The Summer of the Spanish Woman

by Catherine Gaskin

  He took me in this way through the scales of a solera of finos, rinsing with water and then plunging the long venencia, taking a fresh glass each time, and each time pouring with that marvellous accuracy. Year by year the wine grew better, to smell and on the tongue, until finally, having begun with the youngest, we reached the oldest scale of the solera where it had attained the delicate, topaz perfection of the fino we had drunk in Don Paulo’s office.

  ‘The finos we have to keep in a cool temperature ‒ so we water the floors. The olorosos may be stored at a higher temperature ‒ though, unless they are in need of more sweetening, we keep them in the shade.’

  We moved across to another bodega. Pepita had followed us through all this, moving constantly between us, not seeming to know which of us she should look to for her commands. Don Paulo studiously ignored her.

  By now I was becoming familiar with the structure of the bodegas, the great height and the thickness of the walls bringing down the temperature many degrees. They were beautiful buildings, their whitewashed walls were often stained with mildew, holding their treasure of dark silent waiting casks, where the wine lay breathing, living, maturing. ‘The “cellar instinct”,’ Don Paulo said, ‘is almost as important to the sherry shipper as his “nose” for his wine, or his decisions about where to plant his vineyards. Wine here in Jerez develops better when stored in bodegas on the south or south-west of the town ‒ possibly because of the moisture and aeration of the breeze blowing from the sea, but that again is scientifically unproven. I will not talk to you about alcoholic strengths, density on the Baumé scale, and all the rest of it. It is technical, and you are here to enjoy the wine, to carry back with you memories of how we create our unique product. If that has been accomplished, it is enough.’

  The quiet was one of the abiding impressions I had of the bodegas. There were workmen about, carrying out their various tasks, and each bodega had its capataz, its foreman, who had a position of high responsibility. I saw casks being rolled along the aisles, wine being siphoned off the butts into jars, then added to the next scale of the solera. ‘We never hurry with this process,’ Don Paulo said. ‘A jarful at a time. This method distributes the new wine evenly with the old, and there is no jet of pressure to stir up the sediment.’ But in the midst of their tasks, there was still the feeling of quiet in the bodegas. I walked at Don Paulo’s side and felt strangely at peace.

  ‘Sherry,’ he said to me as we crossed yet another of those vine-threaded passageways between the bodega buildings which bore their own special name of almizcates, ‘is the special gift of God. Everything here about us in Jerez is exactly right for it ‒ soil, climate, ferments and fruit. But the special gift is the flor. I will not bore you with attempting a scientific explanation of what no one has yet exactly defined, but the flor is the flower of the wine, the spores of the yeast which rise spontaneously to the surface of the wine twice a year and reproduce, then fall to the bottom of the butt again. It is called a flower, but actually it is a rather ugly-looking film. It appears on the wine in April and May and again in August and September. It is interesting that these periods coincide with the budding of the vines, and their blossoming, and also when the fruit of the vine grows ready for harvest. It is a living organism, and we do nothing to induce it ‒ just keep our casks on ullage, and our bungs lightly stoppered, so that the air may react with the wine in the cask. A sherry wine will produce this flor for about six to eight years. If the older wine is not blended with the new, younger wine, the flor will die, and so will the wine. Renewed with other wines, it keeps on breeding indefinitely … and so I think about the family. How good if we could keep on being renewed in this way …’

  We had entered yet another bodega. A few casks were stacked apart from the others, differently marked. Once again Don Paulo called for the venencia and the glasses. ‘We use the little venencia so that it goes straight and swiftly through the flor, and does not stir up any sediment in the butt … These butts should not rightly be here. Their true home is Sanlucar de Barrameda, where the grapes are grown and they mature best. I keep them here for my own observation, just to see the difference in the way the wine will develop. What does it taste like, do you think?’

  It was very pale, the palest of the sherries I had seen. I sipped, and hesitated. ‘It tastes … it seems to taste a bit salty.’

  I couldn’t tell whether he was pleased by the guess or not. ‘It is called a manzanilla sherry,’ he said. ‘You are right. It is slightly salty. The grapes that produce it are grown quite close to the sea, and we say it has the salt taste of the sea in it. At Sanlucar the bodegas are quite near the sea. The wine likes its own home.’

  The many small copas I had had in the heat of the day were beginning to take their effect. I had forgotten how frightened I had been earlier of this man. As he had talked of his wine, he had talked of something he loved, and with love there is always a tenderness, and a streak of vulnerability. My own tongue had loosened.

  ‘It’s all one family of wines,’ I said slowly, trying to pick my words, trying to express the impression that the whole exposition of the solera, the atmosphere of the bodegas had had on me. ‘… gathered into one home. But in my father’s house there are many mansions. I suppose it means many rooms. The wines go off into their own rooms. The quiet … the cool with still the blazing sun outside. You bring the wines here to make the family ‒ the young and the old. The grapes growing out there in the vineyards are like the unborn babies of the family. Here you prepare the nurseries for them. You will teach and train them by blending and mixing them with their elders. The strength is in the family …’ I trailed off, embarrassed to find my tongue so loosened with this man. Why did I bother him with my half-formed thoughts?

  He returned the glass and the venencia to the hand of the waiting man, who then seemed to disappear into the shadows of the bodega. He looked at me for quite a long time before replying.

  ‘The family,’ he replied. ‘… the family is everything. And yet your family and mine, Doña Carlota, have not been blessed with many members. In our mansions there are many empty rooms. Women who have not produced sons. Men who could not get sons on women. Our criaderas have been scantily filled.’

  He took my arm lightly, the first time he had touched me, and led me down the aisle between the tiers of butts. We turned into the main aisle which led to one of the great open doorways of the bodega. Outside was the harsh, blinding light. Silhouetted against the light were two figures, my mother and Carlos. The light behind them seemed to give them an aura of enchantment; the young man, throwing a dark shadow, seemed older; my mother, with her slenderness, her upright carriage, seemed a young woman. They each held a copa in their hands, and, unable to see clearly into the dimness of the bodega, they appeared unaware of our approach. They gazed at each other, their tones, as they talked, low and intimate. The wine they held shone brilliantly in the sun.

  Don Paulo’s words came as a soft whisper; I wasn’t even sure I was intended to hear them. ‘And there ‒ there is my hope for this family. He was born of a woman to whom I was not married. He does not even rightfully bear my name. And yet he is all my hope.’

  We walked towards them. Pepita then seemed to decide where she belonged. She fell in beside me and stayed with me.

  Chapter Three

  I

  She was waiting for us when we returned. She was seated in what we called the drawing-room, and Serafina had served her a copita, which she appeared not to have touched. She was thin, wiry, and dressed in black. ‘I am Maria Luisa Romero Fernandez Gordon. I have a host of other names which I won’t trouble you with. I have come to offer my services.’

  My mother poured a copita for herself, and then sat down opposite our visitor. I refused the offered glass, and stared in fascination at the woman. She was ugly in a quite remarkable way, an outstanding ugliness, with snapping black eyes that brightened her sharp, sallow face. Pepita came to sniff her, and she put her hand without hesitation on the dog
’s big head. ‘I see you have Don Paulo’s dog … Carlos will not like that.’

  ‘Services …?’ I said, to bring her back to the point.

  ‘Exactly. You will need someone like me if you are to stay in Jerez. Otherwise you will make a mess of things. You don’t know how things are done in Spain. You don’t know who anyone is. To survive, you must be shown the way. I can do it. I’m related to more than half the families in Jerez, and I know the facts and scandals attached to all the others. I am poor, unmarried and ugly. I get shifted from family to family, moved around when someone needs something ‒ a duenna, a nurse, a housekeeper. I am everyone’s poor relation. Now I offer my services to you. You need me.’

  I blinked at the rapid delivery of the words in perfect English. ‘Services? We can pay for nothing.’

  ‘I didn’t mention payment. I am tired of being ordered about in a society in which an unmarried woman of my age is nothing ‒ nothing except an object of pity and someone to be used. I know you can pay for nothing. I need a roof over my head, food and a dress now and again. In return I will teach you Spanish. I will give orders to the servants and see that you are not cheated of the little you have. Jerez society is already buzzing with the news of your arrival. In a day or two they will start calling, swarming around, seeing what you are like. You will need someone like me or you will make many, and probably fatal mistakes. There are very few women like me in Jerez. Most of them are idle and stupid. They laugh at me and would ignore me except that they know I am clever, and they are a little afraid.’

  My mother poured again. She said, in a tone of gentle amusement, ‘You seem remarkably sure of yourself, señorita.’

  Maria Luisa nodded. ‘I am. I’ve learned to be. It is the only way I survive. I’m the last of six daughters, all of the others are pretty and married. I was left with my foolish father, who lost his money ‒ gambling, bad business ventures, thrown away on mistresses.’ She uttered the word without coyness. ‘Now, happily, he is dead, and I do not have to stay with him to be the dutiful daughter in his dotage. But I am tired of being passed back and forth among my sisters, like a chair to be sat on. I am jealous of them, of course. Four of them made very good marriages ‒ that was when my father was able to provide dowries. By the time my turn came there was no money, and who would look at someone like me who has no money?’ She added, with a twisted smile: ‘They must have known how I was going to turn out when I was baptised. I was given the name of the ugliest queen Spain ever had.’

  My mother sipped her wine, leaned back in her chair, eyes closed. ‘I really don’t know what to say.’ She waved her hand without opening her eyes. ‘Talk to Charlie about it. You will learn that Charlie is much more practical than I.’

  ‘That I know already.’ Our eyes met, and I experienced not a feeling of pity, but a sense of relief. This woman, I thought, was quite merciless, not just with others but with herself. The pain that was revealed in her own description of herself was flawed by not a trace of self-pity. Only one doubt came to my mind, and I voiced it.

  ‘Tell me ‒ and tell me truthfully. Has Don Paulo sent you? Are you here to “look after” us, at his suggestion? His command, perhaps I should say.’

  The smile again twisted the thin lips. ‘So you have his measure, have you? Then you are not a fool. Yes, he would have sent someone to try to “look after” you, as you put it, if he had thought of it first. No, he did not send me. If he had asked me, I would not have come. I have performed many thankless tasks in my life, but I have never been a paid spy.’

  ‘But surely to come to us for nothing ‒ for the little you say you need ‒ that isn’t much better than thankless.’

  ‘You must let me be the judge of that. This is not a Spanish household. I was born a lady, and here I can be one, even if I run the kitchen. I am not a duenna or an old aunt sitting in the corner. I can use my wits to help you, and I need that. And besides, I am being paid. A little.’

  ‘Paid?’ I started forward, and my mother opened her eyes. ‘By whom?’

  ‘You have a friend. I knew him when he was here. A shrewd and clever man who never made the mistake of ignoring me. His name then was Richard Selwin ‒ now Lord Blodmore. He was poor, with no prospects. But he was handsome, and that makes a vast difference. He was permitted to practise his charm, use his good looks. And although he always had to borrow his horses, he was a good rider. They used to lend him horses just to have them exercised. He was invited to make up the extra place at dinner tables. Clever … he used his opportunities. Of course, they were careful that he should know he would not be acceptable for one of their precious daughters. He understood that, and they were comfortable with him. No one seriously thought he would ever inherit from Blodmore. When he did, he was brought back here to Jerez, and given the greatest prize of all, Elena.

  ‘I used to admire him,’ she went on. ‘I used to watch to see how he would manoeuvre in a situation. He was more than a little of a cynic, and he knew exactly how he stood with these people here. We were almost two of a kind, and he recognised it. Whenever there was a really big party, an affair that one has to ask even the family old maid to, he always sought me out. He saw that my glass was filled, that my plate was not empty. He used to encourage me to talk, and some things I said made him laugh. Sometimes a little group would join us, and he made me feel clever and witty. A few times ‒ a very few times I knew what it was like to be the centre of attention. I owe those times mostly to Richard Selwin. I haven’t forgotten, and he hasn’t forgotten. He wrote to me as soon as he knew you were coming, and made his proposition. I think he hopes you will not stay, but if you do, you will need help. Do you agree?’

  I knew the question was directed at me, but I could not answer. Suddenly Richard’s presence was in the room, like a light that dazzled me and which I could not escape, a hand which held me, still; it was a strange revenge of love that I had said he would never open the gate to the rose garden without remembering me. There was going to be, it seemed, between us, more than remembering. I might have persuaded myself, in time, that there really was nothing to remember, except that he kept reaching out to me. Those brief minutes on the shore, in the library might have faded; I might have lost the early summer scent of the rose garden, except that the tangible results were here with me ‒ the annuity to my mother, Andy’s presence among us, and now this strange, dynamic woman in our midst.

  I gestured to my mother. She smiled, relieved, happy. ‘I think you will be a great help to us, Maria Luisa. Now, you will have a copita with us, won’t you? It’s been quite a strenuous morning. So much to try to remember …’

  I knew both relief and dismay. Maria Luisa would be a help, as Richard had known. But she was one more added to the little circle, this small family which was growing up around us. I counted them off ‒ my mother and Nanny, helpless, those two, like children; Serafina and Paco, needed, but also needing to be watched, which was what Maria Luisa had warned us of; the nephews, Pepe and Jaime, needed also, as one always seemed to need young boys, but these would, in time, grow to demand more than boys; Andy … my thoughts ran on and on. It now seemed a frighteningly large group, though there had been more at Clonmara. But Clonmara was home, and one knew how to deal with things at home. I looked at Maria Luisa again; Maria Luisa knew how to deal with things in Jerez, and that was her function. Richard Blodmore had once again sent a gift, not a showy gift, like Balthasar and Half Moon, but perhaps one much more valuable.

  II

  Maria Luisa barely touched her wine during lunch, which in the usual Spanish fashion, wasn’t served to us until almost three o’clock. She also ate abstemiously, I noticed. By now arrangements had been made for Nanny to have her meals in a room near the kitchen. ‘I can’t eat with the family, Miss Charlie,’ she had said. ‘But I’m not going to eat with those chattering monkeys in the kitchen, either.’ So when Paco had cleared the last of the dishes, and the port had been placed by Mother’s hand, Maria Luisa drew her chair closer to the table,
and learned forward.

  ‘I should tell you about Don Paulo,’ she said. ‘The man is very powerful in Jerez, and he is now related to you ‒ however loosely, by marriage. He is anxious to buy back your share of the bodega ‒’ I had already told them that; there seemed no reason to keep the information from Maria Luisa. ‘To know at least a little of his history will help you …’

  The story spun out into the hours of the siesta. ‘The Fernandez family have been nobles since before the time of Isabel and Ferdinand. The Santander title, which Don Paulo uses, came for service when the French were being driven out of Spain, and it was earned while fighting with Wellington. Some marriages at certain times brought money into the family, and some only brought more noble blood, and perhaps another title which they didn’t need. They may once have been rich when the gold was flowing into Spain from the Americas, but in the last hundred or so years they’ve fallen on hard times. They seemed to have the unhappy knack of marrying a girl with a good dowry, or a fine estate, and somehow the dowry was spent, or the estate lost. Don Paulo followed his heart when he married the first time ‒ can you imagine such a man following his heart, or even being in love? ‒ and the girl had little money. They say she was very beautiful, and she brought a dowry of poor mountain land as bare as if the goats had grazed it. They had one son, who died as an infant, and one daughter, who died when she was about seventeen. Don Paulo’s wife died at the birth of the daughter, and everyone expected him to look for a marriage that would bring money, which he needed. His sherry business needed new capital. But he did nothing, made no move towards finding a new wife. He just carried on, growing his vines, trying to build his business. Perhaps no woman with a suitable fortune was available, and he had lost his romantic notions of love-matches. He had mistresses, of course ‒ most men have ‒ but he didn’t marry.’

  ‘You seem to know a good deal about him,’ I said. ‘But this first marriage must have been before you were born.’