Sira, page 33
He was still talking about his advantageous operations when I stood up. I’d had enough.
“I have to go, I’m expected somewhere.”
He stopped abruptly and fell silent for a moment, as if thinking.
“Sira, Sira . . .”
I made as if I couldn’t hear him and turned my head. At the other end of the garden, the waiter was about to go inside after serving the Portuguese correspondent a drink.
“Excuse me, Secundino!” I called out. Obligingly, he approached our table.
“The gentleman’s leaving. Could you please accompany him to the door.”
He positioned himself beside my visitor with an upright, almost military posture.
In the end, Ramiro got up, albeit reluctantly, but he had no choice. I walked around the table until we were facing each other, just a few inches apart. I raised my face up to his, to those harmonious and masculine features that I’d adored during that time of foolish passion. I was so close that I almost brushed against the lips that had kissed me so often. I noticed the scent, unnerving and toxic, of the body that had once made my feelings go haywire. Slowly I moved my mouth to the ear into which I’d poured so many words on those nights of reckless love.
My voice, as it had been then, was a whisper.
“Forget I exist. I don’t want to see you again.”
48
My bags were packed, the taxi was at the door, and I felt like I was about to jump out of my skin. The encounter with Ramiro had shaken me, thanks to both his present impudence and the fact that he’d forced me to return to a painful past. His visit had also delayed my visit to my son, making the little time I had to see Víctor even shorter.
I was leaving the press club when the always serious Señora Cortés appeared behind me and asked me to wait a moment. I barely contained my irritation. I considered telling her that, in my absence, they should turn away anyone who said they were my friend or acquaintance or anything else. Crooks like Ramiro had the audacity to adopt any disguise.
I took the paper from the envelope she held out to me and quickly unfolded it.
I forgot to ask you how your parents are.
I know your mother left the neighborhood a while ago.
Does Don Gonzalo still live in his big apartment in the Salamanca area?
To contact me:
Román Altares, Hotel Buen Retiro, room 417
A flash of rage ran through me like the lash of a whip. Ramiro had been back to my street. He’d been asking after my mother and me. Fortunately, my mother, always prudent and cautious during the war, hadn’t told anyone where she was headed when she left for Tétouan. We’d moved away years ago, the residents of Calle de la Redondilla must have told him. No one there had any more information than that, thankfully.
As for my father, that was a different matter. Ramiro had never gone to his house because at the time, Gonzalo Alvarado and I had had little contact. But Ramiro did know of the existence of the distinguished gentleman whose paternity of me had been kept quiet for so long. He was also aware of Gonzalo’s splendid flat in the Salamanca neighborhood, his wealth, and of course the inheritance he’d unexpectedly given me when the war was about to break out and he thought he was going to be killed. But I couldn’t remember the exact details I’d shared with Ramiro. Had I told him that my father lived on Calle de Hermosilla? Had I said he lived at number 8? Had I described Gonzalo Alvarado to him? Would Ramiro recognize him if he saw him? All these uncomfortable questions went with me as I headed out to see him.
The few hours I spent with my family flew past, just enough time for me to have lunch with Víctor sitting on my lap and to play for a short while on the rug. We tried to distract him again so that he wouldn’t notice me leave, but this time the trick didn’t work. Neither the porter’s cat nor the thousand other things we tried had any effect. Fed up with my constant absence, his child’s intuition warned him I was trying to pull the same ruse again. And so to stop me, he brought out the big guns: a colossal tantrum thrown at the very last minute.
The taxi to take me to the airport was waiting downstairs at four o’clock sharp, but I refused to leave with my son in such a state. Meanwhile, the clock ticked on to five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes past the hour. At four twenty-five, Víctor seemed to calm down, and he fell asleep on the sofa. I started tiptoeing out to the hallway, my shoes in my hand. But the thick oak floorboards creaked before I reached the living room door, and my son, wary and on guard, opened his eyes. Seeing that I wasn’t beside him, he burst into tears again: a heartfelt cry that pierced my soul. Containing my anguish, I had no choice but to keep going. I knew he was in the care of Philippa and Miguela, under my father’s wing, but even so, as I walked down the hall, his despair resounded in my ears. While I picked up my luggage and went down in the elevator and hurried into the taxi, unpleasant words echoed in my mind. Traitor. Deserter. Selfish woman. Bad mother.
I was late, extremely late. To make matters worse, the road to the airport was jammed with cars. Naively, I hadn’t banked on the fact that, with Eva Perón’s stay coming to an end, thousands of residents would be out on the capital’s streets again. We moved at a snail’s pace, and the taxi driver cursed and honked his horn. Torn by nerves, I insisted he try to push his way through.
“Speed up, please! Pass that van!”
I was going to be late. I was going to miss the flight. To the organizing committee, to the Diplomatic Information Office, and to my colleagues, I would look like someone who can’t be relied upon, a lazy professional.
“Go right! Now left!”
The most important events were scheduled for that evening in Granada. Given the state of the old Spanish trains and ruined railways, if I traveled by land I wouldn’t make it to Andalusia until the next day. I’d die of shame when I had to inform London that I’d been too slow and missed one of the stages of the tour.
“Try to get ahead, please!”
“I can’t go any faster, for God’s sake!” the driver yelled. “Can’t you see, woman? Don’t you realize it’s not possible?”
I searched in my handbag. I tapped him on the shoulder and waved a hundred-peseta note in his face.
“It’s yours if we arrive on time.”
He veered off the road. Over arid fields, holes, and wasteland, with the car sweltering but with the windows up to keep out the hot dust and dry straw, we lurched into Barajas after the planes already had their engines going.
The band had finished playing the anthems, and the distinguished crowd was stirring in the stands. All around, as they had on the day of her arrival, both invited guests and casual observers had gathered under the fierce afternoon sun, and all were anxious to leave as soon as the first lady’s aircraft took off.
I ran into the terminal with my briefcase in my hand and my steps hammering on the terrazzo. Behind me, the unfriendly taxi driver carried the rest of my luggage in exchange for an extra twenty-five pesetas. Diego Tovar roared with relief when he saw me. Outside the planes, just three or four men were still standing with him, the rest of the delegation and escort already in their places with seat belts fastened—a few, no doubt, whispering the Lord’s Prayer in fear of the flight.
“Come on, come on!” Diego exclaimed, snatching my suitcase from the taxi driver’s hands.
We hurried on a few steps in the direction of the second airplane until a yell cut through the roar of the engines.
“Livia!”
We both turned. It was Alberto Dodero calling me. As organizer and jack-of-all-trades for the tour, he was giving out final orders to the embassy staff remaining on land. Then he raised his arm with an urgent gesture, waving me over. Diego Tovar frowned, and I hesitated.
“Come with me! Come on our plane, there’s plenty of room!”
I searched Diego’s eyes. Without the need for words, we agreed that I couldn’t refuse.
Dodero and I climbed the steps and boarded the aircraft. A mechanic sealed the door behind me now that everyone was inside. Dodero told a hostess to show me to my seat and Juan Duarte to inform Doña Eva of my presence. She was sitting in a window seat at the front, next to her uncomplaining companion Señora Lagomarsino, wearing a rather plain short-sleeved dress. On her head, however, she’d gone all out with another of Don Julio’s hairstyles, crowned with an indescribable hairpiece with more flowers than a garden. The hairdresser and her personal stylists were in the second plane, fortunately, so we wouldn’t have to pretend we’d never met.
The first lady was watching the farewell through the glass when her brother approached and bent down to speak to her. He must have told her that I was a trusted journalist or something similar, though I couldn’t hear his exact words. Hers, after she’d looked me up and down, were louder.
“I know who she is. She’s been with the tour from the start. Do you think I’m blind?”
He moved to one side, ceremoniously serious with his mustache and double-breasted three-piece suit. I stepped forward.
“Good afternoon, señora,” I said respectfully.
“Nice outfit” was her reply. “All the clothes you’ve worn have been beautiful. Were they made for you here, in Spain?”
“In London, señora. An English dressmaker.”
“I see!” she exclaimed in surprise. “Lilliancita . . . ,” she said then, addressing her companion. “Lilliancita, since you have such good handwriting, would you note down the name of the lady journalist’s dressmaker? Remind me to visit him when we go to London.”
Several dubious but attentive faces turned toward her from nearby seats. The military aides. The Argentine ambassador Pedro Radío. The Spanish ministers of justice and agriculture with their wives. Dodero himself. Even Juancito, who usually couldn’t have cared less about such matters.
“Yes, I said when we go to London! Don’t look at me like that! When we go to London to see the king, if they ever send us the official invitation! And if they don’t, I’ll tell them all to go to hell!”
I managed to sit down while the plane was taxiing to the runway. As I fastened my seat belt, through the window I saw the masses applauding and enthusiastically waving hundreds, thousands of handkerchiefs. Separated from the euphoria outside, I rested my head against the seat and closed my eyes while the aircraft took off. Little by little, I relaxed as we flew south through a clear sky over fields parched by years of terrible drought. A prolonged drought, the regime’s officialdom called it. Finally, I was able to sort through my memories. I recalled my meeting with Tom Burns at Embassy and my nostalgia for Marcus, my son’s crying and my distress at leaving him, the fear that I wouldn’t arrive at the airport on time, the taxi’s daring gallop over rocks and holes. All of that was behind me now, thankfully. I trusted that Víctor, with his good nature, had regained his eagerness to play, that he was laughing at everything and pulling the cat’s tail. I imagined that the taxi driver was going around telling everyone that some daft woman had given him the extravagant sum of 125 pesetas to take her to the airport. Deep within me, however, I continued to feel the painful sensation of something profoundly unpleasant. A sharp splinter that went by the name of Ramiro.
It would’ve been very easy to solve the problem right there, a breeze. Given the fondness the Argentine magnate seemed to have for me, I could’ve stood up right then and gone to speak to him. Within minutes, no doubt, I could have secured what Ramiro had asked me for: a private meeting in which he could propose God knows what. If I asked, I was sure Dodero would even give him preferential treatment. But I refused to do so. Ramiro had no right to such a favor. After being so cruel, he didn’t deserve for me to lift a single finger to help him now.
We landed at the Armilla air base at around half past six. As we descended the steps, we filled our lungs with the pure air of the nearby Sierra Nevada. Nobody could’ve foreseen the hard night that lay ahead.
49
There came another round of mass clapping and cheering, troop inspections, crowds, and artillery salutes. So that she wouldn’t disappoint at the evening events, Eva Perón changed in her suite at the Alhambra Palace Hotel into another of her sumptuous outfits. To avoid repeating the mistake of the previous evening, especially in a city with such close ties to the queen herself, this time she didn’t forget the Grand Cross of Isabella the Catholic. To the astonishment of everyone present, she also arrived at the city hall sporting an Alaskan mink coat over her shoulders.
The dinner in the assembly hall began with the now customary delay caused by the guest’s late arrival. And once it started, it was extremely long, filled with anthems, speeches, food, and hundreds of diners. It was terribly hot in the improvised dining hall. At that time, a medium-sized city like Granada lacked large public spaces for such momentous occasions. The ladies brought out their classic fans while the men cooled themselves with the printed menus. Little air was entering through the open balconies, and only the noise of the crowd on Plaza del Carmen made it through. Dessert was being served when some distance from my place I saw that Eva Perón, feeling hot like all of us, was taking off the capelet she wore over her gold lamé dress. To do so she also had to remove the Grand Cross brooch that was on top of both garments. I noticed that she tried without success to put it back on and wanted Lillian Lagomarsino to help her, but the minister of justice had appropriated the companion a few yards away with his chatter. In the end, the first lady had no option but to turn to her brother, Juancito, the only person who was nearby. After a quick exchange of words and hands, he took possession of the badge.
At around half past one we were taken to the marvelous, illuminated Alhambra. A tour of several stages began. In the Lindaraja courtyard, a pianist performed the maestro Albéniz’s serenata “Granada,” and in the Leones courtyard, a string quartet delighted us with another exquisite concert. Magic, history, and a penetrating aroma of myrtle were everywhere, the ideal atmosphere from which to send us exhausted to our beds, overflowing with a sense of beauty. But no, it was not to be. There was still the grand finale to come: in the Partal gardens, everything was ready for a gypsy zambra. Resigned to it, we took our seats and tried to hide our tiredness. Holding back my yawns, I watched Dodero and Juan Duarte speaking to some men I didn’t know, over by the cypresses to one side. The shipowner, with a fat cigar between his fingers, checked several times from afar to make sure the first lady was seated with the appropriate honors. The brother puffed on a cigarette, indifferent to the charm of the place, looking first at his watch and then out into the void. The lights dimmed, a master of ceremonies took to the stage, and there came shushing sounds from the audience. It was dark, finally, and the first guitar chords were played. I didn’t see the Argentines again.
The performance under the stars began: flamenco dancing with Moorish echoes, the dancers in long ruffled skirts and white shirts knotted under the chest, dark-haired, barefoot women who performed their legendary art as if floating. There was singing, clapping, and strumming, and then it was the turn of the ballet corps from the Liceo de Barcelona, visiting the city for the Corpus Christi celebrations. It was after three in the morning when the final ovation came to an end. We left the gardens after the senior officials and guest of honor.
The Alhambra Palace lobby gave us a splendid welcome, with its softly lit lamps. The hotel was used to receiving a high class of tourists and visitors, but never a guest like Eva Perón. To embellish the hotel, Granada’s most distinguished families had temporarily loaned furniture and coats of arms, tapestries, bronzes, oil paintings, and porcelain. I was heading to the lift with another couple of journalists when Diego Tovar requested my presence with a vague excuse. Both of us had been so hard at work, we hadn’t been in each other’s vicinity since we’d separated on the Barajas runway, when Dodero had made me switch planes.
“Will you drink a whiskey with me outside? I think we’ve earned it.”
I was so exhausted I didn’t have the strength to refuse. Taking my silence as a yes, he led me to the beautiful mirador decorated with Moorish tiles that projected over the city, the fertile lowlands, and the sky. We were the last customers, and a sleepy waiter served us. We savored the first sip in silence, and once more I remembered his kiss in the car outside the press club. It had happened only the previous night, but it felt as if entire weeks had passed between then and now.
In theory, all the stars and extras in the cast were in bed at last, the lead and the supporting players: the first lady and her self-sacrificing attendant, the military aides and the stylists, the reporters, the priest, the hairdresser, the doctor. All of them sleeping the sleep of the just. Or so we believed.
There was more silence than talk between us, but neither of us was uncomfortable with the other’s quietness. I was aware, however, that Diego felt some obvious attraction toward me. Whether I did for him, I couldn’t say.
“The thing is, Livia—”
Something suddenly broke the peace of the night and caught him up short. There was some commotion inside, words crisscrossing, loud voices. Then the waiter appeared on the terrace looking awkward, making way for two men in everyday suits who looked a little worn out given the time of night.
They identified themselves as members of the General Police Corps. The shortest one—Inspector Gallardo, he said—addressed Diego. Man to man, of course.
“Are you associated with some Argentine gentlemen going by the names of . . . ?”
He looked at his subordinate, who read from his notebook.
“Juan Gualte and Alberto Durero.”
“Juan Duarte and Alberto Dodero,” Diego corrected them, standing up in alarm. “What is this about?”
He had no authority to speak for the men—his role wasn’t to oversee the guests’ security, only to coordinate the foreign press. But he sensed a problem, and all his diplomatic alarm bells were going off. Something far from desirable was happening. And there was no one he could turn to at that hour without raising tensions. It was wise to proceed with caution.
