Only Sofia-Elisabete

by Robin Kobayashi

  “Arré! Anda-a-a!” the mayoral shouted at his team of sturdy mules, and when the beasts kicked, he swore lustily, telling them to go to the deuce.

  The zagal, with his sash filled with stones, pelted the mules—six females, and one male referred to as el macho—as he ran alongside them, pouring forth dreadful oaths that no young lady should hear. “Capitana-a-a! Bandolera-a-a! Coronela-a-a!” he bellowed out some of their names. After which, he brought out his stick to abuse “Macho, Macho, Macho-o-o!” Those poor, poor mules.

  In this noisy and violent manner, our vehicle lumbered onward. In my imagination, I saw myself freeing the mules, and pelting the zagal with the stones that he favored. “Zaga-a-a-l!” I shouted at him. But none of this would ever happen. Sitting on the back of the wagon ready to shoot me was the escopetera, a ferocious-looking guard named Dolores Sorolla. Her companions called her Lola la Loca.

  She wore a petticoat with a crimson sash tied round her waist that held her navaja, a menacing-looking one, and her trabuco, a Spanish blunderbuss. Besides her smutty jokes, she regaled us with stories of how she “gave the knife” to a bandit, how she smashed a robber’s hand to atoms, how she stabbed a bull in the neck. Suspicious of her tales, the greater part of which she must have invented, I, nevertheless, looked upon her with a mixture of awe and curiosity.

  “Why do people call you Lola la Loca?” I asked her once, with blind temerity.

  She drew out her knife. “No man stands in the way of a madwoman. Understand?”

  I nodded briskly, terrified by her sinister sneer and the knife pointed at my throat.

  Most days we followed a diligence and a string of fifty other wagons and carriages, and sometimes soldiers joined us on the road to Écija, to protect us from savage bandits who stood boldly in plain view with their muskets. To be sure, the bandits’ hard stares frightened me, as did the many crosses on the roadside to commemorate the murdered, and I dreaded the day I would really be robbed. It seemed inevitable in this country. Who would have thought that Pinto the Schemer had been wise to pay off the bandits so that they wouldn’t plunder us?

  It was somewhere between Córdoba and Bailén, in the midst of cattle country, that we came upon three peasants dressed in shirts so old and worn that they hung like rags. Bandits had stripped them of the rest of their clothes and had taken their donkeys. The peasants’ entire livelihood was gone. When the poor wretches asked for a ride to the next town, Lola la Loca waved her blunderbuss in the air, ready to shoot them. “Be gone, rateros!” She believed them to be petty robbers. I thought her heartless, and so, I tossed some cuartos to the peasants.

  Lola la Loca’s ill-humor continued the next day. About half-way through the eighty-eight leagues to Madrid, we came to an abrupt stop on a lifeless plain. She told us to get out.

  “Find your own ride to the capital,” said she.

  Emmerence huffed. “Don Rafael paid you to take us to Madrid.”

  “He said the girl’s rich uncle must pay for half of it.”

  “Liar!” I shouted at Lola la Loca but soon regretted it.

  Shoving me off the wagon first, she then booted out Emmerence, who fell hard upon the ground. Our portmanteaux and alforjas came flying over our heads. Not done bullying us yet, she abused us with, “Ill luck to the mother that bore you!” Her crazed laugh rang in my ears.

  “The cruel and vicious Spanish temper—I’ll have none of it,” said Emmerence, her eyes ablaze. I had never seen her so defiant.

  “Ja, ja, caramba!” The mayoral cracked his whip.

  Somewhere, in the midst of desolation, we young ladies stood stranded, whitened with dust as the wagon rolled away.

  Furious, I picked up a good-sized stone. “Zaga-a-a-l!” I bellowed out at the driver’s helper, who, as usual, pelted the poor mules with stones. With true aim, I hurled my stone fast and far, and it struck him on the backside, making him jump and howl. Lola la Loca thought it hilarious. Her maniacal laugh said so.

  “Oh, Sofia,” Emmerence scolded me, but I saw her smile.

  Having gathered our things, we young ladies trudged forward, prisoners of the fiery sun, which stung us with its sizzling rays and deprived us of water. Every mile we walked felt like ten hot miles, dressed as we were in Spanish black. We saw no one, not a single living thing. The lonely silence of the plain did strange things to my mind, and I began to have visions of Santa Isabel dancing a fandango on the road just ahead, her arms swaying to a holy beat of rapture.

  What had been dry scenery suddenly changed to orchards and fields of wheat, oats, barley and flax. Small white farm houses in the distance dotted the fertile landscape. My weary heart became hopeful. Treading a tree-lined road, we soon found ourselves in a modern town, La Carolina, situated on the skirts of the Sierra Morena.

  “It’s clean here”—Emmerence wiped away a tear—“just like my Switzerland.”

  We drank greedily from a fountain.

  “I’m hungry.” If I had known that Lola la Loca planned to throw us out, I would have hidden a string of sausages in my alforja.

  “Hungry girl, you may have this peach,” said a caballero. Here, every man, rich or poor, is called a caballero, meaning sir or gentleman. This one had a fair complexion, auburn hair and light eyes.

  “Señor Caballero, I thank you, but I must pay you for it.” I gave him a cuarto.

  “Merci vielmal,” he replied, and then he winked at Emmerence.

  She gasped out, “Are you Swiss?”

  “My father was.” He explained that over fifty years ago, Germans and Swiss and others came to colonize the new settlements in the Sierra Morena to help rid the place of bandits.

  “Oh, how I miss the Alps and the cow’s milk and butter,” cried Emmerence, with homesickness.

  The caballero laughed good-naturedly, and he pointed down the road to an inn that served German sausages, eggs and cabbage and, oh yes, plenty of cow’s milk and butter. When we turned round to thank him, he had disappeared.

  How quickly our fortunes changed after that. The innkeeper kindly received us, and upon hearing our plight, he arranged for a calecha, a kind of cabriolet drawn by two mules. Our driver, the calechero, would be Juan Gabriel Eisman, a man so honest that the angels rode with him whenever they wished for the finest red wine in Valdepeñas. We would leave on the morrow. They trusted that my wealthy uncle would pay for everything.

  On our trestle bed that night we discovered a weathered sack, inside which were Augustine habits and wooden crosses. A mysterious note read, “It is surely a double sin to rob those doing penance.” I thought the whole thing downright clever.

  Dressed as penitents, Emmerence and I set off before daybreak to the tinkling of a hundred mule-bells. Our calechero had us join a convoy through the sierra, believing it would keep us safe from any bandits who hid behind the monstrous boulders. The mountain road, with its surrounding crags and ravines, boasted numerous bridges and arches, but I lost count of them and chose to sleep instead.

  “Mind you wake me if you see bandits. We can hold up our crosses for protection.”

  Emmerence fingered her rosary. “We are tempting fate on this journey, but what choice do we have?”

  Eventually we reached La Mancha, rolling over low broken hills and then the vast and barren plains, the horizon so flat you could cross it and crash into a blue wall of sky. The blazing red soil, the burning solano, the Castilian sun—I can hardly describe them without feeling ill and melancholy. Even the tinkling of mule-bells sounded despairing. But our tired mules plodded on, heads down, and drenched with sweat, drawing us without complaint.

  It was the middle of July, in the middle of Spain, in the middle of nowhere. By the time we came into Valdepeñas, a desperate thirst claimed us. Forsaking female propriety, we took long and strong pulls from a bota that smelled of goat hide. Now that I’ve seen how much wine that Emmerence can imbibe during a solano, I can report that she’s a shocking drunk, swearing indecently (“Caramba!”), hurling insults (“Qué perro
!” What a dog!) and spewing forth coarse words (“Ajo!” Garlic!). She, of course, had no memory of it later, even though I told her about it.

  “Oh, how you exaggerate,” said she.

  “Pish, pish, I never exaggerate.”

  “Another untruth passes your lips,” and she thereafter refused to speak to me for a long while.

  Somewhere beyond Ocaña and surrounded by nothing of note, not even a romantic windmill under attack by Don Quixote, I was in danger of becoming eminently bored. But fortune smiled upon me, to amuse me, when we came upon a convoy of fifteen or so carriages bound for Sevilla. We pulled over to the side of the road to let them pass, as is the custom.

  The lead driver of this passing convoy cried out that they had been plundered by bandits. In the dusty traveling coach that followed sat a grand lady of Madrid, very cross, very haughty, carrying a cat on her lap. She glared at me as though I were a lowly nun. I thought: well, now, I shall never see her again in my lifetime. My wicked self shot her a look of disdain, as though her rank and wealth didn’t impress me. Boldness comes to those traveling in disguise.

  “You ought to be ashamed of your lack of decorum,” Emmerence scolded me, whereupon she took a long pull from her bota. Not wanting to quarrel again, I swallowed my retort about her drunken behavior.

  Another tedious day went by, when, of a sudden, our reticent calechero sang out, “Madre-e-e-th!” That is how it’s pronounced here. Juan Gabriel pointed to an island in a sandy ocean—a grand metropolis at high altitude, standing on hillocks, the steeples and cupolas gleaming in the sharp sunlight. Loud cheers erupted in the caravan. So great was our happiness to reach the capital without mischance. I thought I would surely cry from relief, and I must have done, because my cheeks became salty wet.

  Once Juan Gabriel had fed the hungry mules to give them strength, we set out for Madrid. Soon, but not very soon, given the intolerable heat for traveling, we crossed the river Manzanares, and then soon, but not very soon, we passed through a noble gate—the Puerta de Atocha. Oh, the walks, the gardens, the theaters, the majos and majas, the fashionable set of Madrid! What a favorable impression we would make on the Madrileños.

  While our mules were watered, I was treated to a spectacle. A runaway Andalucian, its wild mane spreading out like a fan, fled down the road at full gallop, nearly trampling on a drove of turkeys. Forgetting my disguise as a penitent, I whooped and cheered for the runaway, waving high my wooden cross. My impropriety attracted the attention of many, including a gentleman, who leaned forward in his calesina, gawking at us, his lorgnette in hand, no doubt repulsed by my filthy state or perhaps by Emmerence, the chaste penitent guzzling wine from her bota. I said to myself, well, now, I shall never see him again in my lifetime, and I gave him a big ugly glare.

  His calesina drew up alongside us, thereby bringing us face-to-face with him. He gaped at me in horror, and I at him. Quickly, I nudged Emmerence, who was still imbibing drink. “Ay, caramba!” cried my fellow penitent, attempting to hide her bota. It was none other than my uncle, Lord Scapeton, and his fury knew no bounds.

  7. Novio

  On Calle de Alcalá, a strikingly broad street in Madrid, there lived the nobility in lofty brick houses that had been plastered and painted white. In front of a grand abode—one that was wedged between two others—stood the tall, lean, impeccably-dressed Lord Scapeton, his side whiskers tufted with traces of grey. He was older than I remembered, still handsome, still on the right side of fifty, and, as he liked to remind me, a man of the world.

  The surprise became his, however, to see me so much grown into a young lady. He offered his hand as I descended from the calecha, pleased now with my neat and tidy dress, all of it Spanish black. His lordship’s cordiality took me off my guard. He had not spoken to me earlier during our chance encounter at the Puerta de Atocha. Instead, in an imperious manner, he had ordered the calechero to take us young ladies to Morinier’s hotel, an establishment with cold baths, for a good washing.

  “Well, well, little brat, we meet again,” he uttered his familiar refrain.

  I curtseyed prettily. “Dear Uncle Scapeton, how do you do?”

  With cast-down eyes, I awaited a severe scolding. But his lordship was all politeness and mysteriously so. I was puzzling over this, his dissembling mood, when, kugh-kugh-kugh, a loud monstrous rumbling—someone nearly coughing out a lung—came from on high. Lord Scapeton clasped his hands behind his back, unmoved by the disturbance on his curtained balcony.

  “I say, Don Fausto, will you live?” He cocked his head.

  The curtains abruptly parted to reveal an ancient man. This Don Fausto, sweaty, gasping, leaning on a walking-cane, hawked up something disgusting and phlegmy.

  “Sí, sí, Lord Scapeton,” croaked out Don Fausto.

  The old man’s reddish eyes roamed to me, scrutinizing my form top to toe, and on then to Emmerence. Upon my word, he was a veritable antique and, contrary to my mother’s understanding, distinctly on the wrong side of fifty—nay, seventy.

  He smelled gamey in the way a bird does after being hung for days. Even worse, he was a leaner, always tilting towards you when he spoke, his face inches before your own, as he spat out his p’s and t’s. Half-blind in one eye, half-deaf in one ear—it proved difficult at first to determine which eye was bad, which ear was good, until I learned to stand on his left side, several feet away. Unfortunately, this ancient nobleman chose to sit next to me on the French sofa. He bawled out his words.

  “Sofía, you are la flor de la canela—perfection!” and he driveled much spittle.

  Averting my eyes to avoid any semblance of courtship, I murmured my polite thanks.

  “But I am hideously old and thick of hearing.”

  I knew not what to say except a stupid truth. “You are most certainly a noble man.”

  He continued on, telling me of his great misfortune, that he had, at present, no living heir to perpetuate his noble line, the Bobadillas, despite his many marriages. Pulmonia, yellow fever, typhus, consumption, smallpox and dropsy took turns claiming them—those six wives of his. To this, I offered him my ready sympathy. He inquired after the health of my family, and I mentioned that Javier wished to be remembered to him.

  “Ah, your brother, the precocious son of Don Rafael.”

  “Javier is an intelligent boy,” said I, glancing at Lord Scapeton. “He is fast becoming a young man, making his father proud.”

  His lordship, however, would never admit to having a secret son. His icy gaze told me so.

  “This boy seeks a substantial loan on behalf of his father,” said Don Fausto.

  Immediately I brightened up. “Pray, will you give it to him?”

  “If you wish it”—he leaned forward—“but only if you stay in Madrid to entertain me. Hey, hey, hey!”

  Deftly I raised my fan to shield myself from his dragon’s breath. He joked about my maidenly coyness. Whereas Lord Scapeton thought it rude, and he made polite excuses for me. Nonetheless, the loan for my stepfather was approved, the agreement signed, my family saved from ruin. How easy it had been. Ere he took his leave of us, Don Fausto shook his lordship’s hand. Leaning into him, he exclaimed, “She’s a sugar-plum. Hey, hey, hey!” What a droll old man.

  I was feeling pleased about my success in securing the loan, and I told my uncle so.

  “Now that my family matters are settled, when may we return to England?”

  He didn’t answer. Towering over me, he growled out instead, “I demand an explanation of how two young ladies disguised as nuns came to be traveling alone.”

  “We were penitents, not nuns,” I corrected him.

  He regretted losing his temper, however, once I described, albeit with some embellishment to make it interesting, how Don Rafael forced us to become contrabandistas smuggling cigars, how we slept on a sack of walnut shells each night, how Lola la Loca threatened to give us her knife, how she flung us off the wagon in La Carolina, how we begged on the streets and how a kindly innkeeper s
aved us from starvation.

  “My dear uncle, now there was a shocking adventure for you.”

  He raised a mocking brow. “Very shocking.”

  “I never thought I would live to tell the tale.”

  “Luckily for me that you did,” he replied in a colorless voice.

  “I dare say fortune smiled on both of us,” and I got the last word. I’m very much like my father in that way.

  Being with Lord Scapeton reminded me of him. I know what people say, that no two brothers could be more different in appearance and attitude. Even so, they had similar mannerisms and a shared language and, if you closed your eyes, they almost sounded the same. Hearing my father’s voice in his lordship’s renewed my resolve that I, Sofia-Elisabete, belonged with my father in Scarborough, ill though he may be. But how could I convince my uncle?

  Suddenly I felt transported in time, walking barefoot on the sea-shore in Scarborough, the cold gritty sand scrubbing my toes. Day turned to twilight, twilight to dusk, and I became lost. Stranded sea-stars lit like lanthorns guided me to Queen Street where my family resided in a large red-brick house. My father anxiously leaned out the window above. I called out to him, “Are you on the look-out for me?” “Oh, aye, my child,” and he winked. It all seemed so real, so very real, enough to drive me mad with homesickness.

  Lord Scapeton, who can resemble a fine fellow if he puts his mind into it, must’ve felt badly about the savage treatment we young ladies had endured on the road. He took us to a mantua-maker, to be fitted for gowns, and then he purchased gloves and bonnets and shoes and boots. “It is too much indulgence for a governess,” remarked Emmerence, my frugal friend, but his lordship insisted. Did he return her fond feelings?

  When, two days later, the mantua-maker delivered our evening gowns, Don Fausto invited us for a stroll on the Prado, a very fine promenade, and afterwards to a tertulia, where we would play at cards. Eager for an excursion, I determined to behave well.