by Jana Petken
I danced with Ernesto. I must admit that I didn’t relish the thought of making a fool of myself in such distinguished company, but Ernesto propelled me around the room and knew exactly where my feet should be. We danced all night, and it was a magical evening, one I will never forget.
I always thought happiness to be intangible until last night, when I felt it, touched it, and truly experienced it for the first time in my life. It does exist, it is real, it is in my life, and I pray to God that it never escapes me again.
The riders came over the top of the rise that looked down on the valley. A sparse gathering of orange trees covered the ground, smaller than the ones in the valley, but nonetheless ripe with oranges the size of a man’s fist. Ernesto wanted to prove that the fruit tree could survive on higher ground. He was experimenting in a field yet undiscovered by the vast majority of farmers, and he journeyed to that spot whenever he could to gauge their progress.
They were lost in their own private thoughts, and neither spoke. They had come here many times together, and on each occasion, Celia learned a little more. She sighed contentedly. Ernesto was a wonderful, patient teacher, and his enthusiasm, she guessed, stemmed from his great love and respect for the land. His voice, full of passion, spoke about agriculture and family with such vividness that she drowned in his words.
When Ernesto told her about his work, he spoke to her as an equal and gave her credit for the intelligence she had always had, but which had been hidden for so long behind a cloud of fear. She watched him unpack the picnic basket and then carefully place the food on the blanket. He was different in every way to Joseph. He encouraged her to ask questions, to be involved in this very special part of his life, and she in turn was an avid listener.
They continued their companionable silence until an orange fell from its branch, and Ernesto smiled, saying, “Celia, unless you know the history of oranges, you will not fully understand them.” He solemnly began to explain.
“The Moors brought them to Spain from North Africa in the ninth century. The Arabs planted the orange trees because they thought them ornamental and pretty in their gardens, not because of the fruit itself. They ate them, of course, but they didn’t take advantage of their full potential or value. During the seventeen and eighteen hundreds, the main exports from this area were raisins and Spanish silk, which came from the worms on the mulberry tree. But towards the latter part of the nineteenth century, around eighteen sixty-two, disaster struck, with the mulberry tree and silk eggs contracting a raging disease. In the same year, a flood devastated the villages and surrounding countryside. The flood, although not the main cause, contributed to the final downfall of Spanish silk, and coupled with the introduction of Chinese silk into Europe, which was less expensive and some said of better quality, Spain could not compete.
“It was during this period that my country turned to the orange, although my family had already seen the true value of the fruit years before and consequently had a substantial lead on our competitors. Celia, you will find that Spain has a big problem looking to the future because the Spanish race prefers to remember its glorious past, which is, in reality, all but a glorious memory. Did you know that we are now regarded as the peasants of Europe, even though the unbending Spanish aristocracy still believe that we are the great conquerors of the world, that Spain is almighty?
“Look around you. You will see the ruins of old castles, towns, and mansions, all sad remains of former grandeur, a grandeur that exists now only for the few.”
He laughed scornfully and turned away from her.
The special Christmas Eve dinner arranged for Don Miguel’s friend Don Andrés Rodriguez de Diego was to be held in the formal dining room, amid crystal chandeliers and soft furnishings of silk and fine brocades. Don Andrés, a leading politician in the Valencia region, was worthy of this honour, not because of the vast lands he owned near the town of Játiva, some twenty kilometres inland, but because of his political connections. La Glorieta was a hive of activity leading up to the special occasion, and Don Miguel was particularly nervous about seeing one of his oldest and closest friends, whom he hadn’t spoken to for almost a year.
Celia kept herself busy with the children, and thanks to the fine weather, she was able to stay out of the house, which seemed to have lost all sanity. The kitchen and everyone in it had certainly gone mad. The house servants scurried like field mice, heads down, shoulders bent under the weight of boxes, giant silver platters, and trays upon trays of crystal glasses. The kitchen workforce had doubled in size. They sang as they polished the glasses of all shapes and sizes. Cutlery, clear as mirrors, lay along the full length of the kitchen counters, and plates bordered with gold leaf were piled ten high on makeshift wooden tables.
Celia couldn’t hold her tongue any longer, and she didn’t want to. She had been caught up in the excitement, and now her curiosity was bursting out of her.
“Why is such a big fuss being made? And why is your father so nervous about seeing his friend?” she asked Rosa over breakfast.
“Celia,” Rosa said, winking like a conspirator. “Here, a true friend is a friend who can use his influence to benefit another friend’s ambitions. It’s the way it’s always been. You do this for me, and I’ll return the favour, etcetera.”
Rosa hadn’t answered her question. “What kind of favours? I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. But that’s because you don’t know the Spanish people. You see, Don Andrés is an important politician, and that makes him a powerful influence. My father wants to serve on the council of the caciques, but certain members are blocking him for being too liberal. They say he’s a bad example to his class, which are exactly the same words they use against my brother, by the way.”
“What are the caciques?”
“Caciques are what are commonly known as a group of very influential landowners who organise elections for the government – fix them, more like. In return, the government grants them the full cooperation of the local governors, the police, and the judicial system. I really can’t tell you much more than that. I don’t know much more than that; it’s a man thing. Anyway, tonight’s dinner should be very interesting, as my father, in his wisdom, has decided after all these years that he’d like to join the ranks of the caciques, and he hopes to gain the support of Don Andrés, who, as I said, is held in high esteem by the group.”
“And will this mean that your father will have to spend a lot of time in Valencia?”
“Goodness, no. He hates Valencia! No, I think the only thing it will mean is that he will have another hobby to fill his days of boredom, that’s all. He’ll write papers, go to meetings every now and then, and generally spend more time with the other Dons, drinking wine and smoking cigars at their bird shoots.”
“Then I hope he gets accepted. I don’t like to see him sad and bored.”
“Oh, he’ll get in, Celia. Don’t you worry about that. These people spawn their own neo-feudal hierarchy, and my father is one of them. They will never turn him down. He has too much land, and his voice is a useful one.”
As Celia dressed for dinner later, she thought some more about what Rosa had told her. She concluded that Spain gave a society of wealth and position power out of all proportion, and it also seemed that the rich landowners had even more influence than their own ruling family.
The ladies met in the pink salon at exactly nine o’clock. Dinner was to be served at nine thirty. When Celia arrived, Doña Rosario de Jiménez, Don Andrés’s wife, was already seated in an armchair in the corner of the room. She was short and thin, with a pale and pasty complexion that was heightened only by the rubies and diamonds she wore around her neck and on ears with long, dangling lobes. She had tiny beady eyes that were lifeless yet disapproving at the same time, and her tightly pursed lips were barely visible behind a permanent scowl, giving her an air of austerity. Celia came to sit opposite her, and Marta introduced them.
“Celia, this is Doña Rosario, a dear frie
nd of mine. Rosario, this is Celia.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Doña Rosario said with cold impassive eyes that gave the impression that the contrary was true. “So how do you find it here? I hope living in the country does not bore you too much.”
“No, not at all,” Celia answered politely. “In fact, there are simply not enough hours in the day; I love the country.”
“Then you are quite unusual. I have heard that Englishwomen prefer the diversions of large cities to the quiet life of the country, and London in particular is so fashionable now, is it not?”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“Although, having said that, I would just die if my daughter were to ask me to take her there. Spanish women are so innocent and unworldly compared to your kind. Why, some of the stories we hear about Englishwomen makes my blood run cold.”
Celia looked in Marta and Rosa’s direction for support. Doña Rosario was making it clear that her impression of Englishwomen was not entirely positive. Rosa looked on in silence, but the usually quiet Marta came to her defence.
“Doña Rosario, not all Englishwomen are the same … and not all Spanish women either. Celia is a country girl and has never lived in a big city, so I’m sure she possesses an innocence that not even some of our own young ladies have.”
“Yes, you’re right, I suppose. Carmen, God bless her soul, immediately comes to mind. But she was more English in character than Spanish, wasn’t she? She was quite unique, wouldn’t you say?”
Celia glanced at Marta and was shocked at the sadness she saw in her eyes. The mention of her dead daughter-in-law had hit a nerve.
“Rosario,” Marta said in a voice laced with ice – and without the ‘Doña’ this time –“Carmen was the mother of my grandchild, and whatever she was or wasn’t should not be discussed in this house. It is my grandchild’s home, after all.”
“Have you known many Englishwomen?” Celia asked Doña Rosario, trying to ease the tension.
“No, only by reputation, but then, to be truthful, I have never had any desire to meet one. I’m sure we would have nothing in common.”
Rosa stepped over and stood in front of Doña Rosario. It was clear to Celia that she didn’t particularly like the woman.
“If you have never met one, then surely it would be prudent to reserve judgement? I think you will find that Celia is perfectly charming, with all the good graces that we Spanish women aspire to! Why, I’ve never met a woman so pious, sweet, and totally innocent. Maybe you should concentrate on your own daughters, Doña Rosario. You just might find that they’re not as pure as you’d like to believe.” Rosa said all this without hiding her contempt.
“My daughters are as pure as the driven snow. They have been brought up to believe in obedience and know exactly where a woman’s place is.”
Saved by the bell, Celia rose from her chair and followed the other ladies into the dining room. She had been looking forward to this evening, but after Doña Rosario’s display of open hostility, she wasn’t so sure now that she even wanted to attend the evening’s festivities.
Before they were seated at the table, Celia was formally introduced to Don Andrés, who, unlike his wife, was charming. He smiled an open smile, baring brown teeth stained with cigars. He was a small, portly man with an open and friendly face, and she didn’t feel uncomfortable under his studied appraisal. It was honest and curious, and unlike his wife’s malevolent stares, it did not hold any disapproval whatsoever. How he and his rude, pompous wife could possibly have anything in common was beyond her, Celia thought mischievously.
If Rosa had thought to dispel Doña Rosario’s intolerable sarcasm, she was to be disappointed. As the evening progressed, she became not only tediously predictable in her rudeness but also openly hostile to Celia. Don Andrés, on the other hand, seemed to be fascinated by Celia’s descriptions of Kent and the farms and produce cultivated there. She enjoyed telling him about her home.
“There’s no place like Kent,” she told him.
“So, Celia, you farm beer, and we farm wine. We are more alike than is commonly thought, no?” he said playfully.
Doña Rosario looked on, disapproval turning to anger. Celia tried not to look at her, but she felt the hatred of those beady eyes bearing down on her, and she surmised that she wasn’t the only one to notice this.
The evening unfolded in a somewhat rehearsed atmosphere of Christmas festivity. Celia spoke when she was spoken to, listened to Spanish chatter with deaf ears, and was careful not to draw attention. The evening took an unexpected turn for the worse, however, when she suddenly found herself at the centre of the conversation.
“You know, Celia is probably the only woman I have ever met who has a genuine interest in what we do here,” Ernesto told everyone. “She is a very good student. I think we will have to introduce her to Valencia society so that her knowledge may be applauded.”
“Yes, indeed,” Don Andrés said excitedly. “I can think of quite a few of our young Dons who would be more than happy to receive an introduction. Beauty and brains: now there’s an unusual concept.”
Celia felt the heat of flushed cheeks, and she lowered her eyes, afraid that the others would see her inexplicable annoyance. She wanted them to stop talking about her as though she weren’t there. She did not intend to meet any young men, Dons or otherwise. She suddenly wondered if they all thought her wanton. Was she a crude Englishwoman, not unlike Doña Rosario’s descriptions?
Marta said, “We are very fortunate to have Celia. She has enriched our lives, and I don’t know what any of us would do if she were to leave us. She and Pedro are part of our family now, and we all love her.”
Doña Rosario told Ernesto, ignoring Marta completely, “I think you’ve embarrassed the poor girl, Ernesto. Although I must confess that I didn’t know that Englishwomen could be so naive. From what I’ve heard, they don’t get embarrassed easily. Why, it’s well known that their worldliness equals that of any man.”
“You should be honoured, Celia, not embarrassed,” Don Miguel told her, joining in the discussion. “My son is very protective of his groves, and I believe he has just paid you a great compliment. The trees are like his children, and he has never tutored his sisters in the way he has you. In fact, his sisters were always being chased away just in case they caused damage to even the smallest branch of a tree. Isn’t that right, Rosa?”
“Yes, Papa,” Rosa agreed. “I remember many times being told to stay away. Even as a boy, Ernesto would say, ‘Rosa, go play with your dolls. This is man’s work here.’”
Don Miguel, who had been drinking steadily from the wine decanter, laughed, and then his expression changed. “Celia, you should marry. You would make a fine wife,” he said. “Not only are you beautiful, but you are also very clever. No, Celia, you cannot become an old spinster like Rosa. I won’t allow it. Ernesto, you agree with me, don’t you?”
“Yes, Father, wholeheartedly. I think that Celia should marry again. She’s young, beautiful, and has her whole life ahead of her. I’m sure she won’t have any trouble finding suitors. But maybe you should be asking Celia that question, not me.”
“Yes, you’re right, of course. I think I will.” Don Miguel wagged his finger in the air in Celia’s direction.
“Celia, I’m going to find you a husband … No, don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking. But you’re not the first woman to lose a husband and remarry, and you won’t be the last. You need a man who’s alive, with passion flowing through his veins. Not some corpse who, no matter how much you may wish it, will never be able to fulfil your needs and will never come back to you.”
There was an uneasy silence. Celia was horrified; all eyes were upon her. Don Miguel took another sip of wine and rested his glass precariously on top of a spoon.
“Well, what do you think, Celia? Go on. Speak up, girl!”
Tears glinted in Celia’s eyes, tears that threatened to spill over. “Don Miguel, I have just lost my husband, and
the only man I want in my life now is my son. I am a widow, not a spinster. Please remember that. May we please change the subject now?”
She looked longingly at Marta, but her head was bowed, and etiquette refused her a voice. Celia glanced over at Ernesto and noted that his eyes were willing his father to stop talking. Doña Rosario put down her fork and took a sip of wine. She was clearly the only one enjoying the situation.
“Your husband is dead, yet you do not do him the honour of wearing black mourning attire,” she said. “Did you not love him? And how may I ask did the young man die?”
“He died in an accident, and, yes, I did love him,” Celia told her in a defeated voice.
“Oh, well, that’s life, sometimes good, sometimes bad. We all have our crosses to bear, I suppose. Tell me, do you find our men handsome, better than your Englishmen, more virile?”
“I have not met enough Spanish men to compare, Doña Rosario,” Celia told her with an equally icy tone.
The woman was goading her. She was like a wild dog, attacking her most vulnerable spot. Whatever she said, it would be taken the wrong way, and she’d end up falling deeper into the pit that Ernesto had dug for her. For the first time since her arrival in Spain, she felt like a foreigner, an outsider. Ernesto looked at her and silently mouthed sorry, but the damage had been done.
Marta changed the conversation, asking Doña Rosario about her youngest daughter, who was to be married just after Christmas. Don Miguel and Don Andrés began a conversation in Spanish, but Ernesto’s eyes, sad and apologetic, continued to search her face. Celia lowered her eyes and concentrated on her food. She would never fully understand the people now chatting quite comfortably with each other. They had already forgotten the words that had affected her so deeply. Spanish people tended to speak their minds, damning the consequences or personal injury to another. Doña Rosario had claimed that Spanish women lived by the highest moral standards and Englishwomen were no better that common streetwalkers, yet she had behaved in a most undignified manner. Spanish men, virile indeed!