The Japanese Screen

by Anne Mather

  The old woman was watching her closely, there was no mistake about that, and with an awful sense of foreboding Susannah wondered whether she had intercepted that momentary lapse on Fernando’s part. Or was she imagining things? Never on any occasion since she came to the Casa d’Alvarez had Fernando given her reason to suppose that the feelings he had expressed for her in England still existed. And just because, for one fleeting moment, she had sensed a certain softening in him, brought on no doubt by his genuine affection for his daughter, she should not pretend that he was drawn to her.

  Monica’s appearance provided a welcome distraction. In her orange chiffon gown, generously splashed with sequins, she was as gaudily plumed as a parrot among blackbirds. She seemed totally uncaring of Amalia d’Alvarez’ disdainful stare, however, and of the way the old woman drew her skirts about her as though to avoid contamination. She came confidently into the room smoking one of her long American cigarettes without which she was seldom seen, and said: ‘Pour me a brandy and soda, will you, Fernando? I’m parched.’

  Fernando gave a slight nod of acquiescence and Monica looked round at the three female members of the group. Her eyes alighted on Marla in her cotton dress and she smiled.

  ‘Darling! How pretty you look!’, she declared warmly. ‘Isn’t that the dress I bought you?’

  Marla nodded. ‘Yes, Mama.’

  Monica went towards her daughter and walked all round her, finally tugging at the single braid Marla always wore. ‘If it wasn’t for this,’ she remarked, ‘you’d look almost American, wouldn’t she, Miss King?’ And her gaze flicked up to Susannah.

  Susannah herself had been quite content to remain in the background. She had no desire for Monica to stage a repeat performance of her luncheon tactics when she had used Susannah to say things she could otherwise not have said.

  But now she moved her shoulders in a casual gesture of indifference. ‘I expect it’s cooler for Marla to wear her hair in a plait,’ she said cautiously.

  Monica made a grimace. ‘Maybe so. But hell, once in a while it would be nice to see it blowing free.’ She turned away as though bored with the conversation and found her husband behind her with her brandy and soda.

  She took the glass without thanks and swallowed half its contents at a gulp, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Fernando’s expression remained impassive as he went to inquire whether his aunt required another drink and then, when she refused, he took up a position next to Marla.

  Monica finished her drink and waved her glass for another. ‘Isn’t this nice?’ she observed dryly, as Fernando moved to get her the second drink. ‘Everyone’s having a wonderful time!’

  Fernando came back with the full glass. ‘I should not advise you to drink too many of those before dinner, Monica,’ he commented quietly. ‘You don’t want to—be ill, do you?’

  The words, though spoken in a low tone, were distinctly audible in the quiet room, and Susannah thought they held a meaningful warning. But Monica merely gave her husband a scornful smile and said:

  ‘I can hold my liquor, Fernando. I don’t need anyone to watch out for me. Least of all you!’ She deliberately raised the glass and drank half its contents, her eyes holding his all the while. ‘You see? It’s too late for you to make any effort to change things now.’

  Susannah half turned away, staring blindly out across the patio. She was wishing herself anywhere but here, when Monica again chose to drag her into the conversation.

  ‘Tell me what you used to do for entertainment in London, Miss King,’ she demanded, cradling her glass between her fingers. ‘I expect you had lots of boy-friends, didn’t you—’

  ‘I do not think Señorita King’s affairs are anything to do with you, Monica,’ snapped Fernando before Susannah could say anything.

  ‘Oh, take no notice of my stuffy husband,’ drawled Monica, dismissing his protest with a wave of her hand. ‘He may not be interested, but I am. I’d like to know how the average girl-about-town survives these days.’

  ‘I’d hardly call myself the average girl-about-town,’ replied Susannah awkwardly.

  ‘Why? Didn’t you like going out?’

  Susannah sighed. ‘Well—yes. But I liked staying in, too.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re really talking to the wrong person. I was a terrible bore, I’m afraid.’

  Monica raised her narrow plucked eyebrows. ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ she commented, surveying the other girl critically.

  ‘Monica, must we persist with this ridiculous discussion?’ Fernando’s mouth was drawn into a thin line. ‘You are embarrassing Señorita King. Can you not see that?’

  Monica shrugged, ‘Why? I haven’t asked for any intimate details, have I?’ She turned back to Susannah. ‘Am I embarrassing you, honey?’

  Susannah looked uncomfortably towards Marla. ‘I—I suppose not.’

  ‘There you are!’ Monica cast a mocking glance at her husband. ‘You see, English girls are not like your subdued Spanish women. They’re not afraid of leaving their families, getting flats of their own, training for careers! They enjoy their independence. Just as I want Marla to do.’

  ‘We will leave Marla out of this,’ stated Fernando ominously, but Monica ignored him.

  ‘You’d like the chance to go to university in England, wouldn’t you, darling?’ she asked her daughter, touching her shoulder affectionately. ‘You don’t really enjoy sitting listening to Tia Amalia’s monotonous tales of when she was a girl, do you?’

  ‘That is enough, Monica!’ Fernando sounded coldly furious. ‘If you refuse to behave with respect for your elders, I suggest you take dinner in your room!’

  Monica’s eyes widened. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’ she demanded shrilly. ‘Just because the peasants around here treat you like God, don’t expect me to worship at the shrine!’

  ‘No haga un escandalo, Monica,’ he ground out savagely, but she merely laughed.

  ‘Speak English, darling. Don’t you want Miss King to understand the charming things you say to me when we are alone together?’

  Susannah didn’t know where to look, and it was with immense relief that she saw the maid, Maria, appear in the doorway to announce that dinner was served.

  The meal, a cold soup called gazpacho, tortillas filled with a tempting mixture of mushrooms and ham, and chicken spread on a bed of fried rice, was delicious, but Susannah could not do justice to it. She had eaten rather sparingly ever since she came to live in Fernando’s house, but at least she had been alone, in the quiet of her room, and able to relax away from prying eyes. But here, conscious of the intense atmosphere, aware of the undercurrents flowing about her, she found it impossible to do more than pick at her food, and she was glad when the dessert stage was reached and she could take her time peeling a peach.

  Coffee was served in the salón, and Susannah drank hers quickly, almost burning her mouth, and then asked to be excused. Monica raised her eyebrows again at this request, and said:

  ‘Must you rush away, Miss King? I was hoping we might continue our conversation about London. I know it well, and I’m sure we could find a lot to talk about.’

  ‘I—I’m really rather tired—’ began Susannah, shaking her head apologetically.

  ‘Surely not.’ Monica was mocking. ‘I think you’re afraid, Miss King. Afraid that my husband and I may embarrass you again—’

  ‘Sagrada Madre, Monica, can’t you leave the girl alone?’ exclaimed Fernando savagely. ‘Let her go to bed if she wants to do so.’

  ‘Really, I—I am tired,’ stammered Susannah uncomfortably, but Monica wouldn’t let it go.

  ‘My husband doesn’t understand that I find the conversation of himself and his aunt boring in the extreme!’ she declared spitefully, ‘and you’re my only hope of salvation from an extremely boring evening!’

  Susannah caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Please—excuse me,’ she insisted, and Monica pressed out her half-smoked cigarette with an exclamation of annoyance.r />
  ‘What’s the point of bringing someone fresh into this ghastly household if that someone refuses to mix with us socially?’ she asked, of no one in particular. ‘God! Am I not sick of this place!’

  Susannah moved towards the door, but Monica saw her and directed her malice towards her now.

  ‘Yes, go!’ she sneered. ‘Close your ears to our little contretemps. Refuse to face facts like everyone else in this room!’

  Fernando, who had been standing before the wide hearth, now took a step forward, his fists clenched in the pockets of his jacket.

  ‘Susannah has said she is tired, Monica!’ he stated grimly. ‘Is that not enough for you?’

  Monica’s lips parted and Susannah saw the mocking glint that entered her eyes. ‘Oh!’ she taunted. ‘So it’s Susannah, is it? That’s her name.’ She gave Susannah a speculative look. ‘And how long have you been thinking of her as Susannah, darling?’

  Susannah waited to hear no more. She had had enough. Let Fernando find whatever answer suited him best. She didn’t want to know about it.

  She walked quickly along the corridor to the staircase that led up to her room and ran upstairs on urgent feet. Only when the door of her room had closed behind her did she begin to feel the sickness that engulfed her stomach. With a groan, she went into her bathroom, retching long after it was necessary to do so.

  She felt weak when it was over and her body was moist with sweat. She struggled out of her clothes and took a cooling shower, and then pulled on a navy silk wrapper and cleaned her teeth. When she returned to the bedroom she didn’t bother to draw the curtains but switched out her light and stretched on the bed.

  It was very dark outside, the only illumination coming from the lamps hung around the courtyard below. She lay listening to the sounds of the insects almost without being aware of doing so. There was the interminable scraping of the cicadas in the gardens beyond the cypress trees, there was the faint droning of mosquitoes as they danced with death around the lamps below the balcony, and occasionally the soft swish of wings as a huge moth flung itself against the panes of her window. She would have to get up to close the shutters, but not yet, she hadn’t the strength.

  What a terrible day it had been! The worst day she could ever remember, except perhaps the day Fernando had left her to return to Spain. But at least then there had been hope—now there was none.

  Why on earth had Fernando married a woman like Monica? Had he loved her all those years ago—a love that had been killed by her unfaithfulness? It seemed the only answer. And yet it was difficult to imagine someone as fastidious as Fernando choosing a woman who shared no respect for his beliefs. Or had he been different then? He had said that week-end at the cottage that his father had despaired of him. Was that what he had meant? Had he been a reckless young man, uncaring of the principles he now lived by?

  Susannah heaved a sigh. It didn’t really matter why he had married Monica; they were married and that was that. The sooner she accepted the fact and left the Casa d’Alvarez the better. Marla might miss her for a few days, but she would return to lessons at the convent and Susannah would soon be forgotten.

  Exhaustion took its toll on her and eventually she slept, but she came awake with a start to the shadowy darkness of her room with the distinct impression that some sound had wakened her. Blinking, she sat up, and as she did so she saw a shadow move near the fitted wardrobe at the far side of the room. A cry was stifled in the throat as the figure realized he had been seen and stepped into a shaft of moonlight.

  ‘Fernando!’ she breathed in amazement. ‘What are you doing here?’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FERNANDO moved towards the bed. He had shed the dinner jacket he had been wearing earlier that evening, and had turned back the cuffs of his frilled dinner shirt. The shirt was open at the neck, and from the disordered state of his hair she thought he had spent some time raking his fingers through it. But it was his expression which even in the moonlight tore at her heart. He looked so strained, so weary, and his eyes held a tortured anguish.

  ‘I am sorry if I woke you, Susannah,’ he said, in a low tone. ‘I did not intend to do so.’

  ‘But what are you doing in my room, Fernando?’ she asked, swallowing convulsively.

  He shook his head. ‘I do not know. I should ask myself that question.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He stopped at the side of the bed, looking down at her in the gloom. ‘I could say many things, I suppose—give many excuses; but they would all be false. I came because—’ He broke off. ‘I came because I had to. I had to see you. I needed to see you to keep my sanity!’

  Susannah’s lips parted. ‘Oh, Fernando,’ she breathed huskily. ‘What has happened?’

  He came down on his haunches beside the bed, reaching for her cold hands and enclosing them inside both of his. Then he said quietly: ‘Monica and I have had one of our not infrequent battles, pequeña. They are nothing unusual, you understand, but this one was about you!’

  Susannah looked down at his hands holding hers. ‘Wh—what about me?’

  Fernando sighed, bending his head to move his lips against the skin of her fingers. ‘I could not permit her to say anything against you. To me, you are something apart from this sordid life of mine. I could not allow her to defame your character.’ His fingers tightened on hers. ‘I wish to God that I had never married her!’

  Susannah quivered. ‘You—you must have loved her—’

  A shudder passed through him. ‘It would have been better for me if I had—if I had some decent thing to cling to,’ he muttered harshly. ‘But I have none. Monica is married to me, and I am as much to blame for that as she is. More, perhaps.’

  ‘What do you mean? I—I don’t understand.’

  He glanced up at her momentarily and then resumed his contemplation of her hands. ‘How could you? I doubt very much whether anyone, apart from Monica and myself, knows the full story.’ He paused. ‘I should tell you—I had a brother—’

  ‘A brother?’

  ‘Si. His name was Miguel. He was one year older than I am.’

  ‘I see.’ Susannah frowned.

  ‘He was not like me, you understand? He was—how shall I say it?—obedient, si? He did always what my father wanted. Me…’ he moved his shoulders dismissingly, ‘I did not, I preferred my freedom.’

  Susannah nodded. She couldn’t help but remember what he had told her at the cottage. Of his distress at his mother’s death and his subsequent behaviour.

  ‘So,’ he continued, ‘Miguel stayed at home with my father and Tia Amalia. He was content to do so. He was the elder son. It was expected that some day he would have charge of the vineyards—of the company. I was unimportant. I was permitted to attend the university in England, to travel, to choose any career I wished.’ He shrugged. ‘The Alvarez vineyards were thriving. My father was a wealthy man.’

  ‘But something happened to change things?’

  ‘Si.’ He sighed heavily. ‘You probably know that the grape which is cultivated to produce wine needs a hot, dry climate. It needs to be picked in the peak of condition when it is neither too sweet nor too bitter. The sun creates sugar in the grape, and a crop too sweet cannot make a fine wine.’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘It is a knowledge one learns. It is passed down from father to son. But, as I have said, the weather is most crucial to success. Sixteen years ago there was a very wet season. The grapes were ruined, the crop worthless. Everyone lost money. But we were not yet facing disaster.’

  ‘Disaster?’

  ‘Si, disaster.’ Fernando seemed to find it difficult to go on. Then at last he said: ‘The weather affected everyone. But they were all optimistic that the following year we would have a record harvest. Unfortunately, it was not to be. Not for the vineyards of Don Esteban d’Alvarez. The roots of the vines were attacked by a particularly virulent disease. There was nothing we could do about it. The vines had to be torn up and destroyed. New vines were needed, and we could
not afford to pay for them.’

  Susannah put one of her hands on his head, smoothing the tumbled hair. She had the terrible feeling that she was dreaming all this. That Fernando could not be here, on his haunches beside her bed, relating the circumstances leading up to his marriage to Monica. She felt sure that if she pinched herself hard enough he would disappear.

  But she could still hear his voice as he went on: ‘Miguel was friendly with a visiting American family in Jerez. Their name was Turner, and Monica was their cousin. She was touring Europe on a prolonged vacation. As you know, she likes to paint a little. She found plenty to interest her in this area. She and Miguel became friends.’

  He paused and she could sense the growing tension in him.

  ‘When it became clear that the Alvarez vineyards might have to be sold, my father was desperate. He appealed to Miguel to do something to recover our fortunes. It was known that Monica was a rich woman.’ He shook his head. ‘All Americans visiting Europe at that time were rich, were they not?’ He stroked her wrist. ‘Miguel was not unwilling, you understand. There was a Spanish family who possibly expected him to marry their daughter, but my father would rather his son restored the vineyards than keep faith with a family not much better off than ourselves.’

  ‘So—Miguel married Monica!’

  ‘No.’ Fernando shook his head again. ‘Miguel was killed only a week before their wedding.’

  Susannah caught her breath. Now she was beginning to see. If Miguel had died, who but Fernando could save the vineyards?

  ‘But—but didn’t Monica—I mean—’ Susannah stumbled over the words. ‘You—you married her instead, didn’t you?’

  Fernando nodded. ‘You mean, of course, did not Monica mind that it was me and not Miguel?’ At her nod, he continued: ‘No, she did not mind. At least, not then. I had been away, as I have said. Monica and I had never met until I returned home for my brother’s funeral. She was, I suppose—physically attracted to me.’