Golden Earrings

by Belinda Alexandra

  She suddenly stared at me as if she had forgotten I was sitting with her. ‘I knew something was wrong the first night of our marriage,’ she said, a troubled expression on her face. ‘After the wedding dinner, which finished in the early hours of the morning, Francesc and I returned to the Cerdà mansion where we were to spend the night before leaving for our honeymoon the following day. Our suite had been newly decorated and the walnut furniture contrasted beautifully with the cheerful yellow-papered walls. In the bedroom was a king-sized bed with monogrammed pearl-white pillows and a silver-grey satin cover. Francesc and I both stared at it.

  ‘Mama had explained what was expected of me as a wife and, although I was exhausted, I brushed out my hair and put on the lace nightgown that had been part of my trousseau. Francesc fixed himself a nightcap. There were bowls of gardenias around the room, which gave the air a heavenly scent. Opposite the bed was a painting of blush-pink camellias, my favourite flowers. I knew Mama had put it there for me. I lay on the bed, feeling awkward and nervous. I wondered how different things might have been if I had married Gaspar. I imagined his soft lips kissing my neck, his warm hands gripping my waist … then I stopped myself. To think about a man other than Francesc now was a sin.’

  Mamie paused for a moment, her eyes on my face. She seemed to be having trouble finding the words she wanted to say. I wanted her to go on but I was also afraid of what I might hear.

  ‘Francesc turned off the light and undressed in the dark,’ Mamie continued. ‘The bed dipped with his weight when he slipped in beside me. I clenched my teeth, wondering what would happen next.

  ‘“Well, it’s a relief that ceremony is all over,” he said at last. “It was more for our parents than for us.”

  ‘I giggled. It was so like Francesc to say something like that. “And for God, too,” I reminded him. “It’s important to be joined before God.”

  ‘“Yes, of course,” he agreed.

  ‘We became silent again. For a moment I thought he had fallen asleep, but then he got up again and went to the bathroom. I could hear him turning the taps on and off for what seemed like an eternity. I wondered what he was doing. I felt foolish lying in the dark, so I turned on the side lamp. After more splashing sounds from the bathroom, Francesc returned and seemed surprised to find that I was still awake. He climbed into bed next to me and stared at the ceiling. I stared at the ceiling too. Was it possible Francesc was as nervous as I was? He was older than me, and with all the travelling he had done, Mama had told me not to be upset if he seemed “experienced”.

  ‘Francesc lay still for another few minutes before a sort of resolve seemed to come over him. He reached across my chest and turned off the light. Then he made a move that was more like a doctor about to perform an operation than an amorous husband about to make love to his wife for the first time. He tugged up my nightdress and lowered himself over me. I gritted my teeth and anticipated the pain Mama had warned me to expect. But all I felt was something fleshy and soft rubbing against me. Absolutely nothing happened.’

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Why is Mamie telling me about her first sexual experience? I wondered, feeling a little queasy. Nobody likes to imagine their grandmother making love, and Mamie was normally on the prudish side about such things. I couldn’t boast any experience myself, but thinking of the women’s magazines I’d read, it sounded as if Francesc was nervous or had consumed too much alcohol during the dinner.

  Mamie looked at me pointedly. ‘Nothing happened the next night in Paris either — or the night after that. In fact, we never consummated the marriage. I was young and inexperienced but I knew something was terribly wrong, especially after Mama had told me to be understanding about the fact that men had strong appetites. Francesc wasn’t interested in making love with me at all. Then, not long after we returned from our honeymoon, he told me that he was planning to go to the Moroccan Grand Prix.

  ‘“Africa is no place for a woman,” he said. “You’d better stay here. Penélope will keep you company.”

  ‘Although I tried to carry on as normal, the sense of something being wrong was always there. And the failure of this part of my marriage brought back the pain I had tried to suppress over Gaspar. Now it was so great, I was afraid it would engulf me. I distracted myself with ballet lessons, which I now took every day, bending and stretching myself to my limits. There was no one I could talk to about such things. How could I tell my mother or even a priest? Sex was considered something necessary for children, but shameful at the same time.’

  Mamie paused a moment to go to the sink and pour herself a glass of water.

  ‘So Francesc was impotent?’ I asked. ‘He couldn’t father children?’

  Mamie shook her head. ‘He tried to be a good husband but he simply preferred men.’

  I sat with my mouth open. I could hardly believe what she had said. ‘Your parents married you off to a gay man?’ I cried. ‘How did you find out he was homosexual?’

  ‘When he was away, I searched his study. I thought he might be in love with another woman. But then I found his diary and letters from male lovers.’

  I couldn’t believe a man had done that to Mamie. She was so sweet-hearted. And marrying under those circumstances was fraud!

  ‘Did you have the marriage annulled?’ I asked.

  Mamie shuddered. ‘No, I couldn’t do that,’ she said. ‘It would have exposed Francesc in a terrible way. And besides, my parents certainly wouldn’t have insisted on the marriage if they’d had any suspicion he was a homosexual.’

  ‘But Francesc shouldn’t have married you, Mamie!’ I protested. ‘That was dishonest! He did that for appearance’s sake!’

  ‘Oh, Paloma,’ said Mamie, looking exasperated. ‘You must understand that we are talking about Spain and not France. In Spain in those days, to be denounced as a homosexual could be fatal. The Church preached that the sin of homosexuality was worse than the sin of murder. Men of that nature were often beaten to death or locked away in mental asylums. Francesc would have done all he could to hide it. If Xavier, my parents and especially Margarida had not suspected his inclinations, then it couldn’t have been so obvious. I don’t believe Francesc’s own family knew. And poor Francesc was full of self-loathing. His diary teemed with entries of guilt and self-hatred. I think Francesc half-hoped that marrying me would make him “normal”.’

  ‘Weren’t you angry that you had been made to marry Francesc when it was Avi who loved you?’ I asked.

  ‘I couldn’t bring myself to hate my husband, Paloma,’ Mamie said quietly. ‘Francesc was as trapped as I was. We had both been forced to marry within our circle, and Francesc was good to me. When he was in Barcelona he took me out to all the night spots, and he had no objection to my continuing to study ballet. He was also pleasant company, and when I accepted him for what he was, we did become friends. We just didn’t have a physical relationship.’

  ‘But, Mamie,’ I said, still surprised that she wasn’t bitter, ‘you wanted children. Lots of them! That must have played on your mind.’

  Mamie’s jaw clenched and her brow furrowed. She looked away from me; and I knew that unless I was looking for another argument, the storytelling was over for the night.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Celestina

  When I returned to Barcelona in January 1930, Primo de Rivera had resigned and King Alfonso had appointed General Dámaso Berenguer to prepare the country for new elections in a reinstated constitutional monarchy. But still the restlessness I had sensed in the people continued. General strikes and protests broke out on the streets, and there was a feeling of people wanting to go forwards rather than backwards.

  I thought about my father and Teresa. I had grown up in a family where politics and making ends meet were the main discussions of the day. Ramón and I had spent much time with the women of Damas Rojas and in the revolutionary atmosphere of the Casa del Pueblo. I had been part of the burning of churches and the general strike in 1909. But after seeing Papá kil
led for protesting and Teresa exiled, I believed the idea that society could ever be made fairer was a myth. As long as humans were humans, they would always be looking for someone to exploit for their own gain. But maybe I had been mistaken?

  I woke up one morning with a fever and muscle pains, which the doctor put down to having exhausted myself on my tour. He prescribed rest for a month and el Ruso had no choice but to cancel my shows. For the first time in my life, I took note of what was being discussed in the newspapers. It seemed to me that tolerance for the monarchy was dissipating and the Republican movement was experiencing a revival. Full political democracy and universal suffrage are the only ways to create a just and fair society, one journalist wrote.

  Gaspar Olivero came to visit me at the Hotel Ritz where I stayed when I was in Barcelona, having long given up the apartment el Ruso had gifted me. I still supported my clan and took them everywhere with me, but, at el Ruso’s insistence, they inhabited separate suites on a less prestigious floor. Fortunately for me, despite the complaints from other guests about the cooking smells that emanated from their rooms, they hadn’t managed to set the hotel on fire yet.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked, welcoming Gaspar into my suite and signalling to my maid to bring us coffee and cakes.

  ‘Oh, the same as ever,’ he said. ‘I’m back from South America but I will only be staying in Barcelona two days. Then I’m off to Paris.’

  But he wasn’t the same. For the first time since I had known him, I could see that Gaspar looked dejected.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I am in love,’ he sighed. ‘But it’s hopeless. She’s married to another man.’

  I had never experienced being in love myself. I’d had fleeting affairs on my tours, but usually I kept men at a distance because dancing was my true passion. I wasn’t sure what to say to someone in Gaspar’s position.

  ‘We wanted to get married,’ he explained. ‘But her parents refused.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m not rich enough.’

  ‘Not rich enough?’ I repeated, raising my eyebrows. ‘But you are very successful!’

  ‘It’s not enough, and not the right kind of money.’

  I had no idea how the established rich defined money as the right or wrong kind and I was sure Gaspar would be better off not being part of such a pretentious family. But I could see from the tortured look in his eyes that he was taken with this young woman, so I remained silent, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

  Gaspar changed the subject, pointing to the newspapers on my side table. ‘I see you’ve been keeping yourself abreast of the latest political views.’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘It seems that, in Barcelona at least, the people no longer want a king.’

  ‘I’m going to a meeting of the Socialist Party tonight,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come? I’m sure that will be the topic of the night.’

  I might have been reading the newspapers but I had no desire to go to political meetings. What good did they do? But I said yes because I was bored and Gaspar looked like he needed company.

  The meeting was in the same café that Gaspar had taken me to when I was first engaged at the Samovar Club. I accompanied him to the back room, which was full of smoke and held an array of people. There were men in suits and men in overalls, and women of every age. Several people recognised me and whispered to their companions, who then sent glances in my direction. Fortunately, no one made more of a fuss than that. It must have given the meeting some cachet to have a star attend.

  I turned in the direction of the platform that had been set up at the front of the room and was startled when I saw Xavier Montella sitting there with Margarida. I glanced down when Gaspar waved to them, then looked around the room, wondering how I could make my escape. But too many people had crammed in behind us: it would be impossible to push through the crowd to reach the door.

  To my surprise, Xavier was one of the speakers for the evening.

  ‘A government based on full democratic representation and the extension of civil liberties is the only way to break up the power of the self-serving oligarchy,’ he told the crowd. ‘Democracy will bring freedom of thought, freedom of the press, better education for all and an end to the demoralising poverty that plagues the lives of the majority of people in this country.’

  When Xavier spoke he transcended himself, as I transcended myself when I danced. He has the demon too, I thought. It was obvious in the effect his words had on the audience: they applauded enthusiastically and stamped their feet on the floor. I thought of señor Sáinz’s story of his friend the priest. Was that what I had done to Xavier — wrongly associated him with the oppressive ruling class when he was one of the few educated and passionate men who could transform society? Listening to him, I could almost believe it was possible for things to change and that perhaps Papá’s sacrifice — and Teresa’s — could have some meaning.

  When Xavier had finished speaking, his listeners pressed forwards to shake his hand.

  ‘Let’s go and congratulate him,’ said Gaspar.

  I didn’t follow Gaspar. Instead, I allowed myself to be pushed back by the crowd towards the exit. I still didn’t know what to make of Xavier Montella and wasn’t ready to apologise to him. As señor Sáinz had said, it was not always easy to tell who was your friend and who was your foe.

  I reached the door, but before I left, something compelled me to look back. I turned, and at that moment Xavier lifted his eyes. Our gazes locked. Something like a bright light flashed between us: a demon. But not one that I had felt before.

  The political developments in the next year were so dramatic that even I could not fail to be moved by them. Order broke down as inflation spiralled out of control, while the numbers of jobless workers continued to grow. Strikes and protests became such a daily occurrence that the middle classes began to lose faith that the monarchy and dictatorship could maintain a stable country. When I watched the workers march, I felt I was being transported back to 1909. But now, it seemed, the result was going to be different. Instead of the repression the striking workers had experienced after Tragic Week, the country was moving towards elections, and the Leftist parties were pushing for anti-inflationary legislation to link wages to the cost of living and mandate a shorter working day, as well as a number of health and welfare reforms. If the Left won, those rights would be granted by law and not left to the whims of the monarchy and dictators who crushed the workers whenever they tried to better their position.

  After the April 1931 elections, the majority of the council seats went to pro-Republicans. It was a landslide victory. Two days later, the army high command made it known that it would not defend the monarchy. The King and his family left the palace and went into exile, and the Second Republic was proclaimed.

  Workers burst from the factories and into the streets to celebrate. If Papá and Teresa had only lived to see this, I thought, as I watched the jubilation from my hotel. Republican flags hung from the windows, people danced in the streets and sang songs like ‘La Cucaracha’ and ‘La Marseillaise’ with the words changed to suit the occasion:

  The King is gone

  The Church is in retreat

  Now the jackals have left

  It’s our turn to eat

  I could not stay inside any longer. I had to be out there with the people in the streets, as if by joining them I was representing Papá, Anastasio and Teresa and all those who had been killed, gaoled or exiled for trying to create a fairer society.

  When I reached the foyer, the concierge tried to dissuade me from leaving the hotel. ‘My dear senyoreta, don’t risk your life by going out there! Now that power is in the hands of the masses, we are at the mercy of barbarians!’

  ‘My dear senyor Folguera,’ I replied, walking past him, ‘you forget that I am a barbarian. I shall be right at home!’

  I was swept along by the crowds marching in the brilliant sunshine. People were hugging each other and crying.
The police arrived, but they had come to join in the celebrations, not to repress them. A tram stopped nearby and the conductor invited people to jump aboard for free. I remembered the general strike of my childhood, when the workers and the women of Damas Rojas had attacked the trams after the guards on board had fired on them.

  The celebrations continued all day, like a fiesta. There was a feeling of good will and brotherly love amongst the people. Is this really possible? I asked myself. Could a monarchy fall and a republic triumph without any violence?

  As if mirroring my thoughts, a man near me turned to his companion and said, ‘I only hope the Spaniards will be able to take advantage of this great opportunity they have been given … that it won’t all collapse into factional fighting.’

  The day grew warmer, and I looked for a café that might have a spare seat and where I could order a drink and absorb everything that had taken place. I was making my way across the street when I heard a voice behind me.

  ‘Senyoreta Sánchez?’

  I turned around to see Xavier Montella standing behind me. He looked dashing in a white suit and hat that brought out the colour of his eyes.

  ‘I saw you at the Socialist Party meeting last year,’ he said, ‘but you left before I could speak to you.’

  ‘I only went to keep Gaspar company,’ I explained, lest Xavier get any ideas that I had become a revolutionary. ‘You spoke very well.’

  ‘And now everything we wished for has happened,’ he said, glancing around us. Then he turned back to me and smiled. ‘You look so pretty in that dress. Let me take you somewhere to celebrate.’

  Me? Pretty? Hardly, I thought. Not compared to his sisters anyway — and probably his wife. I assumed that he had one. He was certainly of the age and class where a wife was indispensable.