Encarnita's Journey Page 3

  Señor Strachey was giving Maria a great deal of bother. When Pilar and Encarnita called she was ready with a string of grumbles to pour into their ears.

  He made such a fuss about his food! He hated Spanish cooking, his stomach was delicate, his nerves were delicate. She struggled to please him and was offended when he peered at his food as if he suspected her of trying to poison him and then he would mess it around on his plate and leave most of it untouched. He hated beans, tortilla and salt dry cod. What was she to do?

  Pilar had no advice to offer. She had no experience of such eating habits, either. ‘No wonder he is so thin and looks so unhealthy.’ She smoothed Encarnita’s cheek with her finger and the child’s face broke into a smile. ‘Don’t you think she has a good colour, Maria? And the whites of her eyes are always clear.’

  Maria was more interested in Señor Strachey’s colour. ‘He’s afraid of the fresh air. He doesn’t want to go out. I can’t understand why he has come at all. He says the smell of the stable makes him feel ill. He opened the bottom door a crack yesterday and squinted into the street as if he was about to be attacked by a wild beast. Then he shut it again.’

  ‘Perhaps we would do the same if we went to his country.’

  ‘Us? Of course we would not, Pilar!’

  Pilar had to agree; she had only been trying to think kindly of the man and his fears, for he must be fearful if the idea of walking about their village terrified him. Little harm could befall him here. She knew that if she and Encarnita had the chance to journey to the señor’s country they would spend every moment of daylight outside, making sure they missed nothing.

  Señor Strachey, whether he was outside or inside, would appear to be a man who encountered misfortune at every turn. ‘He says he’s been bitten by bedbugs,’ said Maria, scratching her waist at the thought of it, though it was possible she did have some bites herself. Few in Yegen escaped them. ‘Here! In my house! He must have got them in Granada before he ever came to Yegen.’ Everything had happened to him in Granada! He had caught flu, almost trod on a snake, suffered a bad stomach upset, injured his knee and mislaid his pyjamas. A man who attracted misfortune, that was obvious. And not, therefore, a good guest to have in the house.

  ‘The nights are still cool for him to sleep without pyjamas,’ said Pilar, who had never owned nightwear of any kind. ‘He needs a woman to keep him warm. And to look after him.’

  ‘He has the señorita,’ said Maria slyly.

  ‘She is his woman? I can’t imagine it. He is an old man.’

  ‘Forty, Don Geraldo says. But he looks fifty.’

  ‘Or more. The other man is much younger and much more handsome. I would prefer him.’

  ‘Señor Perdiz. You would be lucky to have a man like that! I can’t make them out, the three of them. Half the time they’re squabbling; the rest, cooing like doves at each other. Sometimes I think that she is the woman of one and then the other.’ Maria lowered her voice. ‘She fusses over Señor Stratchee like a clucking hen. Is he too hot or too cold? He needs a rug. She runs to get one. He needs a window opened because he is almost fainting from the heat. She runs to open it.’

  ‘She has a kind heart, perhaps.’

  Maria shrugged. ‘Yesterday morning, I saw her kissing Señor Perdiz. And, in the evening, would you believe, Don Geraldo! I think he is in love with her.’

  ‘I’m surprised he would want a woman of her age.’ It was already known in the village that Don Geraldo liked young girls. And prostitutes. They’d heard he’d been in the brothels of Almería and Granada. ‘She’s not all that young, is she?’

  ‘She is not! I asked Don Geraldo for he doesn’t mind if I ask questions about his life. He says that most of the villagers are not interested in what he is doing but I don’t think that’s true. But I would be, wouldn’t I, when I work for him? He asks me about my life too. “We can study each other, Maria,” he says and he writes down some of the things that I tell him.’

  ‘So what age is she?’

  ‘Twenty-six, the same as himself. Nearly as old as me!’ Maria had passed her thirtieth birthday but whereas her body was supple and firm her face, which she washed only with aniseed spirit, made her look more than her years. The spirit dried it to the texture of leather. She had a phobia about letting water touch it. Pilar wondered if it had something to do with her belief in witches.

  ‘That isn’t young,’ assented Pilar, who herself was twenty years old.

  ‘It seems to me that she has an attachment to all three of the men.’

  ‘I suppose that could be possible.’

  ‘But tiring,’ said Maria, who had found Don Fernando sufficient. ‘They are a strange lot.’

  Pilar nodded. ‘Quite strange.’

  ‘I hope all that kissing won’t have harmed Don Geraldo for she has a dreadful cold and he is just recovering from another bout of flu. They seem to be ill quite often, these people.’ Maria lifted a bottle from the table and, uncorking it, invited Pilar to smell. ‘This is her medicine. It smells like an old barn. And what a fuss she makes when she drinks it! You’d think she was being poisoned.’

  ‘So where are they now?’ Pilar glanced around as if they might be lurking.

  ‘Señor Stratchee is still in bed – he spends half the day there – and the others have gone for a walk. They like walking, for no particular purpose. Like Don Geraldo himself.’ Sometimes he walked for as much as twelve hours at a stretch, another of his habits they could not understand.

  ‘Perhaps they enjoy the flowers,’ suggested Pilar.

  Maria sniffed.

  The door opened at their backs, and the tall thin one put his head round. He was scratching his midriff and they could sense his irritability even from across the room. Maria jumped up and Encarnita lifted her head to see what was happening.

  ‘Señor Stratchee. Desayuno?’ Maria held out a loaf of bread and pointed to a bowl of black olives sitting in a bowl in a puddle of yellow olive oil.

  He shuddered and shook his head. ‘Café,’ he said and left abruptly.

  ‘He doesn’t care much for our coffee, either,’ said Maria as she set water on the stove to boil. ‘He says it tastes of barley.’

  Pilar had no opinion on the taste of coffee; it was only occasionally that she had the chance to drink it. The smell of it was making her nostrils twitch and after Maria had taken a cup to Señor Strachey she poured a small amount into two cups for themselves.

  ‘You would think he might be hungry,’ said Pilar.

  ‘Don Geraldo says he is a brilliant man.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He writes books. And he thinks a lot.’ Maria tapped her forehead. ‘Don Geraldo seems much in awe of that. And the señorita is a brilliant artist. She draws and paints.’

  They reflected on such brilliance, uncertain as to whether Don Geraldo could be considered to have it himself since he spent much of his time reading books or walking on the hills.

  ‘Perhaps he can be called a brilliant walker,’ suggested Pilar, getting up and hoisting Encarnita onto her hip. They must fetch Gabriella and walk her on the hill.

  The goat came willingly. Pilar looped her rope around her neck and led her up through the two barrios. The fish vendor was lugging his baskets from door to door, followed by a squad of mewling village cats. His fish, mostly sardines, clams and calamares, would have been brought up from the coast by mule the night before. Pilar loved fish and would buy whenever she had a few centimos to spare. She shook her head at him today. Mañana. Perhaps tomorrow.

  The hill up to the top of the village was winding and steep but Pilar’s legs were sturdy and the slope did not trouble her, even with Encarnita to carry. The baby jogged along on her hip enjoying the ride. Pilar sang softly to her, a copla about a young girl and her true love, who, in the end, is killed by a rival.

  Gabriella was happy when they reached open country. Pickings were good for her at this time of year. The fresh grass shoots were green and sweet and in amongs
t them lurked tender spring flowers and even some thin stalks of wild asparagus. Once she was tethered to the trunk of an old olive tree Pilar sat down with Encarnita. A soft breeze grazed their cheeks. Pilar plucked a sprig of lavender and rubbed it between her fingers to release the bouquet before holding it to her child’s nose. ‘Smell that, Encarnita. It’s lavender, my favourite smell in the world.’ The baby’s nostrils twitched and for a moment her eyes looked serious as if she were trying to decide. And then she smiled and her mother laughed and hugged her close.

  ‘Buenos dias, Pilar!’

  She looked round to see Don Geraldo standing further up the hill with Señor Partridge and his woman friend. She felt flustered. They were coming down to join her, running, galloping almost, throwing their arms up in the air. They were in high spirits.

  ‘No, don’t get up, Pilar! Stay where you are. My friend would like to draw you and your baby. And your goat.’

  ‘My goat? But she’s just an ordinary goat.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. In fact, it does matter, for that is what the señorita likes about it. So, would that be all right?’

  Pilar did not know what to say. Why should the señorita, who was a brilliant artist, want to draw them?

  ‘You just have to relax, that’s all. Don’t pay any attention to her. Don’t even look at her. You talk to us.’

  Don Geraldo dropped onto the ground where he lounged, leaning back on his elbows. Señor Partridge joined him. Pilar thought he should have had the name of a more splendid bird than a partridge, an eagle or a falcon perhaps. Partridges were rather dowdy and meant for the pot, if you could be lucky enough to trap one. The men’s long legs were sprawled across the grass. If she moved her foot she might touch one of theirs. She was conscious that her feet did not look very clean in their rope sandals. Tomorrow, she would go and bathe in one of the irrigation ponds up on the mountainside. Or else she might go down the path that led to Yátor, to a small pond reputed to have been used for bathing by women back in the times of the Moors and which was usually referred to as the women’s bath. The water, there, was shallower and, therefore, warmer. She visited the baths more often than most of the villagers, sometimes going every other week. Some of them bathed themselves properly only two or three times a year. Maria had said that her guests were forever sluicing themselves with water and asking for it to be hot.

  Pilar’s cheeks were warm and her armpits felt damp. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Did they really expect her to talk to them? What could she say that they would want to hear? She knew so little of the world. She knew about the plants that grew on the mountain and the birds that flew high above it, but that was all. Meanwhile, the señorita was sitting on a rock a short distance away and drawing feverishly on a large white sheet of paper, whilst lifting her head every other second to stare directly at them with her astonishingly blue eyes. Pilar felt as if she could see right through her, into her soul.

  ‘My friend asks if your goat has a name, Pilar?’ said Don Geraldo.

  ‘Gabriella,’ she mumbled, keeping her eyes lowered.

  The friend said something else and Don Geraldo translated. ‘He says that is an angelic name. Is your goat an angel? A gift from God?’

  What was she to say to that? Gabriella an angel? Given to her by God? Was he making fun of her? The man then wanted to know the baby’s name. She said she had been christened Encarnación, which seemed to amuse Don Geraldo’s friends. Pilar wondered what they might be saying. She felt uneasy, not knowing. She wished she could learn their language so that she could teach it to Encarnita for then her child would be able to go out into the world and travel.

  ‘I shorten it to Encarnita,’ she added.

  ‘It is a fine name!’ declared Don Geraldo. ‘As fine a name as any child could wish for. Look at the funny name my friend has! Who would want to be a perdiz?’

  The three English people laughed again. They laughed a great deal while they bandied words to and fro.

  Gabriella was getting restless and making it clear that she wanted to move on to new pastures, but the men told Pilar that she was not to move; they would go and gather fodder for the goat themselves. They sprang up before she could protest and came back with armfuls of grasses and even some corn shoots taken from someone’s plot. Gabriella was happy, though Pilar was beginning to feel restless herself.

  Finally, the señorita was finished. She got up and came across to show her drawing.

  ‘Excellent!’ said Don Geraldo. ‘You’ve caught all three of them. What do you think, Pilar?’

  Pilar was surprised to see how real the drawings of Encarnita and Gabriella looked. About herself, she could not be so sure. She had no mirror so seldom saw herself, except as a wavery reflection in the river when she bent over to wash her clothes. The woman in the picture had heavy black eyebrows and thin cheeks. ‘Do I look like that?’

  ‘It is a good likeness. My friend asks if you would like to have it?’

  ‘To keep?’

  ‘Yes. Would you?’

  Pilar nodded. Of course she would! No one had ever offered her a picture before. The señorita signed her name at the bottom of the drawing, then she came across to Pilar and offered it to her.

  ‘Gracias,’ said Pilar shyly, taking it into her hands. Encarnita turned her head so that she, too could look. ‘Muchas gracias,’ added Pilar and the painter responded with ‘De nada,’ for she knew that much Spanish. It’s nothing. Don’t mention it.

  Pilar looked at the signature. Carrington. ‘Just one name?’

  ‘That is what she likes to be called,’ said Don Geraldo. ‘Simply Carrington. One day, Pilar, when she is famous, this drawing might be worth quite a lot of money.’

  He spoke to the señorita in their own language and she said something in return and once more they all laughed. Pilar envied them their laughter, which spilled out so freely.

  The three friends left but Pilar sat on in a slight daze. Gabriella, too, was content to laze for her belly was full and the sun was at its height.

  ‘We have had our pictures drawn by a real artist, Encarnita,’ said Pilar, continuing to gaze at it with wonder. ‘What do you think of that?’

  Encarnita was scrutinising the picture, too; with approval, her mother thought.

  1923

  Virginia and Leonard Woolf came to stay in Yegen when Encarnita was three years old. Since giving birth to another child the year before Maria had allowed herself to slump into periodic states of disarray, and the house with her. Dishes waited to be washed, food stains spattered on the table, the floor needed to be swept.

  Pilar had come in to give her a hand.

  ‘You’d think I had enough to do without more visitors coming,’ grumbled Maria. ‘All these people expecting to be fed and waited on. These ones are called Señor and Señora Lobo. Perdices and lobos, what funny names Don Geraldo’s friends have.’

  Partridges might be one thing but wolves quite another. Encarnita’s eyes widened. Were wolves coming to stay in the village? It was said that they roamed the high mountains and shepherds claimed that they took their beasts at times. Maria was full of stories. She had seen many strange things in her life. She had seen witches flying through moonlit skies above the village rooftops. Every time there was a moon Encarnita looked hopefully up at the sky and once was sure that she did see one.

  ‘And they’re coming for two whole weeks!’ Maria went on. ‘But perhaps they will cheer Don Geraldo up.’ He had been gloomy of late, missing his friends, the painter-woman in particular. ‘You remember her, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. She’s the lady who did our picture, Encarnita.’

  Encarnita nodded. They had the picture pinned up on the wall where they could see it from their bed in the morning light.

  ‘Sometimes, when he’s feeling a little lonely, he likes to talk, especially at night,’ said Maria, dropping her voice. Encarnita settled in to listen. She loved to listen to the stories that passed between Maria and her
mother.

  ‘Night is a good time for talking,’ said Pilar.

  ‘He told me he was attached to a lady who, although she returned his affection, was attached to another. I’m sure that’s the perdiz man. Don Geraldo writes long letters to her, pages and pages at a time. And then he has to walk all the way to Úgijar to post them and he brings back big long letters that she writes in return.’

  ‘Love is strange.’ Pilar looked pensive.

  ‘But why does he bother about her when there are prettier women to be had here in the village? And I don’t mean Maxima, though I’m sure he’s been with her. She charges two eggs.’

  ‘I heard that La Prisca charges a peseta.’

  ‘She has her head fixed firmly to her shoulders, that one.’

  ‘She can read.’ La Prisca had been teaching Pilar, who by now could recognise all the letters of the alphabet and some simple words. Words like casa, calle, pueblo. Encarnita was following the lessons, too.

  ‘What good do you think that will do for you?’ asked Maria. ‘Don Geraldo reads till his eyes are ready to plop out. Dull looking books, with not even a picture in them. It’s no wonder he’s forever getting headaches and flu. He sniffles and coughs up gobbets of phlegm into cloth handkerchiefs. And then I have to wash them. Why doesn’t he spit out in the yard?’

  It was true that Don Geraldo suffered much from colds and flu, which puzzled them, since he lived in a dry house and ate the best of food. At regular intervals Maria would announce, with a certain amount of satisfaction, the onslaught of yet another bout. Pilar said she did not think it could have anything to do with reading books, unless some of them were dusty and the dust was entering his lungs. Maria was peeved by the suggestion that dust might be allowed to collect in her house.

  ‘I have a feeling Don Geraldo is a bit nervous about having these lobos here. They’re not close friends like the others. I don’t suppose they’ll run about the hills telling jokes and laughing so much. They are very brilliant, it seems. Much cleverer than he is. So he says. The lady writes wonderful stories. Don Geraldo speaks as if he is much in awe of her.’