The cook of castamar, p.48
The Cook of Castamar, page 48
There was another silence, and this time he waited for her to speak. Doña Ursula pursed her lips, with that sceptical expression that drove him to distraction, scarcely even blinking.
‘Is that everything, Don Melquíades?’ she asked.
‘Well, I mean… I am making an offer of peace and understanding.’
‘I know you are, Don Melquíades.’
‘And what is your reply?’
She gave him a superior look, as if her response was not going to please him.
‘Don Melquíades, you were once an excellent butler, but I am afraid that now you are no more than a mediocre one at best. The years have drained you of your spirit, your strength and your talent, and you have become accommodated to the slow passing of your life,’ she said with absolute indifference. ‘I cannot stand the idea that someone with so little talent as you should believe you deserve your position at Castamar, let alone see yourself as my superior. I am convinced that your peace offer is nothing but an attempt to hide this reality.’
He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He stood up and banged the desk.
‘You stole the letter from the pages of my notebook with the sole aim of subjecting me to your will, and not for any altruistic concern for the fate of Castamar!’ he shouted. ‘You have played your hand and failed, and if I have any motive to dismiss you, I won’t hesitate to do so. If you want war, then so be it.’
She stood up defiantly.
‘To tell the truth, the only thing I want is for you to disappear from Castamar as soon as possible. I don’t care how it happens.’
‘You are incorrigible!’ he shouted. ‘You are insufferable, pitiless, inhumane, cruel and unreasonable!’
‘Please stop shouting at me, Don Melquíades, it is quite unnecessary,’ she replied, sounding upset in her turn.
Driven by resentment, he told her not to hold back from saying what she thought; after all, he had put up with her indifference for many years when all he had ever wanted was to win her admiration and her respect. If he had somehow offended her then he was glad for it, as her presence at Castamar had only elicited the very same hatred, discord and disillusionment from which she had supposedly been fleeing, as nobody loved her and nobody ever would.
‘It’s all just about power for you!’ he added. ‘You never loved Doña Alba; you were just desperate to gain power over the other servants!’
Doña Ursula’s eyes prickled with tears. The butler didn’t care if what he had said was true or not. Seeing her weakness, he pressed home his advantage.
‘Nobody saw you shed a single tear for the duchess!’ he shouted. ‘Nobody! And do you know why? Because you don’t know how to love! You never loved Doña Alba or Don Diego or the unborn child that died with its mother!’
Her whole body trembling, Doña Ursula slapped him across the face. But nothing could silence him now. Ten years of pain and fury came spilling out. He kicked the chair, sending it flying across the room, and carried on shouting.
‘All you know how to do is crush people!’ he yelled, beside himself with rage. ‘All you know is how to humiliate your fellow human beings so that you can rule over them!’
‘Men have to be crushed before they crush you!’ she shot back. ‘It’s not my fault if you don’t understand what is really going on in this house. The danger that Señorita Belmonte poses to the reputation of Castamar! The danger that stalks this family with the presence of Don Enrique!’
‘Out!’ he said, pointing at the door.
‘You can’t give me orders!’ she answered angrily.
‘I certainly can!’ he shouted, drawing closer to her so that their faces were only a few inches apart. ‘I will find a way to have you expelled from the estate,’ he hissed.
‘I’m not afraid of you or your empty threats.’
‘Get out!’ he ordered. ‘With a character like yours, I don’t know how I’ve managed to love you in silence for so many years!’
The housekeeper’s expression suddenly changed at this unexpected declaration, and she took a step back. He held his breath, as surprised by his own words as she was. With a certain dignity he smoothed out his frock coat. Doña Ursula looked at him in shock. For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to say. Her chin was trembling, as if she was searching for the words to calm her spirit. In stunned silence, she took a few small steps backwards.
‘What did you say?’ she said at last, after a huge effort.
‘You heard me, Doña Ursula,’ he replied, calmer now.
She gulped, a look of shock on her face, and made for the door. He followed her with his gaze, still struggling to contain himself, and Doña Ursula stopped for a moment on the threshold. She turned, as if unable to understand or accept what he had just said.
‘You have lost your mind, Don Melquíades,’ she said, in a voice that was barely a whisper.
He didn’t answer. As he watched her leave, he knew that their argument would already be the talk of the servants. His peace plan had failed disastrously and had only made a bad situation worse. He slumped into his chair, which creaked under his weight, as if complaining that it was too old to support him. After ten years of blackmail, humiliation and contempt, his secret had burst forth from the bottom of his soul in a single, passionate sentence that left him with a strange sense of relief. He had expressed his thoughts so spontaneously that even he did not understand why he had spoken. No doubt because he had never wanted to admit it to himself. That was why he felt relieved, freed from the chains of his own conscience and of Doña Ursula’s power over him.
But, despite his own dismay, and the knowledge that he had gifted his enemy a powerful weapon with which to inflict even more damage on his spirit, he had to admit that he had enjoyed seeing her look so surprised and lost for words. It’s understandable, he thought to himself. I was lost for words myself. Then, as he mentally reviewed the argument, he realized that not only had he hidden his true feelings all these years, he had also suppressed them so thoroughly he had not even set them down in writing in his notebooks.
42
27 October 1721
Gabriel opened his eyes, feeling that he had recovered a small fraction of his strength. The sunlight filtered through the cracks in the cage in which he had been imprisoned for the last few days.
After being captured, he had awoken naked, with a black cloth bag over his head and completely bound to a wooden rack. When he had reached what, judging from the damp, cold air, he assumed to be a basement or cellar, he had cursed wildly while he attempted to wriggle himself loose, soon realizing it was futile. After the first few days, all he could do was bemoan his fate. He had used the twice-daily lashings with the leather whip to mark the passing of the days.
No one had said a word to him the whole time, just lashed him over and over again until his will was completely broken. Eventually, he had started wetting himself with terror whenever he heard the heavy door creak, praying that it was not his torturers entering but his brother coming to rescue him. But as soon as heard the cracking of the whip, he knew his prayers had not been heard. After each session, he had been given enough water to ensure he remained conscious, and some bread and a vegetable stew so bitter it seemed as if it had been made with rotten cabbages. He had concluded that those men wanted to keep him alive – for now at least.
As his captivity had continued, his captors had begun leaving him alone more and more often, as if they had forgotten about him. In the end, he had grown so weak he completely lost track of time. The cold, dank basement had soon become a pit of his own filth, since no one ever came to clear up his urine, excrement or dried blood, and the stench was unbearable. An army of flies were his constant companions, and his torturers let out cries of disgust whenever they entered. As he weakened further, he began to drift in and out of consciousness.
In his delirium he had been visited by his father and mother, and even thought he saw his brother, come to free him from his imprisonment. He was visited by demons, corrupt and deformed beings who traded in human souls and tried to pull him into the abyss. Beset with fever, no longer knowing where he was, he had survived through pure determination. His wrists drained of blood, his body exhausted and his spirit about to admit defeat, he had focused his thoughts upon a single idea, one which kept away the demons and their danse macabre.
There, in his dungeon, he had invoked the figure of Señorita Castro, Amelia. She had appeared, taking him by the hand and making him open his eyes beneath his hood. She stroked his face and kissed his lips, as if her lips contained a purifying nectar. He opened his mouth and drank from her until he was sated. He thanked her for coming and explained how stupid he had been to judge her, how much he loved her and how much he regretted his harsh words during their last conversation. I’ve been the most senseless man to ever set foot on this earth, he had told her in his hallucination. I’m in love with you and I was a fool to let you leave for Cadiz… She did not reply, but simply stared at him with her green eyes and kissed him again. He confessed how sorry he was for the hurt he had caused her, for he really did understand how much she had suffered, how much she had sacrificed to survive in a world made for white men. Little by little, the image of Amelia would begin to fade, returning him to the harsh reality of his situation: chained with iron shackles to a torture rack. He understood that he had grown ever weaker and that the delirium would soon come back to finish him off. He had considered that the hallucinations could be the product of the asphyxiating hood, which barely allowed him to breathe, or something in the food. Whatever it was, he had thought, he had to do something, so he had begun to gnaw at the lining of the hood with his mouth to let some fresh air in. This had taken several hours until at last he was able to separate the fibres with his tongue, and the air around his head felt lighter. That was when he had noticed that someone had entered the cell, retching as they took in the stench.
As they walked, he had asked them who they were. He had thought they were about to leave but then he had heard the whip crack. Knowing what was coming, he had begun to cry. Without emitting a sound, this person whipped him like a beast, thrashing his back red raw, until the pain was so overwhelming his senses had grown dull. That monster had panted away, not even pausing to take a breath as he had whipped him over and over again, until he lost consciousness.
After that, he had no idea how much time had passed. When Gabriel had come to, he’d tried to stand up, but his body had felt like a limp mass of flesh. Suddenly, he had heard the door creaking and thought he was going to be lashed again, only for two men to remove the shackles from his hands and feet. He had moaned with the temporary relief of seeing his wrists and ankles freed and the pain of feeling his maimed back making contact with the cold ground. Silently, they had carried him and placed him in a cage that was barely waist-high. Hunched up inside that restricted space, he had finally been able to remove his hood. Above him, all he could see was a wooden roof, suggesting the cage was completely sealed. Even so, he had sighed with relief as he realized that, at least, his torture on the rack was over.
Outside that miniature dungeon, he had heard voices and the soft cracks of a whip, which made his hair stand on end. He had just enough strength to shift along so that his back would have as little contact as possible with the bars. That way he was able to sleep for several hours. From the way the cage was rattling, he assumed he must be being transported in some kind of carriage. From the lack of street noise, he guessed they were already outside of Madrid. He summoned the strength to speak to his captors, but only one of them answered.
‘Shut up! Don’t make us put you in a worse state than you’re already in.’
He said nothing more and fell into unconsciousness once more, until he had been woken by daylight.
A boy of thirteen or so was looking down at him with curiosity, covering his mouth because of the smell. He had lifted off the roof of the cage and given him a bowl of cheese, olives and cold meat, along with a mug of water. Gabriel had devoured it all and thanked him. The boy, whose eyes were full of compassion, had looked to either side and covertly dropped a big bit of sausage into the cage as he gathered the bowl and mug.
‘Water, more water,’ Gabriel had begged the boy. He could barely get the words out of his throat.
Having weighed up the risks, the boy had disappeared, before returning with the refilled mug.
They had rattled along those roads for two nights and three days, a period of time he was once again able to count, perhaps because of the strength he had recovered thanks to the extra food which the lad and his younger brother had been giving him. Besides that, they had been kind enough to cover the cage with blankets so that he could better bear the cool temperatures of the mountains.
During this period, with his wits more about him, he had managed to identify four different men, as well as the coachman, who was the father of the two boys. From what he could deduce, the coachman had accepted the task of taking the cargo to somewhere in Portugal, Lisbon maybe, without knowing there was a man inside. Of course, to them he was only a slave, but the boys’ father couldn’t have been very pleased with the deal since he had complained on several occasions that he was no slave trader and that this was not what they had agreed. During the coachman’s most recent protest, the leader of the soldiers of fortune had told him to stop whining like an old biddy unless he wanted his children growing up without a father. The driver had not complained again, though Gabriel believed he was encouraging his children to give Gabriel food and drink without the four thugs knowing.
He slept a little better that night, despite his discomfort and the foul smell. They stopped for lunch, and through the gaps in the wood, he could see they were in some remote oak grove. He knew they were away from the road because he could hear a stream flowing. The lid to the cage opened and he stretched out his limp, numb arms. When he looked up, he saw the younger boy holding his finger to his lips, imploring him to stay silent. The boy threw him a little bread and cheese and gave him something to drink. Gabriel smiled and the boy returned the smile, nodding as if it were a game. He was about to ask the boy’s name when suddenly a huge hand knocked the poor lad to one side. The soldier kicked the boy in the stomach, and he began to cry.
‘This bloody kid’s been giving the negro extra food,’ he shouted, sinking his foot into the boy’s stomach again.
Gabriel cursed him from inside the cage, gripping onto the bars and using his meagre strength to lift himself up. The soldier went to hit him with the butt of his musket but stopped suddenly when he heard the voice of the coachman, coming from the other side of the encampment.
‘Hey, you son of a bitch!’
Gabriel could just make out the boy’s father striding across the encampment wielding an enormous knife. Without blinking, the coachman climbed into the wagon and stood before the lowlife.
‘Touch my son again and I’ll cut your balls off,’ he threatened.
The solider faced him and lowered his hand towards his rapier as he considered slitting the coach driver’s throat there and then.
‘Easy, damn it. Let’s get going; it’ll be dark soon,’ the head thug said from the other side of the encampment.
The coachman grabbed his son by the scruff of the neck and got down from the wagon, shielding the boy with his body while the soldier watched him, clearly suppressing an urge to cut him open and watch his guts spill out. Suddenly, as if remembering Gabriel’s attempt to intervene in the boy’s favour, he peered into the cage at him. Then, poking the butt of his gun through the bars, he began to ram it at Gabriel’s head. Gabriel tried to raise his arms to defend himself but was unable to do it fast enough and felt his head crunch with the impact of one of the blows. He felt incredibly dizzy, and his vision went cloudy. He raised his chin a little and received another brutal blow close to the temple, which left him dazed and drooling uncontrollably. He felt his muscles giving way and everything around him growing dark.
*
Usually, Clara could only stand for a few minutes without feeling faint in open spaces, but this time, she felt different and managed to remain standing, not feeling the usual vertigo. She advanced further, towards the centre of the courtyard, leaving the safety of the building behind her. She noticed a slight surge of nausea but didn’t let it bother her. She felt stronger than on other occasions; something inside her had changed. She guessed that confronting her affliction over the last year, along with the exposure to the open countryside which had nearly cost her life, had toughened her up. Her sickness seemed to be waning. In the end, trying to calm her breathing, she decided to go back, not wishing to push her luck. She had regained much of her strength after the weekend and did not wish to lose it again. Besides, she had suggested returning to work in the kitchens that very morning and did not want to relapse under any circumstances.
She adjusted her headgear, thinking, as always, of Don Diego. Having said goodbye four days ago, she longed only for his return, somewhat regretful at not having been more forceful in expressing her feelings towards him during their conversation. She would have told him how much gratitude and devotion she felt towards him. The first two days had been broken up by friendly visits from Señor Casona and Don Melquíades, until, feeling much recovered, she had decided the sensible thing to do was to abandon Don Diego’s bedroom and return to her own.
She entered the kitchen and greeted all the staff – including Beatriz Ulloa who had approached her and told her she had realized her mistake and wished to learn everything she could from her.
Clara was happy for the girl. Then the rest of the servants began appearing, all showing great concern for her health. She was moved at discovering how cherished she was, despite never having spoken to some of them. She spent the morning working, until a beaming, carefree Elisa entered the kitchen.
‘They’ve all shown great interest, and I am very grateful for it but… I don’t understand.’
‘Come on, woman. They’ve ceased to see you as the cook of Castamar. Some believe the duke has already asked for your hand,’ she answered. ‘It’s rumoured that he and Doña Mercedes had a fierce row over it.’
