and loved by so many people! thought the girl, giving free rein to her dreams, unable to hold them back. When the procession had gone into Calle Mayor, Anita went back into the suite, her eyes tired with so much sun. Inside, everything was calm and an air of opulence reigned. The sheen of the varnish of the furniture reflected her image like a mirror. The carpets were thick; the bar contained all kinds of drinks; the bathroom, with shelves full of bottles of cologne and lotions, was the most comfortable she had ever seen. Everything seduced her in those hotel rooms. It had been her first experience of luxury.

  But the experience did not last long. A terrific crash shook the windowpanes. “Oh my God!” shouted Doña Candelaria. When Anita went back out onto the balcony, she saw people running in all directions. A crowd of people were coming back down Mayor Street, pushing each other out of the way in their terror. Where barely a few seconds ago there was rejoicing and a festive atmosphere, now there was only panic and terror. Suddenly someone shouted, “They’ve thrown a bomb at the king and queen!”

  It had happened outside number 88, Calle Mayor, just before they got to the Royal Palace. Someone had leaned over the balcony just when the shell-shaped carriage in which the young couple were traveling passed by and had thrown a bunch of flowers. The bouquet hid a bomb. All the windows in the nearby buildings were shattered. On the ground, among injured horses kicking spasmodically and splashing everything with blood, there were twenty-three dead, most of them soldiers from the Wadras Regiment that was covering calle Mayor, and six civilians, among whom was the marchioness of Tolosa. Among the hundred or so injured, some twenty royal guards and grooms were left blinded for life. An electric cable that was almost invisible had saved the life of the king and queen. As it fell, the bouquet had struck the cable and been turned aside from its path. The newspapers the next day would describe the heroic actions of the monarch, who did not lose his cool and helped his pale wife, with her dress stained with blood, to move immediately to another carriage.

  A few days later, the same newspapers published a photo of the perpetrator of the attack. He had committed suicide after killing a policeman who was about to arrest him in the outskirts of Madrid. Valle-Inclán and Baroja immediately identified the body of Mateo Morral, the taciturn Catalan who had just started coming to their meetings. The day before they had all been together at the Candelas refreshment stall, where Morral had had an argument with another regular, the painter Leandro Oroz: “Bah, bah! Those anarchists! As soon as they have a couple of euros in their pockets they stop being anarchists,” Oroz had said. The man who almost never spoke had stopped him furiously in his tracks: “Well, for your information I have more than a couple of euros and I am an anarchist.” It came out in the press that he was the son of a textile business
man who had forbidden him to go into the family factory because he incited the workers to demonstrate against the interests of his own father. They were so upset by what had happened that Valle-Inclán and Baroja went to see Mateo Morral’s body in the crypt at the Buen Suceso Hospital. They were not allowed in, but Ricardo, Don Pio’s brother, was and he made an etching of the anarchist. That night, in the Kursaal, he showed the drawing to Anita. “My God!” she said, widening her eyes in an expression of horror. She remembered him perfectly well, sitting in a corner and watching the show but engrossed in his own thoughts. That customer, who seemed a good friend to his friends, had turned a day of joy into a massacre, into a bed of pain and sadness. The wedding celebrations were canceled. Her prince of the Orient went away that same night. The dream seemed to be over. The attack brought the people of Madrid back to the reality of their daily lives.

  7

  “Morning tea!” At six o’clock in the morning a waiter opens the door of the suite and places a tray with cups and a teapot on a side table. Anita thinks it is breakfast, but a sleepy Mme Dijon explains to her that this is a British custom that is very widespread in India. First morning tea; then a full breakfast, later, in the restaurant.

  Tea! The first time Anita tried it she thought it was a horrible drink and almost spat it out. “It tastes of ashes!” she exclaimed. That was in Paris, in the raja’s flat, during her apprenticeship to learn the ways of the world. Now she can appreciate it, with a drop of milk and a cube of sugar, like a well-brought-up young lady. The tea calms her down, comforts her, and helps her to put her thoughts in order. How can she have doubted the prince’s feelings so much during her night of sleeplessness? she wonders now. How can she have dared to think he took advantage of her, when he has offered her so many signs of love? Just her presence in the hotel that is like a palace—is that not sufficient proof of his love? Anita gazes at the sun rising on the horizon over the Arabian Sea. The soft, orange light glows warmly on the boats on the roadstead, the sails of the kolis’ boats and the buildings that line the promenade. A light breeze accompanies the first rays of the sun that flood into the Imperial Suite. How different it all looks in daylight! It is as though the monsters of the night had vanished with the arrival of dawn. Nothing is so black, and the heat is less dense and overwhelming. Her nightmares fade like shadows on the wall. Her fear also loses its intensity, as though the light had the power to neutralize it. I’m going to be a mother … and a queen! Anita says to herself now, lulled by the wave that carried her from despair to euphoria. It is exhausting to feel at her wits’ end one moment and full of hope the next. She, who thought she would never hear from her prince of the Orient again after the terrorist attack, now finds herself in his country, in his world and in his hands. And with his child inside her, as Dr. Willoughby gaily and happily comes to confirm for her midmorning. The results of the tests are conclusive. There is no doubt whatsoever: the baby will be born in April.

  “Mrs. Delgado, have a good journey on to Kapurthala. Take care, the jolting of the train is not the best thing in your condition. Try to rest as much as you can when you arrive.”

  When the raja and other members of the foreign delegations left Madrid after the attack, Anita thought that was the end of the story. But His Highness Jagatjit Singh of Kapurthala could not live without the curtain-raiser girl. He could not live, or sleep, or exist without her. Any rational attempt to explain his feelings came up against the fire of his passion. The unfathomable mystery of love had made the impossible real: a French-speaking and Frenchified Indian prince, both extremely rich and good-looking, had fallen in love with a Spanish girl with no breeding or pedigree, eighteen years younger than him and who could barely read or write. The few words they had exchanged had been through an interpreter. They could not even understand each other, but love knows nothing of languages. Even more, perhaps not understanding each other had increased the prince’s passion, adding mystery to it and exacerbating his desire.

  The fact is that, a few days after his departure, the bell rang again in the tiny Delgado flat. When Anita opened the door, she found herself face-to-face with Captain Inder Singh, dressed in a blue-and-silver uniform and wearing a yellow turban. He was radiant. He looked more like a prince than the emissary of the raja, and his formidable appearance contrasted with the girl’s dressing gown and disheveled appearance in the tiny kitchen in the flat. The captain had brought a letter, in which the raja made a serious marriage proposal, specifying the amount of the dowry he was prepared to offer: a hundred thousand francs. A fortune. If she accepted, Captain Singh would take her to Paris to arrange the wedding. “Once again I rejected his demands, because it seemed like I was up for sale,” Anita would say later. But the fact is that, after that day, her life was no longer what it had been. The astronomical amount proposed by the “Moorish king,” his insistence and the love letters the postman brought with amazing regularity galvanized the friends at the café even more. “He’s really in love,” said Romero de Torres. “And for Anita this is the chance of a lifetime. It would be a pity to miss it … The atmosphere of the café concert will spoil her in the end.” At the Nuevo Café de Levante and at the table in the Kursaal, a conspiracy was hatched to encourage the marriage. The only one who was not in agreement was Anselmo Nieto, but he could do little given the enthusiasm of the others. What could he offer the beautiful Anita? A poor painter with neither name nor fortune. His unconditional love, in other words, did not amount too much in the balance compared to what the raja could give her.

  The group believed in the Indian prince’s sincerity. Valle-Inclán allowed himself to dream aloud, “We marry a Spanish girl to an Indian raja, they go off to India; there, at Anita’s instigation, the raja sets off an uprising against the English, liberates India, and we get revenge on England for stealing Gibraltar from us.” And he concluded mockingly, “For us, getting Anita to marry him is a matter of patriotism.”

  Don Angel, her father, was the toughest nut to crack. He stood vehemently against the specter of the prince’s opulence and could not see how to win the battle, especially because his wife and all those around them had already taken sides. Doña Candelaria said she was just like any other mother, whose only desire was to marry her daughters well. What marriage could be better than this? Yes, the girl was very young, and her suitor was “very foreign” and eighteen years older, but he had a good reputation. He was a better option than that two-a-penny painter who was buzzing round her daughter like a fly.

  “Do you prefer your daughter to end up with that penniless painter …? The people at the café are right, the theater atmosphere is going to ruin her …”

  “He isn’t as broke as he seems … His parents have a confectioner’s in Valladolid.”

  “A confectioner’s!” exclaimed Doña Candelaria disdainfully, shrugging her shoulders, as though she had heard the most stupid thing in the world.

  To further press her point of view, in her arsenal of arguments, Doña Candelaria made use of the most forceful of all. Did her husband understand what that dowry meant? she wondered. She reminded him that it meant leaving poverty behind forever. It meant having a flat of their own, with servants. And even a horse-drawn carriage. It meant eating meat every day, going to the theater, traveling to Málaga, dining out in restaurants, joining a club, consulting the best doctors if necessary … Pray to God it wouldn’t be! It meant living comfortably, as was right for a Delgado de los Cobos. “And don’t forget your third surname is Quirós,” Doña Candelaria reminded him. It was the name of an old family of time-honored lineage that Don Angel mentioned every time he felt humiliated by destiny. “After God, the house of Quirós,” he liked to say, alluding to the coat of arms of his third surname, of which he felt very proud.

  Poor Don Angel could do little against a sequence of events that was more than he could handle. At the Kursaal, which had become their center of operations and diplomatic offices, the regulars tried to placate the fear
s that were plaguing him. They explained to him, and to his wife, that all Anita had to do was keep up her religion, never convert, and get married in Europe, even if it was only a civil wedding. In that way her independence would be guaranteed, and she could always come back if life with the raja became too difficult, which none of them thought could happen.

  Doña Candelaria took charge of convincing Anita to answer the raja with a serious letter, a letter in which she would state she was prepared to travel to Paris, as long as her family went with her. She did not talk about marriage, or engagement, because Anita was not mentally prepared for that, but she left the door open to the raja’s aspirations. The problem was that Anita could hardly write and Doña Candelaria was a functional illiterate, like most Spanish women of her time. “My deer King …” the letter began, “I hoap you are as well as can be ecspected … I am well, thank god … You must no …” Anita gave the letter to Leandro Oroz, the painter, who rushed off to the Café de Levante to show it to his writer friends. “This letter can’t go like this! It will spoil it all …” said Valle-Inclán very seriously, then adding, “Let’s write a proper note, to make things clear to the raja.” They settled down to work and then the painter Leandro Oroz, who was half-French, translated it, and they signed it without worrying about the false signature: “Anita Delgado, the Camellia.” The letter, which now looked like a fragment picked out of an anthology of love poems, also had a practical side that tied up all the loose ends. Anita was very grateful for the dowry and agreed to be his wife and the queen of his people, as long as he agreed to certain of her demands: to get married in Europe in the presence of her parents, before the religious ceremony in that fabulous country far away; to travel to Paris with her family; to live in a house that was not the raja’s residence until the civil wedding; and to have the company of a Spanish maid. In this way, her “honor” would be safe. “If he agrees to all this, it will show he really loves her,” they said. Valle-Inclán wanted to add another condition: he asked for a decoration from the raja for himself and the other five regulars “because, when all’s said and done, we are going to be the architects of his happiness and of the people of Kapurthala.” But the others were against it, “in case the letter looks like a joke.”