As Balthazar, Antonio required the most time to prepare. First, he applied the blackface makeup that squeezed out of a timeworn tube of cream. His robe was white, trimmed with gold cording and a matching sash. His accessories included a magnificent crescent saber, silver snap-on earrings, and a white turban with a gold and ruby brooch and a long tail that wrapped three times around his neck.
When the three had finished dressing, they circled and admired each other.
“In all my years,” Diego said, “I have never seen such a handsome trio of kings. We will honor the village.”
“The honor is mine,” Antonio said.
“Mine too,” added Miguel.
“Before we go out, I would like to say a word.” Diego offered his hands to form an unbroken circle of kings. “We three come bearing gifts in praise of God who is here among us. Miguel and Antonio, I vow to respect the God that is in you. For there is only one eternal law: To love one another.”
Silence.
Diego released the hands of his fellow kings and outstretched his arms. The three men embraced each other—a royal three-king hug.
The three men stuffed their pockets and urns with chocolates and caramels and stepped out the front door under a starry sky to the cheers of the villagers. The kings waved to the crowd and tossed candies to the children, who scurried like mice to gather them up and stuff them into their mouths before their mothers could rebuke them.
Outside the church, three white horses were being held by their owner, a wealthy landowner from Córdoba who wintered in Espejo. “Your steed, King Balthazar,” the man pronounced to Antonio, bending low at the waist.
All three mounted like true equestrians. A few villagers made certain the kings’ robes were spread out evenly over the flanks of their steeds.
The kings began the slow descent toward the town square, the villagers in procession behind them. Along the way, children popped out of their houses to demand candies, and the kings happily obliged.
At the town square, Christmas lights were strung from tree to tree and along the roof overhangs. When the kings entered, the band—a trumpet, a trombone, a clarinet, and a snare drum—played Ya Vienen Los Reyes in tribute to the magi, the crowd singing in full voice.
The kings dismounted and marched one behind the other—Diego, Antonio, and Miguel—with backs straight and their treasures held out before them. The procession moved slowly and in step toward the live manger scene: Mary and Joseph, the baby Jesus, a few shepherds, a goat, a burro, and a star wrapped in tinfoil suspended from a tree branch high overhead. At one point, Miguel accidentally stepped on the hem of Antonio’s robe, causing King Balthazar to lose a step.
“I am sorry, Antonio,” Miguel whispered.
“No importa,” Antonio whispered back.
When the kings arrived, all three knelt and, with heads bowed, placed their gifts at the foot of the manger.
Antonio was feeling overwhelmed by the beauty and solemnity of the pageantry and the genuine joy of the villagers. He looked up at the face of the mother of God; it was Lupita, looking more angelic than ever, as she smiled down on him. When he saw her warm eyes, he bowed his head and silently wept.
The kings, shepherds, and holy family remained in position for over an hour, giving the villagers ample opportunity to take photos. All the players stayed in character and reflected on whatever thoughts arise in moments of silent peace.
Even Miguel was saintly. At one point, Señora Martinez from the grocery store taunted Miguel: “Oh, I wonder if the kings would like some fresh oranges?”
Miguel neither spoke nor moved. He kept his eyes fixed on the holy infant.
When the band played “Adeste Fideles,” it was the actors’ cue that they were free to leave the crèche.
And so they did.
The three kings wandered about the square for awhile, distributing their last nuggets of chocolate. When the candy was gone, they escaped into César’s restaurant, where the bartender and customers greeted them with enthusiastic cheers. The kings acknowledged the kind reception with deep bows and, as planned, slipped into the small private room behind the bar, where they changed into street clothes.
When they emerged from the restaurant, Antonio turned to Diego. “Would you mind if I left you for a bit? I would like to find Lupita.”
“Of course,” Diego said. “Miguel and I will help ourselves to some Christmas cake.”
Antonio looked at Miguel with questioning eyes.
“Yes, go,” he said, offering a hand of friendship.
“Thank you,” Antonio said, vigorously shaking Miguel’s hand.
“I think I see Lupita at the fountain,” Diego said.
Antonio looked in that direction and, yes, she was there, still in costume, a long dark scarf over her head and crisscrossed over both shoulders. “Yes, I see her. She is magnificent.”
Antonio walked quickly to Lupita, and the two instantly fell into each other’s arms, Lupita’s scarf slipping off her head as they embraced. When Antonio stepped back to look into Lupita’s eyes, he let go a laugh.
“What is so funny?” she said in mock resentment.
“I forgot I was still wearing blackface makeup. And now you are too.” Antonio took a handkerchief from his pant pocket and waved it at Lupita. “Do not worry; it is clean.”
“I was not worried.”
Antonio dipped the cloth in the fountain and gently rubbed the black smudge off of Lupita’s cheek.
“There, good as new.”
“Let me return the favor.” Lupita rinsed out the handkerchief in the fountain basin and began to wash Antonio’s face. She opened up his shirt collar and wiped the front and back of his neck. Then, when she was pleased with her work, she set the cloth aside. As a final pass, she dipped her hands into the fountain and, caressing Antonio’s face, kissed him passionately on the mouth.
Suddenly, during that long kiss, Antonio’s head was filled with a torrent of images: Savannah and Penelope and Hennessy and Monique and Jean-Pierre Badeau and Harry Tubbs—all of them. His head spinning, he fell completely limp, collapsing to the ground at the base of the fountain.
He began breathing short, agonizing breaths.
Lupita dropped to his side and took his hands in hers. “Antonio, what is it?”
He spoke one word at a time. “I remember. I know who I am.”
“Antonio,” she said, pulling him into her arms, “that is wonderful.”
Antonio’s arms lay limp at his sides. When he spoke again, it was soft and vacant like an incantation. “I know who I am . . . and I am no good.”
“What do you mean?”
Antonio wrenched away from Lupita’s embrace. His jaw was clenched in anguish, his face drawn and gray. His chest was collapsed as if struck by a massive heart attack. He clutched the fabric of his shirt, his fist trembling, the cloth ripping at the seams. And then he bayed like one overcome by Satan. “My God, my God, my God, I am no good.”
Nearby villagers stared at Antonio and, not knowing what to do or what to make of it, simply walked away from the tormented man, giving him room to wrestle with his own demons.
Lupita was herself pallid, absorbing the terror of the man she loved. “Please, please let me help you,” she pleaded, again taking him in her arms.
Antonio was trembling uncontrollably. Then he began to sob: deep, convulsing wails that expelled from the center of his being.
“I am here,” Lupita said, rocking Antonio in her arms.
The band was playing “Silent Night” at the far end of the plaza.
Time passed, the music stopped, and people began returning to their homes.
Gradually, Antonio quieted, drained of all strength.
Lupita asked softly: “Would you like to talk about it, my darling?”
“No,” Antonio managed to say. “Not tonight. I cannot . . . I just cannot.”
“That is all right, Antonio. You do not have to say a word”
After another moment in Lupita�
��s arms, Antonio said that he would like to go home. The two stood and slowly crossed the now deserted square. They moved silently up the hill to the house. Although they walked arm in arm, Antonio was not at all present. He stared vacantly at the cobblestones under his feet that bled like a nightmare into the streets of the Albaicín. The images came flooding back, beginning with Savannah the evening they left the Franciscan Hotel after a blur of sexual indulgence. The memories were as vivid as yesterday:
After struggling to find a parking place in the city center, Antonio and Savannah set course for the Arab Quarter. On the way Antonio stopped off at an ATM machine to draw out 50,000 pesetas. Savannah pressed in behind him, while he navigated the transaction. She draped one arm around his neck and, standing on tiptoe, hooked one leg around his waist—all this while nibbling on his ear.
A stubby woman with thin white hair and nylons knotted below her knees saw this display of public indecency as she passed with her miniature French poodle. Her mouth dropped so suddenly it loosened her upper dentures, and she set them back in place with the tip of her thumb.
Her small dog strained at its leash, intent on nosing the indiscreet lovers. The old woman gave the dog a quick jerk, knocking the poodle off its feet, who responded with a yelp of indignation. “Naughty dog,” the woman scolded and then added, mumbling under her breath, “Shameful, shameful.”
Anthony and Savannah finally stepped into the Albaicín as the sun was setting. The Arab Quarter was built like a jumble of blocks on a hillside facing the southwest side of the Alhambra fortress. In this ancient quarter of the city was the Alcaicería, a long, narrow cobblestone passage that had become an oriental bazaar lined with small overstocked souvenir shops. For Anthony, it was too narrow to be called a street; it was more like an alley, with the corners of buildings jutting in and out at random angles. The Alcaicería was a kaleidoscope of color: dresses, shirts, scarves, and carpets in yellow, blue, red, and gold—all hanging from the outside doorways and windows of the narrow shops.
The two meandered slowly up the narrow lane, stopping occasionally to feel a length of fabric or examine an inexpensive piece of Moroccan jewelry. The pungent scent of incense saturated the air.
Finally, Savannah took Anthony by the hand. “Follow me,” she said. “I want to show you a shop I adore.”
Savannah led Anthony to a side street that was equally narrow, but more somber than the Alcaicería. Except for a run-down van at the end of the grim corridor, the street was abandoned.
“Where are you taking me?” Anthony asked.
“You’ll see.”
The two walked deeper into the alleyway, their heels clicking on the cobblestones. It was a dark and brooding place. Anthony wondered how a man could live there in the shadows, never feeling the sun on his face. Then he noticed a curious thing: There, above the cornice of an arched doorway was an inset ledge, and on that ledge was a clear vase with a single fresh white lily. It was the only point of softness and beauty in the darkened chasm, and Anthony wondered what soul had taken the time to brighten the otherwise tenebrous doorway—and why.
Then, with sudden and blind impact, Anthony dropped with the full weight of his body to his knees. The air exploded out of his chest, and he slumped forward, struggling to balance himself on his extended arms, his fists pressed into the cobblestones. He felt like his legs were crushed.
Only half conscious, he turned his head to the left to see his assailant and caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark, slender man with black hair and a long length of pipe in his right hand. The assailant slammed his left fist into Anthony’s face once, twice, three times. Anthony’s arms buckled on the third blow, and he fell unprotected to the ground, his front temple striking the stone passageway with an ugly thud. He lay unconscious like a sack of grain.
When Anthony awakened, the assailant was dragging him by his armpits through the darkened doorway that was graced with the lily above the cornice.
A man with a white stubble beard and a black cat tucked under his arm peered out from his first-floor window on the opposite side of the street.
“What are you looking at?” the assailant snarled.
The inquisitive man quickly dropped the cat and slammed the shutters closed behind him.
The dark stranger propped Anthony up against the corridor wall. Blood was flowing freely from his forehead and mouth.
Savannah stepped out of the dark and straddled Anthony’s lap. She withdrew a hand-torn fragment of paper from the cleavage of her camisole and slipped it into Anthony’s shirt pocket. Then she gripped his right hand.
Anthony was only half conscious. What was she doing? Savannah appeared out-of-focus in the shadows, and then, slowly, he understood. She was sucking his ring finger, thrusting it deep into her throat. Then, with a muffled scream of effort, she twisted the canary diamond off his finger.
Anthony could barely speak. “Why?”
“You won’t need this, love,” Savannah said, placing the diamond over her thumb.
“Why?” He murmured again.
“He sounds like he loves you,” the assailant said. “You didn’t use that ‘fuck-me scam’ again?”
“Oh, yes,” Savannah said, squeezing Anthony’s cheeks together with one hand and thrusting her tongue deep into his mouth. She spat out his blood and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then, preparing to stand, she straightened herself and, kneeling on one knee, grabbed Anthony by the crotch and gave it a tug. “I’m going to miss this.”
“Stop fooling around,” the dark man said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Through the mental fog, Anthony managed to reach up and grab Savannah by the neck. He pulled her down to him and squeezed with all the strength left in his body, while Savannah pummeled his ribs as best she could. Then Anthony heard the swish of metal, the distinctive sound of a butterfly knife flung open. He ignored it.
The silence of the hallway was shattered by the death scream that ripped from Anthony’s throat as the assailant plunged the five-inch blade into Anthony’s left shoulder. And still, Anthony gripped Savannah’s neck with both hands.
The assailant twisted the knife, and Anthony screamed a second time; the room began spinning, but still he remained conscious. The assailant grabbed the woman by the hair and yanked her backward, slamming her into the opposite wall. Then, in raw anger, he pulled the knife out of Anthony’s shoulder and with a deep animal cry swiped the blade across the front of Anthony’s neck. Unsatisfied, he grabbed Anthony by the hair and prepared to thrust the blade into his heart.
Savannah lunged forward, falling across the right arm of the dark man. “No,” she snapped. “That’s enough.”
The assailant stared at Savannah and in those three seconds of rage debated between driving the knife into Anthony or swiping the blade across the girl’s face. Savannah waited unflinchingly for his verdict. The assailant pulled back his arm to backhand Savannah and then froze, startled by a bellowing voice just outside the open door.
“¿Quien es? ¿Que Pasa?”
Savannah and the assailant shot away into the darkness of the hallway, leaving Anthony for dead. They not only took his diamond ring, but also his gold watch, a roll of bills, and a leather shoulder bag, which contained Anthony’s passport, credit card, and car keys.
It was there, in the hallway of an abandoned seventeenth-century stone building in the heart of Granada’s Albaicín, that Anthony Rossi, president of Transnational Management Services, lay bleeding from head, shoulder, and throat, adrift in the dark comfort and peace of oblivion.
It was also there that Diego Garcia was given a reprieve: Finally, after fifty-five years, he was granted the chance to make peace with his moment of indecision when Juanito faced his executioner.
ANTONIO’S AND LUPITA’S HANDS WERE interlaced at their sides. They kissed each other goodnight, but Antonio’s kiss was so distant, so dispassionate that it unnerved Lupita.
“It will be all right,” she reassured.
“Thank you, Lupita.”
His voice was a world away, and Lupita accepted that. They turned, their hands the last to give way, and quietly entered their separate rooms.
Antonio lay fully dressed across the bed. He could not sleep. In the shadows of his room, he saw the faces and heard the voices of the ghosts of his former life. But they were not ghosts; they were real, and he was a part of that other world. His face wrenched with remembrance of that old life; there was nothing that was redeeming—not the bullying, not the power plays, not the abuse he leveled on others—there was nothing that was in harmony with Diego’s teachings.
His new life in Spain tugged at him like a warm wave, and he realized that if he waded into the water, the wave could kindly pull him out to sea, away from all that he knew ashore. That would be so easy. But what responsibility did he have to atone for his transgressions? That was the question that nagged at him throughout the night.
Then there was Lupita. Every scene reeling before his eyes came back to her. His love for her was unquestionable. In fact, it was the first time in his pathetic history that he valued another life above his own. But how could he reconcile that love with the chaos that awaited him in Paris?
Before dawn, he got out of bed and silently slipped out of the house. He walked down to the town square just as the sun was rising. The plaza was deserted. He crossed to the fountain and stared into the pool. With no wish in mind, he tossed a coin into the fountain and watched the ripples expand and wash against the basin wall. He thought of Diego and Lupita as that coin: Those whose influence had rippled across the face of his life. He knew only one thing for sure. He wanted every decision to be consistent with the example of his Spanish family.
When he returned to the house, Lupita and Diego were already having breakfast in the kitchen. He followed their voices and pulled up a chair at the table.
“You look like you could use some coffee,” Diego said, filling a cup for his friend.
“Yes, thank you.”
“How did you sleep last night?” Lupita asked.
The Awakening Page 22