A Rather Remarkable Homecoming
Page 20
We had paused at the front desk, an admissions center with various color brochures advertising the annual classical music festival, and guided tours of the quinta.
I perused a flyer, then exclaimed, “Hey, it says that in Paloma’s study, there’s a framed magazine interview she gave. The last one before her death. That we’ve gotta see!”
At that moment, we heard a loud, rude blast coming from somewhere upstairs. This was followed by what, to me, sounded like a humongous dentist’s drill. It was surely just a construction noise, but its shrill whine sent a shudder down my spine.
“That sounds none too promising,” Jeremy said, and, as if to punctuate his comment, we heard a sudden loud bang, as if someone had dropped a two-ton brick on the floor above us.
While we stood there uncertainly, waiting for someone to get off their coffee break and come and sell us our tickets for a tour, three workmen came clattering down the staircase. Two were in white but paint-spattered overalls. The third was carrying a tangle of electric wires which were so entwined that they looked like inky black squid-spaghetti.
The painters clattered past us, but the electrician caught my eye, and, I guess because I smiled at him, he spoke, but in Portuguese, saying, “O museu esta encerrado.”
“Holy cow,” I said in panic. “Does that mean what it sounds like?”
“I think he’s trying to tell us the museum is closed,” Jeremy said, frowning.
“It can’t be!” I exclaimed. “They’re supposed to be open all day today.”
The man was standing at the front door, still trying to untangle his wires, but he looked as if he expected us to turn tail and leave. When we didn’t, he pointed at the back of one of the open doors, then shrugged and walked out.
Jeremy went to the door and closed it a bit, so that we could read a new sign that was now posted there, just above the old one listing the regular schedule. Since the signs were for tourists, they were written in several languages. The new sign said in English:CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS UNTIL NEXT YEAR
“No!” I wailed. “It can’t be! That damned sign just went up. They’ve gotta give one last swan-song tour before they shut these gates.”
As if in response, the drill upstairs resumed its ear-piercing whine in earnest.
Then I heard the distinct clattering of a woman’s shoes, tap-tapping across the back of the first floor.
“Quick,” I said to Jeremy. “Let’s make a dash upstairs before she spots us.”
“Too late,” Jeremy warned as a woman appeared suddenly around the curved, carved staircase and marched toward us. Jeremy straightened his shoulders and put on his most charming smile.
“Hola,” he said to her.
“That’s Spanish,” I hissed.
“Close as I can get,” Jeremy retorted from the corner of his mouth.
“Olá!” the woman answered. “It’s Portuguese, too,” she said in English. “But in any language, the museum is closed.” Even in this heat, she was dressed in a severe black suit, which made me think that she was an administrator, not a tour guide.
“Oh, but we’ve come such a long way!” I said. “Couldn’t we at least speak to a guide?”
The woman, who was a tall, thin creature wearing wire-rimmed spectacles which the light danced in, said, not unkindly but firmly, “I am so sorry, but you cannot possibly stay here. It is too dangerous with the workman all about. The guides do not come here today.”
“But you see, we must have some information about Paloma Manera,” I pleaded, and when she shook her head and I felt that I was losing her, I added recklessly, “We are working at the behest of Prince Charles.”
Jeremy nudged me sharply, but I continued, heedless. “We need to learn all we can about Paloma. We have been researching her connection to Prescott Doyle, and we know about the shipwreck tragedy,” I said, plunging onward with no idea of where I could go with this. “But we know nothing of her later life here in Madeira, and we want to find out why she never came back to Cornwall.”
“Miss, I wish I could help you. Come back next year, yes?” the woman said, edging us toward the door determinedly.
But even as she spoke, a young, handsome Portuguese man in a white suit came out of a little office behind the front desk. He must have been listening to my plea, because now he said, “But Paloma Manera did go back to Cornwall!”
Seizing our only opportunity, it was my turn to give him the full wattage of my very best smile. I don’t lay claim to being a dazzler, but this young guy was so sweet and so sorry to see me unhappy, that he was visibly relieved to have made me smile. Now he appeared to make a decision on his own.
He turned to the woman and spoke rapidly to her in Portuguese. At first, she seemed to be arguing with him. Politely but very firmly, he persevered. The woman, looking slightly annoyed but resigned, now pretended that she didn’t care one way or the other. She said something in Portuguese that to me sounded along the lines of, Well, then, do what you want, it’s your funeral.
But what she actually said to us was, “Afonso is a tour guide. It is only luck that he is here today. He cannot give you a tour. But he will talk to you.”
This little speech of hers was obviously a face-saver, and the man politely allowed her to take credit for the decision. Then she turned sharply and walked away with a brisk tap-tapping of her heels.
“She is a very busy person,” Afonso said to us lightly, by way of an apology. “Follow me, please.”
To my surprise, he led us out the door, past the lily pond and down a side path that crossed the lawn and led farther along the grounds. “Paloma brought these exotic plantings from her travels around the world,” he said, and he pointed to the left and right of the path to show us various herbs and flowers that were now fragrant, mature shrubs. Greek oregano, French lavender, Chinese anise, Tahitian vanilla . . . the list went on and on.
I confess, though, that I was barely listening to him. I was racking my brain trying to come up with something I could say to make him turn around and bring us back into the quinta.
But now we had reached a white octagonal-shaped pavilion of some sort. It looked like an antique gazebo, yet it seemed more whimsical than that, like a pretty wedding cake. It had irontrimmed glass windows, some of which were fan-shaped. The roof, too, was made of glass and iron; yet the rest of it was all white-painted wood, which, I now realized, gave it a bridal look; and in a flash of sympathy I wondered if Paloma had this built with her wedding in mind.
“This structure is what you English call a ‘folly’,” Afonso explained. “They are meant to be fanciful and wonderfully impractical!”
“Follies,” I repeated. I had heard of them before, because many of the queenly, historical characters in the movies I’d worked on, from Joséphine Bonaparte to Lucrezia Borgia, had loved follies. So I’d seen pictures of follies that were actually quite elaborate buildings, usually associated with the luxurious gardens of great estates, built purely for fun and ornamentation. Eccentric rich folk who had nothing but time on their hands and loads of money at their disposal—like Marie Antoinette, for instance—had such extravagant ones constructed that they really were whole houses or estates unto themselves.
And because the wealthy often indulged in whimsical, childlike fantasies when they built their playhouses—creating tiny castles, mini Taj Mahals, Hansel-and-Gretel cottages, and even ones shaped like a pineapple or a favorite toy—hence, the name “folly”.
“Please to enter,” Afonso said gallantly, using a key to open the door and then stepping aside to allow me to go in first.
“Oh!” I said, when I saw that the interior walls, floor and benches were all covered with amazingly beautiful tiles.
“These tiles are called azulejos,” Afonso said. The ones on the floor were rough-textured and of deep colors—dark evergreen, midnight blue, blood-red and fiery turquoise. By contrast, the wall tiles were smooth white-and-blue and sunny yellow, and these depicted various scenes of lives of the saints, as well a
s more mythological-looking creatures that resembled mermaids and fauns.
“The tiles on the floor are very old and very Madeiran,” continued Afonso. “The wall tiles are more modern—from the Spanish occupation of the late sixteenth century, showing the Dutch influence from the Spanish Netherlands.”
Only a European tour guide could imagine that the sixteenth century was modern, I thought in distracted amusement. Any other time in my life I would have been thrilled to get a close-up, private tour of these highly prized Portuguese tiles, but all I could think of was how I could find out more of Paloma’s personal story that lay inside that damned quinta.
“Afonso,” I said softly, “Was this built for Paloma’s wedding?”
A shadow crossed his face. “Yes. The wedding that never was.”
“You said that Paloma did go back to Cornwall,” I continued. “How do you know this?”
Looking caught, Afonso admitted, “Just before her death, Paloma gave one last interview.”
I pounced, as gently as I could. “We really need to see it. Can you please let us in to read it?”
Afonso had such an empathetic, expressive face that reflected what he saw on mine, so now his happy look became grave and sorrowful.
“Unfortunately, no. It is the—how do you say—insurance policy. We cannot take the risk that you and this gentleman might get hurt with all the work going on,” he said worriedly.
“We should have introduced ourselves,” Jeremy interjected now, having been silent for so long because, as he later told me, he observed that Afonso was “sweet” on me. “I am Jeremy Laidley, and this is my wife and business partner, Penny Nichols. You may have heard of us. We are working on a case of some importance in England, and we would deeply appreciate whatever you can do to help us.”
“Because a lot of good people are depending on us!” I exclaimed.
“Please excuse me for a moment,” Afonso said, still shaking his head in his regretful but polite way, and he turned and walked right out of the folly.
“Swell,” I said apologetically to Jeremy. “I really put my foot in it. Now I’ve scared him off. Wish I had more finesse like you.”
“You don’t need finesse,” Jeremy said consolingly. “Just being your winsome self is what’s kept us here this long.”
“So, now that he’s shown us the azulejos I guess the tour’s over, huh?” I asked, for I saw through one of the windows that Afonso had come back out of the quinta and firmly locked its front doors. He still wore a grave expression on his face as he came down the garden path toward us, and gestured for us to come out of the folly.
Reluctantly, Jeremy and I stepped aside and watched him lock the folly door as well. Then he walked us along the garden path, toward the driveway. I figured he wasn’t going to leave our side until we were back in our car, because he directed us beyond the house and toward the parking area.
But just as we reached the cars, he turned abruptly and led us around the far side of the quinta, to a very ordinary side door that he carefully unlocked, after looking over each shoulder as if he were a thief trying to escape being noticed.
“We must be quick,” he murmured. “Follow me.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Afonso led us up a very simple set of stairs without any embellishment or fine carving. It must have been a servant’s staircase, for it was so different from the rest of the house. We climbed one flight, and came out a plain door that opened into the second floor, where Paloma’s personal quarters were. Afonso explained that the main level had always been for receiving guests and musical entertainments.
“But alas, Paloma saw no one for many years,” Afonso said, as if speaking about his own maiden aunt instead of an historical character.
“Watch your step,” he added as we proceeded down the corridor. Everywhere there were signs of renovation, and we had to step over long, thick power cords that lay all along the hall floor. We passed rooms that were draped with plastic sheeting, put up by a restoration crew who was cleaning the murals and walls; but also there were areas where the corridor’s ceiling was completely exposed, and from which dangled ominous-looking wires. Occasionally, too, there were clumps of plaster on the floor, and very tall ladders, which I carefully avoided stepping under.
But with all these signs of disarray, there were no workers to be seen anywhere.
“They’re on their lunch break,” Jeremy guessed under his breath, as if reading my mind.
We reached a big, quiet room at the back of the house, which had a very large, ornate window that overlooked the sea. There was a stunning view, but it reminded me of Cornwall, and I knew in a flash why Paloma had come here to be alone in her sorrow.
Afonso steered us toward one wall of this private room, where a long row of wood-and-glass framed objects were mounted, all an identical size. Peering closer I discovered that each frame enclosed one of a series of printed pages from an old magazine.
“It is Paloma’s last interview,” Afonso said graciously. “We displayed it because it tells her story so beautifully. Very few people ask to see it now.”
I wanted to throw my arms around him and kiss him, but as it was, I just beamed at him and said with utter gratitude, “Oh, Afonso, thank you so much!”
He blushed as if I had kissed him, then glanced at his wristwatch. “We haven’t much time,” he warned. “I must get you out of here before the workers return. Otherwise I could lose my job.”
“Okay,” I said, and Jeremy and I quickly began to read the framed pages as Afonso left the room and posted himself in the corridor, where he nervously kept a lookout.
The cover of the magazine was displayed first. It was an old and long-defunct English periodical, an elegant but gossipy magazine about the rich and the famous. It reminded me of Tatler, but it was called Visages.
The interview with Paloma had taken place right here in 1928. The female reporter began her piece by describing how thrilled she was to be invited into the quinta after all these years of the great soprano’s solitude. The interviewer noted that Paloma, who was eighty-five years old at the time, had a magnetic presence and “retained her astonishing good looks”, with hair that was still mostly dark, and dark eyes that flashed with intelligence, and enviably smooth, pale skin, and a regal, proud way of moving through the room in her silk caftan. There was an accompanying photograph, large and lustrous, of the world-renowned diva, and she did indeed have an arresting, timeless aura.
At first, the reporter asked Paloma the usual questions: her favorite roles in the opera, her most memorable co-stars, and what her favorite foods, perfume and clothing were. This took up the first few pages that Jeremy and I squinted at, reading them carefully as we moved down the wall. I began to doubt that we would actually find anything useful here.
But on the third page, the lady interviewer plucked up her courage and dared to raise a subject about which Paloma had been resolutely silent for most of her life: the wreck of La Paloma. Apparently, having reached this advanced age, she was finally ready to talk.
And boy, did she. In vivid detail Paloma described her first performance in Cornwall, in the beautiful theatre at Port St. Francis. Prescott Doyle had had his own private box; and by the end of the show, he’d already sent her a dozen red roses, which were presented to her onstage.
This was the beginning of Prescott’s flamboyant, persistent courtship. Paloma said she resisted him for a long time, not because she did not love him, as she explained to the interviewer—for she candidly declared that she became Prescott’s mistress soon after they met—but when it came to marriage, Paloma demurred because she’d worked hard to become an independent woman, and did not want to end up being a rich man’s possession.
Nevertheless, the affair continued, and over time, the pair became closer, with Paloma sometimes staying at Prescott’s summer home in Cornwall, overlooking the ocean. Prescott vowed to redecorate it as Paloma’s “palace over the sea”, if she would only consent to be his bride.
“The bouquet of blood-red roses was but the first of many gifts of love bestowed on me by this remarkable man. Every week from then on, he sent me something, big or small, to remind me of his devotion. And so they came, these wondrous gifts: a tiara of the finest diamonds and sapphires; three priceless, snowy-white Egyptian ponies adorned with colored stones from Africa; fine caviar from Persia; a lemon tree from Morocco; silk slippers from China; perfume from India; and the most sacred, treasured gift of all: the Scarlet Knot, this mysterious, magical red stone which his dear mother had given him. Of all his gifts, this was the one I cherished most, for it was such a personal gesture.”
“Wow,” I said. “A red stone from his mother! Maybe an antique ruby—just like you and your mum gave me for my engagement ring, Jeremy.”
He smiled as I held out my hand, gazing fondly at my heirloom ring. I felt an immediate kinship with the mysterious Paloma.
Eagerly I read on, to where the interviewer asked Paloma to elaborate about the gift. This was what she said:
While my beloved Prescott was at first reluctant to speak about his boyhood memories, he soon trusted me enough to show me this dearest treasure which his mother told him had magical powers of healing and protection. She gave it to him when he was only a boy, on his way to boarding school, so he took it to please her. Poor Prescott came to believe that his mother would never have died that tragic death had she not given away her lucky stone to him. Having grown up as I did in Madeira I understood the power of such a talisman, and so when Prescott insisted that I keep it for luck, I knew that he was trying to protect me, the woman he loved, from the sufferings of this world.
But alas, in giving me the stone, my beloved Prescott lost the protection that his mother had tried to give him. And that is why, I believe, he was killed at sea.