Golden Earrings

by Belinda Alexandra

  Margarida had spoken the truth when she’d said that I would be making my social debut at the Liceu. Now, instead of being left alone to practise my ballet steps, I was called up for fittings in Conchita and Xavier’s apartment, where my sister-in-law and mother were busy arguing over dress styles.

  ‘No, not that one,’ said Conchita of a pattern for a silk charmeuse evening dress with gold metallic thread. ‘It will make her look too young.’

  ‘But I don’t want Evelina to appear too old either,’ Mama protested.

  My mother was always elegantly dressed, but I was pleased Conchita had been given a say in the dress. She looked stunning in everything she wore, and was also able to tell at a glance whether a style would suit another person or not.

  ‘This one,’ she said, holding up a pattern for a silk dress with gold lamé across the bust and around the hem. The dress was exotic and sleek. A flurry of excitement ran through me. I imagined myself climbing the steps of the Liceu looking like an Egyptian goddess.

  ‘You could wear that,’ Mama told Conchita. ‘But Evelina is too shy. She needs something plainer.’

  My spirits dropped. The exotic dress dissolved into a more conservative one: sleeveless, with a high V-neck and ruffled skirt. The kind of dress one found in a catalogue.

  ‘If you give her something beautiful and different to wear, she’ll feel less shy,’ argued Conchita.

  ‘Senyoras!’ pleaded the dressmaker, senyoreta Garrós. ‘You have only given me a short amount of time to have this dress ready. You must decide on the pattern today.’

  While Mama and Conchita debated over my dress, I looked around the apartment. The rooms used to be filled entirely with eighteenth-century furniture and Sèvres porcelain, but Conchita had introduced some Modernista pieces, including a mahogany screen and the chairs with swan-motif upholstery and slender, bone-like legs that she and my mother were sitting on. With Conchita’s sense of panache, she and Xavier should have had much in common, but they did not have similar tastes at all. Conchita hated Gaudí’s architecture while Xavier revered it; she had insisted on walking out of a Stravinsky concert when Xavier had wanted to stay; and they no longer attended avant-garde art exhibitions together as they used to when they were engaged.

  ‘She likes fashion, not art,’ Margarida had said to me. ‘You watch, in another few years all that Modernista furniture will be replaced by whatever happens to be in mode then.’

  But whatever aesthetic conflicts they had, when Xavier walked into the room that morning carrying Feliu, Conchita could not have looked more enamoured of her husband and child.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, holding out her arms and taking Feliu into her lap. ‘My little boy.’ She turned her cheek so Xavier could kiss her. ‘Can you stay with us a while?’ she asked him. ‘Or do you have to rush off somewhere? We are deciding on Evelina’s dress for opening night. And as your mother and I have such differing opinions, a male adjudicator would be helpful.’

  ‘I’m afraid Pare and I have a luncheon with the mayor today, but I can stay for a cup of coffee,’ Xavier said, sitting down next to his wife.

  With Conchita’s dark beauty and even features, and Xavier’s tanned skin and perfect teeth, it was easy to see why they were considered Barcelona’s most attractive couple.

  ‘Why don’t you let Evelina decide on the dress?’ Xavier suggested. ‘After all, she’s the one who has to wear it.’

  Conchita pinched his arm as if he had made an absurd suggestion. Xavier gave his opinion on some of the patterns the dressmaker showed him, while Conchita made cooing sounds to Feliu.

  A maid entered and announced that Conchita’s mother had arrived for a visit. We all stood up as donya Elisa strode into the room. ‘Ah, Feliu!’ she said, paying no mind to us and heading straight towards her grandson. None of us was offended; we all took it as a given that Feliu should command everyone’s attention.

  Mama instructed the maid to bring us more tea, which she served in black and white ceramic cups.

  ‘Don’t keep him too long,’ Conchita pleaded with her mother as she handed Feliu over to her. ‘I can’t bear to not have him with me. Even when the wet nurse takes him, I have to sit with her. You can never be sure that another woman will do everything correctly.’

  Donya Elisa looked at her daughter in surprise. ‘But, darling, you have to be a bit tougher with boys or you’ll make Feliu a sissy.’

  Mama patted Conchita’s arm. ‘We are all like that with our firstborn children, but you will calm down as the others come along. You will see that children can manage without us much better than we think.’

  Conchita blinked at my mother. ‘But I have borne a male heir,’ she said. ‘I don’t see the need for other children.’

  Mama and Xavier exchanged a glance.

  ‘Of course, giving birth makes you think you could never go through that again,’ said donya Elisa, brushing down her dress. ‘But you will want more children. They bring such joy into your life.’

  A strange look passed over Conchita’s face. She pursed her lips.

  Mama glanced doubtfully at Xavier again. The thin lines of a frown were scarring his forehead and his fingers thrummed on his knee, but if Conchita’s attitude troubled him, he shrugged it off.

  ‘It’s because Feliu looks so much like me that she thinks that way,’ he said with a laugh. ‘If he resembled her, she’d want a dozen more children.’

  Donya Elisa, Mama and senyoreta Garrós chuckled. Xavier had saved the moment. Donya Elisa flashed him a grateful smile, but Conchita wouldn’t look at him. She and Xavier may have appeared like a perfect couple, but something was clearly wrong.

  The Gran Teatre del Liceu in Barcelona was not simply an opera house, it was an institution. Like many of the great opera houses of the time, the seating was in a horseshoe shape around the stage and tiered into five balconies. A family’s status in Barcelona society was reflected by where that family sat in the Liceu. The planta noble was reached by a grand marble staircase from the lobby and was the most prestigious tier on which to have a box. From there, the staircases became less decorative and narrower, up to the fourth floor where the boxes were owned by families of lesser importance and the seats by the middle-class families. The uppermost tier contained no boxes and could not be reached from the internal staircases but had to be accessed via an unadorned entrance in the side street. It was there that the students and factory workers sat. Many of them came simply to listen, as not every seat on the top floor afforded a view of the stage. While donya Esperanza referred to people who sat in the uppermost floors as ‘riffraff’, they were probably the only ones — along with Xavier — who came to the opera to appreciate the performance. Everyone else was there to bolster their egos, reaffirm their alliances with Barcelona’s other powerful families, show off new evening dresses or catch up on gossip.

  On the opening night of Turandot, we entered our box to find donya Esperanza already sitting there. ‘As Conchita isn’t coming tonight, I decided to keep Xavier company,’ she said. ‘As a representative of the de Figueroa family.’

  Having recently had a baby, no one expected Conchita to appear at the opera until she had regained her figure. And, as matriarch of the de Figueroa family, donya Esperanza should really have been chaperoning Conchita’s younger sisters. But donya Esperanza’s age and standing in society put her beyond convention, so no one bothered arguing with her. And, of course, our box had a better view of the boxes opposite than the one owned by the de Figueroa family did. Donya Esperanza might have been in her nineties but there was nothing she enjoyed more than a chance to spy on others and to gossip.

  I took my place next to her in the lower corner of the box. ‘That’s a beautiful gown, by the way,’ she said. ‘It suits your complexion perfectly. You look radiant.’

  After all the disputes regarding what I should wear, we had finally found a design on which we had all agreed: a gold lace gown over a beige silk underdress with a bias-cut skirt. The capped sleeves and the
pink rose at the centre of the neckline lent the dress the sense of feminine modesty my mother had been aiming for, while the fabric and cut gave the gown the glamour Conchita had championed. I was happy simply to be dressed like a young woman instead of an overgrown girl. Mama had lent me a gold peridot and pearl necklace from her collection.

  I straightened my skirt and noticed Francesc Cerdà stealing a look at me from his family’s box on the opposite side of the tier. The expression of surprise on his face was so palpable it gave the impression that he had never seen me before, when in fact he had gone to the same Jesuit school as Xavier and we had often seen each other at social occasions or in church. His interest in me pleased Mama. She nudged Pare so hard he jumped. The opera was Pare’s chance to catch up on sleep, and he’d perfected the art of resting his chin on his palm so that he gave the appearance of listening when, in fact, he was not.

  Mama’s pleasure at my being noticed by the Cerdà family heir was well justified. They came from a long line of nobility. Francesc’s father was a marqués: a title Francesc, as the eldest son, would inherit one day.

  Margarida leaned forwards from her seat behind me and whispered in my ear, ‘Ah, Francesc Cerdà! Very good-looking, rich and athletic — but as silly as a sole’s shoe.’

  I turned around and scowled at her, but when she grinned back at me it was difficult not to laugh. Francesc was a blond, blue-eyed Catalan, and Xavier had said that whenever he stayed at the Cerdàs’ holiday home in S’Agaró, Francesc always seemed to be running around in a pair of shorts, pummelling a punching bag or performing somersaults. But it was also known that Francesc wasn’t the brightest male in the family, and his father, who was savvy, had manoeuvred Francesc’s youthful uncles into positions of management in the Cerdà properties so that Francesc would be nothing more than a figurehead, signing whatever documents were placed in front of him.

  ‘Still,’ whispered Margarida, ‘it would be fun to be a marquesa.’

  I stifled a giggle. Despite the dress, the occasion and my age, I wasn’t taking things too seriously. Marriage was far from my mind. I had no intention of giving up my ballet lessons just yet.

  ‘Who is that young man next to Francesc Cerdà?’ asked donya Esperanza.

  ‘Don’t you recognise him?’ asked Margarida. ‘That’s Gaspar Olivero.’

  I leaned forwards to see who they were talking about. Alongside Francesc sat another young man, maybe two or three years younger. He had reddish-brown hair, alert eyes and a sweet smile.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mama, ‘I didn’t expect to see him with the Cerdà family. Don’t the Oliveros live in Zaragoza now?’

  ‘Yes, terrible business,’ said donya Esperanza. ‘Fancy being born into such wealth only to have your irresponsible parents whittle it away on extravagant living. It was a scandal for the Marqués to have his sister fall so low. There were creditors’ notices in the newspaper and auctions … The shame!’

  If there was one thing the ‘good families’ of Barcelona despised more than poor people, it was those who had been born rich but had been foolish enough to lose their fortune. I shifted in my seat; I didn’t like the way donya Esperanza spoke about Gaspar Olivero, as he seemed so kind and gentle. The way he looked around him with interest reminded me of a squirrel.

  ‘Well, it’s generous of the Marqués and Marquesa to take the young man into their care,’ Mama said, trying to give the conversation a positive direction. Perhaps she was worried that I’d be turned off Francesc if I thought his cousin’s family was irresponsible.

  ‘Gaspar is studying law,’ Xavier said. ‘And he’s brilliant at it. He’ll be all right. He doesn’t need his family’s money.’

  ‘And he’s an accomplished pianist and artist too,’ added Margarida. ‘He accompanies the star acts at a prestigious theatre on las Ramblas, and some of his drawings are being exhibited in Josep Dalmau’s gallery, where Salvador Dalí is shown. He’s quite a genius!’

  I studied Gaspar Olivero again. How could anyone have such a range of gifts — and have developed each of them to such a high level? I was intrigued.

  At that moment, Gaspar turned in my direction. He saw me and smiled. One corner of his mouth lifted slightly higher than the other, which I found charming. Without thinking, I smiled back. I can’t describe what happened at that moment. I had not spoken a word to him, but suddenly I felt as if my heart was rising up in my chest. It seemed to float out of the top of my head and drift towards Gaspar Olivero! I quickly looked away.

  ‘Who is Salvador Dalí?’ asked donya Esperanza. ‘I don’t believe I’m acquainted with the Dalí family?’

  Mama shot Xavier and Margarida a chastising look. ‘It is commendable that Gaspar is trying to make his way in the world rather than relying on the charity of his uncle and aunt,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that he will marry a respectable girl and be happy.’

  We all knew, without Mama saying it, that by ‘respectable’ she meant middle class. In Mama’s eyes, there were ‘good’ girls from rich families, ‘respectable’ ones from middle-class families, and ‘unfortunate’ ones from poor families.

  ‘Oh, but the shame of it all,’ said donya Esperanza, unwilling to let go of the grimmer aspects of the Oliveros’ situation. ‘They had to sell their box at the Liceu. It had been in the family since 1850.’

  ‘I know,’ said Xavier, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. ‘We are sitting in it!’

  The uncomfortable silence brought on by Xavier’s statement was relieved by the general silence that followed the dimming of the lights and the commencement of the performance. I was intrigued by the story of Turandot — which was about a princess who challenged her suitors to answer three riddles or forfeit their lives — and by Puccini’s beautiful music. But donya Esperanza, who had little enthusiasm for opera, wanted to talk. I wouldn’t have minded so much if she didn’t have such a fascination with the morbid.

  ‘You know, I was here that night in 1893 when that anarchist dropped his bombs into the audience,’ she whispered to me. ‘It was terrible. Twenty-two people were killed and many others badly injured. There were legs, arms and heads everywhere. Blood and bone splattered onto the stage. They say that a lady’s hand, with a diamond ring on every finger, fell into the first violinist’s lap …’

  Donya Esperanza had told me that story many times before and, as a result, I couldn’t look down into the stalls without imagining that horrific scene. I thought that if I didn’t add to the conversation, she might move on. But she had another story, one I hadn’t heard before, to top that one. ‘And that section over there, that’s where Enriqueta Martí used to sit. Who knew, as she sat there in all her finery, that she was a serial killer?’

  I shouldn’t have reacted but, without thinking, I turned to donya Esperanza, aghast.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, her eyes widening with the thrill of having an audience on whom to inflict her gory tale. ‘She used to murder street urchins. Then she would cut them up and boil their bodies to make beauty creams for the high society of Barcelona!’

  This last story was too much for Mama who leaned over towards us. ‘Donya Esperanza, please … Evelina is sensitive. You’ll give her nightmares.’

  ‘But it’s true,’ protested donya Esperanza, neither offended nor chastised. ‘Martí found her clients for her potions here.’

  Mama shook her head. ‘I’ve heard that too, but I can’t think of one person who would have bought such an atrocious concoction! The very idea of harming children! I am sure it was a rumour sent around by the Communists to make the workers hate us even more.’

  ‘Well, somebody was buying it,’ said donya Esperanza, bemused by Mama’s scepticism. ‘It was in the police reports. I’ve always had a suspicion that one of Martí’s clients was …’

  Thankfully, before donya Esperanza could implicate anybody who would — rightly or wrongly — be held in my mind forever after as a villain of the most heinous kind, the music for the opera swelled in volume.

  The act came
to an end shortly afterwards and it was time for the interval. The boxes on the prestigious levels of the Liceu opened onto wide passageways that were designed for promenading. My mother linked arms with me and ‘promenaded’ me swiftly in the direction of the Cerdà family’s box. Margarida and Xavier accompanied us, while Pare stopped to chat with don Bartomeu Manzano, donya Josefa’s husband.

  A blonde woman of statuesque proportions was heading in our direction on the arm of a distinguished-looking gentleman. The woman’s champagne silk dress shimmered like the chandeliers that lit the passageway and she had crystal blue eyes like a doll’s. They were the kind of looks that would normally turn heads — and people’s heads were turning, but, strangely, in the opposite direction to her. While people nodded greetings to the man, they ignored the woman.

  As she and I passed one another, we caught each other’s eye. The woman stopped, as if about to engage me in conversation, but I felt a tug on my arm and turned to see Mama shake her head. She gave a shake of her head and moved me forward. The blonde woman’s face fell. I was surprised at my mother’s behaviour. Mama had a strong sense of propriety but she was never rude to anyone. What had the beautiful woman done to deserve being so severely snubbed?

  When Mama stopped for a moment to chat with donya Elisa and Conchita’s sisters, Margarida sidled up to me. ‘That was the heir to the de Artigas fortune and his second wife. They live in Paris. She’s an American,’ she said.

  ‘Why were people so rude to her? Even Mama! Surely not because she’s a foreigner?’

  My sister shrugged. ‘They snub her because she’s not from our circle. She’s the daughter of an American shopkeeper who happened to capture the heart of a very rich man.’

  ‘So she doesn’t come from a wealthy family,’ I said, still not comprehending the reason for the cold-shouldering. ‘It doesn’t mean she’s not a decent person. After all, she’s el senyor de Artigas’s wife, not his mistress.’