Masquerade Read online

  The bright and airy summer house was so different from the imposing hacienda of El Pavón and for those who knew her well, it was little wonder that Luz found as many excuses as possible to escape here, where she could be near the wild and windswept cliffs and let the invigorating smell of the sea fill her lungs.

  The views from her vantage point on the terrace at the back of the villa were wondrous; there was so much incident to the ever-changing skyscape and to the land itself. It was as if nature was behaving like a magician with a wand, revealing or concealing vistas of the most beguiling beauty. Under a huge arc of sky, where racing cotton-wool clouds folded and unfolded, appeared and disappeared, an enamelled sea the colour of pure cobalt spread itself in front of her. Dancing waves unwound over stretches of glistening white sand, extending infinitely in a straight line. On the opposite shore Puerto de Santa María, the shimmering salt plains and marshy wetlands of Las Salinas behind it, was edged by a far-off screen of pine trees and the masts of ships. In front of the town, boats and yachts painted in bright Van Gogh colours bobbed up and down in the port.

  Luz’s thoughts meandered back to the previous day and the gypsy youth. Events only vaguely recollected when she woke up that morning gradually clarified in her mind. She realized most of the time she had not been deeply asleep, more like visited by a strange faintness, a sort of doziness where her eyelids felt as though weights were forcing them shut and her hearing was fuzzy. How her blood had thundered when the gypsy lifted her up after the fall and later, when he put his arm around her to help her drink, a tingling feeling ran through the whole of her body as she sensed the warmth of his lean strength against her. Though he was rugged – his jaw firm and with a hard, piercing stare in those green eyes – there had been something infinitely soothing in his deep voice when she tried to raise herself up from bleary-headed stupor to be civil.

  Despite her twenty-four years and having spent most of them in a modern and liberal society, particularly compared with that of Spain, Luz was surprisingly conservative in her ideals. Her disposition was a complex mixture of passion and principle; her acute physical drives and boundless energy did not translate into a liberal attitude towards sex. Most of her English friends had done with their virginity by the time they were her age. She was by no means narrow minded but to her it represented a precious one-time gift, whether in marriage or outside it, that she would preserve until the right time and the right person came along – and for Luz that had simply never happened. She considered the act of love to be just that, provoked by deeply felt emotion, and for love itself to be a passionate adventure. Her English friends teased her, claiming her Spanish genes were to blame for such a regressive philosophy, labelling her an old-fashioned romantic and sentimental fool, but she simply shrugged and laughed and kept to her principles.

  Luz was pulled in two directions: it was the troublesome Latin fire in her blood that tempted her to follow her passions in exactly the way her friends encouraged but, ironically, it was the traditional notions of la honra in her Andalucían upbringing that also held her back. Luz’s Spanish nature was both the agent of her passions and her protection from them.

  She had many admirers and her family, both in England and Spain, were pressing her to get married. Her doting parents, having just one child, fervently hoped that Luz would find the same blissful happiness and companionship as they themselves had in marriage. What few friends she’d had the time to make in Spain, notably her best friend Alba, never ceased to point out eligible young Spanish men. Luz herself did not think she had ever really fallen in love. Sure, her heart had beaten a little faster sometimes and she’d had a few boyfriends, but the feeling had always been skin-deep and short-lived. Even Cameron Hunt, England’s tennis heartthrob with whom she’d had a very short-lived romance after she left Cambridge and whose biography she had begun to write, had not set her heart racing at this sort of speed. His superficiality and fickleness had finally become apparent; she should have known better than to mix work with pleasure. In the end he had driven away any respect she had for him, regardless of his chiselled good looks. And so this morning she puzzled at the overpowering reaction her whole being had clearly had to the gypsy. This emotion was unlike anything she had experienced in the past and it was deeply confusing.

  ‘Buenos días, I hope you slept well on your first night home?’ Carmela’s cheerful greeting invaded Luz’s daydreaming as she breezed on to the veranda, tying an apron around her ample waist.

  Carmela, the housekeeper, was a plump young woman with twinkling dark eyes and lush curly black hair. In her early thirties, she came from peasant stock and was a force of nature. She looked happily built for children, though she and her devoted husband Pedro had yet to be blessed with young ones of their own. Carmela more than made up for this by mothering half the children in the village. Her family were simple folk who had lived all their lives in Cádiz; her father was a labourer, her mother a waitress at one of the many ice-cream parlours in the Old Town.

  Everything about Carmela was endearing, from her sunny, uncomplicated and bumptious personality to her total lack of self-discipline where punctuality was concerned – and whenever a string of chorizos or a box of chocolates appeared on the horizon. She was a mixture of shrewdness, calculation, devotion and benevolence, with a happy-go-lucky attitude that carried her through everyday difficulties and problems and would no doubt ensure a long life. Her rippling laughter was infectious and it pealed through the house at any time of day with no consideration for its residents. Carmela put up with long hours and hard work but did not hesitate to give her opinion or deliver a reproof, should she deem it necessary. She would never have survived in the silent, dark corridors of El Pavón, but here at L’Estrella, irritating as they might sometimes find her, Luz and her parents adored her. Carmela was more like an older sister to Luz, who secretly delighted in being fussed over by the Spanish woman and regarded her as a breath of fresh air.

  ‘I slept very deeply, thank you, Carmela.’

  This was the truth and Luz had no intention of talking about last night’s adventure. Carmela knew everybody and everybody knew Carmela; she was a born gossip, too. You just had to walk into Cádiz with her to witness the joyous greetings that assailed her from all sides. Besides, the housekeeper was no different from most people – to her, the gitanos were pariahs and she would probably make the incident into a major drama. In no time the fishmonger, the butcher and the vegetable man would be told about it, with added embellishments that Carmela would feel free to supply. No, Luz reasoned, she would keep this to herself.

  Luz and Carmela chatted happily for the good part of an hour, catching up on the town’s tittle-tattle. Time was of no essence, at least for Carmela, when there were such colourful stories to relay. Finally, Luz noticed the clock.

  ‘Goodness, Carmela, what happened to the time?’ She sprang up from the table. ‘I’ve got a lot to do this morning.’

  Carmela stood up and smoothed her apron, tutting, ‘No te dés prisa, rush, rush! I can’t see that you’ve even eaten a proper breakfast yet. Doña Luz, you must eat. Every time I see you, I want to feed you, to put the Spanish colour back into those cheeks, eh?’ Carmela nipped Luz’s chin. ‘What do they feed you in England, nuts and lettuce? Come, what shall I make you? Maybe some tortillas de patatas or paella or some chorizo? You always love my paella. I try to build you up,’ she chuckled, winking at Luz.

  ‘You’re trying to make me fat, Carmela. I’ll have a light lunch of salad and smoked sausage, gracias,’ Luz informed her with a wry smile, ‘and then I’ll go down to the beach. I need to … I could do with some exercise,’ she added quickly, her cheeks colouring slightly. A confession that she had lost her locket had almost tumbled from her lips. An explanation of how that had happened would have led to all sorts of trouble.

  Carmela seemed not to have noticed Luz’s awkwardness and rolled her eyes playfully. ‘Always racing around. Si eso es lo que quieres, if that’s what you want. Would
you like Pedro to saddle up Zeyna?’

  ‘No, no thank you. I think I prefer to walk.’ She eyed Carmela with exaggerated obedience. ‘I promise I’ll see you for lunch before I go.’

  Carmela chuckled and shooed her out of the kitchen.

  For the rest of the morning Luz busied herself making phone calls, writing letters and completing paperwork. She took time to have lunch with Carmela, humouring her by eating one of her special warm, crispy leche frita for dessert, but then had to spend longer afterwards finishing off her tasks. So it was late afternoon, at around four o’clock, when Luz finally walked down to the beach. A pleasurable anticipation warmed her heart and her body at the thought of once more encountering the gypsy.

  On arrival she found that the shore was bustling with activity. The boats had come in earlier and the fishermen were busy with their brown nets and fishing boats as crowds gathered round for the fish auction. Peering down, Luz slowly retraced her steps to the upturned boat where the gypsies had been the day before. The sand was soft and dry here, high up on the beach, studded with razor clam shells and tufts of dune grass. No sign of the sparkle of a golden chain to give away its presence. This was like looking for a needle in a haystack, she decided with sad resignation. Perhaps her beloved locket was lost to her the moment it fell from her neck.

  Luz stood still, shading her eyes with her hand, and scanned the beach. A jolly group of picnickers under a garish-looking umbrella were finishing off their meal. Little brown children gambolled in and out of the waves, laughing and splashing. The boy with the red kite that had frightened Zeyna the day before was there again with his mother.

  And then suddenly she saw them: young men, bare-armed and bare-legged in shorts, scarlet scarves around their throats, cantering bareback at the edge of the ocean. They seemed to be competing, pressing their horses’ flanks and goading them on to greater speeds; awe-inspiring on their wild-looking horses with long, flying tails. Racing past Luz at flash-speed, they raised a whirlwind of sand in their wake, taking her breath away. Her gitano was not among them. Still, she remained there, staring after them as they disappeared into the distance. They did not return, and there was no sign of her gypsy, but she was here now and determined to find him. Their camp could not be that far off, surely. At a loss, she looked around her, not knowing quite where to start. Then, bracing herself, she set out haphazardly, instinct her only guide.

  Luz scrambled up and down the sandy dunes and descended into a greener and gentler land, past a little house with fruit trees in bloom that were fenced off from the road, through a timbered yard, then up again into wilder countryside. A strangely seductive combination of the voluptuous and the austere pervaded the scenery all the way. She had walked for almost a mile in the golden early evening when, around a narrow turning, she emerged on to a plateau. Nearby, the ground fell away sharply. She drew in her breath and her heart began to race: beneath her lay the rugged expanse of the gypsy camp.

  Within that enchanted circle of caves, tents and wagons, bright fires glowed fiercely, flickering upon the gypsies seated outside their dwellings. In the dusk there was something unearthly about the scene. She had come across the camp from the back, where the steep slope led down to the caves. There was no way she could make her way down there without breaking her neck. Still, she was not discouraged, far from it; waves of excitement rippled through her. She had discovered the gypsies’ den. Tomorrow she would look for a different route to reach it and no doubt find the entrance.

  A curious elation swept over her as she headed back the way she had come.

  * * *

  That night Luz had a dream. It was not altogether a nightmare, but it was strange and it made her uneasy. She was not accustomed to dreaming or, if she did, she never remembered her dreams. But that morning, when she woke up, the dream was still with her, the details disturbingly vivid, and images of fire all around still flickering inside her head. She had always regarded dreams as meaningless nonsense but, in this part of the world, where superstitions abounded, they were regarded as omens of good or bad luck.

  Her country was steeped in ancient myths and gypsy legends and had a complex heritage of religious shibboleths left by the Christians and Moors; this had produced beliefs that Luz found less easy to identify with, though she always harboured a curiosity about this shadowy wisdom and its potency was undeniable. Luz’s dream had been intense – so real. Could there be some underlying meaning to it? But she felt faintly ridiculous entertaining such notions. Carmela was always talking about her dreams and it was clear that they had a great influence on her behaviour. Perhaps she would have an interesting interpretation to offer.

  Luz showered and dressed quickly. The night before she had been so charged up by her discovery of the gypsy encampment that she scarcely touched her food at dinner. Now she was famished. Carmela was singing in the kitchen and beamed as the young woman came in, her greeting as effusive as usual.

  ‘Buenos días, Doña Luz, has dormido bien? Did you sleep well? I have made you some fresh churros; they are still warm. Would you prefer to have café con leche or hot chocolate for breakfast?’

  ‘Hot chocolate would be lovely, thank you, Carmela,’ said Luz enthusiastically. ‘I’m really hungry this morning.’

  Carmela laughed, showing two rows of brilliant white teeth in her copper-tanned face. ‘A mucha hambre, no hay pan duro, hunger is the best sauce.’

  Luz seated herself at the kitchen table and started to tuck into the appetizing doughnuts that Carmela had prepared, while the latter hovered attentively round her, chattering merrily, dashing in and out of the room as she went about her chores.

  ‘Mmm … delicious,’ said Luz, biting gingerly into the little golden cakes and taking a mouthful of the thick chocolate.

  Rays of sunshine poured into the room. The open window afforded a magical view of the garden. Olive trees coexisted cheerfully with orange, lemon and fig trees, as well as oleander, hibiscus, grapevines and a sprinkling of cactus and palms. Beyond this eclectic world fashioned by man and nature she could see gulls in the distance, in a huge arc of sky, their white wings flashing in the sunlight as they swooped over the phosphorescent ocean. Their far-off cries filled the air, punctuated by the chirruping sound of nearby cicadas. She let out a small sigh of pleasure. This was bliss.

  ‘Carmela,’ she called out suddenly to the housekeeper, who was sweeping the patio outside.

  ‘Would you like some more coffee? Another cup of chocolate?’ the other asked, coming back into the kitchen.

  Luz helped herself to a bunch of grapes from a pristine bowl of fruit in the middle of the table. She popped one into her mouth and smiled. ‘No, no, thank you, I’ve already eaten too much. You’re a superb cook, Carmela.’

  The maid grinned in radiant gratification. ‘You have so much energy, Doña Luz, and that needs food!’ She paused as Luz glanced at her sheepishly. ‘I know that look, you have something on your mind. What is it?’

  ‘I want to ask you something. I had a dream last night. I suppose I must have dreams like most people, but I never remember them. This time I’ve remembered it, though. You believe in dreams, don’t you? I wondered if you could tell me what mine means.’

  ‘Cuéntame, cuéntame, tell me.’ Carmela’s eyes grew wide as she set aside her broom, entering wholeheartedly into the spirit of this new subject of conversation. She leaned against one of the kitchen cabinets, hands in her apron, her black eyes steadily watching Luz who, with some amusement, could almost see the housekeeper’s ears twitching in eager anticipation.

  ‘I dreamt I was on a vast dark plain, in the middle of which a bright fire was burning. I went up to it with a mixture of fear and awe. It became brighter and brighter as I approached and then, even though I was scared, without the least hesitation I walked right into it. The flames were all around me. They licked me but didn’t burn, and I wasn’t afraid any more. I walked through the fire and as I emerged from it I saw a shadow, the silhouette of a person. I couldn�
�t distinguish whether it was a man or a woman. The figure was a shape without features. It took my two hands and together we rose into the sky towards another fire which, when we reached it, suddenly turned into a sun.’

  Carmela went into raptures. ‘Esto es un sueño maravilloso, a wonderful dream,’ she burst out enthusiastically. ‘Fire in a dream is a very lucky omen!’

  ‘Does the dream have a particular meaning, do you think?’

  ‘Fuera de curso, of course,’ she declared with unshakeable conviction as she flung up her arms, her black eyes glittering with barely contained excitement. ‘All dreams have a meaning. This one says that soon your heart will be burning with a very powerful fire. You will have a novio, a boyfriend, un gran amor y pasión.’

  Luz gave her an uncertain look then broke into peals of laughter. ‘Dear Carmela, you’re such a romantic!’ She leapt to her feet and hugged the Spanish woman affectionately.

  That Carmela was hurt by the young woman’s obvious scepticism was written all over her face. Her penetrating eyes regarded Luz with undisguised reproach. ‘You don’t believe me? You think I say this to please you, but I am very good at deciphering dreams. Podrás ver, you’ll see – Carmela is always right. Soon, very soon, this will happen. Maybe it’s someone you already know, maybe not. Perhaps you feel the flames already, but you are not yet burning. Believe me, it will happen, Doña Luz, muy pronto, very soon.’

  ‘For all I know you could be right,’ Luz said, still laughing. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been in love, let alone felt any sort of gran pasión. It’ll be a novel experience.’