‘Ah,’ said Margarida, raising her finger. ‘You are not thinking like the group, Evelina. And that can be fatal. You see, she’s not from our circle but she has married a man from our circle. What does that mean? It means there is one less matrimonial prospect for a daughter of one of Barcelona’s good families.’
Xavier, who was listening in on our conversation, added, ‘It’s the same reason why the English get so put out about people marrying “above their station”.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘she’s much more beautiful than any of the women in our circle, except for Conchita, of course. No wonder el senyor de Artigas married her.’
Xavier smiled. ‘Our Evelina of the romantic heart, whatever are we going to do with you?’
‘Olga has been filling your head with romantic notions,’ Margarida chided me. ‘Don’t think there aren’t other debutantes trying to elbow their way into the Cerdà family. Maria Dalmau, for one. You are friends, yes? Well, let’s see what happens when Francesc Cerdà shows more interest in you because you are prettier.’
I noticed Mama glance from donya Elisa to the clock. We were going to have to make haste if we were to see the Cerdà family before the next act. Luckily for us, Francesc Cerdà’s mother must have had the same idea. I turned to see her hurrying towards us.
‘Donya Rosita, this is very late notice,’ the Marquesa said to my mother. ‘But we are having supper after the opera at our home. It will only be a few people. We would like you and your family to join us if you are free this evening. My mother is too elderly to come to the opera now, so we try to give her some entertainment at home. My nephew, Gaspar, will play the piano for us. Perhaps Xavier would also honour us with a piece or two?’
Normally, for such a spontaneous change of plans, Mama would have consulted Pare before making a decision. But as Pare was nowhere to be seen, Mama told the Marquesa that we would be delighted to come.
The final act of Turandot was so full of tragedy and triumph that even donya Esperanza stayed quiet for the aria ‘Nessun Dorma’. But time dragged for me. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, I was dying to meet Gaspar Olivero. I was glad when the curtain came down and I heard Mama say to Pare that we had better start making our farewells as we were going to the Cerdà family’s supper. It took us forever to leave the Liceu: the society reporters wanted to photograph me in my new dress; donya Josefa stopped us to remind Mama about a charity lunch; and senyor Dalmau asked Pare what he thought about the performance and Pare had to make something up. It was a relief when our driver pulled up in the Hispano-Suiza and we all piled inside.
The Cerdàs’ house on the passeig de Gràcia was one of the grandest in Barcelona. Behind its magnificent stone façade was an entrance hall with a domed ceiling, lacquered columns and marble sculptures of goddesses by Josep Clarà. As was the fashion in many aristocratic houses, each room had a different colour scheme and style. As the butler led us to the drawing room, we passed through a medieval-style library with burgundy walls, gargoyles, and a suit of armour in the corner. From there we were directed into a Far East-themed hallway featuring an oriental rug runner, embroidered silk curtains and a chest of black lacquered wood with a dragon carved on it. By the time we reached the inner reception area and stopped a moment to admire the classical columns and fountain that conjured up images of Ancient Greece, it felt as though we had made a journey through civilisation in the span of five minutes.
‘You might live here one day,’ Margarida whispered to me.
She was joking but her words sent a chill through me. I was at home with my family in our tranquil and elegant house with its smooth parquetry floors and the clean lines of the Homar and Busquets furniture. The Cerdàs’ house was a palace, but I couldn’t see myself being comfortable in it. And who was Francesc? What did I know about him? How should I decide whether or not I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him? The pulse in my temple began to throb. I stumbled on the hem of my dress but luckily Xavier caught me.
We were ushered into the drawing room, where the curtains, blinds and tablecloths were all the same lavender damask. Cerdà ancestors stared down at us from their gilded frames. The Marqués and Marquesa, the only occupants of the room besides an elderly lady in a wheelchair whom I took to be the Marquesa’s mother, rose to welcome us. They were both statuesque and fair-skinned, more like Nordic gods than Spaniards.
‘You are the first to arrive,’ said the Marqués. ‘The others have been held up.’
As we already knew each other, there was no need for introductions, but pleasantries about the opera and enquiries into each other’s health had to be exchanged. Fortunately, my mother answered on my behalf. I felt my old anxiety about being around people I didn’t know well returning. My hands and feet had turned cold.
But then the Marquesa turned and addressed me directly. ‘I’ve been admiring your dress all evening, Evelina,’ she said. ‘Did you have it made here or is it from Paris?’
My larynx tightened and I found it hard to breathe. I opened my mouth but I seemed to have lost my tongue. ‘Tha-a-ak you,’ I stuttered.
The Marquesa raised her eyebrows in astonishment, not sure if she had heard me correctly. Mother paled. Pare stared at me, horrified. All Olga’s good work had flown out the door.
‘She was cold in the car,’ said quick-thinking Xavier, putting his arm around me. ‘I’m afraid she’s caught a bit of a chill.’
My brother spoke with such ease and confidence; I would have given anything to be like him.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the Marquesa, nodding sympathetically. ‘I was the same at her age, always cold. It’s this time of year. A warm evening can suddenly turn chilly. We didn’t have the fire lit tonight because once this room fills up, it can get stuffy. Perhaps Evelina would like a cup of tea?’
‘Oh, that’s not necessary,’ said Mama.
‘It is no trouble at all,’ insisted the Marqués, ringing for a maid.
The Marqués and Marquesa were being kind, which made me all the more embarrassed. I hated being the centre of attention. My one comfort was that Gaspar Olivero wasn’t in the room to witness me making a fool of myself.
The tea arrived, and at the same time we heard the sound of voices coming through the reception room. The butler opened the door and announced the arrival of the other guests. Thankfully, their appearance took the attention away from me. Because the Marquesa had said that the evening would be a small, informal affair I was surprised to see that the Dalmau and López families had been invited, along with other significant members of Barcelona’s elite. Suddenly the room was crowded with people. Francesc arrived but there was no sign of Gaspar.
My head began to throb again and I had trouble breathing. I tried to imagine everyone as a chimpanzee, but my panic had already taken hold and I couldn’t laugh it off. It was bad enough to have an anxiety attack in my own home, where I could escape to some familiar room until I felt more comfortable. But what to do when I was in someone else’s house? I looked to Xavier, but he was involved in lively conversation with the Marqués. Margarida had somehow ended up across the other side of the room talking to Francesc. I wouldn’t have been able to reach her without encountering a whole lot of other people.
I put down my teacup and inched my way to the back of the room, trying to find some clear space. I noticed a door, slightly ajar, and thought that if I could escape the crowd for a while, I would calm down enough to get through supper. I slipped through the doorway and found myself in a room that was decorated more tastefully than the others we had seen. The carved cherrywood furniture was upholstered in a soft apple-green and the curtains were a pale gold yellow. It was as though I had stepped into a forest. A long dining table had been set with silver cutlery and Art Deco plates and glassware. There was also a grand Bösendorfer piano in the corner. I gathered this was where we would be eating supper. On one wall there was a marquetry panel depicting nymphs dancing the sardana in a glade. In an effort to calm my racing mind, I tried to guess the types
of woods that had been used. Walnut? Olive? Jacaranda? Xavier would know. I sank into an armchair in the corner of the room and rested my aching forehead in my palm.
‘Your brother tells me that you are studying ballet?’
I gave a start. The voice had come from the other side of the room. I lifted my eyes to see Gaspar Olivero leaning against the fireplace and studying me.
It took me a moment to answer. I had been so flustered I hadn’t noticed that anyone else was in the room.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You know my brother well?’
‘I’m Gaspar Olivero,’ he said, walking towards me. ‘Xavier and I have been friends for years but you probably don’t remember me. The last time we met, you were still a girl. Your brother and I shared the same first piano teacher: Enrique Granados.’
The face that I had spied from the opera box was as sweet up close as it had been from afar. I wondered how it was that I didn’t remember such a character-filled countenance, but I was so shy as a child I was probably looking at my feet when we were introduced. There was something reassuring in Gaspar’s manner. I relaxed for the first time since we had entered the Cerdà mansion.
‘I’ve heard that you are a wonderful pianist too,’ I told him.
Gaspar picked up one of the dining chairs from the table and sat down next to me. ‘Well, if that’s true then I have my parents to thank for it,’ he said, looking at me with his bright eyes. ‘They never forced me to take up music … they inspired me to do it. From the earliest time I can remember there were always musicians in the house. Music is as much a part of me as my heart or lungs.’
I liked how he spoke about his parents — with deep gratitude, not resentment. The way donya Esperanza had referred to them, she had implied that Gaspar should be ashamed of them. But I didn’t get the impression that was what he felt.
‘Why are you here and not in the other room?’ I asked him.
He grinned. His teeth overlapped slightly at the front, making his face all the more appealing. ‘The opera was so sublime, I needed a few moments to take it all in … to relive it. Francesc is a wonderful fellow, but he talked non-stop all the way in the car.’
Gaspar didn’t ask me why I had snuck away from the gathering. Had he guessed?
‘But let’s talk about your dancing,’ he said, clasping his hands on his knee. ‘I’m a great admirer of Diaghilev’s ballets. Did you see the Ballet Russes at the Liceu?’
I shook my head. ‘I would have liked to. But it wasn’t in my father’s taste. He doesn’t like modern things much.’
‘So you will dance with a more classically oriented company? The Paris Opera Ballet?’
‘No,’ I said, laughing, although I was flattered by his suggestion. ‘My father would never let me dance in public.’
Gaspar looked amazed. ‘But you would like to?’
His question caught me off guard. I never thought about what I would like to do. I couldn’t see the use of dwelling on the impossible.
‘Yes, I would like to,’ I confided in him, surprised at my sudden boldness. ‘I’m not so nervous when I dance.’
He nodded understandingly. I realised how comfortable I was with him. Despite the surprise he had given me, I hadn’t stuttered once. I could speak to him as easily as I could to Xavier or Margarida. I was about to tell him about Olga when Xavier came through the door.
‘There you are, Evelina! Mama was wondering where you had disappeared to,’ he said.
Gaspar stood up and shook hands with my brother. ‘I was going over the performance tonight in my head when your charming sister wandered into the room.’
‘She doesn’t like crowds,’ Xavier said, looking at me affectionately.
‘I can’t blame her,’ said Gaspar. ‘I’m not crazy for them myself.’ Then, as if to save me further embarrassment, he changed the subject. ‘What did you think of the tenor tonight?’ he asked Xavier. ‘As good as Miguel Fleta?’
‘His voice was rich and lyrical,’ Xavier agreed.
‘They say he will be the new Caruso.’
I would have been content to listen to Xavier and Gaspar talk about the opera all night, but it wasn’t to be. Three maids moved into the room, switching on the lights and setting the food out on the table. A moment later, the concertina doors were folded aside and the Marquesa entered with her guests behind her, like Moses leading his people through the Red Sea.
I was placed between Xavier and Mama with Francesc opposite. When I looked at senyora Dalmau and Maria, they were sending daggers with their eyes at me. Margarida had been right.
‘I didn’t recognise you this evening, Evelina,’ Francesc said. ‘I think the last time I saw you, you were only a little girl.’
Unlike Gaspar, the last time Francesc had seen me was at Mass the previous week, but obviously it had taken the gown for him to notice me.
‘I find coming home after the opera much more pleasant than going to the Hotel España or the Ritz, don’t you?’ the Marquesa asked me.
This time I was able to answer her calmly. ‘It was very kind of you and the Marqués to invite us,’ I said in my most ladylike manner.
‘The pleasure is ours, I assure you,’ the Marquesa replied, nodding to her husband.
If she had not been surrounded by people, I think Mama would have grabbed my face and kissed me.
Something shiny on Francesc’s collar caught my eye. He saw me looking at it. ‘Ah, so you have noticed my pin,’ he said. ‘I’m a toxophilite.’
I had never heard the term. It sounded like the member of an ancient tribe.
When Francesc saw my confusion, he laughed. ‘I’m an archery enthusiast,’ he explained. ‘I won last week’s championship.’
He then began to elaborate on the mechanics of a bow: how it was a simple but marvellous piece of engineering. He was so passionate about the subject, I found myself quite interested. Margarida was wrong to have said that Francesc was stupid. As I listened to him talk about archery before moving on to football and the Tour de France, I realised he was simply a person who did not concern himself with complicated or controversial subjects. Nevertheless, when the main course was served, I found myself looking in the direction of Gaspar. Although he was a relation of the Cerdà family, he had been placed at the lower end of the table. It was not meanness on the part of the Marquesa, but the way things were done. Another person might have been humiliated — Gaspar’s family had once been one of the wealthiest in Barcelona — but the conversation taking place around his end of the table was more animated than the artificial laughter emanating from our end. The normally stern-looking senyor Homar was laughing heartily, and even sour-faced senyora Casas was managing a smile.
There was a lull in the conversation at our end of the table, long enough to hear senyor Homar say, ‘I’m looking forward to hearing Gaspar and Xavier play for us this evening.’
‘Even when Gaspar was a child,’ the Marqués said, addressing the guests, ‘he never rushed into playing a piece before he was ready. He worked at his scales and technical exercises until he felt he was prepared to tackle the piece. I think that patience has rewarded him well and made him the virtuoso that he is.’
‘Ah, but feeling is the soul of a musician,’ said senyor Dalmau. ‘Without it, one is merely a mechanic.’
‘What you say is true,’ Gaspar replied. ‘But what is also true is that the greatest music is intellectual as well as sentimental. If you look at Beethoven’s Sonatas, for instance, you will see that the composer put a lot of thought into the structure of the motifs and the movements. Beethoven’s music is truly divine, and yet it is also well planned. For me, he is the perfect proof that art requires discipline and thought; that it doesn’t drop out of the sky from heaven in perfect formation.’
An awed hush fell over the gathering. Gaspar had everyone’s attention, whether they were interested in music or not. It wasn’t only what he said, but the way he said it. When he spoke, his eyes were alive with passion. I noticed that Xavier was wat
ching him intently.
‘I agree with you entirely,’ he told Gaspar. ‘There is this idea that art is somehow supposed to reflect life. But it doesn’t at all, does it? Life is chaos. It is art that gives meaning and order to life.’
‘Well said!’ replied Gaspar, raising his wine goblet to Xavier.
Francesc leaned towards me. ‘I don’t know how you feel, but this is all going straight over my head.’
‘Well,’ said the Marqués, standing up. ‘As we appear to have finished supper, perhaps this discussion is the perfect lead-in to hearing these gentlemen play.’
Xavier was the first to take his place at the piano. He treated us to the hauntingly beautiful ‘Clair de Lune’ by Debussy. As I watched my brother play, I was filled with love for him. There was so much beauty in him — and so much conflict too. It was more apparent when he moved on to Tchaikovsky’s ‘Symphony No 6, Pathétique’, which he had been memorising and perfecting for over a year. The piece was filled with sorrow, hope, happiness, grief and a sense of foreboding. I saw every one of those emotions pass over Xavier’s face as he played.
When Xavier finished the symphony, the gathering applauded him.
‘So beautiful, so moving,’ said the Marquesa to my mother.
Because Xavier had been asked to play at the last moment, he limited his performance to the two pieces. ‘Now,’ he said, standing up and making a flourish with his hand towards the piano stool. ‘I would like to invite my good friend, and a true virtuoso, Gaspar Olivero to play for us.’
Gaspar had chosen music by Spanish composers for the evening and commenced with a composition by the teacher he had shared with Xavier: ‘The Maiden and the Nightingale’ by Granados. It was a romantic, moving piece and it made me think of the sad fate the composer had suffered. During the Great War, he had been travelling across the English Channel on board the Sussex when it was torpedoed by a German submarine. Granados had been able to reach a lifeboat, but when he searched around for his wife, he spotted her flailing in the sea. He dived in to save her but they both drowned.
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