I imagine that by this stage my expression said it all.
“Just as in chess, the winner is the faction that checkmates the king. The king, in this case, represents the heart, feelings. The queen is married to him. She represents desire, sensuality. If you think about it, she’s the most powerful piece on the board, the piece that can make virtually all the moves and traverse all the squares she wants. The king, on the other hand, is more restricted than his queen. He can only advance one square at a time, although he can also move in any direction. These are the player’s two most prized pieces—the ones with which he’ll threaten his opponent and the ones he has to be most careful not to lose.
“There’s an old saying among chess players: ‘Chess is an oedipal game because it consists of killing the king and seducing the queen.’ If you manage to beguile the queen, if you deflect her attention toward other parts of the board, you can focus on attacking the king. The same thing happens in love. To make the other person fall in love, to checkmate her king, you have to seduce her first. You have to toy with the queen and throw her off the scent so that she’ll stop protecting her heart.”
For a moment I forgot about the carnival and Elisa’s intrigues as I stared at the chessboard with the look of someone who’d never seen one in their life. “What about the other pieces?”
“The other pieces are the weapons the player, the seducer, uses to protect and help his cherished marriage, his love, and his desire.”
I gestured for him to continue.
“Take the bishop, for example. Centuries ago those board pieces represented real bishops, the devious advisers of the king. They never move in a straight line, they always move obliquely, and there’s no restriction in terms of the squares. The bishop, with his zigzag movements, is equivalent to intelligence.”
I don’t know why, but I thought of Iago.
I asked myself what the knight’s role would be in Jairo’s curious staging. Jairo anticipated my question.
“The knight, as you know, executes the most capricious moves—in the shape of an L. A single knight can end up occupying every square on the board. He fights, he deceives, he surprises. The knight represents chance, the dramatic effect that circumstances bestow on us from time to time, which any intelligent player takes advantage of to corner his opponent.
“By the knight’s side is the rook, either advancing straight up the columns, or moving from left to right across the rows. The rook is like time. Sometimes the rook moves quickly; at other times it comes to a standstill. Little wonder it’s the only piece that can castle the king, a protective move, as you’re aware. Just as the passage of time is the only thing that can shield the heart when neither luck nor the head is able to remove the king from the threat.”
“And the pawns?”
“Pawns are generally the pieces that are sacrificed during the game, unless they get from one end of the board to the other and reach the eighth row. In that case a pawn can be exchanged for any other piece of the same color, including a queen. That move is rightly called ‘the coronation of the pawn.’ Pawns are the other people we use to achieve our objective. We won’t hesitate to use them as often as we need to, subsequently leaving them stuck in some spot on the board away from the main action. The only things you have to be careful about are never to forget that they are mere pawns, and to eliminate your rival’s pawns before they unexpectedly threaten your queen. The strategies for pawns are infinite, from making use of them to stir up jealousy, to consoling yourself with them when time is standing still. There’s even a different strategy altogether, which is to attack with eight pawns in a block, although I wouldn’t recommend it, because it provokes quite a few headaches.”
I was silent for quite a while, taking in and discovering for myself the similarities he was talking about. Although, at the same time, I was beginning to tire of being left out of the game altogether by the Castillo brothers.
“Your theory is fine,” I finally admitted, “but it might have some flaws.”
“Flaws?” he repeated. He pronounced the word in astonishment, as if I had just invented it. His brain didn’t accept the word “flaws” in relation to himself.
“I can think of a couple, but so as not to take too long, since you have a theme party to organize, I’ll comment on the first one that comes to mind. In chess it’s obligatory to announce it when you checkmate the king. In love, on the other hand, your rival doesn’t tell you when you’re about to fall.”
He held my gaze for a long moment, then rested his forehead on one finger while he weighed up my objection.
“You’re right.” He wasn’t really talking to me but, rather, muttering to himself, as if he was used to talking alone. “During the last few moves of a seduction, it’s precisely subtlety that’s called for, so of course it would be a huge mistake to reveal your intentions ahead of time.”
Then he remembered that I was still sitting in front of him, and he lifted his head with an expression of something like admiration, or at least respect. “I see you are in control of the game.”
“Which of the two?”
“Both, I fear.”
A short while later, back at home, I had a call from Héctor del Castillo as I was unpacking the chess pieces and placing the exotic chessboard on the table by my bed. The rest of the furniture would take a few weeks to arrive: a bed with a mosquito net (decorative rather than practical), various tribal wall hangings, and an extra-large sofa in which I could lose myself with a good book and forget the world.
“Adriana, you’ll have to forgive our oversight. We’re celebrating carnival in my brother Jairo’s house tonight, and the invitations were sent out before you joined us. We’ve just remembered you.”
We? I thought. Who, exactly?
“I hope you can come nevertheless.”
“The fact is that I’ve just found out about it, Héctor, and I have no costume.”
“That’s not a problem. We can send you a dress in your size. Give me your address.”
Anyone else would have resisted, but curiosity was always my Achilles’ heel.
“Hold on. That won’t be necessary. I think I can improvise something.”
I had remembered a dress I’d worn to my friend Clara’s wedding, a Greek-inspired gown.
“Perfect. So we’ll see each other at ten,” said Héctor with a hint of satisfaction and hung up.
15
ADRIANA
Carnival Friday, February 17, 2012
Barely twenty minutes later I was driving toward Jairo’s villa. I wore an orange-colored chiffon dress, fitted at the waist, which brushed the floor. I had put on a pair of Roman sandals with laces to midcalf that I’d hardly ever worn for lack of a suitable occasion. I had piled my hair up on top of my head in a complicated style I’d copied as best I could from an 1880 publication titled The Book of Costumes, bought in a secondhand bookshop in Madrid near Plaza de Oriente. I’d added some gold hoop earrings and then left in a hurry so as not to be the last one to arrive.
It would have been easy to find the house even without the directions Héctor had provided. As soon as I left Pedreña and headed in the direction of the Somo beaches, I could make out a line of cars moving like a row of ants under the streetlights, pointing the way to a modern villa of stone and wood with huge picture windows.
The front porch was an open space bordered by columns and dotted with comfortable outdoor sofas facing a small cove, where the wind was blowing as strongly as it did at the MAC. I found some of the staff sitting there, chatting animatedly: French soldiers, Florentine princes, and ladies from the eighteenth century. I opted for the long line that had formed in front of the main entrance. At the door a young man dressed in a Roman tunic was in charge of the greetings and was also requesting every guest’s cell phone, which he then placed in a small labeled bag.
“Why is Jairo confiscating phones?”
I asked Chisca once I’d recognized her without her usual mascara. She was dressed as a medieval peasant girl, and the total lack of makeup really suited her.
“You’re not allowed to take photos inside the house. It’s full of works of art,” she explained, turning toward me. “By the way, that’s Patricio, not Jairo. And no jokes about his name and outfit—I think he’s heard them all tonight. And just so you know, Patricio is . . . hmmm . . .” A twinkle appeared in her eye. “Let’s call him Jairo’s personal assistant,” she said, amused.
“Don’t be so diplomatic,” interjected Paula, Iago’s secretary, in her sixties psychedelic dress. “If truth be told, he’s actually Jairo’s servant.”
“More like his slave,” said a Spartan behind me, laughing.
They were absolutely right. It wasn’t Jairo, although Patricio had the same build as Jairo, and the same dark, slicked-back hair.
The slave in question bowed to us theatrically as if he hadn’t heard our conversation. “Welcome to the house,” he said.
Well, he does take his work seriously, I thought.
And then I noticed the knocker on the door, a piece of bronze in the shape of a deer. The deer was twisted around itself in an impossible coil. I remembered the image on Jairo’s pocket watch and realized that the two ornaments were of a similar style. I again made a mental effort to identify the artwork but was immediately distracted when I finally stepped inside the villa and had to hold back a whistle of admiration.
Jairo’s residence was, quite literally, another museum. To start with, the walls and floor of the wide entrance hall were a gleaming, polished golden marble the like of which I’d never seen before. Then there were the statues—genuine statues, nothing like the usual imitation Greek and Roman statues. I walked up to a small display cabinet to admire a bronze reproduction of Artemis with a deer at her side. Wasn’t that the piece that caused all the fuss when it was auctioned by Sotheby’s? We archaeologists had objected to valuable archaeological material such as this continuing to be held by private owners. So, then, was the piece genuine, or just part of the forgery circus? I was mulling this over when I felt a warm breath on the back of my neck.
“It’s been a long time since I saw anything so beautiful.”
“Well, thank you,” I replied.
It was Jairo del Castillo, of course. He too was dressed like a Roman, but based on the quality of the fabric, I had no doubt that his costume belonged to a very wealthy person. Later, Salva explained to me that Jairo was wearing an embroidered toga, a toga picta, over the flowered tunic, or tunica palmata, worn by victorious generals. The two garments were made of purple silk embroidered with gold thread.
“You know, in ancient Greece only a hetaira, a courtesan, would have worn a saffron-colored dress like yours.”
“Are you comparing me to a prostitute?”
“It was not my intention to offend you, believe me.”
“Fine. But you admit that it wasn’t the most felicitous choice of phrase.”
“I don’t know what it is about you,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m not in the habit of being so awkward with women.”
“That came across as extraordinarily arrogant.”
His eyes swept the room, a lift of his chin designating various women. “Just ask them . . . They’ll tell you.”
And he was right. His words didn’t exude arrogance but rather an awareness of his own position.
Fortunately, we were interrupted by Iago, who was dressed in a green-and-orange-striped jacket and breeches.
“Patricio’s looking for you, Jairo. I think it’s time to start the banquet,” he said, giving his brother a severe look.
Jairo went off muttering something in Latin that I didn’t manage to catch.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Nothing I can repeat here.”
Once Jairo had gone and we were left on our own, Iago and I took advantage of the opportunity to take each other in from head to toe on the pretext of admiring each other’s costumes. His raised eyebrow and half smile communicated Interesting choice of costume, but fortunately he refrained from saying it out loud.
“Don’t you start on the color of the dress as well, please,” I cut in. If Jairo was so well-informed about Ancient Greek attire, there was no doubt Iago would be, too. “I’m on the point of throwing it in the garbage.”
“My advice would be, don’t do it,” he said, finishing the drink he was holding. “You look stunning. And what’s more, we color-coordinate. With this match, we could pass for a couple.”
“Absolutely—a few millennia apart.”
“What does that matter?” He broke into a full smile that lit up his blue eyes. “I love anachronisms.”
Boy, it was worth coming just to hear that, I thought.
“Where did you get that costume?” I asked, moving closer to admire the gold-threaded embroidery on his lapels. It was only then I realized that some sections were more worn than others. I looked even more intently. “It’s not a costume!”
“No,” he confirmed mischievously, “but lower your voice. An anonymous family donated several outfits, some as old as this one. Kyra del Castro has been restoring them. At the appropriate moment we’ll add them to the collection, but Héctor and I couldn’t resist the temptation of wearing them today.”
“Are you telling me you’re wearing an outfit that’s two hundred years old?” I admit it: when I’m surprised like that, I become a bit slow and tend to repeat myself.
“Two hundred and fifty years, actually,” he clarified. It was obvious he found the situation amusing.
I’d only seen authentic clothing from the eighteenth century on two occasions. The first was in Madrid at the Museo del Traje, the museum devoted to fashion and costumes; the other was at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. It had struck me from the size of the clothing that people were considerably smaller back then than today. It was especially true of the shoes: it was as if everyone had worn a size 1. I’d once got hold of statistics of the average measurements of people in different historical eras and was able to confirm that my observations weren’t far off the track. I looked down at Iago’s magnificent green shoes with their modest heels and gold buckles, and embroidery matching that of his lapels. I figured he wore about a size 10 or 11.
“You were very lucky to find an outfit in your size,” I said, looking up at him with a smile. “I didn’t think there were giants like you a few centuries ago.”
“On the contrary. Giacomo Casanova, for instance, was over five foot ten,” he stated, his mind drifting elsewhere. “What’s the matter?” he asked defensively when he saw the expression on my face. “Don’t look at me like that. I read his memoirs.”
That Iagopedia again, I thought.
Just then Patricio interrupted us, inviting us in his silky-smooth manner to move into the living room, where the banquet was to take place. Iago raised his glass to me in farewell and headed inside, greeting the rest of the staff along the way.
None of us were prepared for what we were about to experience. The first thing we saw was about twenty low tables scattered around the room. Chairs, on the other hand, were nowhere to be seen. Instead, in the manner of the Roman triclinium, there were three divans around each table, on each of which three people could recline, as the waitresses, who were, of course, dressed in white tunics, proceeded to demonstrate. They looked just like Roman slaves would look if you were to cross Playboy bunnies with young women from two thousand years ago. Jairo had clearly taken a lot of trouble with their appearance.
I reclined obediently, supporting myself on one elbow, between Salva and Elisa, who was wearing an empire-style dress.
“Josephine Bonaparte is wearing one just like this in one of her portraits,” whispered Elisa with obvious satisfaction. She made no mention of our afternoon shopping expedition or her fight wi
th my cousin. Neither did I. There was no point.
When we were all reclining on our sides, Jairo, who was presiding over the event from the same table as Iago and Héctor, signaled solemnly to Patricio that the banquet could begin. And begin it most certainly did. To start things off, a shower of yellow and white petals rained down on us for several minutes until the legs of the tables and divans were covered with a fine blanket of them.
“Vanilla,” exclaimed Elisa, catching one of the petals. “That’s an aphrodisiac.”
“No, my friend, you’re thinking of cinnamon,” Salva corrected her as he inhaled the aroma. “The vanilla is to stimulate our taste buds.”
I was so distracted by the spectacle of colors and exotic perfumes that I hadn’t noticed how deeply affected Salva was.
“He’s been waiting four years for the theme to match his department,” Elisa explained to me. “Each year the Holy Trinity invites us to their carnival fiesta and dedicates the feast to a different era. We’ve had a medieval banquet, a Viking dinner, a Versailles celebration . . . Anyway, Salva was hoping that this year we’d have a Roman banquet, and he got it.”
“So why the devil are you dressed as a Cantabrian warrior?” I asked Salva.
“To be contrary; it’s in my blood,” was all he would say, winking at me.
It’s certainly true that the sight of him reclining in a dignified manner on his divan wearing his thick woolen cape—called a saga, he told me—and his dagger made it easy to go back eighty generations and imagine that his great-great-grandfather had also offered resistance when the Romans strove to conquer these mountains.
Next, the Roman servants arrived, pulling a cart with a roasted deer on a platter. When they cut open the deer, which tasted a little spicy, we discovered that it was stuffed with a pig that had a sweet aftertaste. Inside the pig there was a turkey with a tart aftertaste, and this routine continued with our discovery of a rabbit and a squab, each with its own side dishes, which stirred up different parts of the palate, until we got to a golden egg that contained caviar. By that stage no one doubted that the caviar would be either Iranian or Russian.