Indiscretion (27 page)

Alexandra felt Salvador stiffen slightly beside her.

Ramón nodded with mock seriousness. ‘Indeed, Mercedes. Something tells me rescuing you would have been a far longer and noisier affair.' He laughed loudly. ‘Plus we would have been hearing about it for months afterwards.
La peor gallina es la que más cacarea
, the worst hen is the one that clucks the most.'

As was usually the case in her dealings with Ramón, Mercedes had no blistering retort to hand and merely resorted to pouting in silence. Alexandra, too, sat without speaking and sipped her drink.

‘You know, it's a shame, for the sake of Alexandra's book, that we didn't travel past La Peña de los Enamorados, Lover's Leap,' Esmeralda noted airily, ignoring Mercedes' and Ramón's little spat. She looked her usual dreamy self but Alexandra could have sworn there was a hint of sly interest in Esmeralda's eyes as she glanced between herself and Salvador.

‘No more an outlandish route than the one we took, I suppose,' muttered Ramón.

Alexandra was curious. ‘What's so special about that place?'

All the while, Salvador had been silent, though the air between him and Alexandra throbbed relentlessly as her heartbeat. Now he broke in.

‘La Peña de los Enamorados is attached to a local legend about an impossible love affair,' he explained.

Alexandra drove her gaze towards him. For an instant, something warred in his eyes as he looked at her; was it longing, regret? The force of his personality struck her like a hurricane, sending her head spinning. She struggled not to betray the effect he had on her, conscious that everyone's attention was on them both.

Salvador tapped a finger gently on the side of his glass and looked down into its contents as he continued. ‘Lover's Leap is an enormous crag of limestone overlooking the town and valley of Antequera. The rock provides the setting for the tragic finale to the lovers' story. Legend has it that a young Christian man from Antequera and a beautiful Moorish girl from nearby Archidona were driven to the top of the cliff by Moorish soldiers. Rather than renounce their love, they chose to hurl themselves into the abyss. The rock remains a symbol of their eternal love.' His eyes were on Alexandra again, his features brooding. It felt as though his gaze was scorching her skin and she put a hand to the base of her throat, where she felt her pulse thudding beneath her fingertips.

Salvador paused, taking his time as he lit a cigarette. The air filled with the aromatic smoke, creating a halo around him. At this point, the others began chatting about the bullfight. Under his breath, Salvador went on: ‘A romantic novelist's dream story, wouldn't you say?'

‘Yes,' Alexandra conceded, lifting her chin. ‘There's nothing more romantic than eternal love.'

‘And nothing more foolish, perhaps.'

‘Passion and fidelity are foolish?' She shot him a fierce look. ‘Being prepared to die for love only makes it more powerful.'

‘It is the stuff of romantic fables. And even there, the obstacles of real life soon show themselves. Those soldiers of misfortune chase most poor unfortunates to ground in the end.' He drained his glass and set it down abruptly without looking at her. ‘Passion can be an affliction.'

But Esmeralda had caught the tail end of their conversation and was moved to speak: ‘Salvador, that's a little harsh, I think.' She looked almost hurt at his pronouncement. ‘Surely you can't condemn true love as foolish?'

Alexandra forced a laugh. ‘I'm afraid your brother has a doomed view of life, Esmeralda,' she said, before he could answer. She was trying to make light of it all, but inside her emotions were churning. Is that what Salvador really thought about love and passion? Was he giving her a clear message that he regretted what had passed between them only hours before? Why did he keep pulling her one way, then another? His eyes were dark and impenetrable; her inability to fathom what strange truth lay behind them made Alexandra keenly aware of Aunt Geraldine's warning that, like her mother Vanessa, she too would find herself among strangers whose whole culture and way of thinking would be unfamiliar. Suddenly an overwhelming weariness descended, sapping her of all energy.

Salvador smiled wryly. ‘Yes, I'm a lost cause, I suppose.' He then leaned forward slightly, seeming to sense the change in Alexandra.

‘And so am I now,' she muttered, rising from her chair. ‘I think I really do need my bed.'

‘Yes, of course.' Salvador rose quickly too. ‘I'll see you to your room.'

Her brows drew together. ‘Salvador, that's really not necessary.'

‘I insist, Alexandra.' He gave her a smile. ‘After what you survived today, we must make sure you at least get there in one piece.'

Alexandra relented, deciding it was easier than protesting further. Salvador motioned to the
posadero
and asked for food to be sent up to the room. Saying goodnight and leaving the others to their bowls of stew, which had just arrived on the table, Alexandra made her way up the stairs with Salvador, both of them silent.

She was thankful for the scrupulously clean sheets and the washbasin in her room, as well as the hot stew that the waiter carried upstairs. If she had a good night's sleep, she would be a new person in the morning, she explained to a concerned Salvador as they said goodnight at her door.

‘I learned long ago that sleep is the best remedy for many an ailment,' she could not resist telling him pointedly. For a moment she thought her subtlety was lost on him for he merely looked back at her, his brow slightly furrowed. But as he leant into the door-frame there was something in his gaze that she was unable to decipher.

‘Sleep and mend,' he said almost gruffly. ‘You look exhausted.'

‘Thank you for your concern, Salvador. Now, please, go and join the others and enjoy the rest of your evening.'

At this she saw his eyes cloud over and he stepped back. She sensed that he was silently donning his armour again. Before closing her door, for the briefest of moments she watched his tall figure disappear down the corridor. Then she went inside quickly, not wanting to see if he looked back.

* * *

The following afternoon, La Plaza de Toros in Ronda was drenched with the blinding white glare of a fierce sun. Since the end of the eighteenth century, the huge, tragic amphitheatre with its floor of red sand, reminiscent of the Roman arenas
of old, had been the scene of many a bloody and barbarous combat between man and beast.

There was a roar of applause as Don Vincente Herrera and his guests entered the President's box, reserved for the most important
aficionados
, the devotees of bullfighting. The Herreras, like other great Andalucían families, had survived the civil strife of the 1930s through a mix of caution and cunning. They now enjoyed the enviable position of being popular, not only with the Spanish people who loved the young
torero
, Don Felipe, but also with the Franco regime.

Fascinated, Alexandra watched people from all walks of life pack on to the crowded terraces that sizzled in the baking sun. There were foreigners passing through, onlookers simply curious to see the spectacle, and committed lovers of bullfighting. Aristocrats and respectable middle-class men squeezed in with workmen and peasants. Another group of
aficionados
ate and drank noisily a few boxes away, while elegant women and pretty
señoritas
in flamboyant clothes, their arms laden with flowers, chattered as they looked for their places, or simply sat in their seats expectantly. They were there to take part in this fierce entertainment, mingling regardless of social class and oblivious to the heat and dust.

Alexandra had been given the honoured position on the right of Don Vincente himself; Ramón was on her other side, Salvador almost immediately in front of her. She could see the side of his chiselled, handsome face, and was so close to him that she could have reached out and touched his thick dark hair. The thought made her quiver slightly with a frisson of excitement, which she quashed hastily for the events of yesterday were still a confused whirl in her head but she was determined to block them out.

Doña Isabel was seated on the other side of Salvador. A fleeting pang of jealousy scythed through Alexandra as she noted the possessive way in which the
Marquesa
was leaning over him, and how dazzling she appeared in her magnificent dress of fawn-coloured organza and a matching feather hat, which, although old-fashioned, suited her aristocratic looks. Alexandra was acutely aware of the
plainness of her own ensemble: the pale yellow silk dress with its delicate lace bodice and her wide-brimmed hat decorated with camellias. What she had deemed elegantly simple now appeared almost dull next to the
Marquesa
's outfit.

Esmeralda, on her host's left, looked as ethereal as ever in a pearl-grey silk suit, which set off her fair complexion and unfathomable grey-blue eyes. She seemed further away than ever and, not for the first time since they'd left El Pavón, Alexandra wondered how long it would be before she plucked up courage to flee the ancestral home. In the row behind, two young members of the Spanish nobility were competing for Mercedes' affections and she was clearly enjoying the attention.

‘The Plaza de Toros is the most ancient bullring of the Peninsula,' explained Don Vincente to his guest. He was a stocky man with a thick moustache and black hair that was swept back from his forehead. His chest in its brocaded jacket was puffed out, and he had never once stopped extolling the virtues of his son, Don Felipe, or boasting about his estates since Alexandra had first been introduced. She was relieved that his endless stream of conversation had at last settled upon something other than his family.

‘It is entirely built of wood and dates back to 1784,' he continued. ‘Legend tells the story of a young soldier who completely demolished it on the day of its inauguration, by toppling a column in the same way as Samson destroyed the temple. La Real Maestranza de Caballería, the oldest equestrian corporation in Spain, rebuilt it and used it to celebrate its games and tournaments.'

‘Are there many bullrings in Andalucía?' Alexandra was not particularly keen to engage Don Vincente in another detailed discussion, but she was aware of the need to appear polite. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Doña Isabel place a hand on Salvador's shoulder and laugh extravagantly at something he'd said.

‘Yes, indeed, and my son has fought in many of them.' Don Vincente's expression darkened slightly. ‘Though Felipe has been careful not to fight in the Estremadura capital of Badajoz, where the
bullet holes of a civil war massacre are still visible in the old bullring. My son prides himself on being identified with no political side, you understand. He is the people's hero.'

Alexandra smiled dutifully and turned her gaze back to the colourful crowds. Doña Isabel's loud, distinctive laugh sounded again. Alexandra did her best to ignore the small pantomime going on under her nose, certain it was being staged for her benefit. She felt foolish and small; out of her depth once more. To cover her wounded feelings, she turned to Ramón, suddenly feeling the need for his light banter.

As the clock struck three, Don Vincente waved his handkerchief. Thundering applause met his signal; a trumpet blew. From the patio, two mounted men in King Philip II outfits galloped across the ring and stopped opposite the President's box. They doffed their caps and bowed low. Alexandra watched Don Vincente nod, and then they rode back to their place.

Ramón leant over. ‘They are the
algacils
,' he whispered in her ear. ‘The President's orders are transmitted through them. The
paseo
is about to start.'

A deathly hush filled the arena. The ceremony was heralded by a fanfare of bugles, marking the solemn entrance of the bullfighters and their assisting
cuadrillas
. At the head of the procession rode the two
algacils
on horseback, followed by the
matadors
on foot, wearing dazzling brocaded jackets decorated with gold tassels. Then came the
banderilleros
and the
picadores
; and finally, bringing up the rear, the
areneros
, mounted on mules adorned with little bells.

As this bright cortège paraded round the arena, Alexandra was reminded of gladiators' processions in ancient Rome. It stopped to salute the President and the
toreros
exchanged their ceremonial capes for working ones. At this stage, Don Vincente stood up and threw the key towards the red door of the bulls' enclosure. An
algacil
caught it in his plumed hat, his dexterity meeting with a clamour of appreciation from a relieved crowd.

Ramón inclined his head towards Alexandra. ‘It is said that if the key to the
toril
falls to the ground, the bullfight will be a bad one,' he explained.

The ring cleared, the clarion sounded, and heads turned towards the
toril
entrance. As the two red doors fell back, all of Alexandra's previous distractions dissolved; she held her breath in eager expectancy and the first bull was released into the ring to the frenzied acclaim of the public.

It was a magnificent animal, black and glossy, with an enormous head and smooth, sharp horns — a real brute with the spirit of a fighter. Alexandra recoiled a little in her seat as the beast hurled itself into the middle of the arena. Two
banderilleros
ran across his course, trailing a cape. The bull charged and missed.

Don Felipe, meanwhile, who had been standing behind a barrier watching his adversary, now strutted haughtily over the reddish sand of the arena. He was wearing the dress of the
matador
: black silk breeches drawn in at the hips and a bolero in gold brocade, decorated with sequins, tassels, studs and epaulettes, which set off his golden hair, sun-tanned complexion and his proud bearing.

Taking the large red cape in both hands, he waited. The animal paused, sniffed the air, and then charged, head down, in a bold attack, horns gleaming.