The Dancer and the Raja (4 page)

The next day the doorbell rang in the Delgados' modest flat. The person who opened the door was Anita because her mother had gone to the market with her sister. She could see nothing but flowers. The bouquet was so big it hid the poor delivery boy. “Oh my God! Where am I going to put all this?” The flowers came with a letter from the raja. Anita read it slowly because she had difficulty reading, and besides, because she had slept so little because of the upset, her eyes were swollen. The prince made his apologies: “It was not my intention to upset you, and much less to insinuate something that I could not even imagine. I beg you to accept these flowers as a sign of my deepest respect toward you …” Anita sat down at the table in the tiny dining room and sighed. Then she looked at the flowers again. They were camellias.

6

On this hot night when she cannot sleep, Anita remembers that other night when she had not slept either. She had felt offended, insulted deep inside by a man she hardly knew. It had been her first experience as a woman in the male jungle. She herself had been surprised at the intensity of her reaction. Now, with hindsight, it seemed childish. She should have laughed.

Tonight she is tormented by the aftertaste of that feeling that left her unable to sleep. Even though she struggles to avoid it, she finds it hard not to let herself be affected by the feeling she has been manipulated. She had her life worked out, her modest job, her flirtation with Anselmo Miguel Nieto, who had even openly declared his love for her, her sister, whom she adored, her parents, her girlfriends … A whole universe that tonight seems warm, cosy, and welcoming. Why did a dazzling Moorish king have to appear in her normal, happy life and launch her into a world of luxury and exoticism that she does not know and cannot enjoy?

She is sufficiently lucid to know that she should not think in this way, but deep in her heart she feels sorry for herself. She has been weak when she should have been strong. She fell into his arms—into his bed—too soon. She was not able to resist. Yes, the fault is hers; a woman of her age knows what she is doing. Or at least, she should. But he should have waited a little longer …

The cawing of the crows cuts through the air laden with warm mist. The effluvia of the sea rise to the suite. It smells of something indefinable, a mixture of the smoke from the little camping stoves in the street where the poor people make their food, dampness, and a different vegetation. The smell of India.

Suddenly she feels that if she could flee, get on a boat and go back to Europe, she would without a moment's hesitation. Reversing her steps, rewinding the film of the last two years of her life, finding herself back in her world, the warmth of her family, feeling the cold of Madrid again, the smell of dog-roses that comes down from the mountains in springtime, the crispiness of freshly made
churros
, laughing again at the gossip in her tenement, posing again for Anselmo … My God, where is all that now! Until today she felt that at any moment she could unravel the threads, that with one stroke of the pen she could stop time, choose, say yes, say no, live her life more or less as she pleased. But in the heat of that night of anguish she realizes that it is going to be impossible to retrace her steps. She feels hemmed in by destiny, far away from everything, alone. It is almost hard for her to breathe. She realizes that if Dr. Willoughby confirms her pregnancy in the morning, there is no going back. Her life is no longer a game. Now things are for real.

That a prince from India should want to carry Anita off was such an unusual event that it galvanized the curiosity of many people. The Camellias became famous because of it, although they would have preferred to be known for their talent. In the circle of Bohemians and intellectuals, there was an enormous amount of intrigue and gossip.
Would the raja succeed in carrying off our Anita?
That was the question on the lips of all the regulars, especially when they looked toward his box and saw Anita's mother involved in lengthy conversations with the Indian and his interpreter. The news that filtered out from those conversations spoke of the raja's desire to take Anita away for a while to Paris to educate her in the art of being the wife of a king, and then to marry her. A real fairy tale, too pretty to be true. Anita, for her part, felt flattered by the interest she had aroused in that personage. But she could not take it seriously. “… you're not enough to make me your beloved,” she sang to him coquettishly, warning the interpreter not to translate the words.

Anita was too young to think seriously about love. She had only flirted a little with Anselmo Nieto, who was twenty-three and lived a Bohemian's life in Madrid. Anita enjoyed his company, and although he was more in love with her every day, not imagining the competition that had appeared out of nowhere, their relationship was nothing more than a close friendship.

The more Anita rejected the raja, the more determined he was to have her. He was crazy about her. One had only to observe him sitting in his box, engrossed in the performance of the curtain raisers. The contrast of Anita's figure, which, when she was still, seemed sweet and serene, with her uncouth air and her brazen, unrefined way of speaking, drove him wild. Once the dance was over, he sent his interpreter again and again to invite her. Sometimes Anita accepted and turned up accompanied by Doña Candelaria. The regulars could see her mother shaking her head in refusal from a distance. The raja was silent, always looking at the young woman. One night, in his box, he invited them to have dinner after the show. She did not accept, of course.

“What about lunch? Couldn't you come and have lunch with His Highness?” inquired the interpreter.

Anita looked at her mother and sister, Victoria, for guidance. Suddenly Doña Candelaria nodded, and the raja must have felt the tide beginning to turn in his favor.

“Yes … if it's for lunch, yes … as long as my mother and sister can come with me …” said Anita.

The lunch took place in the dining room of the Hotel Paris, and the raja was as pleasant as could be. Anita had never been in such a “high-class” restaurant, as she said, and she liked the experience, more because of the rococo decoration and the attentiveness of the waiters than the food, because what she really liked was ham, potato omelette, and roast chicken. Everything else seemed insipid to her. The conversation was about the imminent wedding of the king of Spain. Anita looked at “her king” curiously, trying to imagine herself alone with that man who was so close to her and yet seemed so far away. He was quiet, deliberate, and proud without being distant. He was a perfect gentleman with dark skin and impeccable manners. He spoke six languages, had been all over the world, and rubbed shoulders with famous people everywhere.
What's this man doing falling in love with me?
Anita wondered, sufficiently lucid to not really believe it. The interpreter interrupted her daydreaming, “His Highness tells me that if you would like to see the wedding procession, you can all come here tomorrow. He will not be here because he will be attending the ceremony at the Jerónimos church. You will be able to see it all perfectly from the balconies of his rooms.”

It was time for coffee, and after Anita and her sister had said good-bye to go to their dancing class, the raja invited the interpreter and Doña Candelaria to move into a small private room to talk confidentially. It seems that Doña Candelaria's eyes gleamed when she heard the raja speak about the “generous dowry” he was prepared to give them in exchange for Anita's hand. A dowry that could well ensure peace of mind for the Delgado family
ad vitam aeternam
.

“Your Highness, I can't let you marry my daughter if she's only going to end up in a harem, you know. I can't do it, not for all the gold in the world …”

“She won't live in a harem, I can assure you. I have four wives and four grown-up children. I have married because it is the custom in my country, a custom that I cannot go against. I cannot divorce any of my four wives because it is my duty to make sure they lack for nothing for as long as they live. That is the tradition, and as sovereign of my people, I have to stick by it. But in fact I live alone, and if I want to marry your daughter it is to share my life with her. She will live in Western style in her own palace, with me. She can come back to Europe as often as she likes. I beg you to understand this, and I also beg you to explain it to Anita. If she accepts the situation, I will do everything in my power to make her happy.”

Doña Candelaria left the Hotel Paris rather troubled. The certainty of the previous days had been rocked by the raja, who seemed like a well-bred man and spoke so sincerely. Now she was floundering in a sea of doubts, so she went into the Café de Levante. “All the money that Moorish king is offering for my Anita is quite a temptation,” she told Valle-Inclán. “But what about her honor?” she repeated. The Delgados had an obsession with honor, because that was all they had left. “What Anita should do is get married in Europe before she goes to India,” insisted Valle-Inclán, who had spent some time and effort investigating the raja. The results of his inquiries revealed that he was an extremely rich man, who ruled over the life and death of his subjects in a state in the north of India, and who had a reputation for being fair, compassionate, cultivated, a lover of progress, and “Westernized.” “It's an opportunity Anita cannot afford to miss,” insisted the famous writer.

The following day, May 31, the streets of Madrid were decked out in celebration: firecrackers, rockets, bells, laughter, shouts … The sun was shining brightly and the temperature was delightful. From the windows hung tapestries and decorations of flowers with coats of arms and good wishes for the king and the queen. When she went to the hotel with her parents, Anita felt as though all the people of Madrid knew each other personally, so intense was the common feeling of taking part in the same celebrations. Not only had the raja lent them his rooms so that they could watch the parade after the religious ceremony, but he had also ensured they would have as many sweets and cakes and as much coffee as they liked. “The ‘Moorish king' is definitely a sensitive person,” said Doña Candelaria with a bun in her mouth.

Anita watched the parade from the hotel balcony: horses with ceremonial harnesses, soldiers with showy uniforms, decorated carriages … It seemed as though the crowd trembled in anticipation. Heads were lifted to see better.

“Here they come! Here they come!”

To the sound of the “Royal March,” the carriage with the newlyweds came close to the corner of the Hotel Paris and the Puerta del Sol. The ringing of the bells mixed with the applause and shouts of good wishes. Women with white mantillas cheered from the balconies. From behind the windows of the carriage the king and queen waved and smiled happily. They were husband and wife now. A foreign princess had just become queen of Spain—and it was a love match.
Could I be a princess on a foreign throne?
Anita suddenly wondered. It was the first time that idea went through her head, and she reproached herself for it. But she loved the fervor of the crowds, that procession among a people that proclaimed its faith and love for a princess it hardly knew.
How lovely it is to feel flattered and loved by so many people!
thought the girl, giving free rein to her dreams, unable to hold them back. When the procession had gone into Calle Mayor, Anita went back into the suite, her eyes tired with so much sun. Inside, everything was calm and an air of opulence reigned. The sheen of the varnish of the furniture reflected her image like a mirror. The carpets were thick; the bar contained all kinds of drinks; the bathroom, with shelves full of bottles of cologne and lotions, was the most comfortable she had ever seen. Everything seduced her in those hotel rooms. It had been her first experience of luxury.

But the experience did not last long. A terrific crash shook the windowpanes. “Oh my God!” shouted Doña Candelaria. When Anita went back out onto the balcony, she saw people running in all directions. A crowd of people were coming back down Mayor Street, pushing each other out of the way in their terror. Where barely a few seconds ago there was rejoicing and a festive atmosphere, now there was only panic and terror. Suddenly someone shouted, “They've thrown a bomb at the king and queen!”

It had happened outside number 88, Calle Mayor, just before they got to the Royal Palace. Someone had leaned over the balcony just when the shell-shaped carriage in which the young couple were traveling passed by and had thrown a bunch of flowers. The bouquet hid a bomb. All the windows in the nearby buildings were shattered. On the ground, among injured horses kicking spasmodically and splashing everything with blood, there were twenty-three dead, most of them soldiers from the Wadras Regiment that was covering calle Mayor, and six civilians, among whom was the marchioness of Tolosa. Among the hundred or so injured, some twenty royal guards and grooms were left blinded for life. An electric cable that was almost invisible had saved the life of the king and queen. As it fell, the bouquet had struck the cable and been turned aside from its path. The newspapers the next day would describe the heroic actions of the monarch, who did not lose his cool and helped his pale wife, with her dress stained with blood, to move immediately to another carriage.

A few days later, the same newspapers published a photo of the perpetrator of the attack. He had committed suicide after killing a policeman who was about to arrest him in the outskirts of Madrid. Valle-Inclán and Baroja immediately identified the body of Mateo Morral, the taciturn Catalan who had just started coming to their meetings. The day before they had all been together at the Candelas refreshment stall, where Morral had had an argument with another regular, the painter Leandro Oroz: “Bah, bah! Those anarchists! As soon as they have a couple of euros in their pockets they stop being anarchists,” Oroz had said. The man who almost never spoke had stopped him furiously in his tracks: “Well, for your information I have more than a couple of euros and I am an anarchist.” It came out in the press that he was the son of a textile businessman who had forbidden him to go into the family factory because he incited the workers to demonstrate against the interests of his own father. They were so upset by what had happened that Valle-Inclán and Baroja went to see Mateo Morral's body in the crypt at the Buen Suceso Hospital. They were not allowed in, but Ricardo, Don Pio's brother, was and he made an etching of the anarchist. That night, in the Kursaal, he showed the drawing to Anita. “My God!” she said, widening her eyes in an expression of horror. She remembered him perfectly well, sitting in a corner and watching the show but engrossed in his own thoughts. That customer, who seemed a good friend to his friends, had turned a day of joy into a massacre, into a bed of pain and sadness. The wedding celebrations were canceled. Her prince of the Orient went away that same night. The dream seemed to be over. The attack brought the people of Madrid back to the reality of their daily lives.