"If you're Spanish, speak Spanish"
– Words stenciled onto a wall in Catalonia under a portrait of Franco, 1940
Christine saw that Erik had been right, as always: the Victoria was inaugurating its new opera season with "The Flying Dutchman." When the managers had announced that Christine would be Senta, all eyes had been directed towards Carlotta – some in fear and some in gleeful anticipation of her inevitable tantrum. The diva had remained surprisingly calm, however, and had merely made a show of nodding and going back to the newspaper she was reading.
Then Carlotta had started to rehearse the role of Senta herself as openly as possible. She spent hours in her dressing room, which was very centrally located within the theater, and left the door open so that all would hear her.
"She's not your understudy. Why is she doing that?" Marga asked on one occasion, and Christine had not known what to say.
Later, alone in her dressing room with Erik, she broached the subject of Carlotta's behavior to him.
"She has an overabundance of confidence in her political power," explained Erik. "Ignore her."
"I'd be happy to ignore her, Erik, if you would only tell me how." The soprano's voice could be heard through the closed door of Christine's dressing room. She was singing Senta's part of the final act fortissimo. It did not matter what dynamics Wagner had written into the score – everything Carlotta sang was sung loudly these days.
Erik grimaced as he paced across the room. "She is more repulsive than usual today, is she not? Well, not for much longer…" He suddenly disappeared through the wall, and Christine rubbed her eyes in disbelief. The only thing that assured her that what she had seen was not supernatural was the smell of fresh plaster that wafted towards her in a current of disturbed air.
Carlotta's singing continued: "Ich bin's, durch deren Treu' dein Heil du finden…Merda!" The diva's singing turned into a dissonant shriek at the end, followed by a series of indistinct screams in Italian. Christine cringed and heard the thunder of footfalls – the entire cast and crew of the theater was headed towards the diva's dressing room. Just as her heart began to slow, Erik materialized at her elbow. She gasped, and he placed a careful, black-clad arm around her shoulders to steady her, his eyes glowing with delight.
"What…what did you do to her?" Christine was trembling.
"I treated her to an illusion, my dear. I am a magician, you know. Behold!" His hand described a circle in the air, and a blue butterfly emerged, beating its wings slowly. It crossed the room and dissipated as it approached the wall, finally disappearing altogether.
Christine clapped appreciatively, her fear forgotten. "But why would Carlotta scream over something like that?"
Erik coughed slightly. "Hers was a different illusion, though based on the same technique."
"What was the difference?"
"Hers was a scorpion."
The confrontation occurred during the first run-through of "Dutchman." Carlotta arrived at the Victoria when the cast was just beginning to sing Act Two. Christine was waiting, poised to sing a soft bit of her ballad as Senta, but the clatter of quick footsteps up to the stage were heard. Carlotta approached, her eyes fixed on a space just above Christine's head, and pushed her.
"Out of my way, Little Toad!" she hissed, and stood squarely on the place Christine had been forced to vacate.
All sound and movement stopped. Then, Margarita moved forward indignantly to face Carlotta. "How dare you! The role of Senta belongs to Christine! We're trying to work, so you can just get off the stage!"
Carlotta's full lips curled into a toothy snarl. "You still don't know who I am, do you? I am –"
"Spare us the story about your ties with Ciano and the Mussolinis," Marga cut in, clearly sick of hearing the same old laundry list of threats. "I don't care who you think you are! And in case you haven't heard, Mussolini's much-vaunted Greek invasion has turned into an Albanian retreat – so don't think that your precious connections will serve you for much longer. Franco's tired of the Italians, maybe even as much as Hitler is!" Marga's fists were balled at her sides, spittle flew as she yelled, and the carotid arteries stood out at the sides of her neck.
"Oh, Marga, don't…please don't worry about me," begged Christine, concerned about what consequences Marga might suffer, even with Gonzalo Fernández as her protector. As she moved away from Carlotta and towards her friend, the huge photo of Hitler above the stage came flying down, barely missing Carlotta and crashing heavily to the stage behind her.
"You!...This is your doing!" Carlotta screamed and pointed at Christine. "You little communist, anarchist, Judeo-Masonic, subversive spy! Yes! She's been spying on me! How else can this be explained?"
The managers, Junyent and Soler, were approaching the stage in alarm. They usually did not meddle in artistic affairs and kept strictly to their office. "Signorina, please!"
"I am leaving, but don't think you've won! You haven't seen the last of me!" Carlotta screeched, and, leaving the stage, she collected her fur and stormed up the aisle and out of the theater. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then someone clapped, and the entire cast erupted into applause. Margarita celebrated the moment by executing a pirouette, and Christine saw that Fernández was watching her just offstage as he smoked a cigarette. Behind him there was darkness, except for the glow of yellow eyes.
Christine found herself in a crowded streetcar going down the Ramblas the following morning. A terse message from Gloria had instructed her to go to be fitted for a dress at an address there. Her eyes flitted about anxiously, but nobody in the car seemed to be paying attention to her. Outside, she could see the crowds of people bustling up and down its tree-lined expanse. On the streets flanking the boulevard, bicycles and cars competed with the streetcar for space. A scrap collector with his donkey cart slowed down traffic, oblivious to the driver in the old Hispano-Suiza behind him, who had rolled down the car window and was yelling at him, his arms gesticulating frenetically. "Hey! Do you know how much gasoline costs these days? And there's rationing on, it's not as if I'm not running low now…! Hey…!"
Once she had stepped off the streetcar, she checked addresses until she came to a building with a graceful modernist façade. She paused, fidgeting with her gloves before she entered the building's dark marble foyer, where a mahogany-and-glass elevator awaited. She carefully closed its doors behind her, the ancient motor clanking and whirring as she ascended to the fourth floor.
"I'm here for my 11 o'clock appointment," Christine explained to the woman who opened the door. She was short and dark and wore half-moon glasses, and the measuring tape draped around her neck gave her trade away. The woman's startled stare was one she was accustomed to – Christine looked blonde and foreign, yet spoke Spanish with a local accent. "You must be Maria José…I hope I'm not importuning you. I know I'm half an hour early."
"It's okay, Maria...I don't mind sharing space with another of your clients," came Gloria's voice in heavily-accented Spanish.
"Come in," said the seamstress, and she dimpled as she smiled. She continued in Catalan in a low voice, "Escolta, this American woman is impossible. Do you mind staying with her a bit while I run to the shop to get some items I'll need for her dress? She has the strangest tastes!"
"Not at all," responded Christine in the same language. Maria José squeezed her arm and left, the quick click of her heels echoing down the tiles of the hallway towards the elevator. As soon as Christine heard the whir of the elevator gears turning, she left the foyer and went into the salon, where she found Gloria in front of a mirror, her willowy form pinned into a red satin evening gown.
"Don't worry – I'm paying the seamstress well," Gloria greeted her in English.
"I hope so. That material alone is worth a month's hard labor at the Victoria, by my calculations," replied Christine. "You look lovely, though."
"I'll be going to some Christmas charity balls and have to look fetching," she said, pursing her lips in the mirror. "And since you're here and need to order something, I'll be paying for whatever dress you ask Maria Jesús to make for you. We're very pleased with your work for us – the recitals are turning out to be an excellent method to transmit information. And Gonzalo Fernández seems to be swallowing the misinformation you're feeding him. But you have to tell me how you came by that information on Manfred Katz."
"You told me to listen to people at the Victoria. I've been listening. And…" Christine thought about Erik and felt the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks.
"You have a lover," Gloria said, smiling. "And a useful one. That necklace he gave you is the cat's pajamas! Real rubies?"
"No," lied Christine.
"So who is he?"
"A musician with some sympathies towards the Nazis."
"I was hoping for a name," Gloria said dryly.
"I'm a married woman, Gloria, and I've sinned. I'm not naming names."
Gloria set her jaw, but changed the subject. "You're going to star in the next Wagnerian opera the Victoria puts on. Well done! You've got talent…and so I'm letting you know that you will be receiving invitations to sing at different functions at the Ritz. The Ritz has become a hotbed of Nazis... and of the stylish people from the Franco regime who are running with them. So I'm asking you to hobnob."
"'Hobnob?'" Christine asked, confused.
"Hobnob – you know, mix with people. Be friendly. Keep your eyes open and your ears open and let us know anything of interest that you hear. I keep forgetting that English isn't your first language…"
"I'll try to…hobnob, then."
"Good. There will be Christmas parties and winter teas and such. With your rise to fame, your invitations will increase, trust me. And, Christine?"
"Yes?"
"Do try to keep that lover of yours."
"Ave María Purísima." It was Father Efrén's voice coming through the screen, and Christine relaxed slightly.
"Sin pecado concebida," she responded automatically, adjusting her veil. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…"
The church of San José Oriol was cold this morning, and Christine's knees felt numb as she knelt in the confessional. Yet she felt nothing but the relief of finally unburdening herself of all the secrets that had been tormenting her, every one of them. Reconciliation. She whispered of her work for the Allies, and of the necessity of lying to everyone. She spoke of her need to be faithful to her husband in his absence in spite of temptation. She whispered of Erik, finally, and her confusing relationship with him. It had been years since Christine had trusted anyone so completely, and she felt like a diver experiencing the thrill of plummeting from great heights, secure in the knowledge that there was good, deep water below.
It was the mention of Erik's mask that snared the priest's concern. "You say his name is Erik? I think I know something of him. What a coincidence that you've met him!" He granted Christine absolution, but stopped her as she emerged from the confessional and gave her a long, searching look. "Come to the rectory for tea; we'll talk."
A dark-eyed woman with a heart-shaped face and riotous black curls received them and served tea. Her manner was so inhibited that Christine decided she was painfully shy. "My sister, Rocío," Don Efrén said by way of introduction, then went directly on to his topic as Rocío left the room. "You have captured the attention of Erik Deschamps, it seems."
"Yes. I've told you everything."
"Now it's my turn, and I must warn you. I coincided with him during my work at the front and at the prison. He can be dangerous. Be careful, Christine."
"I've gathered that, and I'm as careful as I can be. What was he doing during the war, exactly?"
The priest hesitated. "There were rumors…he was capable of violence, but those were only rumors. The truth is that, as far as I know, Erik Deschamps makes his money providing intelligence to the Germans and the franquistas – to some degree. Where he really makes a fortune is in organizing the delivery of supplies to German submarines off the Spanish coast. He does not trust any currency and accepts payment only in gold. And he does love his luxuries, beautiful things. I would advise you against becoming another pretty trinket of his.
"The man is remarkably intelligent – a genius, as you've told me, and very creative. I think the world would have much to gain if he were to turn his talents to good. Unfortunately, the nature of his upbringing makes that unlikely."
"His upbringing, Father?"
"He was fatherless, and rejected and abused by his own mother because of his deformity. He was sold as a sideshow freak, exploited, abused again…and then, as a young man, he began to take his revenge on the human race. Erik does not consider himself to be part of the human race, and owes no one allegiance to its rules, to his way of thinking. He is an architect, among many other things, and went to serve the Reza Shah in Iran in his attempts to modernize the country. His ideas regarding bringing infrastructure up to date were brilliant, but very soon he was helping Reza Shah to make his more fractious ministers disappear. He finally fled the country richer, but more hardened than ever, and completely prepared to become involved in a war somewhere."
"How did you learn all of this?" Christine found herself fighting tears. But why was she suffering over Erik's past? As was habitual, she put off examining her feelings too closely and forced herself to think of Raoul. She took another sip of weak, sugarless tea and breathed deeply.
"I've conversed with him, and throughout our conversations he's been candid, sardonic, cynical, and matter-of-fact. Please keep quiet about where and how you've learned all this, Christine."
"Of course I will…and I'll be as careful as I can. By the way, I've been meaning to ask you…have you had time to make inquiries regarding the whereabouts of my husband?"
"I've sent messages to French friends of mine in the Franciscan order. So far, I haven't received an answer, but it's early yet. And I have to be discreet. There are Nazis and Nazi spies everywhere, and censors…so I have to send correspondence through secure personal channels."
Christine smiled. "I'm so grateful for your help, Father. There's not much I can do in return, but I'll be sure to get you tickets to our next opera."
"Not Wagner again, I hope!" Don Efrén muttered.
"Well, yes, it is…"
"Forgive me if I've had enough of the pandering to the Nazis that goes on these days. Putting on 'Parsifal' was a terrible idea where Himmler's concerned. He takes all the starlight and moonbeams concerning the Holy Grail seriously, you know."
"But 'Parsifal' is just a legend, Father."
The priest lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "Not to Himmler. The Regime, which sheds salty tears over the priests killed by communists and anarchists, allies itself with the Nazis, who are actively killing our religious brethren in Poland. Bad enough! But you can imagine how horrified our Benedictine friends at the monastery of Monserrat were to find Nazis at their doorstep a couple of months ago. Himmler himself showed up there demanding to see the Holy Grail! My friend Andreu Ripol is a priest there and, since he speaks German, was pressed into service as a translator, much against his will, mind you. He says that Himmler was terribly rude and accused the monks of hiding the Grail from him."
"Why on earth does he want the Holy Grail so badly? Doesn't he have a war to fight?" Christine said with some bitterness.
"Himmler's a devotee of the occult, of esoterica, of legends," the priest said so quietly that Christine had to lean forward even farther to hear him. "His office of the Ahnenerbe sends personnel all over the world to find historical artefacts in hopes they will attest to the supremacy of the Aryan race. He actually believes that the Holy Grail can give him supernatural power! Oh, the Barceloneses don't disabuse him of this notion – they love to think that the Montsalvat of the legend of Parsifal is our own Montserrat mountain. And Himmler's swallowed the idea hook, line, and sinker."
Christine shook her head, sighed, and placed her empty teacup on the oak side table. She noticed that the salon's sparse furnishings were handsome and in the Castilian style, but that the woodworm had done its work on most of the pieces, and they were peppered with holes. She felt a pang of sympathy for Father Efrén, but consoled herself by remembering that priests were better fed than most people, as they were given a greater share of rations. "Well, if Himmler wants a holy relic, there must be hundreds to be had in churches all over Spain. I remember seeing St. Teresa's uncorrupted finger in Avila once. It was black and disgusting. He can have that."
Christine and Don Efrén parted in the street in front of St. José Oriol. José Luis Oscuro watched from across the street as Christine made her way towards a taxi. He tossed his cigarette to the pavement, crushed it out with his shoe, and stared at the priest, lost in thought.
