Encarnita's Journey

by Joan Lingard

  The day before he was due Pilar advised Maria to clean up the house. It was in a dreadful state. The place stank and there were fleas everywhere. Since being in sole control Maria had moved in a whole colony of animals, goats, sheep, rabbits, hens, and even a cow and a donkey. She herself was no cleaner than the house. Her black skirt and bodice had a greenish sheen from dirt and wear. She looked demented. A lawsuit concerning her sister’s will – or lack of it – was obsessing her. Her sister had died intestate without a direct heir, her only son having predeceased her. According to Maria, her sister had gifted her property, worth not much more than thirty pesetas, to her on her deathbed, just as Don Fernando had. People conceded that the first claim might be true, but not the second. Doña Clara, Don Fernando’s widow, was, without question, her husband’s inheritor.

  ‘Always try to keep yourself neat and clean, Encarnita,’ Pilar said to her daughter after she’d drawn her attention to the state of Maria’s clothing. ‘If you want to travel to faraway places you must look and smell nice or people will not want to know you.’

  Encarnita, now nine years old, dreamed of distant lands. She spun the globe in the schoolroom and repeated the names of the countries to herself. In her mind she travelled to them, scaling their mountains, sailing down their rivers. She was a fluent reader, the best in the school, said the teacher, who gave her whatever books and periodicals she had. Encarnita read the weekly Granada paper to her mother, whose own reading had not progressed as far. She listened carefully, too, to the stories of the shopkeeper, José Venegas, who had spent five years travelling around South America, trading with Indians. His stories, full of danger and adventure, were more amazing than anything to be found in the Granada paper. What also surprised Encarnita was that José himself did not seem a very interesting or daring man. She had thought that anyone who had travelled as he had would be both. He recounted his stories in a deadpan voice as if he were describing walking down the street in Yegen on a dull day.

  She told her schoolfriend about José’s travels in countries like Brazil and Peru but Luisa was not interested. She said the people there were savages.

  ‘They live in the jungle and go about with nothing on. That’s why the missionaries collect money to buy them clothes.’

  ‘They don’t all live in the jungle. Mama’s friend Federico has been to Argentina and he says it’s a wonderful place, with hot water and fine houses. He says we’re like savages beside them.’

  Unlike Encarnita, Luisa had no wish to travel. She hated the idea of crossing the sea, not that she had ever seen it, except in the distance. But to cross water!

  ‘You don’t want to stay in Yegen all your life, do you?’ asked Encarnita.

  ‘I might go to Motril.’

  ‘I shall go further than that,’ declared Encarnita.

  Her head, then, was filled with thoughts of foreign lands when Don Geraldo did finally arrive back in Yegen. He was not amused by the menagerie on the ground floor of his house and the buzzing of the flies, nor by Maria’s demands for rent.

  ‘You want me to give you money for the house?’

  ‘I am your landlord now.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ he retorted and after making some remarks about being expected to live in a stinking pit, he stormed out and went for a walk up the hill, where he came across Encarnita grazing her goat. She had tied Gabriella to a stake and was reading Don Quixote, a shortened version, for children.

  ‘It is Encarnita, isn’t it? You’ve grown! Well, of course you would, wouldn’t you? And this is the angelic Gabriella?’ He dropped down onto the ground beside her. ‘So what is it you’re reading? Quixote! You must be a good reader. Not many in Yegen are. When I’m next in Granada I’ll look for some books for you.’

  She thanked him shyly, amazed that he would do this for her, then with a little rush of confidence she added, ‘I wish I could read your books. I wish I could speak your language.’ She blushed, worried that she had said too much.

  ‘Why do you?’

  ‘I want to go to England one day. I want to go on a journey.’

  ‘Ah, yes, a journey.’ He smiled.

  ‘You go on many.’

  ‘I love travelling. I always feel excited when I set out on a journey.’

  Encarnita knew that she would, too. ‘Where do you go?’

  ‘France, Greece, Morocco…’

  ‘Tell me about them, please!’

  While the midday sun beat down on them and Gabriella grazed Don Geraldo talked to Encarnita about his travels to exotic places.

  ‘And England?’

  ‘It’s green, much greener than Andalucía, and the mountains are not so high nor the weather so fierce in winter or so hot and scorching in summer. It’s a much more moderate place, tamer. Less wild, less extreme.’

  ‘Which do you like best? England or Yegen?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. But, Encarnita, look at what’s around you! Why would anyone want to go anywhere else? Look at the space! And the sierras! Aren’t they magnificent? Feel how still the air is. You’ll never see anywhere in the world more beautiful than this. But you don’t believe me, do you? Of course you don’t! You want to see for yourself. That is why we travel.’

  She had known that he would understand.

  ‘Why don’t I teach you some English?’ he said.

  They began that afternoon and when she ran down the hill afterwards, tugging Gabriella behind her, she went straightaway to find her mother, who was sitting in Don Geraldo’s kitchen with Maria and her daughter Angela. Angela had turned seventeen and was a pretty looking girl.

  ‘Don Geraldo is teaching me English,’ Encarnita announced, breathless. She was able to say “tree, flower, goat, clouds”, as well as, rather hesitantly, “My name is Encarnita and I am nine years old”.’

  Her mother was impressed, Maria less so. She was too consumed by her own affairs to be interested in anyone else’s. She had two on her mind: her sister’s will, and the making of a marriage for her daughter. She made it no secret that she wanted Don Geraldo to marry Angela. He was in search of a wife, she said that was obvious, the way he was casting his eyes around the girls, though Pilar pointed out that might not mean he wished to marry any of them. But Maria felt sure that he would. He was thirty-six years old after all, no longer a young man. She had enlisted the support of Doña Clara, who had become fond of her stepdaughter Angela, the only surviving offspring of her late husband.

  ‘Doña Clara has offered to make over all Don Fernando’s property in Yegen, the house and his cattle ranch, to Don Geraldo, if he marries Angela,’ announced Maria and sat back to to enjoy the others’ astonishment.

  For some time Angela had been saying her prayers in front of an image of San Geraldo, which a papal missionary had procured for her from nuns in Granada. She was a religious girl and never missed Mass on Sundays.

  ‘Not only that,’ Maria went on, ‘when Doña Clara dies, she will leave him all her property in Granada. You will be a rich woman, Angela, and live the life of a real lady. You’ll be Doña Angela! And when you are you must not forget your poor mother who has slaved all these years to bring you up.’

  ‘But will he agree?’ asked Pilar.

  ‘Why would anyone refuse such an offer? He’s always saying he’s short of money. She is a rich woman, Doña Clara, richer than Don Fernando ever was.’

  ‘He won’t marry Angela,’ predicted Pilar on their way home.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Encarnita.

  ‘Who would want Maria for a mother-in-law? She’s becoming more loca by the day.’

  Encarnita could see that for herself. Nevertheless, she was intrigued by the idea of Don Geraldo marrying Angela. She did not think Angela worthy of him but, on the other hand, if he did marry her that would keep him in the village.

  Encarnita returned to the same place on the hill next day with Gabriella and read Don Quixote until he came.

  ‘Do you remember what I taught you yesterday?’

  They had ano
ther English lesson and he told her she was a good pupil, which made her blush with pride.

  Glancing down, she saw Juliana on the path below. The older girl did not keep company with her as much as she used to; she had other companions. The boys in the village liked her and ran after her, hoping for her favours. She spied Encarnita with Don Geraldo and waved. ‘Hola!’ she called up and came to join them.

  Juliana had become a young woman since Don Geraldo had last seen her. At fifteen, she was not tall but well developed, with rounded breasts and a softer, clearer skin than was usually seen in these parts. But it was her eyes that attracted attention most of all; large and expressive, they were at varying times and in different situations wide-open, at others half-closed, which was when she looked at her most sensual. Her eyes invited men, said Pilar; she knew how to draw them in, like when a cat stares down a bird, paralysing it.

  Don Geraldo stood up when Juliana reached them.

  ‘Hola!’ she said again, smiling directly at him. Her eyes looked slanted now. ‘Do you remember me, Don Geraldo? Juliana.’

  ‘Juliana,’ he repeated. He was staring at her as if he would like to eat her, Encarnita told her mother later, and Pilar said that she did not doubt it.

  Shortly afterwards, Don Geraldo engaged Juliana to work as a maid in his house, having first paid a small sum to her mother to keep her happy. Juliana moved in and shared a bed with Angela. Maria, as was to be expected, was in a fury.

  ‘She’s a lazy bitch! She trails a cloth across the table as if she’s in a dream and she calls that cleaning! And she eats! You should see how she eats. You can’t leave anything lying but she’ll have it in her mouth in a flash. She’ll be fat before she’s forty.’

  Don Geraldo decided it was time to give a dance again and told Maria to invite all the young girls. Antonia, Paca, Carmen, Dolores and Lolita came and he flirted with them in turn but his gaze came to rest more often on Juliana than any other girl. She flirted, too, with the young men, and danced. Encarnita could not take her eyes off them. They were playing a game, said Pilar.

  For the next move, Don Geraldo began to teach Juliana to read and write. Encarnita felt a pang of jealousy when she heard. He had less time for her now; their English lessons had lapsed though he did give her a book of fairy tales written in English which she puzzled over, understanding words here and there. Juliana told her that they sat side by side in the granero, she and Don Geraldo. He had made it into a cosy sitting room. Don Geraldo said that she was making good progress. He had brought her some nice stories to read, love stories.

  ‘He wants me to be his novia.’

  ‘Has he asked you?’

  ‘He wouldn’t ask, Encarnita, not like that. It is something that I just know, by the way he looks at me. When you’re older you’ll understand.’

  ‘So, are you going to be his novia?’

  A little smile curved around Juliana’s lips. ‘We shall see, won’t we? I haven’t let him kiss me yet.’

  Maria, who had been growing steadily more annoyed, sacked her. Don Geraldo immediately reinstated her. The rows went on and Maria’s voice could be heard out in the street. When her screeching built to too high a pitch Juliana dropped her bucket and cloth and went for a walk.

  She found Encarnita on the hill. ‘Shall I tell you a secret, Encarnita? Last night I let him kiss me!’

  ‘And was it nice? Did you like it?’

  ‘Yes, I liked it,’ said Juliana and she laughed. ‘And so did he! He didn’t want to let me go, but I told him that he must.’ So was Juliana now his novia? Not quite, she said. But soon, perhaps. ‘He is panting after me like a dog. That is good. If he waits a little longer he will want me even more. It is good to be fifteen, Encarnita. Wait until you are! Do you know that copla?’ She began to sing:

  From fifteen to twenty a girl is like a rosebud;

  at twenty-five, a rose;

  at thirty, a scarlet poppy;

  at forty, a withering flower;

  at fifty, an artichoke gone to seed.

  ‘Don Geraldo likes rosebuds!’ Juliana went off down the hill laughing. ‘Most men do.’

  It was not long before Maria sacked her again, declaring that she refused to have such a lazy useless bitch in her kitchen. ‘That’s what you are – a bitch on heat!’

  So Juliana, still smiling, walked out again.

  The situation would have to be resolved, said Pilar.

  Don Geraldo paid Maria what was rumoured to be a considerable sum of money to move Angela out of Juliana’s bed. He then told her to vacate the house at night-time and when she dilly-dallied he threatened to shoot her. Finally, in mid-September, Juliana joined Don Geraldo in bed. It was not a secret in the village. How could it be? Englishmen were reputed to be wonderful lovers and Juliana was known to be highly sexed so the verdict was that the union must be a great success. For the next eight months Juliana would not be seen out and about in the village as much as before nor did Don Geraldo go for his usual long walks in the hills. Maria said they didn’t get up until all hours of the morning and then they had breakfast together, taking their time and cooing at each other like a couple of idiots, and after that he would sit on the roof reading while she would sing and flit about.

  ‘I think he is in love with her,’ said Encarnita.

  Maria humphed. ‘We shall see.’

  At the end of September, Don Geraldo’s friend Señor Partridge returned, bringing a different woman with him. Señorita Marshall was younger and prettier than his painter-wife whose drawing Encarnita looked at every morning. Don Geraldo took Juliana on an expedition down to the sea with the visitors. This surprised the villagers, who wondered if they would ever understand the ways of foreigners. They did not find it odd that a man of his standing would have a girl like Juliana in his bed but it was a different matter to take her out with his friends from England. Juliana told Encarnita that she had shared a bathing hut with the señorita, whose first name was Frances.

  ‘I saw her naked. Her body is very white. I saw her look at mine.’ Juliana smiled.

  ‘Were they nice to you, Señor Perdiz and his woman?’

  ‘Of course! Why wouldn’t they be? I am Don Geraldo’s novia. I have lovely times with him, Encarnita. In the evening he plays his gramophone and I make him dance with me. And we drink the most delicious sweet green liqueur you could ever imagine.’ The tip of Juliana’s plump pink tongue ran round her top lip as if she were still savouring it.

  ‘Will he marry you?’

  Juliana smiled. ‘Who knows? But I think I would like to have his baby.’

  Encarnita went home to relate the conversation to Pilar, who said that if Juliana were to have a child with Don Geraldo he would have to support her even if he didn’t marry her. ‘People say she is easy-going but her head works. Well, who am I to say that is bad? We all have to do as best we can in this life. No one will give us anything for nothing.’

  Another day, meeting Juliana coming out of the shop, Encarnita asked her if she had drunk that sweet green liquid again.

  ‘Come in and I’ll show it to you. I might even let you taste it. Geraldo has gone to Úgijar to collect his mail. He wouldn’t mind, anyway. He likes you. He says you are a clever girl and he likes clever people.’ Juliana giggled. ‘I wonder why he is so fond of me!’

  She led Encarnita through the kitchen where Maria was banging pots about. She scowled at the girls and said to Encarnita, ‘Your mother shouldn’t let you be a friend of this bitch!’ Juliana stuck her tongue out at her and with a waggle of her hips proceeded up the stairs. Encarnita followed close on her heels. They went into the granero. There were books everywhere, on chairs, in shelves, on the floor, whilst, in the corner, sat a gramophone with a big brass horn. Encarnita went at once to the bookshelves and ran her fingers over the spines.

  ‘You’d better not dirty any of them,’ said Juliana.

  Encarnita wiped her hands on the back of her skirt.

  Juliana took two little glasses from a she
lf, poured some green liquid into each of them and handed one to Encarnita.

  ‘Hold it up to the light,’ said Juliana. ‘That is what Don Geraldo tells me to do.’

  Encarnita held it up and thought the glowing green colour was beautiful, too beautiful almost to drink.

  ‘Drink!’ commanded Juliana.

  Cautiously Encarnita put the glass to her lips and sipped. A tiny drop slid down her throat like a small pearl, and then another. It felt thick and sweet and unlike anything she had tasted before.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked Juliana.

  Encarnita nodded. If Juliana and Don Geraldo liked it, then so would she. She finished the glass and Juliana poured them each another. After three glasses they were both giggling.

  ‘Will he be cross?’ asked Encarnita.

  ‘I don’t care if he is,’ said Juliana. ‘Sometimes we quarrel but then we make up afterwards. Making up is wonderful.’ She smiled one of her slow, lazy smiles and yawned. ‘I think I’ll go to bed before he comes back.’

  Encarnita scurried round the back of Maria on her way out. Maria yelled after her, ‘She’s bad for you, that one! You don’t want to end up a whore like her!’

  Outside in the street, Encarnita felt as if her head was spinning like a top. She staggered down the village into the campo and collapsed. Everything in front of her eyes was shimmering, rocks, trees, the distant sierras, the thin blue line of the sea. She felt as if she could take off like a great winged bird and float on a current of air down to the Mediterranean Sea. She stayed until the mist in her head began to clear and the world settled itself on its axis. When she went home she did not tell her mother about the green liquid.

  Maria continued to be a nuisance to Don Geraldo and to vent her jealous rage on Juliana, annoying him so much that one day he ended up hurling a tortilla, along with its plate, out of the window. Finally, he sacked her and everyone wondered why he had waited so long. She took her dismissal calmly at first but by the time she was ready to go she had worked herself into a new state of fury. Once back in her own house she stuck her head out of the window and yelled obscenities about her former employer and his whore.