From Barcelona, with Love (23 page)

She was getting quite good at knitting on those long evenings alone, with a glass of wine and only Amigo for company, and the soaring sound of the music she so missed, on the CD player. And on those long sleepless nights, trying to keep the bad thoughts at bay, she would sit cross-legged in the wing chair in her bedroom, with the dog sleeping at her feet and the night outside dark and still, playing her guitar, writing the music that would never leave her mind.

People always asked how did she do it, where did the ideas come from, how did she think of those chords? Where did that lyric, those words, those feelings come from? Her answer was she didn't know; it was simply there, in her head.

She put on her little red canvas espadrilles, thinking wistfully of those high strappy platforms; grabbed her lipstick, her guitar, and the loaf of bread she'd baked for Rodolfo, and called to Amigo.

The lights had come on, on the winding gravel track leading down the hill. The rooster had settled down and the three goats were standing on the grass, watching her. The smallest one, Tres, bleated. A pitiful sound. He was her favorite and she knew he hated to see her leave. “Be right back, guys,” she called, in English, then she laughed, thinking her goats probably only spoke Spanish. As she must remember to do tonight.

She didn't bother to lock her door, nobody did around here, and anyway that key on its hefty chain was a nightmare to turn. Still, she would never change it for a modern one, she wanted her Castillo Adivino to remain the same as it always had.

With Amigo sitting in the passenger seat, his head hanging out the window, she put the dusty white Seat in gear and set off down the hill for Rodolfo's party. She hoped she was doing the right thing.

 

Chapter 35

Rodolfo's house was
approached by a long straight cobblestone drive that swept in a circle to the front portico and that, female friends complained, was hell on high heels. In fact several sprained ankles had had to be treated by Rodolfo's longtime partner William, with cold poultices and glasses of champagne and kisses-better that always seemed to do the trick.

What Rodolfo modestly called his “cottage” was actually a large country house, not quite a
palacio
but with its ten bedrooms and many bathrooms it was still impressive, set in leveled acres of lawns and flower beds on the outskirts of a forest. The Hernandez flag, flown when he was in residence, dated from Renaissance times. The family had come to their wealth by a long route, as merchants traveling the Silk Road in the fourteenth century, then on to shipping out of Venice in the fifteenth, and later, via the Spanish court—with time out for the Inquisition—as international bankers and money managers. Today, Rodolfo's main offices were in the Principality of Andorra where he took care of the investments and tax-free requirements of some of the world's wealthiest men and women.

The “cottage,” referred to locally simply as El Grande—“The Big One”—had started out as a hunting lodge and the family had owned it for a couple of centuries—no time at all really, in those parts, where ruins dated back to the Romans, and where Fernando III had conquered the Islamic fortress in 1232, and from where one of Trujillo's greatest native sons, conquistador Francisco Pizarro had set off to conquer Peru. There is a palace in Trujillo built by his brother to commemorate Francisco. It has a magnificent window with the heads of both brothers and their Inca wives carved in stone above, and there's also a warrior-like statue of Francisco, complete with sword and armor, in the town's main square.

Tonight Bibi was surprised to see Rodolfo's driveway lined with blazing torches and the house illuminated. A local farmer from whom Bibi had bought her goats was acting as a sort of valet parker/majordomo, in his blue overalls and boots and with a black beret slapped on his bald head. Rodolfo did not go in for uniforms. The people who worked for him were all country people and he'd told them they could wear whatever they damn well pleased as long as they were clean and smiling. Rodolfo hated pretension and if his guests were such snobs they didn't like his helpers (he never called them servants) then they need never come again.

The farmer opened the car door and wafted her toward the house. “Señora Vida, how're my goats?” he demanded, taking her by the elbow and helping her up the steps, a touch of chivalry that melted her heart.

“Eating a lot,” she said. “My lawn is lovely and they keep the ravens away from the chickens with their racket.”

“There's no better music than the bleating of a goat,” he said solemnly, and Bibi knew he meant it.

The dog padded at her side, tongue lolling in the sultry evening heat, panting slightly. She carried the loaf of fresh-baked bread and the acoustic guitar in its case, still wondering whether or not she would play it. It all depended on the young singer. She was so out of touch she had never heard of him. Perhaps he was famous. She hoped not. But then she saw the long black Mercedes limousine parked with other cars to the left of the house. She had never seen a limo at Rodolfo's before.

“That's Jacinto's,” the farmer told her. “The singer.”

Rodolfo's partner, William Bailey, met her in the hall, tall, stocky, his once corn-blond hair now graying, a farm boy too, from Iowa, though he'd left long ago to become a banker. He smiled as he wrapped his arms tenderly around her.

“
Querida,
there you are.” He stood back, eyeing her appraisingly. “My, my, what a lovely Hungarian peasant girl you look tonight,” he said. “I love the blouse but I do think you should lose the glasses.”

“I need them,” Bibi explained.

“You do not. You can see perfectly well, especially with those contacts. While I, my darling Vida—see, I remembered to call you
Vida
—need these darn spectacles. It's either that or a white stick.”

Bibi was laughing as a voice said, “And why should you have to
remember
to call her Vida? Isn't that her name?”

Bibi swung round and came face-to-face with a tall man, younger than her, and very sure of himself. His brown eyes had a quizzical look as they searched her face. He took her hand in both of his, then raised it to his lips.

“I'm happy to meet you. Vida?” he said, with a question in his voice.

William stepped in. “Well, since you've now met, I'll tell you, Vida, this is Jacinto. And Jacinto, may I introduce Rodolfo's cousin, Vida Hernandez.”

“I like your name, real or not,” Jacinto said, giving her back her hand. “Vida—
Life.
It seems a good philosophy, to believe in life so much it becomes your name. Your parents must have believed in you. Unless of course you chose it yourself, later.”

Bibi didn't know who Jacinto was but she knew she was on dangerous ground; this was a mistake; she should not have come; she sensed he suspected something.

Pulling herself together she said, “Oh, I think parents usually manage to find the right name for a child. And I suppose yours called you Jacinto?”

“In fact they did not. My first manager chose that. He decided my real name had no showbiz ring to it.”

William interrupted. “Vida must meet our other guests. Jacinto has brought some of his musicians and Rodolfo invited some people from Monaco he has business dealings with, plus a few from Holland and England.”

Jacinto watched her go. He found her intriguing, mysterious, and he liked that. He also liked that she didn't know
who
he was.
That
made him smile.

 

Chapter 36

Jacinto was a
Spanish superstar, famous throughout Latin America and now nibbling at the U.S. with his latest mix of plaintive lyrics and hard-thrusting beat. Bass-driven, sexy, and amped to the high heavens, it was impossible to resist.

He wasn't handsome in that old Julio Iglesias way, more Marc Anthony via Justin Timberlake; tall, lean, and fit with zero body fat because he used up so much energy pacing the stage with his dance moves; thin-faced—all cheekbones and beaked nose and wide, fleshy, sexy mouth; brown eyes, deep-set so they looked even darker; lowering brows and dark, dark hair long to his shoulders, and always flopping over his eyes, a trademark look that endeared him to his female fans, who claimed he was the sexiest thing on two legs. And maybe he was. He was also just twenty-two years old.

There was another side to Jacinto though; the softer side where, perched on a stool, stage lights dimmed to a narrow spot that picked up his hands as he stroked a melody from his guitar, he'd half whisper, half sing a song of love. Poetic words he'd written himself and that his audience felt came from his heart. He wooed them into silence as he ended those songs; they'd sit mute and still as the spotlight dimmed, then went out, and then the applause would finally come, and the shrieks and screams. Though Jacinto knew this was a tribute, he secretly hated it.
No screaming please,
he wanted to say.
Just listen. Hear what I have to say, take it to your hearts, let your hearts be quiet for a while.
Then, as if in rebuttal of his own words, he'd stalk that stage again, guitar wailing, bass thrusting, girls screaming.

Jacinto was a European star and now an international star in the making. A star with a talent that would never fade. It was a life of glamour and hardship, always on the road in a convoy of sixteen tour buses and a dozen eighteen-wheelers, of chefs and trainers, of managers and backup singers, of musicians and their families, kids, dogs, even a cat—his own blue Persian, Mitzi, whom he loved like a child.

The responsibility for all these people and the audience, the paying customers, was all his: he was the one who had to get up on stage every night; his energy could never be allowed to flag; his talent could never drift into the quiet, alone places he sometimes longed to be. Jacinto had realized long ago that he was a business and that the rock-star tour buses and eighteen-wheelers carrying the equipment, the lighting men, the roadies, the managers, the families and dogs and cats all depended on him for their living. That was showbiz and, though sometimes he was tired and low, he would never let them down.

It had taken only two years for him to reach this point.

He had accepted Rodolfo Hernandez's invitation to spend a weekend at the old hunting lodge, tempted by the simplicity it offered. Rodolfo was managing his business affairs and he liked the man, liked his old-world courtesy, his impeccable manners, and his ability to live the good life without being the least bit flashy.

Jacinto wanted to dip into that life even if only for a couple of days, and when he'd seen the old house in the forest with the black ravens flying overhead and glimpsed a red deer peeking through the trees as he was driven in the long black Mercedes limo up the endless cobblestoned driveway, he'd smiled in relief. He knew that here he would find peace. There would be no fans, no one wanting a part of him; no one wanting him to be “the entertainment.” Here, he could simply be himself.

*   *   *

William led Vida
and Jacinto into the great room, all done out hunting style with dark wood paneling and antiques. There were two stone fireplaces, one at each end, both filled with flowers on this warm night rather than blazing logs. A row of French doors led out onto a wide stone terrace canopied in dark green edged in twinkling white lights. A topiary hedge was trimmed into fantasy shapes. Beyond that was a view of parkland where the trees glowed with golden globes.

A long table ran down the center of the terrace, its soft white cloth trailed with vines and leaves and candles flickering in glass hurricane lamps. A couple of women helpers were putting on the finishing touches, making sure each place setting had its appropriate rough greenish glasses for the wines and water; that each piece of the antique bone-handled cutlery was exactly one inch from the edge of the table, and that each white cotton napkin was folded into a perfect triangle and set in a water glass. Nothing fancy, but everything beautiful was Rodolfo's philosophy for dining, as it was in life.

Bibi looked around and her heart sank. She wished she was back in her den, at the old Hollywood house, she and Paloma with their feet up on the ottoman, eating pizza and watching a movie. Now, she had to be someone else.

Twenty people were drinking William's specialty cocktail. He made it with Cava, the Spanish version of champagne, mixed with Domaine de Canton, a French ginger and cognac liquor that Bibi knew from experience tasted absolutely delicious. She also knew that more than one could knock her socks off. Accepting the brimming flute she decided she had better be careful.

Her heart sank again when she took in the women dressed to kill in little couture cocktail frocks, short and sexy in chiffon and studs and sequins and ankle-tied stilettos. Their blond hair glimmered like spun silk in the lamplight and they smiled glossy smiles at the men; tall men, broad-shouldered in pastel linen shirts and white pants. “No jackets allowed” had been Rodolfo's orders, though he hadn't needed to give that order to Jacinto's young musicians who anyway would wear whatever they pleased, which tonight were thin cotton T-shirts stamped with a recent tour date and the name “Jacinto.”

Too late Bibi realized that the old ripped jeans, the peasant blouse, and the hand-knitted brown shawl were a mistake. She had lost all that rich successful urban gloss. She didn't fit in. She suddenly wanted to disappear. To run away.

“You can't, you know,” Jacinto said from behind her.

She swung round and the cocktail sloshed over the side of her glass and onto the dog, who sniffed his wet fur, licked tentatively, then decided against it.

“Can't what?”

“Can't run away. And nor can I. Rodolfo invited us, we accepted, and here we stay for the duration. We're stuck with these people. I'm sure your mother taught you the same good manners as mine.”