The Spanish Bow (27 page)

I spoke to Percival only once about that night: "I'm glad it wasn't any worse."

He said, "It isn't done. Quim and Jordi were afraid of being locked up during their harvest jobs. You know Rivera and the Church—
a cal y canto.
" Lime and stone; tight. "But when the grape harvest is done—two weeks from next Friday—they'll finish what they started."

"What's the difference waiting? Rivera will still see that they're punished."

"Not with olives starting. He'll spare men for grapes, but not for olives."

"And Father Basilio?"

"He's had his warnings. But you've seen his expression? In the clouds,
hermanito.
In the clouds."

On the train back to Madrid, climbing away from the coast and onto the dry La Mancha plain, my sniffles eased, my mind cleared, and I felt a keener appreciation for my present life. I kept my head up, smiling at the halberdier, as I passed through the main palace gate. Opening the door of my apartment, I called out to Rodrigo. Near Atocha station, I'd bought a small box of chocolate truffles for my roommate—my way of kindling a friendship I should have cultivated a year earlier. To whom else could I confide the disappointing nature of my visit? He would understand how the streets back home shrank, how odors deepened, how family ties wore thin.

But when I pushed open the apartment door, I discovered that Rodrigo was too busy packing to accept my embrace. He thanked me for the chocolates but didn't open the box.

"Is this yours?" he said, holding up a burgundy silk cravat for inspection.

"I don't think so."

"Fine," he said, and tossed it into a trunk overstuffed with shirts and pants. He filled his arms with books, looked left and right, and then proceeded to push them on top of the wrinkled clothes. The room was almost bare already. He 'd removed a lithograph from the wall, the one that showed the construction of the Eiffel Tower, half-finished. On his nightstand, three patches of dust-free wood showed where his framed family photos had stood. His pin-striped mattress had been stripped of its sheets. A flat black bug hobbled out of a rip in the fabric. Rodrigo picked it up and squashed it between his fingers.

"A souvenir," he said. "When someone asks me what it was like to live in a palace, I can show them this, to prove it's really just the same."

Rodrigo gestured for me to help him close the trunk. I sat atop it; he fastened the final latch and looked up, to catch me staring.

"You finished your project?" I said.

"Yes—but who cares? What does a building matter? We have a Republic!"

"Who does?"

"You haven't heard? Portugal!"

"King Manuel is dead?"

"Monarchy is dead. What do you care about our King? Anyway, he isn't dead, he's in Gibraltar—let him stew there. We have a new government. Braga, the literature professor, is heading it."

I'd never heard of him.

"Can you believe? In my lifetime!"

I kept one hand on the trunk. "Maybe you should wait for things to settle. Aren't these situations dangerous?"

"They'll need men like me—builders, planners. There will be a constitution, economic programs—as soon as they get the cannons cleared away."

"But what about your project here in Spain? If you stay, you'll be rewarded."

"Feliu," he said disdainfully, "liberty
is
my reward."

When he leaned low to look under the bed, I palmed the box of chocolates. He didn't appreciate them. But on his way out the door, dragging a valise behind the halberdiers carrying his trunk, he looked around, caught my eye, and realized what I had done.

"Isn't liberty sweet enough?" I said.

"Almost." And he grabbed the box out of my hand.

I followed at a discreet distance and watched the guards struggle down the stairwell with Rodrigo's trunk. I was planning to return to my room, thinking a cool sponge-bath would help me relax and get my bearings, when a third guard tapped me on the shoulder.

"His Majesty will see you."

"Did he say why?"

The guard smirked. "Follow me."

King Alfonso was taking tea, seated in a chair that was too low for him. He sat with his legs apart, knees high, thin fingers hooked awkwardly around a diminutive teacup. Queen Ena was with him. She acknowledged me with a stiff smile.

The King asked, "Have you heard the news?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"My men tell me you just came off the train. Were the people speaking of it there?"

Before I could answer, the Queen whispered into his ear.

"You were in Catalonia?" the King asked. "Has the news reached that far already?"

"They're always a few days behind," I said. "I'm sure they'll hear soon."

"Of course they will!" he said, slapping his thigh. His giddy smile confused me. "This will put Iberia on the map. No one can say we are behind the times."

The Queen nodded her head almost imperceptibly, encouraging me to respond.

"The world changes quickly." I tried to maintain an even tone, with no hint of distress or undue interest.

He paused for a moment, fingered his thin mustache, then smiled even more broadly. "Yes, exactly so." He stared ahead, dreamily.

This, I thought, was a strange form of bravado. The King seemed not only unconcerned about the Portuguese monarch's fall, but buoyed by it, for reasons I couldn't fathom.

He said, "The average gentleman in Paris thinks he knows Spain. He knows nothing about it. He imagines knights with barber-basin hats and cigarette-factory workers and filth. Does he understand that a man such as yourself plays Bach, Wagner, all the greats; that a man such as myself speaks many languages; that a guest wishing to make a telephone call in Madrid might wish to do so without leaving a building, without even descending the stairs?

"The point is," he continued, "the world will be watching us this week. And for a misunderstood country, that can be only a good thing."

The mention of telephoning confused me, and I struggled to make sense of what the King was saying. Yes, it was probably true that the world would be watching Madrid. In Lisbon, a new government would expect recognition. Antimonarchical organizations within Spain might be jockeying to rouse their supporters, to imagine the possibilities closer to home. For the first time, sitting in the palace, I let myself dwell on the possibility that Percival's night mission had been more than a local scuffle. Perhaps instead it was a stray spark, a sign of larger fires burning elsewhere. In Madrid there was only smoke. It was harder to see and understand things here, at the center of things, than anywhere else.

The King said, "We must have the correct spirit about change, don't you think?"

I moved my lips. It was enough.

"Then you're with us," the King said, and pushed himself out of the too-small chair, shaking out one booted foot. "My wife was correct. She suggested you were the right person to perform for the occasion—you and your fellows."

"Your quartet," the Queen mouthed.

He winked at her. "I thought perhaps a singer. Operatic. But then she said, 'Do you want them to remember her voice or yours?'" He laughed.

"The occasion?" I asked, still struggling to understand why he'd want to sponsor a celebration honoring the Portuguese king's fall from power.

" The grand opening," King Alfonso said. "El Hotel Ritz de Madrid. Two years in the making and ready at last."

"A hotel?"

Finally it became clear to me. This was the "
riz
" Rodrigo had been working on, and as far as the King was concerned, its completion was the news of the moment, overshadowing the tumult of a neighboring government's fall.

"If people will insist on comparing, I don't want them hearing gypsy music. I'll want—well, you know. Nothing from a
zarzuela.
Who is the one, my dear? The song they were playing when we first danced at Buckingham Palace?"

"Beethoven," the Queen said. "Minuet in G. Don't be silly. You remember."

"Is that it? Hum it for me."

She looked around awkwardly and worked her mouth, as if she were preparing to dredge up enough saliva to swallow a very dry cracker. Then she whistled the first two bars.

"That's it," he said. "Like that. Music for light toes, not for heavy heels. No thrumming or drumming of any kind. Friday evening. By then, the news will have flowed to every corner of Spain. Even your distant relatives will know that Madrid is no second cousin to any capital. A telephone on every floor. A water closet next to every one of the better bedrooms. Do you know that one of my architects here thought that was wasteful? But the world changes, just as you said. Lucky for me, that upstart is going home to Lisbon and I won't have to stomach his complaints any longer."

I was preparing to take my leave when three men in tight breeches and ruffled shirts filled the doorway, lingering unannounced, with the guard blocking their entry.

"Let them in, let them in!" the King barked at the guard, and then to the Queen, "Are you sure,
mi cielita
?" When she shook her head, he turned to me. "And how about you, young man—would you like to ride with us today?

"Horses?"

"What do you think, geese?
Cierto,
horses!"

I dug my hands into my armpits and glanced wildly around the room until the Queen rescued me.

"His leg, dear," she said quietly to the King. "A slight infirmity." My face reddened. "You be off, have a grand time, and I'll have a final word."

The King and his
amigotes
cleared away, their rowdy voices echoing in the marble hallways outside the reception room. She sent one guard away on an errand and asked the other to stand outside.

"I might have been able to ride," I said. "It isn't really so bad, anymore."

She seemed not to hear. She was eager to finish the conversation, to fill in the gaps, and she spoke in a torrent, as if she expected the King to return any moment.

The Queen explained that she would not be attending the Ritz opening. She had received an honorary award from the Red Cross, newly forming in Spain, for her support of hospitals and nursing. The Red Cross ceremony would take place in Toledo; she would not be back in Madrid in time to make the Friday gala.

"It's a convenient excuse," she said. "Every other society lady will be there, for reasons I can't imagine. After all, what does a fancy hotel mean? Only that their husbands can rent a local room for"—she shook her head with distaste—"But you will be there, Feliu. You will be my eyes and ears."

I presumed she wanted me to watch who danced with whom. The idea of eavesdropping unnerved me. But at least I understood it, because I could imagine the kind of envy and protectiveness that prompts a loving woman to spy on her man.

She gave me a detailed description of the woman I was supposed to watch—a duchess with dark hair and green eyes.

"You've seen her in the palace before—at Royal Masses, sometimes on the arm of the Bishop."

"Will she be wearing black, like all the
Donñas Negras
?"

The mention of "Black Ladies" made the Queen wince. It was a nickname we gave all the pious society women who made a vain display of their black garb. They weren't widows, though they seemed eager for the attention that robust grieving might bring. They looked forward to confession the same way the King and his men looked forward to polo or cards. Having turned the eye of princes during the week, they seemed to enjoy the special challenge of turning the eyes and ears of priests, calling out at unexpected moments, "
Ay-de-mi!
" when the religious spirit swelled their breasts.

"The ladies wear their black on Sundays, Feliu," the Queen said. "They'll be more colorfully attired for this event. The duchess, I've been told, will be wearing a pale blue dress."

"What if she doesn't?"

"She's just purchased it, through the mail, from Paris," the Queen said. "She'll wear it."

My job, the Queen explained, was to make sure the duchess didn't leave the hotel ballroom.

"But I'll be busy playing."

"That's the point. As long as you play, she won't leave. She fancies herself the belle of the ball. She does not like to miss a single dance. She will monopolize the King all night if he lets her."

"And that's all right?"

"In that room, in public, it is fine. If they leave the room together"—her voice faltered—"that is intolerable."

I awaited further instructions.

"Anyway," she said, "if anything goes wrong, a minister will be there to take the next step."

"A minister?"

"The most trusted man in the King's cabinet."

"Then the King knows this plan?"

"He could not be protected if he knew; and besides, we are protecting him from himself as well. That's more than you need to hear."

"Why not have the minister keep an eye on this lady?"

"He'll be coming and going, talking with guests, moving from salon to salon with his own important duties. He can't look over his shoulder every minute—and if he did, it would look peculiar."

"Forgive me," I said. "I can't say I understand this." How could I explain that everyone knew about the King's infidelities? I couldn't see how one more tryst would tip the moral scales.

She glared at me irritably. "The Church is refusing the new tax. It's no small sum. The extreme clericals are stronger than ever, and the liberals are losing patience. The King can't please them both. I'm not sure he can please anyone." After a deep breath, she continued. "The duchess and her husband are vocal opponents of the new tax. If the King indulges her, people will make assumptions—perhaps correct ones. If he chooses that path, well ... I hear Gibraltar has become crowded since the Portuguese Republicans took Lisbon.

"This isn't about passion, Feliu. This is about influence. We are simply making sure the sides are balanced."

My mind's eye flashed on an image of Percival, backlit by a smoky red halo:
This is your chance to show them what side you're on.

The Queen said, a little testily, "This isn't complicated. Are you having doubts?"

Percival, nodding, his face marred by jumping shadows:
These fellows won't hurt anyone.