From the year 1939, there existed an agreement between the Spanish general Martínez Anido and Himmler, according to which any German suspicious of not supporting the Nazi cause in our country could be arrested and repatriated immediately without any type of extradition or preliminary trial.
– José María Irujo, "La lista negra: los espías nazis en España"
"We'll see how long you last, you croaking Red bitch!" Carlotta spat as Christine ducked back stage, the audience's final roar of approval still rattling the rafters. "The Flying Dutchman" had opened to a full house, in spite of a propaganda effort spearheaded by Carlotta – or perhaps because of that effort. People had filled the Victoria because they were curious to see how badly this "Dutchman" could sink. Thanks to Carlotta, Christine Daaé was reputed to be a well-connected upstart whose voice was not good enough for any supporting role, much less a leading role. Incensed by these rumors and buoyed up by Erik's unwavering confidence in her, Christine had aggressively shone as Senta. She had sung her soul out, all the while delighting in the pleasure her teacher would take in her performance.
Now Christine was confronted with a furious Carlotta in the wings. The prima donna was also costumed as Senta and had been given as large a bouquet of red roses as Christine herself now held. A glance to the area just behind Carlotta revealed the managers, who were wringing their hands in anxiety. The diva's bouquet was clearly intended as a consolation gift, but it was not working. Carlotta lunged towards Christine, but the young woman fled towards her dressing room. There was to be a party after the show, and it was important that she attend it, preferably intact.
"Brava!" The richest, most powerful two syllables in any language, coming from Erik. Christine stepped out from behind her Chinese screen, startled. She was clad only in a slip, but she found it easier and easier to forget herself around her teacher.
Erik hissed as he took in oxygen, and his body was completely rigid. His eyes, however, seemed to consume her entirely. Their slow journey from her face, to her neck, to her breasts...lingering there...to her hips, then to her legs registered as a tingle throughout her senses. She pulled her dowdy black cocktail dress from the chair and dove behind the screen once more, breathing in deeply.
"Thank you," she managed, and immediately felt stupid. Thank you for the "brava" or thank you for the visual inspection? "I sang for you alone, Erik."
"That is a great gift indeed, and your teacher is grateful," said Erik softly. "My Christine."
Feigning poise she did not feel, she emerged from the screen fully dressed, the ruby necklace dangling from her hand. "Fasten me, please?" She handed him the jewelry and, after gathering her hair up and pinning it, presented him with the back of her neck expectantly. There was a quiet pause, and then she felt the unmistakable light pressure of his cool lips on her nape. Against every instinct, she moved away from them. The necklace was now fastened securely about her neck. She turned to gaze at Erik, and she knew that her eyes held all the terror and hope of a woman lost. Immediately, Christine knew she had given herself away. How could she have dared to look Erik – Erik, the magician, the mind-reader! – right in the eyes in her vulnerable state? She had fought so long to conceal the tumult of her own desire from him. His own eyes were frightening in the sudden triumphant knowledge they held – they fairly blazed, and Erik stepped forward, an arm outstretched.
"Christine!" The doorknob rattled, and Margarita slapped on the door several times rather than knocking. "Are you coming or not?"
Erik stepped back, his gaze still hot upon Christine, and he seemed to vanish into the wall. She sighed and opened the door, instantly finding herself enveloped in Marga's embrace.
"When did you become such an artiste? Carlotta is dying! Chica, you showed everyone tonight! Let's get going...moments like this are too few."
The Victoria's reception room exploded into applause as Christine entered. She felt herself blush, then she noticed that Avelino Ruz was also standing and applauding her. He had sung the role of the Dutchman beautifully that evening. Smiling around the room with borrowed aplomb, she lifted her arms to applaud her fellow artist and was gratified when everyone else joined her.
"Queridas, you were wonderful," Gonzalo Fernández moved towards them bearing glasses of champagne. He moved through the crowd with his arms about each woman's shoulder, making courtly introductions. The room was teeming with people, though Christine was relieved to see that Carlotta was absent.
"My friend, José Luis," came another abrupt introduction from Gonzalo, and a short, stocky man lifted his nose in the air in a comical attempt to look down at Christine, then seized her hand and kissed it, his black eyes staring into hers. So, this was the Sr. Oscuro Margarita had mentioned! Christine felt a shock of revulsion run up her arm. She could not explain why, but the man's eyes reminded her of a shark's – flat, expressionless, cold. She forced a smile to her lips, reminding herself to engage in the conversational niceties that were de rigueur. Finally, she turned to Gonzalo. "I see some of my British friends from the last gathering. I'll just say 'hello' to them now..." She made good her escape.
Christine had indeed become acquainted with members of the British diplomatic corps, many of whom were present tonight. She spent as much time as she could speaking of almost nothing at great length with them and nodding gravely from time to time – Gonzalo would think she was gleaning something useful from her conversation with them. As the crowd began to thin, she went to the ladies' room and, taking out her lipstick, began to apply a fresh coat to her lips. Someone left the room, and Christine sensed another person enter. She heard the click of the lock on the door and startled, looking behind her at the door. An elegant man of medium height in a smoking jacket, his dark hair shiny with pomade, was standing in front of the door, looking at her.
"I don't know where you think you are," Christine began, with feigned calm, "but this is the ladies' – "
"I've a message for Gloria," he said in a hushed voice. His accent was slightly German. "I'm sorry to communicate it like this, but it's urgent and I've no alternative. You mistrust me?"
Christine's spine had stiffened with alarm, but she said nothing.
"I understand...listen, I'm the one who has been going to your weekly recitals so religiously. Do you understand now?"
She nodded and moved closer to him.
"Call me Oscar. I think I've been compromised. Tell Gloria that Oscar has been compromised, have you got that? Tell her that Nigel Bowers is almost certainly collaborating with the Nazis and has exposed me – and who knows how many more? Leave now."
He unlocked the door. Christine fled the powder room in search of Marga.
"Do you have any information for me, querida?" Gonzalo Fernández lit a cigarette of the expensive kind – a Camel – and sat forward expectantly. They were in Marga's dressing room the morning after the opening of "Dutchman." Gonzalo was ensconced in his favorite armchair, and Marga and Christine perched together on the chaise longue, both facing him. Christine felt ridiculously like a schoolgirl being examined.
She cleared her throat. "The British are worried about Gibraltar. Vichy France bombed it in September, which really put them on alert. Now they think Franco may let German troops come through the peninsula so that they can seize the colony and gain control of the Mediterranean. They're prepared to cut off all imports to Spain if that happens."
Fernández scowled. It rankled the Franco regime that the British maintained a naval blockade around Spain, inspected ships, and issued "navicerts" – clearance to enter Spanish ports and unload cargo there. Royal Navy inspectors would certify the cargo of each ship bound for Spain at its port of origin. Thus, the British controlled the import of petroleum and other goods to Spain. The Franco regime had appealed to the Nazis for help in obtaining oil, but Germany was sore pressed to supply its own war effort at the moment.
"They don't like the fact that Spain is still selling tungsten to the Nazis," Christine added.
"So? We'll sell tungsten to the British, too, if they want!" sputtered Fernández. "I'm sorry, Christine...please continue."
"There are also rumors that the Germans are bribing high officials in the Regime here to influence Franco to enter the war as an ally of the Axis powers. The British joke that they're bribing those same officials...and about thirty of his generals...to do just the opposite. Only I don't think it's such a joke."
"But I'm offended!" snorted Fernández, the cigarette smoke encircling his head like a wreath. "Why was I not included in these bribes? I've a good mind to lodge a complaint with the British Embassy!" Seeing the startled look on the women's faces, he barked out a laugh. "I have no doubt that those rumors are true. And why not? Turbulent waters are of profit to the fisherman! There are plenty of people profiting from both sides of this unfortunate conflict." Margarita looked slightly uncomfortable and dropped her eyes, but Fernández continued. "Franquito, our Caudillo by the grace of the Almighty, finds himself between a rock and a hard place now. He knows he owes the Nazis his victory. And Hitler demands payment in full. He produced a document for Franco to sign, saying that he agrees that Spain will enter the war on the side of the Axis. Franco didn't sign it. Hitler also wants Spain to commit to a German base in the Canary Islands. Franco wants Germany to give him something in exchange, though, ladies – he's not a Galician for nothing! He wants northern African territories, including Morocco and Algeria – won't France be happy? – in addition to Gibraltar. 'My dear general,' Hitler told him, 'I can't hand something over to you that doesn't belong to me yet!' And Hitler also made things clear: Franco has no choice. The Nazis are sitting right across the Pyrenees, waiting, and beating the stuffing out of the rest of Europe. It's only a matter of time before the British fall. Last month – November – Hitler demanded once more that Spain enter the war. He was finally told flatly that we can't – that we don't get enough wheat imports as things are, that people are starving, that we don't have oil. What would another war do to us? Winter's here. The Führer knows the numbers. He's given Franco more time to decide, but who knows? He may become impatient enough to invade." Fernández tapped dark ash into the ashtray and stared off into the middle distance.
Christine took careful mental note of what Gonzalo had said, then ventured, "There has also been talk of Alfonso XIII. He's very ill, they say, and they're talking about the succession."
"Our runaway king. Yes. He never did abdicate, did he?"
A disgraced Alfonso XIII had left Spain with his family in 1931 when its Second Republic was proclaimed and democracy arrived. The monarch had been a friend of Franco, even serving as best man at his wedding, for many years before the start of the civil war. The king had been a fervent supporter of the generals' coup d'etat, mistakenly believing that Franco would restore the monarchy once the war had ended. He had been bitterly disappointed.
"No, he never did abdicate," continued Christine. "He's in the Grand Hotel in Rome, in Room 32. He's gained a great deal of weight, drinks like a fish, and smokes like a chimney – though his doctor ordered him to stop smoking and drinking."
"That's our Alfonso," commented Gonzalo cheerfully. "As austere and strait-laced as you care in public, but very loose in private. But the monarchist generals love him and are giving our generalisimo a headache about not restoring him to the throne. Now it appears it's too late. But you say they're talking about the succession? His eldest son, Alfonso, died two years ago in Miami, you know. Minor traffic accident, minor injuries, but major problems, since he was a hemophiliac."
"I know. It was sad..."
"And the next in line, Jaime, has renounced all claim to the succession. He's been a deaf-mute from birth, you see what happens when cousins marry cousins? So, the next in line would be Juan. They're stuck with Juan de Borbon, aren't they?"
"Ehm...yes, the king's expected to abdicate in favor of Juan. Juan has a bit of a reputation..."
"He drinks and he's a hothead who views women as whores. Yes. There's a bit of fun in store for Franco, isn't there?"
"And there's a great deal of sympathy for the queen, who keeps trying to visit her dying husband. He won't even let her into his room."
"Poor Victoria Eugenia! He blamed her for all their dead, sick progeny. Never forgave her, the son of a...excuse me. But I can imagine how the British must sympathize with her. She was Queen Victoria's favorite granddaughter, after all, and then she was handed over to a man...like... him!" He stubbed out his cigarette emphatically with each word.
Margarita, who had been silent up till now, added, "You would never dream of treating a woman like that, would you, Gonzalo?" There was a softness to her expression that startled Christine.
She really loves him!
"Of course not, querida - what kind of blackguard do you take me for? And don't worry. I'll get Mother to accept you, too, if it's the last thing I do." His expression was fierce.
...And he loves her, too!
"Thank you, Christine," Gonzalo said, waving a dismissive hand. "Marga will see to it that the usual pesetas are given you for your information. You've been moderately helpful, as usual." He opened the door and ushered her out.
New Year's Eve came, and Christine stayed home with Mamá Valerio. They followed the tradition and ate a grape for good luck with every stroke of the clock at midnight. There was no shortage of grapes, at least.
Good luck. 1941, what will you bring? Christine missed her father, thought of Raoul, then found her mind wandering to Erik. Something nameless compelled her to put on a robe and peek out the doors of the balcony. Beyond the wrought-iron flowers that knotted the bars, she focused on a tall figure which disappeared rapidly into the darkness down the street. A long shadow trailed it, gradually dissipating into the gloom of the winter night.
Later, Christine dreamed that the entire world was black. Shadows pale as ghosts slowly appeared, and their eyes blazed with the light of angels and the fire of demons.
