Spanish Surrender, page 9
“The Moors were the most advanced mathematicians on the planet in their day, using algebra in their architecture and geometry in their art,” Loreto explained as she pointed out advanced concepts in several of the patterns they passed.
Again, Simone felt herself as impressed with the teacher as she did the subject. Loreto knew so much more than anyone would suspect from looking at her, or even sharing a few conversations. Sure, plenty of tour guides could probably relay dates of invasions and the names of rulers or wars, but Loreto went deeper. She clearly had more than a passing knowledge of history, art, and architecture. She understood the concepts behind why a place like this was special, why it worked, why it survived.
Simone didn’t know what to make of the revelation. She’d grown so used to people constantly overstating their knowledge. They did so to posture for power, money, dates, proximity to pretty things. Why would Loreto want to conceal her genuine expertise when it could offer her many more opportunities?
They passed through another set of low arches and down a narrow hallway, Loreto tracing some of the Arabic script lightly with her fingers as they went. Then glancing over her shoulder, she asked, “Remember how I told you about the Moorish techniques of irrigation?”
Simone nodded.
“Well, here they’re flaunting it.” Loreto turned another corner, and they stepped into yet another courtyard much bigger than the first. Long and narrow, and lined entirely in white marble, it was much more open to the sun, with only the two shorter ends of the rectangle covered under high, arched columns. Above them was a row of windows, and then another level lined with beautiful balconies, before rising into another set of ornate arches. In the ground, running from one side of the courtyard to the other, a sunken pool shimmered with pale-blue water so still and clear it might have been covered in glass.
“The emirs who built this palace knew something the rest of the world didn’t, and they’re using spaces like this to remind you of it every chance they get.”
Loreto stood on the slightly raised patio, surveying the length of the courtyard, hands on her hips, chin lifted, her coal-black hair wispy over her dark eyes. If not for the style of her clothes, Simone could have easily pictured her as one of the emirs she described. There was a confidence and ease to her demeanor that fit this space.
“Water would’ve flown freely in and out of the little grooves in the floor to keep this pool full exactly to its rim.”
“Which would’ve had a cooling effect on the whole space?”
“Very much so. They used gravity to angle the water down from higher in the mountains. It would be impeccably clear and cool even at the height of the day. Actually, there’s no past tense there. It’s the same water today. The irrigation channels are another thing that’s stood the test of time. The thing we’re missing in today’s picture is the silk.”
Simone’s eyebrows raised. “Go on.”
Loreto laughed. “I thought that might get your attention.”
Simone didn’t say Loreto had held her attention all morning, she merely nodded for her to continue.
“At the height of Moorish rule in Granada, the city was known for producing some of the world’s finest silks, both in texture and in color. Picture all these walls and rafters draped in luxurious, shimmering reds and blues and greens. And all along the outer edges of the reflecting pool, mats would’ve lined the floors, piled high with feather pillows. In the corner, someone plays a sitar or gently drums a lazy rhythm. You and I enter, dressed in silks of our own, bright, loose, airy, the cool, smooth comfort of it barely brushing our skin.”
Simone’s heart rate picked up, as if echoing the drumbeats in the scene Loreto described.
“We wander, barefoot, across the warm, stone floor until we find the perfect spot near the middle, then we sink onto a giant silk pillow, big enough to recline fully.” Loreto enacted this part of her prose, dropping slowly, gracefully to the white marble floor and easing onto her side, propped up on her elbows in a semi-recumbent position. “And only when you settle onto your side to gaze into the cooling waters do you see their full magic.” Loreto stared up at Simone expectantly.
For a moment she froze, a series of unbusinesslike images flashing through her mind. Thankfully, Loreto must have mis-understood her expression, because she shook her head. “What’s the matter, Rubia? Afraid to get your clothes dirty?”
She glanced down at her lightly colored linen slacks. She hadn’t given them a single thought when Loreto dropped to the floor, and she couldn’t manage much concern for them even now as the challenge in Loreto’s voice echoed off the surrounding walls.
She crouched so low and close that the soft fabric of her slacks brushed against Loreto’s bare calf. She eased back into the same position as Loreto, facing her, and then, tilting her head back, stared at the endless blue sky for a few seconds. With her point made and the silly little challenge answered, she rolled her head slowly to the side, intending to ask if they’d both made their points yet. But as her eyes met the water, the words evaporated.
There, reflected in the floor right next to her, was the most stunning infinity mirror image of the immaculate courtyard and elegant building. The stories, sky, roof, arches, balconies, all rose in the reverse order of the upper world, and closest of all shone the smugly satisfied face of Loreto, gazing back up at her. Her hair, her eyes, her shoulders, her arms, her torso, she looked every bit the part of statue or sculpture brought to life and set atop a marble pedestal to be admired amid the beauty of these alluring surroundings.
She looked slowly from reflected Loreto to the real flesh and blood version, then back again. “Stunning.”
“The Moors didn’t just know how to paint an image with tile or mold one out of plaster. They also used the basic elements we take for granted and turned them into art. Art upon art upon art.”
She didn’t disagree with the sentiment, but the water hadn’t been at all what Simone was admiring when she’d made her comment.
“Look at this one,” a woman said in a thick British accent, followed by the sound of a camera shutter clicking rapidly.
Loreto blinked at Simone, then down at her watch. “Eight thirty.”
How long had she sat there staring at Simone, hypnotized by the subtle tells of her building desire, from her expanding pupils to the slight increase in the rise and fall of her chest? Apparently, the answer to that question was too long.
Simone raised her eyebrows. “And does eight thirty mean something special to the Spanish?”
Loreto hopped to her feet, making no move to help Simone do the same. “Not the Spanish, the tourists, in that it’s the end of our early entry window. This place will be flooded with people within fifteen minutes.”
Simone got to her feet. “In other words, if this were a fairy tale, the clock just struck midnight.”
“I wouldn’t quite go that far. The spell La Alhambra casts on her visitors lasts a lifetime, but we should probably move along to the big ticket selfie station of our tour,” she advised with a quick nod to the Brits. “Before all the other souvenir seekers arrive.”
“Lead the way.”
She smiled at the expression. She could think of a few places she might have rather led Simone than the Court of Lions, but after last night’s momentary mix-up, she wasn’t about to let her mind wander off course again, no matter what diversions Simone’s body suggested it might be open to.
“You think they’d get tired of the whole impressive courtyard business here,” Simone said as they rounded another corner into yet another courtyard, “but then there’s this.”
Loreto tried not to show how inordinately pleased she was that Simone seemed to appreciate the palace. Some people didn’t, and their disinterest had never bothered her. If a person couldn’t see what was right in front of them, it wasn’t any reflection on her. And yet Loreto had woken up early and cranky at the prospect of having to endure a tour of one of the world’s most magnificent buildings with an entitled, judgmental American. Not that she didn’t still believe each of those descriptors fit the woman beside her at any given moment, but at least they didn’t seem to apply in this moment. And Loreto never counted on anything but the present moment.
“This one is called the Court of the Lions,” Loreto offered.
“Let me guess, the big fountain surrounded by sculpted lions had some influence on that moniker?”
“Actually, that’s a total coincidence.”
“Really?”
“No.” Loreto grinned.
Simone shook her head.
“If you can figure it all out on your own, what would you keep paying me for?”
“That’s an excellent question,” Simone said, giving a little grin of her own. “You better redeem yourself quickly. What’s the trick to this one? Do I need to stand on my head to see the face of God in the fountain?”
“Sadly, no optical illusions here,” Loreto said, “but there’s a pretty gruesome story, or perhaps a legend, to contrast with these pristine white walls and marble.”
“I don’t frighten easily.”
“I didn’t think so, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With a conspiratorial jerk of her head, she sidestepped into a room just off the courtyard. “This room is called the Hall of the Abencerrajes.”
Simone stared up, her eyes once again wide as she took in the massive, eight-point star in the ceiling, surrounded by beautifully painted stalactites of hanging plaster spiraling several levels into a high tower. “Well that’s certainly impressive, but I’d call it more beautiful than gruesome.”
“That’s because you’re looking up instead of down.”
She immediately adjusted her line of sight to the floor, where a gurgling fountain in a low, circular basin sent a stream of water trickling into a small channel that ran out toward the Lion Fountain behind them.
“Sorry, you’re going to have to sell me hard. That’s the least impressive thing I’ve seen here today.”
“Right. No one chooses to focus there. Everyone cranes their necks back to see what’s above them, which is probably how the first of the Abencerrajes lost his head.”
Simone glanced at the ceiling once more, but this time she didn’t arch her head all the way back so much as just lift her eyes. “Is head-losing a thing around here?”
Loreto laughed. “It was if you got caught sneaking into the bedroom of one of the royal ladies.”
“Yeah, okay. I see a picture forming.”
“Legend has it the Abencerrajes were a famous and wealthy family in Granada, but they got so powerful they began a rivalry with the sultan living in La Alhambra at the time.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Right? When does that end well? But it gets better, because little Moorish Romeo and Juliet enter the act, stage right, when one of the Abencerrajes’ sons falls in love with a pretty young member of the sultan’s royal house.” Loreto was cheesing up the drama now, as Simone’s eyes sparkled with interest and amusement. “And this young man, I mean, I don’t know how old he was, but his recklessness and stupidity suggest teenager, and so does his fitness level, because Junior scales the walls of La Alhambra.”
“Impressive.”
“You know what they say. Lust gives you wings.”
“I’m not sure that’s what they say.”
“Either way, he’d have done better to have an invisibility cloak, because he’s spotted.”
“Of course he is.”
“But the sultan, being a reasonable man, doesn’t cut off his albondigas right there. He sends him home and says something along the lines of, ‘Boys will be boys. Let’s set aside our differences and get our families together to chat. Maybe we can work something out.’”
“And they believe him?”
“Apparently so, because the whole cadre of Abencerrajes men, legend told, about thirty of them, show up for a dinner party, likely thinking they are about to make a deal that will consolidate their power for generations to come.”
“Dummies.”
“Greed and lust make for a deadly combination.” Loreto shrugged. “And they learn this lesson a little too late, because as the sultan herds them all into this room, possibly under the guise of showing them that magnificent ceiling people are enthralled with to this day, soldiers attack and chop off every single Abencerrajes head in the place.”
Simone wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”
“Indeed. They say the blood covered the marble and streamed out to the lions, making the whole fountain run red. In fact”—Loreto paused for emphasis—“they say if you look closely enough in the water channels running through this very floor, you can still see the red stains from their blood today.”
“No.” Simone shook her head, but she did steal a glance down at the water running from the fountain.
“I’m not taking sides, but there are a few rust-colored streaks in the marble there.”
“They’re probably just variations in the stone.”
“Could be,” Loreto admitted evenly, then grinned. “Could also be the blood of the beheaded.”
Simone’s blue eyes sparked with that hint of challenge Loreto couldn’t decide if she liked or loathed, and she walked across the room to a man standing behind a security rope. “Excuse me, hablas inglés?”
He nodded.
“Good. Do you know if the marble in the floors has naturally red highlights or if that could legitimately be a stain of some sort?”
His smile turned conspiratorial. “The color does appear in a few places around the palace, but then again, blood has been spilled in a few places around the palace as well.”
“Gracias.” She pursed her lips and turned back to Loreto, who folded her arms across her chest, her smug expression tempered only by the realization of what Simone had just done.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“Interrogate employees?” Simone asked dryly. “On-the-job training.”
“No, I got that, but where did you learn the Spanish phrase to ask locals if they spoke English?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “I heard you use it with the saleswoman back in Málaga yesterday.”
Loreto nodded slowly, giving herself the time to process the information.
“What, did I say it wrong?”
“Not at all. I just didn’t think you’d put any effort into doing something you’re paying me for.”
“Then you’re surprised?”
Loreto shook her head. “Not really. I guess picking up a few Spanish phrases along the way helps give you a sense of control, and nothing you do to maintain control would surprise me.”
Simone eyed her for a moment before one corner of her pink lips gave a slight upward tick. “Good.”
Then she turned and wandered off down the next corridor, leaving Loreto to catch up to her this time.
She trailed her from a comfortable distance. The more time they spent here, the more comfortable she grew. She still had the eyes of a woman seeing something for the first time, but her awe had turned to acceptance. She understood the magic around here, the captivating essence it provided, and she flowed along with the current now, soaking up her surroundings and exuding its more alluring qualities back into the world. Beauty, power, poise, elegance, a royal air. Watching her, Loreto understood fully how La Alhambra had held strong for centuries against Catholic kings, only to fall at the hands of a woman.
Had the locals watched Queen Isabella ride in? Had they marveled at her fair skin and light hair among the Moorish emirs. Did she seem out of place to them, or did her eyes tell them all they needed to know about the destiny that lay within her?
Loreto hung back as they reached the balcony that had once been home to the great American author Washington Irving. Would he have had the words to describe this woman who’d come to conquer the region that held his heart captive for so long? Surely, he would have noticed the way her eyes took in the glory around her, awe and appreciation in her gaze, but also something more calculating. In a single sweep of her view, she could both examine and appraise, then catalog it accordingly. And she made no effort to hide her final verdict. When something caught her eye, her expression clearly showcased her interest.
It hadn’t escaped Loreto’s notice that she fell into that category several times this morning. She wished she hated that fact as much as she hated Simone’s colonizing gaze, but there was something alluring about being viewed in the same vein as a fine piece of art. She was drawn to Simone’s unrepentant desire much more than she’d been drawn to her money, though she supposed the two sprang from similar sources. Lust, like cold, hard cash could function as an equalizer. It could grant power or withhold it. It might actually be the only true power Loreto could wield when it came to a woman like Simone. Thankfully, it was also one of the only types of power she ever let herself depend on.
“Really?”
Loreto stopped in her tracks as she realized Simone had just asked her a direct question. “Is there really any historical evidence for the legend about the beheadings?”
“Sadly, there’s virtually no historical evidence for anything that took place here before 1492.”
“Why?”
“When Granada fell, Isabella and Ferdinand set about erasing any indication that the Moors had ever been in Spain. They incinerated every book and archive associated with this place.”
“Dear God, why?”
“Isabella arrived.”
“Isabella and Ferdinand?”
“Yes, but don’t let the equal billing fool you. Her marriage, like everything else in her life, served a primary ambition to rule all of Spain.”
“She only married for power?”
Loreto shrugged. “I can’t say what happened in the bedroom, but I know what happened in Spain. She was the heir to the region of Castile and he to Aragon. When they combined their royal houses and holdings, they owned the vast majority. I mean seriously, like ninety percent of what we now think of as Spain, and for the first time in human history, it was under the control of the same monarchs.”
