Sira, page 18
“And now?” I asked.
My curiosity was sincere. I’d been away from my country for almost two years. I’d left at a pivotal moment, when the two nations that were friends of the regime—Italy and Germany—had been defeated. Since then, all I knew about our domestic politics had come from the little I read in my father’s letters and the rare newspapers that reached us in Jerusalem back when Marcus was still alive, out of date and duly censored.
The elevator doors opened; it was full of people of various sizes and ethnicities, heights and styles. They all took a step back or to the side to make room for us.
We stood in silence as the contraption descended, packed in with the others.
“The British Foreign Office has changed its policy,” Ara went on as we exited. “The exiles from Spain were heartbroken. We all had faith that the victors of the world war would topple Franco after the conflict, but that hasn’t been the case, and in the end, all they did was issue an official statement condemning the regime. They decided not to intervene in internal affairs. The Spanish people must carve out their own destiny, they declared. As we Spaniards say, ‘Every mast must hold up its own sail.’”
A kind of melancholy passed between us as we walked on into the depths of the building. We were both thinking the same thing. Our poor country. Poor Spain.
“Even so, Britain is maintaining an ambiguous position and is determined to avoid offending Franco. Which is why the Foreign Office forbids the BBC from having politically compromised staff. So when someone well known to have anti-Francoist baggage is involved as a contributor or guest, they always participate under a pseudonym. And those of us who aren’t very inclined to keep our mouths shut, they prefer to assign to the Latin American Service.”
He stopped, stepped aside for me, and winked.
“That way we’re less problematic.”
We were in an enormous underground hall filled with smoke, the murmur of conversations, and the sound of cutlery clinking on dishes. A lot of men, some women. Skin of every color, from pale white to the blackest gloss. Blond, curly, red, frizzy, brown, straight, and dark hair. Tall, average, short. Indecipherable languages coming from mouths as fast as spoons, forks, and cigarettes were going in. Many people were already sitting, and others were standing and waiting, forming a line to collect a tray that would be filled farther down by women in white hats holding big ladles.
“Welcome to the Bush House canteen, my dear, the most cosmopolitan place in all of England. Urdu, Russian, Swahili, Norwegian, Malay, Farsi, Greek, Polish, Burmese . . . thirty-something languages. Call out any language and you can be certain some editor, translator, or announcer will raise their hand.”
He lowered his voice and drew closer to my ear, as if to pass on some artful secret.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if there was more than one spy among them.”
26
The fire was lit, and Víctor was playing on the rug, throwing some wooden blocks I’d bought for him in Woolworths, the shop I discovered in Chelsea on the way back from my meeting with Ara. Later, I’d learn that there were lots of identical outlets all over London, all over Britain, all over the United States of America. The chain, in fact, formed a gigantic empire. On that first visit I gathered a handful of functional things: little toys, two sets of cotton pajamas, socks, a plate and cup made of tough Bakelite so that my son could eat and drink, then throw them on the floor without fear of destroying Olivia’s crockery.
It was a peaceful afternoon, there was still some natural light, and through the big windows I could see the days slowly growing longer. A game of bridge at one of her friends’ houses was keeping my mother-in-law out, and as soon as Philippa walked through the door, I’d given her a few hours off. I sat on a sofa with my notebook in my hands and a pencil between my teeth, my mind retrieving details from Jerusalem, trying to string together content for my radio appearances. This was what I’d agreed to with Ángel Ara: I would think up some ideas, discuss them with him, and together we would shape and organize them.
A few moments before, I’d heard the doorbell and assumed that Gertrude would open it. She did, and here she was now, with her odd eye and arm outstretched, handing me an envelope. To my surprise, it was from Dominic Hodson. First, he apologized for the embarrassing evening at his parents’ house, then he proposed a meeting, suggesting tea at Fortnum & Mason. I need to speak to you, he indicated. Not I would like, nor it would be a pleasure. No. I “need.”
For some impulsive reason, I didn’t mention the invitation to Olivia. The journey back from the Hodson house after dinner had been uncomfortable, tense. I’d had no desire to revisit the events of the evening, but she’d insisted.
“Try to forgive Fiona,” she’d said as soon as we were in the car. “She was always a charming girl, perhaps she just—”
I cut her off.
“I’d have been grateful if you’d spared me this unpleasant encounter,” I retorted curtly.
Her response was evasive.
“I had no inkling, dear, that Alexia might’ve returned to London, and anyway, her and Mark, it happened such a long time ago, and she’s fabulously married with the Burke-Landons’ youngest now. They have two girls, her mother told me last time I saw her, at a concert at the Royal Albert Hall, I seem to remember . . .”
I let my mother-in-law continue her chatter filled with places, surnames, and scathing adverbs while my memory relived the mortifying question that had been asked by that drunk, provocative woman, the sound of the chair falling, the gauze of the yellow dress flying through the door. Neither Alexia nor her husband had stayed for coffee, and the revelation of the called-off engagement had continued to resound inside me like a malicious echo. Now that the memory of that dinner-turned-sour was beginning to fade, I’d made up my mind to accept—without saying a word about it to Olivia—the invitation from the man who’d been my neighbor at the table. I would decide whether to tell her about it after the meeting.
The next morning I hurried out in search of clothes. I didn’t have anything intermediate between my everyday sweaters and trousers and my one evening dress. A few days before, a shop I happened to come across among the streets of Kensington had caught my eye. DIGBY MORTON. READY-TO-WEAR read the engraving on a bronze plaque on the facade. The shopwindow was as simple as it was refined. An atmosphere of restrained subtlety greeted me as I walked through the door. The saleswoman showed me several impeccably finished dress models, a novelty to me, accustomed as I was to creating each of my pieces at the customer’s personal request. I tried on several superbly cut two-piece suits. Exquisitely fashionable, the shop assistant said. I marveled at their pure, stylized lines: simple, clean, devoid of ostentation or extravagance, a vivid reflection of the austerity the country was under in every sphere of life. The prices, on the other hand, stood in stark contrast to the economic constraints and rationing. I decided on two outfits, adding a pair of shoes with slender heels and a hat as neat as a pillbox.
At half past four, I walked into the tearoom at Fortnum & Mason in my grayish-blue tweed trouser suit. My hair was gathered in a low bun, and I wore dark eyeshadow: muted elegance to meet a stranger with unknown intentions. Dominic Hodson was waiting for me at a table against the wall and stood as soon as he saw me. He was wearing a bland suit and a subtly patterned tie and had the same aqueous eyes and lack of good looks that I remembered from the dinner.
We shook hands. The waiter showing me to the table pulled out a chair for me to sit on. The tearoom, decorated in pastel tones, was packed with identical tables. Around them were groups of two, three, or four, some men but mostly women, chatting after doing their shopping, drinking teas with exotic aromas, and eating delicate pastries. Like the price tags at the couturier Digby Morton, everyone in this sophisticated setting seemed frivolously oblivious to Britain’s coupons, queues, and shortages.
“I don’t know whether you’re familiar with this place and if it’s to your liking,” he said timidly. “It’s a classic tearoom very famous among the usual ladies. I chose it thinking you’d feel comfortable here, but to be honest, it’s the first time I’ve been.”
I appreciated his frankness, the gesture of leaving his own environment—whatever that was—to meet me somewhere that he supposed suited me.
“First of all, allow me to reiterate how profoundly sorry I am for my sister Fiona’s shameful behavior. Her indiscretion was extraordinarily inconsiderate of Mrs. Burke-Landon and, equally, of you.”
I nodded without answering, as if accepting his apology. And he nodded back, as if accepting my reply.
“While there’s no justification whatsoever for her actions,” he went on, “allow me to divulge to you that my sister is going through a difficult time in her own marriage. On the outside they keep up appearances, but she drinks too much and seems to be developing a certain . . . let’s say, sourness, a certain amount of verbal aggression, even, toward other women who’re perhaps more . . . more attractive or more on an even keel or . . . Please forgive my ineloquence. I’m a bachelor and I don’t handle these matters very well.”
Once again I was touched by his unfiltered honesty. The resolute colonial official, hardened in Africa, was stepping in puddles as he trod the turbulence of the feminine soul, in front of a stranger and surrounded by ladies who were discussing curtains and cushions, spring trends, or ridiculously complex problems with their domestic staff.
We ordered our teas—his black and strong, mine a Darjeeling, a little tribute to my slippery friend Rosalinda.
“I’m doubly ashamed because I was the one who suggested the evening. I wanted to meet you in person and thought that would be a more relaxed setting. I deliberately left my mother in charge of organizing a small dinner according to my instructions but, in the end, and unbeknownst to me, my sister intervened and added some guests.”
I couldn’t contain myself.
“Guests like Alexia Burke-Landon, for example.”
He nodded slowly. Then he weighed his words with extreme caution.
“I don’t know whether you’re aware of how close she and your husband were when they were both still unmarried.”
“Not really,” I admitted.
I was sure there had been other women in Marcus’s life before me. But I’d never met any of them, and I’d never known he’d had a firm commitment with any.
“At the risk of being indiscreet, I must tell you that I suspect that, in their relationship, the balance of interest, shall we say, always tipped in the direction of Alexia.”
I smiled, but the corner of my mouth turned down with sadness. This was a subtle way for him to tell me that Marcus might not have loved her all that much, an elegant attempt to soothe any potential retroactive jealousy.
“Sentimental matters aside,” he added, “I imagine it must’ve seemed strange to be summoned like this.”
Incredibly strange, I almost acknowledged. But I opted to let him continue.
“I must admit, I too was taken aback by the matter that led to you and I being here together today.” He cleared his throat, as if mustering his courage. “You see, what I must tell you is that your husband, my old friend Mark Bonnard—Marcus to you—decided some time ago to make me the executor of his will.”
My back tensed. I frowned. What? What was he saying?
“It’s why I came to London, to see you and make the necessary arrangements.”
I remained incapable of putting my bewilderment into words. A waiter appeared with a three-story stand of finger-shaped sandwiches, pastries, and delicate cakes. The man took only a few seconds to arrange everything on the table and serve us with deft ceremony, but the pause in our conversation seemed as dark and immense to me as a winter night.
Dominic picked up where he’d left off as soon as we were alone again.
“At the beginning of last year, after a long time with no contact, I received a letter from your husband from Jerusalem. He informed me of your marriage in Gibraltar, and of the fact that you were waiting for your first child to be born. In view of the burgeoning violence in Palestine, and to make provision for . . .” He paused; his Adam’s apple swelled. “To make provision for potential adverse outcomes, which sadly ended up transpiring, he’d decided to leave his legal and financial affairs in order. And to do so, he opted to name me as executor, despite the years that had passed without us seeing each other.”
He looked down at his cup, fixing his eyes on the dark tea, as yet untasted.
“Once I’d gotten over my initial surprise, I must admit I felt honored that Mark was placing his trust in me.” He looked up again with eyes that were as ugly as a fish’s but profoundly sincere. “So here I am, honored to be assuming a firm commitment to safeguard your and little Víctor’s interests.”
He finally lifted the cup to his lips. I copied him, trying to swallow both the hot liquid and my bewilderment. I didn’t understand what Dominic Hodson was saying to me. I’d closed Marcus’s and my accounts at the Barclays Bank branch in Jerusalem myself. All our remaining money was now in an envelope in my bedroom wardrobe. I was also waiting for the authorities to finish working out the official pension we would receive for Marcus’s service to the empire—Olivia was taking care of it. Beyond that, apart from some of my son’s features and his straw-colored hair, I wasn’t aware of any other inheritance from Marcus that was due to us.
“But . . . ,” I stammered. “But couldn’t I have . . . ?”
He finished the sentence for me.
“Taken care of everything yourself? He didn’t want to worry you. He was only trying to protect you. First of all, though you may have sensed it, he didn’t want to explicitly convey to you the feeling that his life was in danger. And at the same time, in the event that such an awful thing should happen, he wanted to spare you the administrative complexities of a country whose workings and institutions you’re unfamiliar with. You would’ve been embroiled in tiresome legal proceedings, you would’ve needed a professional to advise you—”
I broke in.
“His mother could’ve helped me.”
He reached for the triple stand and took an egg mayonnaise sandwich. Before putting it in his mouth he said, “I’m afraid, my dear, that Lady Olivia Bonnard, more than being the solution, could be a significant part of the problem.”
27
I received a call from Ángel Ara the next morning. It pulled me from my ruminations and forced me to plant my feet back in reality, stopped me from thinking about the episode at Fortnum & Mason, about Dominic Hodson, and about Marcus’s will, the existence of which had come as such a shock to me.
In my role as executor, he’d told me, my job is to put your husband’s affairs in order, and that’s what I’m doing. Please, don’t think we’re dealing with an enormous estate or anything like that. Just give me a few days to go through some paperwork, and I’ll contact you as soon as everything’s ready. I’d agreed. How could I not?
My fellow Spaniard’s voice sounded brisk and jovial through the receiver.
“So, my friend, how’re those Palestinian notes coming along? When do you think we could meet? Tomorrow? Day after tomorrow? The day after that?”
Ara was an unflagging fellow, dynamic and persevering in his unique way.
“I’m working on it,” I assured him. “But if you could give me a couple more days I’d be extremely grateful.”
“Very well. Two days’ time, then. Shall we meet at Bush House again? At ten in the morning?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Great. We’ll go over your work and I’m sure we’ll be able to adapt it to our format.”
I was about to hang up when I heard him yell at the other end of the line.
“One more thing! Do you like art? A most esteemed friend of mine, a compatriot of ours, is opening an exhibition tomorrow. Would you like to drop by?”
Without waiting for an answer, with an urgent “Note it down, note it down!” Ara gave me some directions on the fly.
A taxi left me on Bond Street outside the Lefevre Gallery. Nearby I could make out other art galleries, antique shops, and auction houses. I hesitated for a moment at the entrance. I had no invitation or anything to identify me as an acquaintance of a friend of the featured painter. All the same, I walked in with a firm step, cool and erect, as I tended to do whenever insecurity or doubt bared their teeth.
The gallery was bright and spacious with central pillars and broad white walls. Hanging from them, distributed symmetrically, were numerous framed drawings: simple black outlines with no internal details, plain human forms that were both expressive and modern.
It wasn’t difficult to find Ara, with his curls and mustache, among the large crowd. He was with a small group talking animatedly in Spanish, rather more loudly than was the norm in phlegmatic England.
“My dear, don’t you look dazzling in that design, the color of the wine from our vines . . .”
He planted a couple of kisses on my cheeks, a thoroughly Spanish gesture. I was slow to react, accustomed as I was now to simply shaking hands or exchanging stiff greetings with a slight bow of the head.
“Come, come with me, take my arm and I’ll take you for a mosey to show you who’s who among our own.”
I didn’t protest—in his words and suggestions there was never a hint of flirting, only straightforward friendliness. And so, linked together, we began to move around the large room, between artistic works, pillars, and people.
“Look,” he announced to me not overly discreetly. “Him in the blue tie, that’s Rafael Martínez Nadal, the celebrated Antonio Torres from La Voz de Londres, very well known in Spain for his programs during the war. Ring any bells? He works for the Observer now. He’s a clever chap, never backs down. He gave the BBC itself the Iberian slap when they asked him to try to sound a little less Republican when he was on air. The young woman smoothing down his pocket square, though she’s young enough to be his daughter, is in fact his wife, Jacinta Castillejo, a dancer—daughter of the great Don José Castillejo. You know Castillejo? He was one of the scholars who was purged after Franco’s victory, quite the intellectual. He ended up here in England, giving a few measly classes and living like an ascetic at the University of Liverpool. He even fixed the soles of his children’s shoes sitting on a cobbler’s stool while talking through matters of philosophical significance with his students.”
