The Cook of Castamar, page 30
Melquíades accepted his defeat, like a governor handing over the keys to a city he could no longer defend. The siege had lasted too long, and perhaps the time had now come to forget this unfortunate stage of his life. He couldn’t help feeling a certain admiration for his adversary’s strength and efficiency, but he told himself that she would never know either love or true human companionship. Sometimes, he wondered what these last ten years at Castamar would have been like if her temperament had been different. Even now, in the depths of defeat, he could not help imagining another Doña Ursula, one who was not bitter about life, one who was kinder and more easy-going. Don’t be a fool, he reprimanded himself. Better to forget everything about that woman. He should go as far as away as possible, all the way back to his beloved Catalonia if he could.
He had spent his childhood there, in the care of his uncle and the company of his cousins. When Melquíades had been only a year old, his father and his pregnant mother had set out for Madrid. Twelve years later, his father had risen to become head butler and he had brought his son to join Melquíades’s mother and his younger sister, Angeles, at Castamar. Melquíades had not returned to his homeland since, but perhaps now the time had come. With his savings he could establish a small business, a bakery, for example. But he knew this was just a dream, for if his reputation as a traitor got out, he would be condemned to poverty. And so, as he glared back at his enemy, he hoped with all his heart that a new head butler would restore the household to its natural hierarchy and teach that woman a lesson. With victory in her eyes, she turned and disappeared down the corridor, leaving him standing there as if he were nothing more than another portrait hanging on the wall.
He retreated to his bedroom like a prisoner, conscious that his days would be long and his nights would be lonely while he waited for his master to reach a decision. Now the war was over, he did not risk ending up in front of a firing squad, but perhaps the duke might decree that he be exiled from Spain for treason, or an even worse punishment. Whatever happened, his fate was now in the hands of God and the duke, and despite the fear gripping his stomach, he felt as if the weight of his past had been lifted from his shoulders. He made his preparations to leave Castamar, gathering up his belongings and his savings, though he did not have space for his greatest treasure – the hard-backed exercise books in which he had recorded the day-to-day events of the household. He would have to collect them when Don Diego permitted it or, with luck, ask his nephew to keep them safe. He knew the lad would soon hear of his uncle’s treachery and reject him, never wishing to see his uncle again.
He was sure Doña Ursula would be eager to spread the news of his betrayal as soon as the servants sat down to eat together. However, the day passed and nobody came, either to bring him lunch or to bring him supper. Not wishing to starve to death, he went to one of the taverns near Castamar. It was not until the following day, at lunchtime, that Clara Belmonte appeared carrying a tray. She apologized for not having come the day before, explaining that Doña Ursula had only informed those she considered the senior servants, deliberately shunning Clara and keeping her in the dark, but Señor Casona, the head gardener, had told her everything.
‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘I had supper in the little tavern by the Boadilla road.’
Clara insisted that, as long as she was head cook, he would have his daily meals and whatever else he needed, regardless of Doña Ursula. He had been naive to assume that the housekeeper would make public the reason for his fall from grace. She had been far more insidious, allowing the rumour to spread by itself, so that nobody could express their solidarity with the butler’s predicament. She had already made it clear that nobody was to visit him, an order Señorita Belmonte had defied. Melquíades imagined the housekeeper’s cheeks burning with fury. Clara Belmonte had no idea just how completely she had won his heart with this act of defiance and kindness. She told him she was greatly saddened by his situation, and even more so by the prospect of his ceasing to be the head butler at Castamar. He clumsily tried to explain the reason for his betrayal of the duke, as it had been weighing on his conscience, and since the end of the war, he had felt nothing but profound regret.
She listened patiently and replied with one of her mother’s sayings. ‘These things are always a good opportunity for forgiveness.’
After Señorita Belmonte had left, he ate the delicious chicken soup she had prepared for him, accompanied by fried chicken livers mashed with hard-boiled egg. Spread on freshly baked wheat bread, the chopped liver tasted divine. Just as he had finished eating, the door flew open. Roberto entered in a fury and walked in circles, agitated, his eyes wide, raising his hands to his head and running them through his hair.
‘Is it true, Uncle?’ he asked repeatedly.
Melquíades tried to make him understand that there had been a war. But his nephew only wanted to know if the rumours put about by Doña Ursula were true. The butler stopped trying to explain and confirmed that they were. The lad looked at him incredulously, in shock.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he said, his fists clenched. ‘All that teaching, all the etiquette and the manners, and for what? What have you been preparing me for?’
‘You’re my nephew, I was preparing you for—’
‘No. Don’t dare say that. You’ve kept the secret… until now. My mother and I knew nothing.’
‘We’re Catalans—’
‘I don’t care. You don’t understand, do you? Neither of us will be able to find work; we’ll be treated like lepers. Nobody in Spain will hire the nephew of the man who betrayed Castamar. If the master expels us, we’ll be condemned to a life of poverty.’
His nephew was devastated, the truth about his uncle’s past having covered his somewhat idealized image with a layer of thick, black mud. Roberto stared at him uncomprehendingly. Melquíades placed a hand on the lad’s shoulder.
‘His lordship won’t blame you…’ he said, finally.
‘He will. And even if he doesn’t, Uncle, everyone else will.’
‘Don Diego will never blame you for my errors,’ Melquíades said, trying to reassure the lad, ‘only for your own. I’ve known him since—’
‘You’ve brought shame on the whole family. I have to talk to the duke. I have to tell him that I feel as badly betrayed as he does.’
The butler tried to dissuade him, to make him understand that it was better not to speak to Don Diego at a time such as this. But his nephew would hear no more and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. And Melquíades felt that the loneliness that now floated over him, like a dense, invisible mist, would pervade his life for many years to come.
*
Enrique woke up in an excellent mood and decided to celebrate his return to his estate by having breakfast in bed. He ate two poached eggs, drank a cup of hot chocolate and dealt with his correspondence. It consisted mostly of invitations to social gatherings, dinners and the occasional tedious reading. Only one, a poorly written missive from Hernaldo, merited any attention. Apparently, one of the tradesmen who supplied the duke’s estate had, in exchange for a few reals, informed him that Señorita Castro was confined to bed and receiving the constant care of the doctor and, more surprisingly, the African. Enrique had not even contemplated the possibility that she would end up seducing Don Gabriel, but if she did, then it would be just as good for his plans as the seduction of Don Diego himself.
He dressed and went for a ride along the banks of the Valdeurraca, and then practised his marksmanship, something which he tried to do two or three times a week. He was considered one of the best shots in Madrid. With a duelling pistol, properly loaded and accurately calibrated, he could hit a target at twenty paces without any trouble. And this was precisely the fate that awaited the valiant Don Diego, although not before he had lost his prestige and his honour. The duke had deprived Enrique of his greatest treasure, possibly the only person he had loved in his life, and losing her had turned the marquess into a ruthless man. He well remembered those long summer hours on his estate, when the outcome of the war had still been uncertain, when he would receive his darling Alba with his warmest smile. He had met her at the house of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, and from the very first moment they had been drawn to one another. She had loved to talk about court affairs, and was a born hedonist, a lover of music, poetry and art who was always keen to display her exquisite education. He was enchanted by her elegance and by her attention to every detail. Not a day went by when he didn’t miss her scent of lavender with a touch of mint. How could he forget that smile, those eyes that looked into his very soul?
He tutted while his armourer loaded his pistol, and he checked the wind and considered how it would affect the course of the projectile. Although he was skilled at understanding and anticipating human nature, he had not foreseen how Alba would slip through his fingers like a fresh morning breeze. As he took aim at the target on the chestnut tree, he remembered how naive he had been, and he told himself he should not have been so patient.
One summer afternoon, as was her custom, she had invited him to drink hot chocolate with her, to inform him of the latest social events, which she always knew about long before they appeared in the gazette. She had jokingly alluded to the fact that, whenever he appeared at court, he set all the ladies’ hearts fluttering. He had subtly hinted that he might be particularly inclined towards one of them in particular, and she, almost immediately, had responded that she too might have an inclination towards a particular gentleman. At that moment, as he contemplated her brilliant blue eyes, he had felt very fortunate. He had always suspected that he had a place in her heart. She had laughed when he asked her to whisper the name in his ear.
‘It’s your turn,’ she had replied, wafting her fan.
‘I know, but I started. It’s only fair that you be the first to take the next step,’ he had answered.
Then, with her impeccable smile, she had brought her lips close to his ear.
‘Will you keep my secret?’ she had asked, her lips grazing his earlobe.
At that moment, the hair on the back of his neck prickling, he had felt an urge to take her right there, on the Turkish rug in the drawing room. He had smiled, expecting her to say, You, my dear marquess, are the one who has stolen my heart.
Instead, she said, ‘Don Diego de Castamar. The nuptials will be announced tomorrow, and the celebrations will be held within a few months. And you are the first to know.’
He had feigned a smile, so far as his skills as an actor would allow, while he asked himself how he could have been so wrong in his assessment. Each time the blue eyes of Alba de Montepardo had looked at him, each time she had rested her delicate wrist on his forearm, each time she had ruffled his hair, each time she had laughed, each time they had danced, each time they had fallen silent, barely breathing, he had been mistaken. And so, he had refused to reveal the name of his beloved and, after saying goodbye, spent a sleepless night thinking about blowing Don Diego’s brains out with his pistol.
But he knew himself, and he was not an impulsive man. Anyway, she had already made her choice. So, after the wedding – which he did not attend, despite being invited – he had his final meeting with Alba. In the evening light, he had wanted to find out whether he had been a complete fool, or if, on the contrary, he had caught a glimpse of something real. When Alba entered the drawing room with the smile of newlywedded bliss upon her lips, something died inside him, something that would never return. Another piece of humanity, one of the last, among the many that had gradually fallen by the wayside over the course of his life. He apologized for having been unable to attend the wedding, alluding to the duties of war. Not bothering to conceal her displeasure at his absence, she had detected that he was lying.
‘You are very dear to my heart, and I deserve to know the true reason for your absence,’ she had said. ‘Tell me. Do you no longer value our friendship? Have I displeased you in some way?’
‘Not at all, my dear Alba. Nothing you do could displease me.’
‘Then tell me what is wrong. You no longer call upon me or answer my letters. I am distraught… You are one of my closest friends and you didn’t even come to my wedding or present your regards to my husband.’
He had to admit that the imperious manner in which she had made her accusations merely caused him to love her more. He had hesitated for a moment and then, without directly saying that he loved her, had tried to explain why he had called her there that day.
‘I don’t think I can see you anymore, Doña Alba.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she said, coming closer and taking his hand. ‘Don Enrique, tell me the truth. How have I offended you? I must know the truth, so that I can understand.’
‘I’m afraid I find it too painful to see you…’
He didn’t know whether Alba’s reaction was feigned or not. She had responded with surprise, and he knew that her expression would be forever engraved upon his soul. Even now, sixteen years later, he could not forget the gleam of her blue eyes, lent a slightly turquoise hue by the evening light. He had remained silent while she, with her customary tenderness, had placed a hand on his cheek. He had prayed that she would never lift her hand from his face.
‘Why is it painful now if it wasn’t painful before?’ she had whispered.
‘You weren’t married before,’ he had confessed.
Alba had understood that his soul belonged to her, that his blood, his vital organs, his will, every breath of air in his body were hers and that, if she wanted them to be together, then nothing on earth would separate them.
‘Don Enrique…’ she had said.
Then, as on other occasions, she had stared into his eyes. He had drawn a little closer and she, her eyes shining, had turned her face towards him. His lips had gently brushed against hers. Alba had parted hers just enough to allow their tongues to touch. Then, carried away by the months of waiting, he had put his arm around her waist and kissed her passionately. She had sighed and responded, as if she too had been holding in her passion. But those fleeting moments of delight were rudely interrupted when she pulled away from him, when he heard her voice saying no, that this kiss was all he would ever receive from Alba de Castamar. She had turned and made for the door, but he had cut her off.
‘Don’t go. You feel something for me.’
‘Don Enrique, please don’t.’
‘If you told me to, I would move heaven and earth to make you mine. There would be nothing—’
‘Don Enrique…’ she had interrupted. ‘Any favour I might show would simply bring shame upon us both.’
‘I don’t care as long as I have you by my side.’
‘But I do.’
There had been a tense silence while they looked at each other again. She took his hand tenderly.
‘Were we to embark upon the relationship you say you desire, the only result would be to bring dishonour both to your own name and that of my husband. I love you enough not to wish you to suffer, but I love Diego with all my heart, and nothing could make me betray him. Not for you or for anybody. Ever.’
The hope that had been kindled by her fleeting kiss was extinguished by her words. He could not compete with her conviction and her sincerity. Accepting defeat, he had nodded and kissed her hand in farewell. She had looked into his eyes, which were brimming with tears.
‘Now do you understand why we can’t see each other?’ he had asked, his voice breaking with emotion.
‘I will miss our conversations,’ she had replied, a tear running down her cheek.
‘I will miss everything about you,’ he had answered, moving aside.
She had reached the door without looking back, and he hadn’t stood in her way.
‘Alba,’ he had said, as she opened the door, ‘I will always remember our kiss as the sweetest of memories.’
‘Of course, Don Enrique… But understand that I must forget it forever,’ she had replied, closing the door behind her.
After that, they had occasionally met at social gatherings, at the queen’s lunches at the Buen Retiro Palace, or at the theatre. In those moments, Doña Alba always responded with a friendly smile, making it clear that there would forever be a small place in her heart for him. His gaze, meanwhile, told her she would always occupy all of his heart. And so, he had made do, tortured by the passing of time as it whispered to him every day that she was not his. Gradually, however, his resignation had turned to cold fury.
That occasion, when Alba had left the drawing room of his house, was the first of two on which he had felt utterly defeated. The second had occurred several years later, when Hernaldo de la Marca informed him of her accidental death. He had hoped that the death of Don Diego would bring Alba back to his arms, in search of the only man who had never disappointed her, but his plan was in tatters. And so, when he was told that Don Diego had ridden his wife’s horse instead of his own, his hatred had welled up and he had felt like beating Hernaldo to death right there and then. His lackey had thought that his master’s rage was due to the failure of his political ambitions. It was only some time later that Hernaldo had realized the true cause of his master’s sadness, when Don Enrique’s grief had persisted for longer than could be explained by political motives.
It was a pain so profound that for a long time he had tried to drown it in alcohol. Eventually, the last scrap of human empathy had disappeared from his soul. He felt only disdain for this duke who had foiled his plans for the Bourbons, prevented him from becoming a Grandee of Spain, and robbed him of that which he loved most in this life. And so, whenever he practised his marksmanship and took aim at the bark of the chestnut tree, he imagined that the target was Don Diego’s head and felt great satisfaction when he hit his mark.
26
Same day, 23 January 1721
