Sira, page 26
I noted an admiring look in his eyes as he saw me come down the stairs, but he quickly hid it, conscious of his role and purpose for being there. The meeting was of a professional nature, not personal, let alone romantic. Even so, it was a night out, and I’d opted to dress according to the etiquette appropriate for any high-society event held after six. In the little time I’d had, I had managed to take a shower, do my makeup with reasonable care, and put on a beautiful, low-cut, sleeveless patterned dress that I’d bought at Digby Morton in London. So that I wouldn’t be late, I had left my hair down.
“You don’t know how pleased I am that you’ve accepted my invitation. I trust you’re not too tired.”
I lied blatantly, assuring him that I too was delighted, without making mention of my tiredness or the inconvenient time. He too had changed, now wearing semiformal attire of dark trousers and a pale jacket. I recognized the hand of a good tailor in his clothes, and in him, an undeniable charm. Even so, I would have given anything not to have to go anywhere with him.
“What do you fancy? Outdoors or in? I booked tables at two places, just in case.”
I preferred the first option, of course. Out on the street, I saw that he’d dispensed with the official car and brought his own: a two-seater Mercury with the top down. It certainly wasn’t a family man’s vehicle, nor did it seem in keeping with the austerity of the nation he served.
“I don’t know how well you know Spain. I don’t even know whether I ought to call you Señora or Señorita Nash,” he said, holding the door open for me.
It took all my effort, but I managed to tear the words from my throat.
“You can call me Livia.”
He hadn’t been with us in the press box at the airport—he’d been in another box, one for top officials—but he’d come by to greet us cordially before the landing, accompanied by a couple of waiters in short jackets carrying cold drinks and trays of snacks from the Viena Capellanes patisserie. I hadn’t seen him again since then, but he seemed tremendously pleased with how the event had gone. He wasn’t responsible for the organization of the tour, but he did play an essential role: ensuring that the international press covered everything accurately and without rancor. It was very likely that he would try to sound out all the reporters in one way or another, as he was doing with me now. Clearly he saw me as easier to manipulate than the headstrong journalists from the other news organizations.
We left Madrid, heading up Cuesta de las Perdices, and found very little traffic. Before long he turned left, toward a cluster of lights. VILLA ROMANA, I read on a neon sign. There were several dozen cars parked at the entrance to the premises. After opening the door again and holding out a hand for me, he gave the keys to a porter. Inside we were greeted by a large garden with pergolas and lush vegetation, a terrace restaurant, and a dance floor. I even thought I could make out a swimming pool in the background. An orchestra was playing light music, and despite it being a Sunday, there were plenty of customers.
“Did you know this place?”
“I didn’t even know it existed. I haven’t set foot in Spain for a few years.”
They showed us to a table, and we ordered, talking while we waited.
“But you have been to Madrid before, I imagine?”
“Many times, yes. I have . . . ,” I stammered. “I have some family here, though I don’t see them very often.”
He fixed his eyes on mine.
“I talk to a lot of foreigners,” he said with unexpected familiarity. “I travel constantly, to many destinations outside of Spain. Even so, I can’t locate your accent.”
How would he, if everything about me was a sham? As part of my cover, I had decided to speak good Spanish but, from time to time, introduce English words, or feign an affected cadence, or articulate words with a pronunciation that I pulled out of my hat.
“I’m originally from Tangier, and my family derives from various nationalities.”
Diplomatic as he was in every sense of the word, he didn’t probe further. But with his silence he discreetly left his interest on the table. To polish off my lie, I added another detail.
“At the Latin American Service, I work alongside people from many different places. Perhaps that’s why the way I speak seems somewhat unorthodox.”
“Nash is your paternal surname?”
I could have laughed. Besides wanting to know where my people were from, he also wanted to know whether I’d acquired my surname at marriage or birth. I’d dodged his previous question about whether I was titled señora or señorita, but he wasn’t giving up. Faced with his curiosity, I decided to offer a small deception.
“Nash is the surname I took from someone who’s now out of my life.”
In truth it wasn’t such a big lie, despite my misleading answer. Only that the person was a female friend, not a husband.
Beyond these lighter matters, the director of the Diplomatic Information Office had a serious interest in the BBC and the service I was supposed to be working for.
“Let me be frank now that we’re getting to know each other. You see, Livia, in this new era for our country, contact with the nations of Spanish-speaking America is of enormous importance to us. Before . . . I mean, during the world war, there were other more pressing matters. But now, absent that conflict and with new players coming to the fore, we’re aware of where our true allegiances lie.”
I already knew all of that. From the reports Kavannagh had sent me in London, and from what I’d had the chance to learn from my father that afternoon, I understood that this was one of the regime’s new priorities. Ever since the end of the civil war, there had been a great deal of interest in restoring the concept of the Hispanic world and of reviving the grandeur of the old empire. After the kick in the teeth that had come from the United Nations, and with Argentina’s hand extended to them, Francoist thinkers saw this as the perfect time to try to rebuild ties with Spain’s old friends across the pond. It wasn’t going to be an easy task: several governments there were radically against it, and the presence in the Americas of thousands of exiled Spanish Republicans complicated matters.
Without his having asked me openly, it was obvious that Diego Tovar was eager to know the format my work would take, its tone, how it would be distributed, and how many people it would reach. And though he was careful not to say so explicitly, he made it clear that he would appreciate it if, beyond reporting on Señora Eva’s comings and goings, I would be sensitive enough not to speak badly of Spain. Though I was a brazen impostor, at that moment it fully dawned on me that it would be my personal impressions, my judgment, and my viewpoint that would end up reaching tens of thousands of listeners on the other side of the Atlantic. The filter I applied would determine what they heard.
We finished dessert. Unexpectedly, it had been an enjoyable dinner. Villa Romana had proved to be a pleasant place, with its greenery and the music under the June sky. Far from winding down, by around midnight the atmosphere was beginning to come alive. The guests, well dressed and well groomed, were having a wonderful time, enjoying mixed drinks and sparkling wine, eating tournedos, seafood cocktails, and monkfish roulades. It was this Spain, and not any other, that Tovar undoubtedly wanted me to report on.
A group of ten or so people arrived, laughing and chatting loudly. The waiters started to put two tables together to accommodate them.
“Argentines,” Tovar explained with a slight gesture with his cigarette. “Madrid’s suddenly full of them.”
“Did they come with Señora Perón?”
“Not exactly. She brought her own entourage. We’re not sure who all these spontaneous visitors are. They don’t fit the usual mold, and there hasn’t been time yet to investigate. But certainly they’re here under her wing. We assume they’re just opportunists, individuals gambling on a chance to achieve personal or commercial gain under the banner of the first lady’s visit.”
He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the triangular Cinzano ashtray. The orchestra was playing the opening bars of Agustín Lara’s “Solamente una vez.” I thought he was going to suggest leaving when he spoke again.
“Might I be so bold as to ask you for a dance?”
I wrung my fingers under the tablecloth but mustered my courage and said, “Of course.”
We headed to the dance floor, which was full of couples. I hadn’t danced since the final stages of my pregnancy and was now flooded with memories of Marcus. I tried not to drown in them as I moved my body closer to this stranger’s. Diego Tovar proved to be an excellent dancer: graceful and natural, not at all tiresome. We danced the first bolero, and then there were two more. Then the singer asked for our attention. There was silence, and everyone turned to the stage. He cleared his throat, raised his voice, and informed us with pleasure that they were now going to play a tango, in tribute to the newly arrived wife of General Perón and in honor of the Argentine customers who were with us that night.
“Shall we go?” I whispered as the audience applauded enthusiastically.
We headed to our table while the pianist played the first notes of “La cumparsita.” The little parade. Some of the Argentines took to the dance floor. They were all smiling, seemingly delighted with the tribute to their country. The rest of the dancers stepped aside, still applauding, to make way for them.
I observed the first two: a man with a sturdy neck and a slender brunette. After them came a bald fellow and a peroxide blond with her hair styled in kiss curls. When the third couple went out onto the floor and the man’s eyes met mine, I felt as if an iron fist had split my soul.
Tall, handsome, beaming, brilliantined, he was holding hands with a woman in her thirties who had mahogany-tinted hair. It was Ramiro Arribas, the son of a bitch who had once left me for dead.
39
The municipal edict had summoned all of Madrid’s inhabitants to fill Plaza de Oriente that Monday. Students’ classes were canceled, and civil servants were given the day off. Businesses and shops were ordered to grant their employees leave to go out midmorning.
Our bus was to collect us from the press club at half past ten. Mindful of the torrent of activities ahead of me, I decided to get up early. By around eight o’clock, I was in the elevator in my father’s building, hoping to see my son for at least a few minutes before I became busy with my duties. The flat was just starting to come awake, and Víctor was still asleep. Philippa gave me an exhaustive report and assured me the boy was still very happy. He’d become inseparable from the porter’s cat and didn’t seem to notice my absence too much. Miguela served me and my father coffee, him still in his pajamas and dressing gown, me dressed for the day in sea blue. Breaking all protocol, and despite the splendidness of the flat, since I was in a hurry we opted to sit in the kitchen. I briefly wondered what Olivia would’ve thought if she could have seen us.
I recounted snippets of my dinner with the head of the Diplomatic Information Office, and Gonzalo cast light onto some shadows in my understanding.
“This Diego Tovar you speak of, given the position he holds, must be one of the Acción Católica propagandists.”
Since the fall of the Nazis and Italian fascism, he explained after sipping from his cup, the Falange had been losing influence in certain important spheres, particularly those concerned with foreign relations. From among the various families buzzing around him, the Generalísimo had begun making political appointments to compensate for this shift. These appointees were members of a devoutly Christian movement—Acción Católica, or Catholic Action—that was just as anticommunist as the Falange, but less radical.
“Despite the changes,” he added, “not that much is different. The aim now is to make the regime more palatable. The fascist salute has been dispensed with, and supposedly we have a law of succession in place. But there’s a joke making the rounds, with the people turning to humor, as they always do, so they don’t go to pieces. The joke goes: everything’s essentially the same, only now, instead of raising one’s arm and giving a passionate cry of ‘Up with Spain!’ whenever we set foot in a government building, our officials are content to hear us offer a whispered ‘Hail Virgin Mary.’”
I laughed lazily as I finished up my coffee. It was time to go.
“Martín-Artajo, the minister for foreign affairs, is presently Acción Católica’s most prominent member,” my father concluded, standing to see me to the door. “Presumably he has granted appointments to people who are of the same mind. Your new friend, for example.”
With that word—“propagandists”—etched in my mind, I headed back. I felt a pang of sadness at having seen Víctor only while he was asleep, along with the peace of mind of knowing that he was happy and well looked after. Beyond all these thoughts—about the Catholics implanted in politics and my son’s sleep—there remained something else that unsettled me profoundly, that had left me shaken: Ramiro Arribas. The man who, looking dashing and confident, had arrived in the early hours to dance a tango under the stars on Cuesta de las Perdices.
Our eyes had met only for an instant, but it was enough for us to recognize each other. It had been almost eleven years since he left me his crushing letter in our room at Hotel Continental in Tangier, before running away like a rat. I had been left behind, abandoned, pregnant, with neither money nor the jewelry I’d inherited, loaded down by fear and debts. Neither of us had any idea how the other had rebuilt their life. I’d never tried to find him, and it would’ve been very difficult for him to follow my trail given my changes of identity and location. And yet, without question, we’d both known who the other was at once. Shaken, I had gripped Diego Tovar’s arm, wanting to leave the place as soon as possible. Ramiro had stood there watching me while his eye-catching companion pulled on his sleeve to drag him to the middle of the dance floor. I’d arrived back at the press club after my early-morning outing with his face still in my mind.
The bus left us in the courtyard of the Armory of the Royal Palace. I would’ve liked to have had some time—twenty minutes would’ve been enough—to drop by my neighborhood, my square, and my street, the place where I’d grown up, so near to there. But it wasn’t to be; I couldn’t detach myself from the group. We filed up the imposing marble steps flanked by halberdiers, and everything opened up majestically around us: immense rooms, tapestries, rugs, lamps. The war had left the building battered, but two years of repairs had healed its wounds and the scars were less visible now. After the royal family’s hasty escape into exile, only Azaña, in his role as the last president of the Spanish Republic, had inhabited the palace temporarily. The Nationalist Franco, of more austere tastes, had decided to move into El Pardo Palace, located farther outside the city center and more modest. He only used the Royal Palace for occasions that required pomp and ceremony. Like this one.
The press was accommodated in a room near the one where the formal ceremony would take place. We were surrounded by gilded furniture, pastoral frescoes, and walls draped with greenish silk. A sustained, harsh noise like a rough sea was coming from the other side of the balconies. Some of us, curious, pulled back the curtains to see. It was a dramatic sight: thousands, tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of people were gathered in the great Plaza de Oriente and its surroundings, masses of bodies crowded together, holding placards and flags. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, and the heat was beginning to take hold. I could only imagine how that compact throng of people felt, there being little in the way of shade to protect them.
At some point Diego Tovar appeared, impeccable as ever. He greeted everyone warmly, kissing female hands and shaking male ones. Some people he gave friendly pats on the back, and he even joked with some of the most seasoned American journalists until they laughed with him. His talent for public relations was undeniable, and I wondered how much I would ultimately profit from him. He left me until last, not as a snub but as a courtesy, to be able to devote a little more time to me. He asked how I was, whether I’d rested. After the sudden encounter with Ramiro the other night at Villa Romana, I’d pleaded exhaustion on the way back to disguise my disconcerted state.
Before long we began to hear the sounds of orders and rushed activity. They were arriving, General Franco and his guest. We journalists were escorted through to the Throne Hall and positioned out of the way on one side. The curtains were closed, shielding the room from the midday light. Candles burning in candelabras and wall lamps with weak bulbs gave the room a gloomy feel. It was because of this murk, perhaps, that I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me as Señora Perón entered alongside Franco, who was dressed in his uniform. But no. As they approached the middle of the room, I saw that I hadn’t been mistaken. On that sweltering June 9, on top of her taffeta dress, the Argentine president’s wife was sporting a lavish sable coat that I would’ve liked to have had during my first weeks in London, when the temperatures remained stubbornly below freezing. Averse to simplicity, the illustrious first lady had paired the unique garment with a sort of cap from which striking plumes hung down to below her shoulders.
An interminable formal reception followed, with the two dignitaries in the center of the room. A veritable royal court of civilian notables in morning suits, military men in full uniform, and ladies in wide-brimmed hats passed before them. There were some lapses in concentration and mistakes, elbow pokes, and even shoves. “Move, please, that’s my place,” more than one person whispered, everyone wanting to be as close as possible to the stars of the show. Staff had to intervene at one point to restore order. Once the tedious sequence of greetings was complete, the Spanish head of state, with the Chain of the Order of the Liberator General San Martín pinned on his shoulder and the corresponding sash across his sizable belly, by God’s grace, positioned his spectacles on the tip of his nose and proceeded to read a pompous speech crammed with allusions to faith, harmony, affection between nations, and the great Spanish-speaking family.
