The Shadow and the Sun

by Amanda Doyle

  Anna checked her thoughts.

  She hadn’t finished her coffee when Guy arrived, apologising for keeping her waiting.

  Quickly she described what had occurred, and what she had let him in for as well.

  “Of course I’ll go with you to see the woman, Anna,” he told her, to her relief more amused than annoyed. “But you know, my dear, it’s strictly unethical. I can’t prescribe for her officially, even supposing I determine what’s wrong. I suppose the most I can do is to reassure her, and the little barrow-boy, or whatever he is.”

  “Bootblack. Guy, thanks for being so sweet about the whole thing. You’ll understand how I feel when Juanito comes back. He’s irresistible.”

  “Any lame dog is irresistible to you, Anna, my sweet,” he told her, laughing in spite of himself. “Really, you’re hard to beat! I leave you for barely an hour, and in that short space you manage to pick up a waif! It’s just not safe to let you out alone. How do you know this isn’t some tall story to extort money from you and then disappear into the crowd? You can resign yourself never to set eyes on Juanito again, if my experience of life is anything to go by.”

  “Save your cynical remarks, Doctor Harding. Here he comes now,” retorted Anna, as a laden Juanito threaded his jaunty passage between the tables towards them. “And if you dare to laugh, or make two-edged remarks, or anything at his expense, I’ll—I’ll never forgive you,” she threatened fiercely.

  “It’s you I’m amused at, Anna—you’re like a ruffled bantam hen! Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to offend your little protégé.”

  And he was as good as his word.

  In fact, from the moment she introduced the man and the boy, Guy was kindness itself. He relieved Juanito of some of his parcels, tactfully exercising great care in their handling as he was begged to do, and With Anna as interpreter, made halting attempts at conversation as they turned down a street off the main thoroughfare, and threaded their way through increasingly narrow byways until they finally arrived at Juanito’s dwelling.

  By this time it was getting dark, and the single oil lamp did little to dispel the gloom inside the small, flat-roofed house, which at first appeared to have only one general-purpose room. As far as Anna could see, it was surprisingly clean, but shabby and untidy, and Guy nearly tripped over the frayed edge of rough matting which partially concealed the stone floor, as he ducked his head to enter.

  A very old man sat in a corner near the small window. His hair was plentiful and white, his features patrician, his skin like cracked and wrinkled leather. He took no notice of anyone at all, but went on looking out into the cobbled alley which was all the view he had, as if lost in dreams of timelessness.

  “Mi abuelo—my grandfather, do you call him. He does not see or hear very well nowadays.” Juanito gestured briefly in his direction, before bending to greet the three younger children who clamoured upon him without more than a cursory wide-eyed glance at the strangers who had entered.

  “Martita, Carlos and the little Timoteo.” Their elder brother was at pains to make polite introductions, and held the chocolate out of reach while he whispered to them sternly. Each child gave a small bob of greeting before grasping its reward, and retiring to the table to give absorbed attention to the unwrapping of the cakes of chocolate.

  “You will take a little wine?” he queried with old-fashioned courtesy, indicating the porron that stood on the table. “No? Then we will come at once to see how is my mother. This way, if you please, senor doctor.”

  Guy’s examination did not take long. After first scolding her son for bringing the foreign doctor without even a warning, when she might have had the place scrubbed and tidy, Juanito’s mother lay back weakly and submitted to the questions asked.

  As he had promised, Guy did his best to reassure her.

  Then they returned to the main room, where Juanito sent his young sister out for a jar of water. The boy poured a little for Guy, then Anna took the rest in a bowl and helped the weary Senora Moreno to wash and freshen herself. With the brisk efficiency born of practice, she tidied the little room and straightened the bed.

  When she turned to go, the woman thanked her gratefully and with dignity.

  “Indeed, I feel better already, senorita. It was shameful of Juanito to bring you here to find us in this situation, but he is a good boy, and no doubt meant well. There is nothing wrong with me that time and rest will not cure. This is what the good young doctor says, and I know that it is so. It is difficult to rest, you understand, with the chicos not old enough to assist, and the old man sits always and does nothing. If my husband were only here—but there, he is gone to Madrid, and we hope soon to hear good news of him. Gracias a Dios, senorita, that you have come and shown kindness to an ailing woman of whom you can know nothing.”

  “I’ll come again,” Anna assured her, glad now that her impulsive action had proved helpful after all. “I have already arranged to see Juanito at the cafe where he works. Try not to worry, senora, and I’m sure you will soon be better.”

  When she returned to the other room, Juanito poured her some tea.

  Anna shuddered slightly at the sight of two teabags swimming in a saucepan of boiling water on the black stove. Guy was already drinking his, but the old man now held in his hand a bota, from which he directed a stream of rough wine into his open mouth with incredible force and accuracy.

  “I make the tea especially for you, senorita,” Juanito pointed out with forgivable pride. “Always the English people wish for tea, is it not truth? Juanito knows this, so he buys the little sacs in order to give you the drink you desire when you come to his house.”

  “It’s very nice, Juanito. Thank you. It’s just what I was longing for.” Perhaps not strictly true, but possibly it was more palatable than the contents of the bota, whose pungency could be detected even where she sat.

  Guy was frowning as he took her elbow to guide her back through the maze of streets.

  “My little do-gooder, you really do complicate life, don’t you?” he teased her, half earnest, half quizzical.

  “Can you do anything for her, Guy?”

  His broad shoulders lifted.

  “That’s the devil of it, Anna. Having seen the poor creature, one can’t just do nothing, can one? She has a heart condition that can be greatly helped by tablets, and I suspect a fairly severe anaemia that’s easily enough treated. I’ll ask old Uncle to get hold of the right drugs for me, and pass them on to her. She’d respond better with a spell in hospital for a while, but one can’t argue with the proud, independent type, and she’d fret about the children in any case. Juanito’s little more than a child himself. However, this treatment will help, although the greatest help of all would be if her husband turned up again, so that the older boy could take the young ones off her hands. The condition she has is probably aggravated also by the fact of his absence.”

  Anna put her hand on Guy’s arm.

  “You’re a dear and a fraud,” she told him warmly. “You pretend not to care, and you really do, don’t you? No wonder that nice girl can’t wait to marry you!”

  “Madeleine? She’ll have to wait—and so will I, difficult though it sometimes is. We both think it’s important that she takes her final exams. So many chuck it before they’ve got their certificate, and it seems a pity after all those years of preliminary work, don’t you think? You’ll like her, Anna. When you go back to London, we’ll arrange a meeting, and you’ll get to know each other.”

  “I’d like that, Guy. I’d like to think we’ll keep in touch. Where are we going now?” she asked, as he guided her back to where the car was parked.

  “I thought we’d take a run up and see the city from Tibidabo, now that it’s dark. It’s that mountain there, you see—one of Barcelona’s three beautiful mountains. The others are Montjuich, and of course the famous Montserrat. I can promise you the view is absolutely breathtaking, Anna It’s time we began our rudely-interrupted sightseeing tour, don’t you think, so fo
rget all about your little Juanito for a while, will you, there’s a dear. After Tibidabo, we’ll eat somewhere at our leisure. That’s the delightful thing about Spain. At night, the whole place wakes up, and one can get a meal at almost any hour. See now, we’ll soon be beginning to climb up. Look back in a while, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  The view, when they got there, was awe-inspiring. The city spread out in scintillating splendour beneath them. The main avenues were winding snakes of light, writhing brilliantly through the night, and the Palacio Nacional sent fanning rays of floodlight up into the velvet Mediterranean darkness.

  “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Anna breathed at last. She had been standing in companionable silence, her arm linked through Guy’s. “I always feel a city is at a distinct advantage when one doesn’t have to be actually airborne to get this lofty view of it. It’s so relaxing being able to walk around in this lovely mountain air, and look down from the heights on to such a marvellous scene. In an aeroplane, other people’s heads and bits of wing and things are so apt to get in the way.”

  “True. And when one’s down there, the city itself has the benefit of the mountains as a wonderful backdrop. I suppose there are lots of places that could legitimately vie with this one for sheer beauty—Innsbruck, or Cape Town, or Rio de Janeiro, but I knew you’d like it up here, all the same. Are you getting hungry, Anna?”

  “I believe I am. Juanito’s tea could hardly be described as fortifying, could it?”

  Guy laughed.

  “No, poor kid. He did his best, though.” He held the car door open for her. “He’s a fetching little piece, Anna. I think I can see how you fell for him. He can look by turns incredibly mournful and devastatingly mischievous, and I like his particular brand of youthful dignity. I thought we agreed he was to be a forbidden topic of conversation for the rest of the evening, though. The little rogue will keep intruding! Now, what sort of things would you like to eat?”

  “Whatever you suggest.”

  “I’ve discovered a rather nice place off the Calle Marques del Duero, that specialises in sea-food, served with the driest of chilled white wines. How does that sound?”

  “Heavenly. I’m feeling more ravenous than I thought possible. Can we try some of the typical dishes?”

  “Indeed we can. If you’re feeling really adventurous, you may have delicious little squids cooked in their own ink. They have all the traditional rice dishes, too, so wait until you see the menu before you let your imagination run riot.”

  Later, seated at a candlelit table, with little filtres of aromatic black coffee before them, Guy produced cigarettes, and they watched a late-night cabaret of great charm and variety.

  Anna, feeling languorous and content after her ample dinner, enjoyed most of all the exhibition of flamenco dancing. The music seemed to make her pulses throb to its beat. The male dancer wore narrow high-waisted black trousers, a dazzling white shirt and high-heeled black shoes, and his partner was feminine and flamboyant in a flounced dress of red and black, heavily ruffled, with a froth of lace at each wrist. Her supple fingers worked her castanets with practised rhythm, and she clicked the heels of her tiny red shoes in time to the staccato tapping of the man’s black ones.

  There was a restrained but intense passion about the whole performance that caught at one’s emotions and played havoc with them, Anna discovered. Or was it that the swarthy leanness of the man’s face and frame reminded her of something or someone?

  Whatever it was, when the dance was ended and the clapping ceased, she no longer felt lazy and tranquil. She felt instead an aching longing and a sort of vague unhappiness, almost like she’d felt as a child when something she longed for dearly had to be acknowledged as unattainable. The bright toy through the remote glass of a shop-window. The ice-cream blobbing on to another child’s tongue. To have a mother, just at Christmas. To be liked a little better by Cecily. Always there was something you couldn’t have; and then you said, please, God, please let me have my wish, even though I know it’s impossible. Can’t you do just one small miracle, just for me?

  That’s what she used to say, in silent communication. And that’s what she found herself saying now, just as silently, consumed by just such an agony of hope.

  Only she didn’t know what her wish was, what her longing was for, this time. And how could you wish for something you couldn’t even put into words? Stupid Anna, she chided herself. That wine has made you muzzy. You aren’t used to it, or to squids cooked in their own ink, or little tortas made with eggs and treacle and coarse sugar, or turrones with your coffee. You aren’t used to candlelight and wild music and warm air and seeing a city from a mountain in darkness. You aren’t used to any of it, and yet up till a moment ago you revelled in it. Now you only feel sad and isolated and—and depressed. How silly!

  Anna was aware that she had sighed.

  “Tired?” Guy regarded her kindly.

  “No, I was—I suppose I was just—thinking,” Anna excused herself lamely.

  “You liked the cabaret?”

  “I loved it, every moment. May I have a little more coffee, Guy?” She suddenly had no wish to discuss the music or its strange effect on her, even with her understanding companion.

  “You looked extremely pensive for a while there, Anna,” Guy remarked perceptively. “I was watching your face and its changing expressions, and all at once I realised how very little I know about you. Tell me something of yourself—before you came on your holiday with the devastating cousin, of course. I know that bit. But what about before? Your home? Your childhood?”

  Anna was glad of the diversion. She found it surprisingly easy to tell Guy all about her early years, the happiness and peace of family life, and about the way in which her world rocked when she was told of her parents’ death. He heard about the change that took place when she went to live with the de Manards, about her uncle’s vague bouts of kindness, her aunt’s complete lack of affection but dutiful attention, and Cecily’s resentment at having to share her parents’ interest with another girl. He heard about Anna’s bid for freedom in the shape of a little bed-sitting room of her own, about her satisfaction in her chosen career, even about the proposal from Basil Hanway, and how it had left her so unmoved.

  “Funny little Anna!” Guy said gently. “What do you want, my dear? The sun, moon and stars rolled into one?”

  “Perhaps I do,” dreamed Anna. “In a way. Though I’d be content with just one bright, wonderful star all by itself, if it happened to be my own particular star. Am I being terribly foolish? It’s just that the other was so prosaic, so cautious, so—sensible. Oh, I don’t know—”

  “Well, I think I do, Anna. I know what you mean, and you were quite right. Believe in the magic and search for the bright star, so long as you don’t mistake the substance for the shadow. It does sound as though your Basil’s regard was a fairly pale reflection of what the real thing can be, though. One doesn’t analyse the advantages and disadvantages quite so systematically as he did. One is apt, in fact, to dive in headlong at the deep end, and by the time reason takes over again, one is hopelessly ensnared.”

  Guy looked at his watch and signed to the waiter to bring the bill.

  “Time we were going, I think. Do you know, it’s after two o’clock. I simply didn’t notice the time passing. I should think the Conde’s little party will have broken up by now. We’ll have to spirit you into the Castillo undetected. I’ve a feeling he wouldn’t approve of me bringing you home unchaperoned at this hour.”

  Anna reached for her white cardigan. Tonight the breeze was warm off the sea, so she didn’t bother to put it on. Goodness! How could it be so late? She had to confess that she hadn’t noticed the hours slipping by, either. In fact, it wasn’t until Guy mentioned it that she remembered the Conde’s dinner in honour of Cecily.

  Now she tried to dismiss the function from her mind, but her thoughts kept returning to it unwillingly as the car sped along the quiet, moonlit road.

  Sh
e could imagine the impact Cecily would have made in the gold lame. The combination of sophisticated material and slender, casual roll-necked style was an echo of Cecily’s chameleon personality, and of course that colour complemented her glorious auburn hair and creamy skin. She had told Anna that she was almost sure the Spanish women would wear black, and she hoped that she would stand out like a peacock amongst a lot of severe black crows. Anna had no doubts that she would have done just that. There would be no hesitation needed in singling out the fair-skinned guest of honour.

  As for Nicolas de Lorenzo y Valdarez, it wasn’t difficult to picture him either. His linen would be immaculately white against his pirate tan, his trousers narrow and elegant, his jacket of faultless cut, worn with careless awareness of his saturnine good looks and the effect they were almost certainly causing in the fluttering hearts of his female guests. As a host, he would be charming and attentive, but at the same time cool and remote and slightly austere. He would talk sparingly, save perhaps to make a polite little speech about his young English guest, and an occasional adept parry and thrust in the course of superficial party repartee. He would dance superbly with the unconscious grace of movement that was peculiarly his. And at the end of the affair he would see that his guests were all despatched to their cars with a minimum of fuss and confusion, and he would retire for the night with the air of a man whose duty has been pleasant, and not too onerous to perform.

  In fact, thought Anna, they would all have gone to bed by now. She must take especial care to be quiet. She would let herself in by the French window that gave off the morning-room on to the patio. It was never fastened, and neither was the door on the east side facing the bay. Ignacio made a ceremony of shooting the stout bolt across the main door each night, and looping the heavy brass chains over their hooks on the inside, but his action was more of a tradition than anything, for Anna had often gone out by the other entrances in the early morning without having first to unfasten them.