Nan Ryan (21 page)

The man finally noticed her and she smiled at him. He didn’t return the smile. He looked at her coldly and his dark eyes went back to the bottle in front of him. Maria sat down at his table, saying, “
Yo danza para usted!
”

The dark man looked up, studied her smiling young face, and said, “
No habla Español.
”

“Oh,” she smiled, “you are English or American,
si
?”

“
Si
, American,” he said flatly, “but you, are you American?”

“No, no,” she laughed, “I am Spanish, can’t you tell?”

“I thought you were, but you speak English. What did you say to me in Spanish?”

“I said, I dance only for you! Why don’t you pay me any attention?”

“Haven’t you enough of an audience? I think you’re too young to be in here, much less dancing for a group of rowdy, drunken men.”

“I love to dance and I am good at it.”

“Yes, you are, too good, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, you did like it! If so, will you give me
dinero
?”

“I certainly will not.”

“Then buy me a drink,” she smiled and leaned across the table, the white blouse slipping lower over her shoulder.

“Definitely not. Why don’t you go home to your mother. I’m sure she must be worried and if she knew where you were and what you were doing, she’d paddle you.”

“I’m a grown woman,” she said haughtily, “she knows what I do.”

“I doubt it,” he said and poured another drink. “Now go away and leave me alone.”

Maria rose from the table in a huff. “I don’t like Americans,” she snapped and flounced away. The music continued, grew louder, and Maria once again smiled and started dancing. She moved nearer to the table of Spaniards, casting a quick glance over her bare shoulder at the rude stranger, tossed her head, and put on a sensual show for the men, gaining their loud, drunken approval. When the music stopped, she stood directly in front of them, her hands raised high over her head. The short, fat man rose again and grabbed her waist. She laughingly let him pull her down onto his lap. He kissed her and dropped a
peseta
down her blouse while she smiled and said, “
Gracias, Señor, gracias
,” and asked for more money.

Dawson sighed and took another drink. He rose from the table and walked slowly across the room. He took the girl’s elbow, “Get up,” he said coldly, pulling her to her feet. The man whose lap she sat on rose immediately, his eyes flashing, protesting the intrusion. Dawson looked at the man and said, “
Mi hermana.
” The man quickly dropped back into his chair, throwing his hand up and repeating, “
Lo siento mucho! Mi dinero
?”

Dawson looked at Maria and asked, “What’s he saying?”

“He say he is very sorry.”

“That’s not all he said. He wants his money. Give it back to him.”

“No, is mine!” she tried to twist free of his grasp.

Dawson easily pulled her closer, reached down into the low-cut cotton blouse and drew out the
peseta
between two long fingers. He tossed it to the bewildered man who looked up at him and said, “
Gracias, Señor.
”

“You’re welcome,” Dawson said as he pulled Maria across the floor.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

“Home, where you belong,” Dawson tightened his grip on her arm.

“No, I do not want to leave.” She struggled against him, trying to kick him.

“I don’t care what you want, you’re going home. So just behave yourself.”

They were outside and Dawson lifted her onto the big black horse tied near the cantina. He climbed up behind her, pinning her in his arms as he took the reins and rode away. “Where do you live?” he questioned.

“Down the road about a mile,” she answered, trying to act nonchalant, though she had never been on a horse and was frightened. “Turn in right there,” she pointed. Dawson slowed the horse and turned into the narrow path. Maria’s home sat at the end of a dusty trail, a tiny tin-roofed structure with no trees or shrubs around it. Half-naked children played in front of the house and came running to meet Maria and the tall stranger. Dawson dismounted and swung Maria to her feet. He started to climb back on his horse, but Maria smiled suddenly and said, “Come inside, please. Meet my mother.”

“No, thanks, I …”

“Oh,
Señor
, please,” she pleaded with big brown eyes.

“All right, but only for a minute.” The young children were grabbing his hands, laughing and pulling him towards the door. Dawson looked down at the smiling brown little faces and grinned. They all chattered happily in rapid Spanish and he had no idea what they were saying. Inside the two room shack, more children of every age filled the room, some sitting on the dirt floor, others at the tiny eating table. Dawson was taken painfully back to his own childhood under the bluffs in Natchez. He himself had been raised in a home similar to this one, with one very large exception. He had been the only child in it, here he counted a dozen brown boys and girls. A tired, old-looking woman stood wearily bending over a cookstove. Her hair was still coal black, but her face was wrinkled and her eyes were dull and lifeless.

Maria went to the woman and kissed her cheek. “
Mi madre
,” she smiled to Dawson.

Dawson bowed to the woman and said, “Hello,
Señora.
” A slight smile came to the woman’s lips as she nodded and offered him a chair at the table. “No,” he turned to Maria, “tell her I can’t stay.” Dawson’s eyes moved around the room, clean and neat, almost empty of furniture. Pallets lined the walls for sleeping, an eating table stood in the center of the room, very little else. Dawson felt depressed, sorry for the tired woman, sorry for the horde of happy children with little chance of bettering themselves, and sorry for the young girl who danced for money in a cantina of dirty, drunken men. “I have to go,” Dawson said and took out his wallet. He took out all the bills he had and handed them to the woman. Her eyes widened and she looked up at Dawson with tears in her eyes. “
Gracias, Señor, Gracias.
” Dawson patted her hand and said, “
De nada.
” He turned and walked from the room, much more sober than he had been when he left the cantina.

Most of the children followed and Dawson gave them all the coins he carried in his pockets. They laughed and clapped their hands and ran back inside to show their mother. Only Maria continued walking with him to his horse.

“Goodbye,” he said and started to mount.

“Goodbye, you are very generous.
Gracias
,” and she flounced away, but not in the direction of the house.

“Where are you going?” he caught up with her, leading his horse.

She put her hands on her hips and said, “Back to the cantina, where else?”

“No, you’re not, you can’t …”

“Yes, I can. You saw my home. How do you think we live? My mother knows what I do.”

“But your father, what about him?”

“Ah,
Señor
, my father go away years ago. My mother find another husband, but he go away, too. He leave last year. So you see, I am the oldest, I must help feed us.”

“Surely there’s some other way. You don’t want to go back to that bunch of drunks, do you?”

She shrugged her shoulders, “They are not so bad. They give me money and I …”

“Stop! Don’t tell me anymore.” Dawson lifted her from the ground to his horse, then again climbed up behind her.

“Where are we going?” Maria turned to look at him.

“Home. I’m taking you home with me,” and the big horse bolted away and galloped down the dusty road with Maria holding tightly to the brown arms around her.

Dawson lived in a leased villa on the coast of Spain, about ten miles from Seville. The small four-bedroom house was situated on a deserted stretch of beach and the nearest neighbor was a good five miles away. It was just what Dawson was looking for when he came to Spain from Monte Carlo. He wanted only peace and quiet and to be left alone.

A kindly Spanish couple, Pedro and his wife Delores, were the only servants at the villa. Pedro diligently took care of the grounds and outside chores, while Delores cooked and kept the house spotless. Unobtrusive and energetic, they went about their work quietly, never imposing themselves on the tall, brooding American who seemed never to leave the house. The Spanish couple respected Dawson, but thought him moody and strange and they had never seen anyone drink so much. He had been at the villa for months and he never went anywhere. He read a lot, he lay on the beach alone in the hot sun, he rode his horse through the barren countryside, and he drank. He drank constantly and there were days at a time when he never bothered to eat. Delores would prepare the most tempting foods she could find at the market. She hummed happily in the kitchen while the delicious aromas filled the big cheery room. Pleased with the tempting feast she turned out, her happiness turned to frustration when she came back into the dining room an hour later to see Dawson hadn’t touched his food, had not even come to the dining room. Delores would sigh and clasp her hands together and carry the untouched food away.

She wondered why a man so young and darkly handsome wanted to be alone all the time. He should be married to a lovely lady and have many beautiful children. He should have friends and entertain, the house should be filled with laughter and gaiety, but it never was. In all the time she had known him, she couldn’t remember ever hearing him laugh. Dawson Blakely was the saddest man Delores had ever met.

“I don’t know your name,” Dawson said as he and the young girl rode home together.

“Maria,” she said, “Maria Jones.”

“Jones, you must be joking, that doesn’t sound very Spanish.”

“It’s not. My father was American, just like you.”

“That’s why you speak English.”

“Yes. What’s your name? You look more Spanish than me.”

“Dawson Blakely. I’m not Spanish, just dark.”

“Pedro, Delores,” Dawson called when they reached the villa. The two servants appeared immediately, bowing and eager to please. “This is Maria Jones. She is going to be staying with us for a while and I need your help. Pedro, I want you to go into the village and buy her some dresses. Let’s see,” he looked down at Maria, “I’d say size eight. Get several pretty ones and get her some shoes, probably size five. Get her some nightgowns, a brush and comb, and some perfume. That will do for now, I’ll take her shopping later. Put it on my bill.”

“Si, Señor,” the smiling Spaniard went to carry out his orders.

When Dawson took Maria into the house, she oohed and aahed in dazed wonder. She had never seen a home so large and beautiful and she roamed throughout the many rooms alone, touching priceless objects and heavy furniture, while Dawson stood in the kitchen speaking to Delores. “And after you feed her, Delores, I want you to give her a bath. Make the water as hot as she can stand it and scrub her good. Wash her hair too, then clip her fingernails. The poor child looks like she has never had a bath in her life. By the time you’ve finished cleaning her up, Pedro should be back with the clothes. Take the ones she’s wearing and burn them, I never want to see her in them again.” He turned to leave. “And Delores, fix up the bedroom across the hall from mine, it can be her room.”

“
Si Señor
,” she smiled and started cooking.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Maria sat at the big dining table greedily devouring the tasty fish Delores had prepared for her.

“I’m not hungry,” Dawson said, raising a glass of whiskey to his lips. “But I think you’ll eat for both of us. When did you eat last?”

Maria rolled her eyes while she chewed a mouthful of food, “Ummm, yesterday, I think. Yes, I’m pretty sure, yesterday.”

“From now on, eat as often as you like. Delores is a very good cook and it upsets her when I don’t eat. She’ll love cooking for you. Now, if you are full, I want you to go with Delores, she is going to help you with your bath.”

“
Si
,” she smiled and rose from the table. Dawson picked up his whiskey bottle and headed for the back veranda. It was late evening and the sea breeze made the quiet, peaceful balcony an inviting place to watch the dazzling sunset. Dawson stretched out in a big padded chair and poured another drink.

In a room directly in back of the long porch where he sat, Maria stepped into a hot, soapy tub of water. She sighed with pleasure at the luxury of being allowed to bathe in the big brass tub, filled to its rim with hot sudsy water and some sweet-smelling oil Delores poured in. Her sighs turned to cries of indignation when Delores took a long handled brush and briskly scrubbed her body. Dawson could hear her protests through the open windows as she loudly berated the woman tending her.

“Ouch! That hurts! Do you have to scrub so hard?”

“I’m getting all the dirt off of you,
señorita. Señor
Dawson likes a clean household and if you are to be a part of it, you will be, too!”

“Delores, you’re pulling my hair! Please, please stop for a minute.”

“It is not my fault. Your hair is all tangled because it has not been brushed. We must wash and brush it nicely.”

Dawson smiled to himself at the spirited exchange between the meticulous Delores and the dirty, unkempt little Maria.

“
Señor
Dawson,” Delores came to the door, a worried expression on her face.

“Yes, Delores, what is it?” The woman let out an exasperated sigh, walked to him, and bent to whisper in his ear. Dawson listened intently, then threw back his head and laughed out loud. Delores straightened, shocked at his behavior. She had never heard him laugh before and here he was laughing loudly over something that was not at all funny.

Laughing still, he said, “Relax, Delores. Surely it won’t scandalize the household if she has to spend one evening with no underclothes.”

“
Señor!
” Delores’ hand flew to her mouth.

“I’m sorry, Delores. When I sent Pedro to town, I didn’t think of underclothes and I never dreamed she had none of her own. We’ll get her some tomorrow. It’s almost bedtime, surely she can manage.”

“
Si, Señor
,” Delores left in a hurry.

A few minutes later, Dawson heard Maria’s voice, “Where are you, Dawson?” as she walked through the hall.