A Cruise for Cinderella, page 18
She hesitated, flushing, and Nina supplied quickly. “Doña Isabella appears to have snaffled your Paul, Janie, and you were nowhere to be seen, so we thought we’d better find you and make sure—well, that everything was all right. But—” she was staring at Janie in frank bewilderment “—you don’t look upset, I must say! In fact, you look as if—as if your fairy godmother had suddenly appeared and given you three wishes and they’d all come true! Where have you been, for heaven’s sake? And what have you been doing?”
“I—I’ve been in the sick bay,” Janie confessed, “and—”
“Janie!” They were both beside her, both smiling now. “Janie, you don’t mean that you and David—” Molly began, and then Janie was hugging her.
“Yes, I do, I do! Oh, Molly—Nina, of course everything’s all right. For David and me and I hope for Paul and Doña Isabella. . . .”
“And for Molly and John,” Nina said. She started to laugh and added, with a return to her dryly cynical tone, “It only needs me to tell you that I’m going to marry old Mr. Gordon, doesn’t it?”
“Well,” Molly put in, laughing too, “why don’t you?”
“Because,” Nina returned with dignity, “someone has to write our brochure. And because I’ve always believed that career women were necessary to the general scheme of things. All the same—” she lowered her voice and an imp of mischief danced in her eyes “—he has asked me to dine with him when we get back to London. . . .”
The days passed swiftly after that. Janie did not go ashore at Rhodes. Instead, she sat with David on deck and saw the island across the calm blue waters of the anchorage, watching the crowded tenders plying back and forth from ship to shore and regretting not at all the fact that she was chained to her invalid’s side.
By the time they reached Dubrovnik, however, David had ceased to be an invalid. They went ashore in a party— she and David, Molly and her chief engineer, Nina and old Mr. Gordon—and, after a morning spent in sightseeing, they all went, at Doña Isabella’s invitation, to lunch at the Gradska Kafana, overlooking the old harbor.
It was in the nature of a farewell party, for the duquesa was leaving, with Paul and Ramón, by air for Barcelona during the afternoon. But it was a festive occasion, with everyone in the best of spirits, and a reunion—when the Goldinia arrived at Barcelona—enthusiastically planned.
“I shall come to the docks,” Doña Isabella promised, her smile directed first to Janie across the long table, “and take you all back with me to my hotel. And, of course, I shall arrange tickets for the bullfight for all of you. It will be a wonderful day—” her dark eyes shone “—a day you will not forget, as long as you live. As we shall not forget it.” And then her eyes went to Paul, proudly, without a hint of fear in their expressive depths, and he met them for an instant and then lowered his own gaze.
Janie sensed his uneasiness, his uncertainty, and her own happiness was clouded. Paul, she knew, had promised to fight; Don Ramón continued to wear his arm in a sling and yet . . . none of them could be certain of the outcome—Dońa Isabella, for all her outward display of confidence, least of all.
Paul said suddenly, breaking the little silence that had fallen between them, “Janie, you will be there, won’t you? You will be there, when I fight?”
Janie felt the color rushing to her cheeks as, beside her, David tensed.
“Bullfighters,” Paul went on quietly, “are superstitious people. You’ll bring me luck. That’s ail I am asking you to bring.”
His words, addressed to Janie, were intended for David, and it was David who, after a moment’s hesitation, answered him. “Of course,” he said, with quick generosity, “Janie will be there. We’ll all see to it that she is.”
“Good,” acknowledged Paul “muchas gracias! And now—” he looked at his watch “—time is short, there are farewells to be said, our baggage to be collected. I think we shall have to go.”
Don Ramón settled the bill and they all, in turn, shook hands gravely, their spirits suddenly dampened. Paul raised Janie’s hand to his lips but he did not look at her as he kissed it. A murmured “Adiós” and he was gone, a tall, slim, graceful figure, moving swiftly through the big, crowded restaurant.
David’s hand touched Janie’s and he smiled at her but did not speak. Janie, seeing his smile, feeling the warm pressure of his fingers, responded gratefully, her whisper so soft that only David heard it. “Thank you, David dear, for everything.”
Nina and old Mr. Gordon led the way to the door. “I think,” Mr. Gordon said, consulting his map importantly, “that there’s a rather fine Dominican church and monastery quite near that we ought to visit, while we’re here. There are some Titian paintings in the church, which, I’m led to understand, are worth seeing. Well?” He regarded them all benevolently. “Does my idea appeal to you? Or would you rather go elsewhere?”
David grasped Janie’s arm and he looked a mute question. Janie shook her head. “Janie and I,” David announced firmly, “are going to the town hall to watch the clock strike—you know, the one with the bronze figures. And after that, we’re going to wander about. We’ll meet for tea, shall we? The Dubravka, do you think, sir?” He consulted the chief engineer. “Or the one near St. Ignacio’s, where they serve those cream cakes and Turkish coffee?”
A rendezvous was finally agreed upon and they separated.
* * *
SIGHT-SEEING WITH DAVID, Janie decided, when—some three hours later—they stepped off a streetcar a few yards from the Cafe Dubravka, wasn’t tiring, as it became with most people. For one thing, David always seemed to know his way or, if he didn’t, to be able to find it by instinct. And, unlike Mr. Gordon, he was by no means averse to sitting down, in some pleasant park or picturesque courtyard, in order to relax and enjoy a cigarette in the warm afternoon sunshine, with Janie’s hand clasped in his. And yet they managed to see quite a lot, besides enjoying themselves, because David was content to look and admire without, as old Mr. Gordon was so prone to do, delivering a lecture on every obscure picture or statue or building he came across.
In fact, Janie thought, life with David was just as she wanted it to be; as, when the time came, marriage was going to be, because David was . . . David. And mom would be pleased, her father, too. They had sent Janie’s parents a cable an hour ago, to acquaint them with the good news, and both she and David had signed it. It would arrive tomorrow morning, the post office clerk had said, in his careful English.
“Janie—” David took her arm, as they started to walk toward the cafe “—I’m glad Cortes has gone. But, all the same, I’m sorry for him. I hope things work out all right for him at Barcelona. Facing those bulls at any time must be pretty average hell. But to face them when you’re not sure of your nerve—oh-oh.”
“I know,” Janie agreed. She shuddered. “I’m dreading it, David. Having to watch, I mean.”
David sighed. “Frankly, so am I. But we owe it to him, darling, to be there, because at heart, you know, he’s a decent chap. I didn’t think so, to begin with. When I saw you with him, that first day, I saw red. I didn’t know about your Cinderella prize then, of course, so I—” he flushed “—I am afraid I was pretty cool toward you. I wouldn’t let myself admit how much finding you again meant to me—or how much it hurt to find you with him. It never occurred to me that you’d met him for the first time that day too.”
“And I,” Janie put in, “thought that you were ashamed of having known me in the old days, when we were both so poor.”
“You thought that?” David exclaimed, aghast. “Good heavens, Janie, darling, what a thing to think about me!” Meeting Janie’s amused gaze, his color deepened. And then he laughed, catching her to him in the shelter of the cafe entrance. “And what a thing for me to think about you! All right, you don’t have to say it, I know. We both behaved quite idiotically. But we’re making up for it now, aren’t we? I think we’ve both grown up during this cruise and—” He broke off, catching sight of Molly and Nina and their escorts. “The others are here—”
“They’re not here yet,” Janie pointed out, her face lited to his.
“No,” said David. He kissed her swiftly, ardently. “Oh, Janie, I do so love you!”
“And I love you, David,” Janie whispered in ecstasy.
They said this often to each other during the week that followed; in Corfu, standing on the beach near Canoni Point, where, according to the legend, beautiful Nausicaa, daughter of King Alcinous, found the shipwrecked Ulysses, whose craft had been turned to stone by the sea god, Poseidon. They said it again as the Goldinia passed through the Strait of Messina one golden, sun-bright evening, and they glimpsed Stromboli, crowned in mist that the sun had failed to dispel. And they said it once more, believing it yet more firmly, as they walked, hand in hand, through a Corsican pine wood, looking down over the flat-roofed white houses of romantic Ajaccio. For Janie, each port of call held fresh enchantment, because she was with David; but for David, although he shared her pleasure, there remained one small cloud, which—like Stromboli’s crown—wouldn’t be dispelled. They had yet to go to Barcelona, where Pablo Cortes, Nino de Cordoba, would be waiting for them. . . .
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WHEN, ON SUNDAY MORNING, the Goldinia set them ashore in Barcelona, however, it was Doña Isabella who awaited them, a smile of eager welcome on her lips.
Pablo, she told them, as they climbed into her magnificent, chauffeur-driven limousine and were borne swiftly and smoothly through the tree-lined streets, Pablo was resting at his hotel and begged to be excused; he would, of course, present himself to them before they left for the Plaza de Toros. And Don Ramón, who was with him, would greet them on arrival. They would have lunch and then, at four o’clock, drive down to the bullring. . . .
She spoke with calm assurance, never raising her voice, but Janie sensed the rigid self-control she was exercising and caught a hint of momentary panic in her proud dark eyes as, when they turned the corner into a wide boulevard, a poster advertising the corrida flashed into their line of vision. It was a gaudy, brightly colored thing, depicting a vast black bull, with enormous horns, charging the slimly silhouetted figure of a man, bracing himself stiffly on tiptoe, the scarlet folds of his cape billowing around his knees. Pasted across it, in letters five inches high, was a single name—Nino de Cordoba. . . .
Doña Isabella glanced from this to Janie’s face and a tiny sigh escaped from between her lips. “He is determined,” she said softly, “to prove—to himself and to me—that he still has the heart for it . . . the heart of a great matador. I believe,” she added, after an instant’s hesitation, “that he will prove it. Or he will die in the attempt.”
Uttered as she uttered them, her words didn’t sound melodramatic. Her voice was quite steady, completely devoid of emotion, as if she were merely stating a fact against which there could be no conceivable argument. Nina, who sat with them, looked shocked, but Janie’s heart went out to Doña Isabella in helpless pity when she said, smilingly now from one to the other of them, “If he succeeds, then we shall be married, as soon as it can be arranged.”
But if he fails, Janie thought, if he fails. . . . Her eyes met David’s and she knew that his thoughts were the same as her own. He had told her that all Spaniards were fatalists; that to them, death—in such circumstances— was the acme of heroism. They wouldn’t question, they would applaud it. The matador, because death was written in his stars, was their national hero. He might defy his fate a hundred times, a thousand, but he could not escape it. It was to this end that he lived. The bulls he fought were bred solely for their courage and stamina; for him, as for them, death in the ring was the final ennoblement, the supreme climax—the proof that blood and breeding were the best and noblest of their kind.
It was strange that she had learned all this—not from Paul but—from David. David had so clear and logical a mind, a mind that analyzed and defined and assessed. And understood. Because of what David had told her, Janie, too, understood how it was that Isabella de Carmela, who loved Paul, could yet accept the imminent and heartbreaking possibility of his death with calm resignation, even with pride. Because to both of them, by tradition, courage was the only virtue that mattered; a man’s honor was of more importance to him than his life.
But there was no time for further reflection. Scarcely had Janie murmured her congratulations when the big car halted in front of the porch of the hotel and Don Ramón came forward, bowing and smiling, to escort them inside.
Her feet dragging a little, but with David’s hand comfortingly on her arm, Janie followed the others across the porch and entered the cool dimness of the foyer. Inside, it was crowded with newspaper reporters, photographers and fans—with men carrying the broad-rimmed Cordobés hats and smoking cigars, all talking at the top of their voices. A sprinkling of women moved restlessly among them—half a dozen others, in mantillas, were seated in a secluded corner, away from all the bustle, and the harassed, hurrying waiters, serving drinks with scant ceremony to the rest of the throng, found time to bow to this little group as they passed with their laden trays. Janie didn’t know who the women were, but instinct told her that they had some connection with the bullfighters taking part in the afternoon’s program—perhaps their wives or sweethearts, she decided. For their faces, like Doña Isabella’s, were shuttered and resigned behind the smiles. And—Janie shivered suddenly, despite the warmth of the day—she might, if she had married Paul, have been one of them, might have sat as they were sitting, waiting, with fear in their hearts, for their menfolk to appear.
Don Ramón led the way to the private room that had been engaged for his party and here, at least, it was quiet and they were able to relax, to sit down and look around them.
“Pablo will come,” Don Ramón explained, “when he is dressed. But one does not eat before a fight, you understand, so—” he spread his hands “—it is better that he sleeps, while he can. I shall wake him when it is time and tell him that you are here. Now then, I have ordered wine. And there Will be a few friends of the duquesa’s who will join us for lunch, people who will be most anxious to make your acquaintance. . . . Miss Mainwaring, you will take a glass of wine? And you, Miss Carstairs—Miss Brown?”
He was a wonderful host; the guests who, one by one, arrived to join them and were introduced, proved to be equally courteous and charming; the food, when it came, was abundant and quite delicious. And yet, as the minutes ticked by, inexorably, the feeling of tension grew, until Janie’s mouth was dry, her throat so constricted that she could scarcely swallow, and it became increasingly difficult to make conversation, even to David.
Would it never end, this long drawn-out, elaborately served meal? Looking around, she saw that Nina’s face was white and strained, that Molly was talking with nervous volubility and that even Don Ramón’s hand, as he poured the wine, wasn’t steady. It was his left hand, of course—his right wrist was still bandaged— but . . . Janie found her gaze now meeting Doña Isabella, the suspense must be well-nigh unendurable. But she endured it, because she loved Paul; she endured it, for his sake, although her heart must be breaking. Like the women in the foyer, she waited, and managed, somehow, to smile. . . .
There was a stir in the foyer outside, men shouted excitedly. There was a scrape of chairs, the rush of feet across the tiled floor . . . camera shutters clicked and a chorus of deep, musical Spanish voices echoed, “Matador! Suerte, matador, buena suerte, Don Pablo!”
Doña Isabella rose to her feet with regal dignity.
“He is here, my friends,” she said. “He is here.”
A waiter flung open the door and a slim, glittering figure stood framed in the aperture, regarding them with studied indifference. If Janie hadn’t known it was Paul, she would not have recognized him. For he had changed. Beneath the gold-encrusted “suit of lights,” which was of brilliant, kingfisher-blue silk and exquisitely fashioned, his body was taut and stiff as a steel spring. His face, too, was still and quite expressionless, his mouth unsmiling, a grim, almost colorless line against the tan of his cheeks, and his blue eyes held the merest glint of recognition as they rested on her for a moment and then went, quickly, eagerly, to Doña Isabella. But now there was a pleading look in them and Doña Isabella responded to it instantly. As she moved to his side, Paul relaxed and, a little later, was smiling and talking, almost—if not quite—as usual.
Only, to Janie, he was a stranger now, not the Paul she had known. The touch of his hand, when he offered it to her in greeting, no longer set her pulses racing. He had never looked more magnificent, never more like the prince she had imagined him, and certainly he had never before cut so tragically romantic a figure but . . . with an odd lifting of the heart, Janie realized that she was now only sorry for him. Because of the ordeal that lay in front of him, Pablo Cortes, Nino de Cordoba, had the right to her prayers and to her pity, but to nothing else.
The spell was broken. The man she loved was David.
Things took on a dreamlike quality for Janie after that. Before she had quite realized it, she was once more in Doña Isabella’s limousine, crawling at a snail’s pace through the congested streets. Everyone, it seemed, was on his way to the Plaza de Toros, by car, by taxi, on foot; people jostled one another on the pavements, spilled onto the wide boulevards, impeding the traffic. But eventually the big car came to a halt and the chauffeur was helping them to alight, clearing a passage for them so that they might claim their seats in the covered stands.
Janie, moving like one in a trance, followed her hostess through the surging, excited crowd, David’s arm around her shoulders saving her from buffeting. And then she was looking down with mingled horror and fascination to the sand-covered arena, across which a few minutes afterward a colorful procession started to wend its way.
