I went, wondering how my mother expected me to find the Spanish for such a request. In time, by gestures, and patience I made him understand. He grinned and produced the keys with pride, apparently glad to show how well his stewardship had been rendered to the master he had never seen. He lighted a candle, and gestured to us all, Andy as well, to follow him. We descended by a circular stair, narrow and dangerous, with moss on the walls and treads. Andy had lighted his own candle at the rear of the procession. We reached the bottom at last, and the two candles were tiny pinpricks of light in the gloom of an enormous room, circular in shape, whose ceiling the light of the candles would not reach.
‘Agua,’ Paco said. He made motions with his hands indicating drinking and washing. Suddenly I understood.
‘I know what it is! It used to be a cistern. They must have stored water here for the dry months. But look …’ I took the candle from Andy, and moved about the huge space. Rack upon rack of wine was revealed, dust covered, the labels, where they remained at all, black with mould and mildew. ‘There must be thousands. Thousands and thousands … Do you suppose it was here when Grandfather bought the house? It must have cost a fortune to stock it like this. At least twenty-five years it’s been here like this, and no one’s touched it. I suppose some of it’s not fit to drink now’
Paco seemed to get the drift of what I was saying. He was beaming, and he made a slight bow, jingling the keys. He seemed to be trying to convey to us that his honesty had earned him a job for life. Undoubtedly our coming had caused a great disruption in the easeful pattern of his and Serafina’s lives, but I guessed that, like Don Paulo, he expected us to go eventually, as my grandfather had done, and then he and Serafina could sink back into the lassitude of the undisturbed days, with few duties and much time to spare. He seemed to be smiling already at the prospect.
My mother was trying to read some of the labels on the bottles. ‘You know ‒ I think Father has left us a small fortune in wine. Perhaps we could sell it … but for lunch, since this is the first day, we’ll just have this Bordeaux, and perhaps this Chambertin for dinner.’ She gave a small laugh of pleasure. ‘What a feast! What luck! He always had such great taste in wine …’
I sighed. We would never sell the wine. It would be drunk.
III
It was not yet eleven o’clock on the morning of our second day in Jerez, but the sun already beat like hammer strokes on us as we rode, and caused the people who walked the streets to seek the black shadows of the buildings. When it was noon there would be no shade, and the heat would be relentless. We rode, a rather improbable three, I thought, led by Serafina’s nephew, Pepe, and followed by the mastiff, Pepita. I rode Half Moon, and my mother had claimed Balthasar; Andy had an undistinguished-looking, tired mare hired from a livery stable. We’ll have to find him a halfway decent horse, I thought, watching him manoeuvring the mare to keep close to the great stallion in case Balthasar should prove too much even for my mother’s expert horsemanship. Have to find some way to exercise Balthasar and Half Moon outside the town. Have to find some sort of trap and a carriage horse so we can go about more easily. The thoughts ran on and on, through my head. Have to … have to … And always the second thought following the first. Money. How were we to find the money?
‘Have you ever seen such a blue sky, Charlie?’ my mother called back to me. She sounded gay, excited. She had forgotten the disorder of the house we had left behind, the difficulties, the thousand things we lacked. We were going on a visit, and that fact was quite enough to make my mother happy.
‘There had better not be any rain,’ Andy said. ‘Or it could ruin the harvest. The grapes don’t like rain at this stage.’
‘Andy ‒ how do you know such things?’
‘Oh ‒’ He glanced back at me, his expression sheepish. ‘Oh, I listen, Miss Charlie. The old woman still has a few words of English. She must have worked with some family that spoke it all the time. But I listen. Sometimes I think I understand a few things.’
‘That’s another thing we’ll have to have,’ I said. ‘We have to have someone regularly to give us lessons in Spanish. Someone …’
‘Oh, Charlie, dear, my learning days are over,’ my mother answered. ‘Your poor old mother was never much of a brain, and what there was has been shaken out of me with all the tumbles I’ve taken off horses. You’ll have to do the learning, my darling, and tell me what’s going on. Only the nice bits, though. Besides, if what I see here is evidence, there are enough people who speak English. Enough to keep me going, any rate …’
Some of the streets through which we had passed were lined on both sides with the thick, high walls of the bodegas, all with the high, grilled windows open so that the air itself seemed saturated with the warm scent ‒ scent was the only word I could find for it ‒ of the sherry as it lay in its casks, breathing, giving out the essence of the sun and the soil that had borne it. The sight of the bodegas had surprised me. I had always thought of wine cellars as being deep in the ground, but these were long high buildings, built above ground. They stretched, whole streets of them, through the town, their walls painted with the famous names of the trade ‒ Williams and Humbert; González, Byass; Domecq; de Terry; Duff Gordon; Osborne ‒ and Fernandez, Thompson. English, Irish and Scottish names. No doubt half of them were owned by families who now mixed their names with the Spanish, but there was reason for my mother’s confidence that more than a few would speak English as Don Paulo did. I began to see that I would be taking my Spanish lessons alone.
We were on our way to the principal bodega of Fernandez, Thompson. Pepe led us through the streets with a high head, and a look of pride that somehow negated the ragged clothes he wore. Half consciously I had noticed how so many of the Spanish seemed to surmount their poverty, to cloak it with pride. They were willing, but not servile. It evidently pleased Pepe highly to be seen in the streets of his native town with two foreign ladies so splendidly mounted on such outstanding horses. I saw how often he glanced at my mother, now at the height of her almost outrageous beauty, with creamy skin smooth and silken, dark red hair that escaped entrancingly in little tendrils to touch her cheeks. His looks seemed to indicate that she was fully worthy of the horse she rode. His chest was puffed out as he passed acquaintances in the streets, and called the way we were to turn, indicating with the stick he carried. He was for all the world like someone who proclaimed the coming of a queen. My mother loved it.
The main offices of the bodega of Fernandez, Thompson were approached through a gate as handsome as any I had ever seen. We passed into a paved courtyard, with areas of carefully cultivated flowers, and bright pots of geraniums placed in clusters. More bodegas were revealed ‒ a whole row of massively built structures with the unvarying high windows, white walls splashed with purple bougainvillaea. In the paved passages between the bodegas grape vines grew on gnarled old stems, thicker than a man’s arm. Andy led the horses to the shade they provided ‒ they were trained on wires strung from one building to the next. ‘Look,’ my mother said, ‘there are actually grapes on them. They look too old …’ And up among the bright, thick leaves I could see the clusters of pale grapes. Before dismounting, I almost reached up for a cluster, and then stopped. Close to, they were small and hard-looking, as if they were not ready for picking, perhaps never would be. They were the fruit of old vines which had to scratch their existence from the tiny patches of soil along the bodega walls.
A man came to help us dismount. He seemed to know who we were. It was almost unnecessary to ask for Don Paulo. He ushered us, with many bows, towards a building deeply shaded by a colonnade. The heavy, ornate doors I had seen everywhere in the town were open; inside the dimness came like cool water after the aching glare of the sun. We were led past a row of offices whose half-glassed walls gave us a view of many men at work at desks. One or two lifted their heads, and then frankly stared. My mother was something to stare at. We passed from this corridor through another open space threaded with vines, and th
en were shown into the deep quiet of what seemed to be a reception area. Here there were big carved velvet-covered chairs set on silken carpet; there were discreetly closed doors where I guessed the more important people worked. The familiar marble floors gave the impression of coolness, as did the silence.
‘Momentito, por favor.’
The man went and knocked at one of the doors, stepped inside and spoke some words. Almost at once Don Paulo came out to meet us. If he had been engaged in work he gave no sign of it; he had the air of one to whom courtesy to visitors was more important than any work. At the sight of him Pepita flung herself forward with a yelp of delight, and was sternly rebuked by her former master.
‘Miss Charlotte, you will have to be more severe with Pepita. I told you she was barely more than a puppy, and does not yet seem to have learned her manners. I trust you to bring her up properly.’
I felt as rebuked as the dog. Don Paulo formally took my mother’s hand, and then mine, and waved his arm towards the open door of his office. ‘You are welcome,’ the lips said. The hooded eyes said nothing.
His office was richly furnished. There were English mahogany, glass-fronted bookcases, a leather-topped desk, which bore an elaborate silver writing-set. But lest even the desk should suggest too much of a sense of business, he led us to the other end of the long room where big chairs similar to the ones outside stood about a highly polished table. Already as if some silent message had been passed, a manservant in white coat and white gloves was setting out small, inward-curving sherry glasses; three bottles were placed on a silver tray. There was another silver tray bearing small pieces of bread spread with pâté, and little tarts filled with shrimp and melted cheese. There were silver bowls of olives and nuts. It was all done with deftness and silence; no sense of hurry. It was as if Don Paulo had nothing to do except wait on the arrival of visitors, which couldn’t have been the case.
‘You will take a copita, ladies?’ He was already pouring. Our agreement was taken for granted. ‘Would you try our local custom of drinking the sweet ‒ the cream sherry ‒ before the dry, the fino? It would be a pity if you left Jerez without knowing something of how we drink our sherry here.’
‘I like Jerez,’ my mother said. ‘I’m sure I shall stay.’
He behaved as if she had not spoken. ‘We say here that the cream sherry, the oloroso, cradles the stomach, and we take it as our first copita of the day. From that one goes to the amontillado, which comes in the middle. After that, the fino, which we then stay with for the rest of the day. For us it is the greatest wine, dry, pale, delicate on the tongue.’ He raised his glass. ‘I salute your health, ladies.’
Gravely we tasted the warm, sweet wine, dark and rich in colour. I noticed that Don Paulo held the glass beneath his nose for a moment, swirled it slightly, drew in the bouquet, and then drained it almost in one mouthful. Already he was pouring the next wine, one lighter in colour, less heavy, I supposed, to nose and tongue. That also went quickly. My mother seemed to have no trouble keeping up with him. I found my third glass filled with the pale fino before the first one was empty. In the midst of my unease, I still couldn’t help thinking what a beautiful spectrum of colours they made, lined up beside one another.
Don Paulo now held out the silver dish with its spread of small delicacies. ‘Do have some, Lady Patricia. We call them tapas. Tapa is ‒’ he gestured with one of the tiny tarts ‒ ‘our word for lid or cover.’ He held the tart so that it neatly topped the rim of the glass. ‘To cover the glass. We seldom drink without eating.’
I didn’t want to eat, but under the spell of that man’s quiet voice, compelling, I both ate and drank. It all seemed a kind of madness. We all sat in this splendid room, acting as if we had come only on a courtesy call, acting as if we had nothing to do but exchange pleasantries about local customs, and soft Spanish words. I cautioned myself that if it continued much longer we would be leaving with our business unstated, undone. There was a hint of sharpness in the heart of the last wine, the pale bright wine which washed over my palate with a cleansing purity. I straightened myself in the chair.
‘Don Paulo, if you don’t mind, we must discuss some business … The matter of my grandfather’s shares …’
A frown began, and was swiftly erased. ‘Miss Charlotte, it is rarely my habit to talk to ladies about business.’ His tone was soothing, almost patronising; one did not talk to children of business, either, he seemed to imply.
‘Unhappily, we have no man to talk to you of business,’ I answered sharply.
He held up his hand. ‘Ah, but you had. Your solicitors wrote from Dublin. Everything could have been conducted by post. There was really no need for your journey here, although, of course, we are all most delighted to have you visit.’
‘The solicitors in Dublin had only the barest knowledge of my grandfather’s business interests here, Don Paulo. They were not known until after his death. Lord Blodmore knew no details, either. He tried to dissuade us from coming. He tried to make other arrangements for us.’
‘Lord Blodmore has been known to show good sense before this,’ the man said dryly. ‘And what may I tell you?’
‘About my grandfather’s interests in this bodega ‒ the extent of them. We understand there is a bank here which received payments from this firm, but did not remit them to Ireland.’ I was striving to remember everything Siddons had said, and repeating it parrot-fashion, wondering if I would make sense of the answers. ‘We heard of a vineyard. My grandfather’s affairs seemed to be in some … some disorder when he died.’
‘I’m not entirely surprised to hear it.’
My mother’s voice rose in protest. ‘Oh, but you mustn’t judge my father by that! Who would have thought he would be killed? He was only fifty-seven. Yes … about fifty-seven. There seemed years for him to arrange everything. He just didn’t have enough time …’ Her voice almost broke. ‘He was the dearest, kindest man …’
Don Paulo was filling her glass again. ‘Your love and faith do you credit, Lady Patricia. Not all children are so respectful.’ He raised his head, and nodded towards the door. ‘Now, here is one …’ I, seated opposite Don Paulo, and with my back to the door, was aware of the change which had come over his face. He struggled against dropping his habitual expression of weary cynicism, struggled against allowing those hooded dark eyes to widen and display his pleasure; he did not quite succeed. ‘Here is one, a graceless rascal, who shows little respect for his elders, and none at all for their wisdom and experience. May I present my son, Carlos? Lady Patricia Drummond. Miss Charlotte Drummond. I might have known he would find his way here quickly. Beautiful ladies draw him ever more unerringly than a good horse. I’m sure, Lady Patricia, I do not offend you with the comparison. Our horses are as precious to us here as our wine and our ladies.’
I saw a tall, slender young man, surprisingly young to be Don Paulo’s son. He had dark, curling hair. His cream linen suit with a tastefully embroidered silk waistcoat gave him the air of a dandy, but he was perhaps the most powerfully masculine creature I had yet encountered. He emanated his virility as Balthasar did. He bent first over my mother’s hand, and then turned to take mine. As he executed the gesture of kissing it, his eyes, dark as his father’s, ran over me in a practised, knowing fashion. Then he smiled, and for a moment it was possible to believe he thought me the only female in the world. He had an oval face, perfectly regular, beautifully defined features; his complexion was lighter than his father’s but it showed his days in the sun. He had his father’s good looks, but with an added grace. He was saying something, but I scarcely comprehended the words; in those first stunned moments of looking at him I thought he was the most beautiful young man I had ever seen. He revealed his perfect profile as he turned to Don Paulo.
‘What a pleasure for our little town to gain at one time two ladies of such beauty. I can tell you, the heads were turning as you walked by our offices …’ Now he bowed to his father. ‘That is, of course, Father, why I had to find
some business of pressing urgency to bring to you now.’ He presented a folder, and laughed at the same time. ‘You did not tell me, Father,’ and his tone was heavy with mock reproach, ‘that we were so honoured. I should have called at once. Probably there are a dozen ahead of me.’ It was a measure of his skill, I thought, that no one could guess for which of us he held his greatest admiration. It was a most superb blend of flattery and truth.
He took a copita with us, smelling it as his father had done, but drinking it more slowly. He drank only the pale, bright fino, the wine which I had already decided I liked the best. He talked as he drank; he talked about Ireland, questioned us about Ireland, about Clonmara where his father’s … For a time we all fumbled as how to describe the relationship of Don Paulo and Elena. Finally Carlos found it: ‘My father’s niece by marriage.’ And then he laughed. ‘How ridiculous that sounds. Here in Jerez we are all something-by-marriage.’ Then he talked of England. ‘I had the good fortune to go to school there,’ he said, ‘and then Father dragged me back here to scrape a living out of the sherry business.’
Don Paulo allowed all this recital. ‘I heard nothing but how hard they worked him there, how cold it was, how early he had to get up every morning. A spoiled young man, I’d say.’
Carlos gave a slight shrug. ‘I shall never redeem myself in my father’s eyes, I think. I work my fingers to the bone … Don’t you see, Lady Patricia, how my fingers are worked to the bone.’ He extended long, infinitely graceful hands to her for her inspection. She laughed back at him, enchanted. ‘You poor young man!’
He looked at Don Paulo. ‘Father, you can’t deny me the pleasure of showing our guests through the bodega. After all, you have me do it for boring old men, so surely I’ve earned this privilege?’
The Summer of the Spanish Woman Page 10