The Dancer and the Raja (7 page)

“What are you going to do with the money?” her sister asked when the raja went off to his apartment in the Meurice Hotel, two blocks from there.

“I'll buy myself a doll,” Anita answered promptly.

10

That man who so impressed and intimidated her became a kind of guardian angel for her and her family. Her early fears turned out to be unfounded. They did not have to hold hands like lifelong sweethearts. There was no embarrassing scene, no hard bargaining, no sexual advances, not a single note out of tone that might have sown some doubt regarding the raja's behavior. On the contrary, the treatment he gave them was perfect at all times. He showed only courtesy, generosity, and elegance. Apart from settling the family in a luxury flat two blocks from the St. James & Albany, he got them a Spanish servant to cook them dishes from their homeland. For the Delgados he was “the prince,” the man who gave them enviable position and security in life and whose reputation had to be protected until death. From invitations to the theater so that the whole family could enjoy the best Parisian revues to the splendid jewels he gave Anita, all the raja's gestures led to the conviction that he was deeply in love with the girl. However, it was a situation that was difficult to rationalize. He had fallen in love with a Spanish girl, when he was dazzled with everything French. He had fallen in love with a woman with no “pedigree,” when he was a man obsessed with his lineage, like any raja, and with castes, like any Indian. He had fallen in love with a woman who was almost a child and who would be difficult to fit into his life without causing friction and tension. He was so much in love that he spared no effort to prove his feelings. From his travels around the world he followed Anita's progress very closely, through Mme Dijon. And he was always surprising her with his gestures, like touches of magic that added to the fairy-tale atmosphere: the bunch of Muscatel grapes one morning at breakfast time, for example; the little bottle of olive oil to dress her salads; the splendid doll he gave her as a surprise; the fur coat and boots that arrived from the best furriers in Paris on the first day it snowed … Not to speak of the more sumptuous gifts. Before leaving France, he gave her two blue velvet boxes. In one there were two gold and emerald bracelets; in the other, a ring of platinum and diamonds.

“Don't take it off your finger; that way everyone will know you are engaged and are going to get married.”

Then he kissed her forehead. That was his farewell. “You will lack for nothing, Anita. Learn a lot and fast so you can soon come and join me.”

“I couldn't say a word from the emotion,” she would recall in her diary. “I think I already loved him a little and I was sorry he was going away.”

The raja wrote to her and sent her telegrams. One day, shortly after he had gone away, she received some flowers and chocolates sent from London, with a note written in Spanish: “Study hard and don't feel sad.” Such consideration spurred Anita's on, and she redoubled her efforts to master the language in which she could communicate with her prince. She dedicated herself fervently to learning English and French. She never missed a tennis or riding class, or a piano or drawing lesson, or billiards, a game very much in fashion in the society of the time. She also attended classes in protocol—they had already explained to her what it was about—in the home of the widow of a French diplomat. Those classes included “deportment, attitude, and good manners.” Anita got mixed up with the infinite number of rules: in France it was frowned upon to cut lettuce with your knife, you had to fold it with your fork, which meant an exercise in contorting the wrist that was almost impossible to carry out with dignity. Also in France it was considered bad manners to eat with one hand under the table, while in England you had to in order to be correct. Eating with your fingers was the worst thing of all, except in India, where it was appreciated that foreigners could handle their food according to the maxim of “when in Rome.” What a fuss! To say
“Bon appétit”
before each meal was considered vulgar everywhere, the same as thanking the servant or waiter after taking food from the tray. And no question of asking for the “loo” when noticing the playful pressure of some internal gas, but the “toilettes” or bathroom. Anita learned to peel fruit and prawns with her knife and fork, to curtsy according to the rank of the person to be greeted; she learned which words to use to congratulate someone or to give condolences, how to combine colors in dressing, how to avoid an excess of makeup, how to write invitations … In short, a whole language of gestures and phrases essential for becoming part of the worldwide Gotha. The day she discovered the function of the finger bowl with the little slice of lemon, she had such an attack of laughter that she had to go to the “toilettes” to wipe away her tears. But she did not want to explain the reason for her hilarity to the ambassador's widow, because she felt a little embarrassed.

Gradually she began to stop missing the constant presence of her family, whom she saw once a week, at the same time as she strengthened the bonds of friendship with Mme Dijon. The Frenchwoman proved to be loving and willing at all times but was still strict in carrying out her mission. She knew when to treat Anita as a child or a woman according to the circumstances. She would spend an afternoon in the apartment cutting and embroidering clothes with Anita, the same as she would go with her to the top of the Eiffel Tower, or ride with her on horseback in the Bois de Boulogne, or wait patiently for her to finish her tennis lesson. She enjoyed initiating her in Paris life, with its tearooms, its big stores, its cinemas, its theater halls and exhibitions. Anita, with wide eyes, soaked up the atmosphere of the great city. She noticed everything, from the way the women moved smoothly in their dresses—she too learned to hold up her skirts to go downstairs “letting her taffeta petticoats be seen”—to even the buttery smell in the patisseries, the French custom of eating lamb almost raw, or the legendary ill-humor of some Parisians. She turned out to be a gratifying pupil, easy to manage, who learned fast and never needed to be told the same thing twice. She had determination, an open, humble attitude toward what she did not know, and unlimited curiosity. That is what Mme Dijon informed the raja, who from afar felt the satisfaction of a job well done.

On her birthday, her companion surprised Anita with a cake she had ordered that had a hundred candles. They were all lit.

“But I'm only seventeen!” she exclaimed.

“It's so you live a hundred years, and so they are all happy years,” Mme Dijon had replied. Anita, moved, hugged her warmly.

Then in the sitting room of the apartment she found a silver traveling case, a gift that filled her with emotion because it evoked the long journey she had ahead of her. She also found, together with two tickets to see the classical ballet at the Opéra Theatre, her favorite kind of show, some pretty mother-of-pearl opera glasses that she had asked for so that she could see the dancers better. Her love of dancing, which was a part of her, had found fertile ground in Paris to develop further. Every week she went to a show.

And so the months went by, with lessons, car rides, and evenings at the theater. An orderly life, of which Anita was able to take advantage to gain refinement and become a woman of the world. She ended up speaking French well and writing it better than Spanish, but there was no way of getting rid of her strong Spanish accent. It made her anxious, although Mme Dijon calmed her by telling her it gave her a very attractive, exotic touch. Her parents also got by in French, especially her sister, Victoria. She had an American boyfriend who was “very handsome and very rich.” She had met him at a reception in the British embassy to which the raja, before he went away, had invited the sisters. His name was George Winans, and he came from a well-known family in Baltimore. He talked nineteen to the dozen and was the epitome of the ladies' man. He said he had invented a car that was electrically propelled and he thought he would patent it and produce it in one of the factories his father owned in Switzerland. Anita had not liked that uncouth suitor; she thought he was a boaster. But she did not dare to say anything to her sister, in order not to spoil her excitement.

The Delgados were tired of living in Paris, where they knew practically no one. In spite of the luxury that surrounded them, they were burning with desire to get back to Madrid to enjoy their new status. For them the future could not be fairer. They daydreamed their plans to move to a big flat, to hire servants, or even to perhaps buy a car … Their honor was the only thing that kept them in France. To enjoy a triumphant return to Madrid, they knew they first had to get the girl married, even if it was in the cold offices of some French town hall. That formality would set them free, opening the doors to the good life, opulence and security. But that required the raja's presence.

And the prince was taking longer than expected to appear. He had announced his arrival several times, and each time he had canceled the journey at the last moment, always for reasons beyond his control. The wait seemed so long to Anita that she began to harbor doubts.
Does he still love me or has he got over it and that's why he isn't coming? And what if he comes and he doesn't like me anymore?
At any rate, a wait of six months, when you are seventeen, seems to go on forever.

One day, when she was returning to the hotel from her protocol lesson, she thought she recognized a familiar figure striding back and forth in the entrance under the arcade in the rue Rivoli, as though waiting for someone. Once in the hallway, Anita realized who it was: “It's Anselmo!” He had not recognized her because of her clothes and her fashionable hairstyle. But she had. He was the same as ever, with his Bohemian air and his dry Castilian face, which made him look like a bullfighter, as sinewy as a vine.

“I've come to paint in Paris,” he told her. “I've finished my course at the San Fernando Academy and I've dived in … This is the capital of the world for art …”

“Well, you're very brave, and I congratulate you.”

That night they all had dinner together in her parents' apartment. Anselmo brought fresh news from Spain, although nothing significant had happened since they had left. The political atmosphere was still quite hot; meanwhile, King Alfonso XIII and his “Inglesita” were baptizing their child that very same week on the French Côte d'Azur, “as if they couldn't give a damn about what's happening in Spain,” Anselmo protested. As for everything else, the statue of Cybele remained in the same place, the most widely attended gatherings now took place at the Candelas milk bar, and Don Ramón's beard was getting longer and longer.

Doña Candelaria was not at all pleased by the visit of that “penniless artist” who was in love with her daughter and who could bring all her monumental projects tumbling about her ears, and when he had left, she warned Anita not to see him again. That advice was enough for her to do exactly the opposite. The next day they arranged to meet at the entrance of the Ambroise Vollard gallery, the dealer who had discovered the impressionists. Among the Provence landscapes, nudes, and scenes of lunches on the banks of quiet rivers, Anselmo asked her if she was happy. With no hesitation Anita answered, “Yes, although the situation is a little strange. I'm learning a lot of things, everything is new for me, but I don't really know how all this is going to end. The raja has been away for a long time, and sometimes I wonder …”

“But does he love you or not?”

“I think he loves me … Otherwise, what would we be doing here?”

“And do you love him?”

Anita stood there thinking.

“Yes,” she said after a long pause.

“You don't sound very convinced.”

“It's just that it's all so unreal … Sometimes I dream I wake up and find myself back in bed in my cold room in Madrid, leading the same life as before … And when I really wake up and find myself in the hotel room, looking at the breakfast they bring me on a silver tray … I don't know whether I'm awake or asleep!”

They laughed happily. Anita went on, “Sometimes I wonder if he really exists … We hardly know each other, but what I do know is that he treats me like a queen, and that makes me feel something for him … call it what you like.”

“Anita, what a mess you've got yourself into! I was coming to suggest a much more exciting adventure …”

“Oh yes?” she said ingenuously. “Tell me.”

“I've rented a room in Montmartre, near where my friend Pablo Ruiz lives, who, by the way, is from Málaga; I think you'd really like to meet him. The room has a leak or two and it's on the sixth floor with no lift, I'm not going to lie to you. But the view over the rooftops of Paris is much more romantic than the one you have from your hotel room … Shall I go on?”

“Of course …” she said, smiling.

“I suggest you come and live with me.”

“Bread and dripping with you, isn't it?”

“More or less …” he said, giving her a look burning with passion.

Anita looked at him with tenderness and showed him her hand where the diamonds on the engagement ring the raja had given her shone. Anselmo changed his tone and began to talk seriously. “I'm offering you real love, Anita. And happiness, which has nothing to do with all the money of your Moorish king …”

“Don't call him that!” she interrupted.

Anselmo was surprised by the virulence of her reaction. He seemed to understand that he had lost the game.

“I've missed you a lot.”

“Me too …, at first. But I've changed, Anselmo. I'm not the girl I was before.”

“Of course …” he said in resignation, hiding his hands so that she could not see they were trembling with emotion.

They ended up spending the afternoon at Pablo Ruiz's studio, who signed his pictures with his mother's maiden name, Picasso. The ceilings were very high, with skylights that let in the leaden light. Anita enjoyed the Spanish atmosphere with people her own age, without the presence of her parents. She laughed uproariously at Pablo's jokes, a witty womanizer from Málaga who continually flirted with her. The walls were covered with his pictures, which Anita did not like at all because he painted dislocated faces and bodies, and for that reason she did not think he would have a very brilliant future before him. It was the beginning of cubism. And she felt completely at home in that atmosphere of Bohemian artists, because it was similar to what she had known in Madrid. That was her world. But in spite of Anselmo trying to get her to see that, and however much she felt it might be so, she had no alternative but to hold on to the tenuous fairy tale in which she was playing the part of Cinderella. Anyway, it was a relief to think that if the fairy tale burst like a soap bubble, she had the world of her old artist friends to fall back on.