Rose for Winter by Laurie Lee

with irony. But intoxicated as we all were, she stood apart, her black eyes ringed with pain, inhabiting a haunted territory of her own. I could not see what she was doing here. Her head on its long neck was proudly negroid, her brooding features ravaged and beautiful; she was straight and dark and savage, and she lived among that scheming, squabbling family like a hostage of royal blood.
    We had pushed back our chairs now and were drinking coñac, and Don Porfino had wandered off into the cellars. The plump Caridad, her tongue well loosened, leaned across and began to tell me tales.
    â€˜My brother’s a simple man,’ she said, ‘but kind, too kind. Look what he’s done for her.’ She jerked her head at Trini. ‘Of course, she’s not one of us. He found her in Morocco. And she is bad for him. Bad and proud. Though no one knows why, for she brought not a penny with her.’
    I asked why she looked so ill.
    â€˜Oh, she has had a misfortune,’ said Caridad, pulling a conventional face. ‘Four days ago she was put to bed with a boy. He died, and she went out and threw him in the river. She is not strong yet.’
    Don Porfino came back, singing a sad song, and dropped into his chair.
    â€˜Lorenzo,’ he said, ‘look at my face. Touch it. Feel my tears. I make myself weep. I have too much feeling.’
    â€˜Feeling!’ spat Elvira, coming close. ‘He has no more feeling than a sack. He is like all the others. Pigskins we women carry to the grave.’ Her pretty face grew flushed and fierce. ‘No, Lorenzo. The men of this country – pouff! – they are nothing. I pollute them all. Give me the foreign man, ay, there is the true gentleman.’ And swift and hot she kissed me on the neck.
    Meanwhile the students had advanced their chairs inch by inch across the room and were now sitting in front of Kati gazing upon her with glum desire. The first exhilaration of wine had left them, their eyes were glazed and their mouths hung open. They, too, had too much feeling.
    At midnight we left the ‘House of Peace’ and went to the church to watch the Christmas Mass. The place was warm and scented and it seethed with a lively multitude. Walls and ceiling were starred with tiny lights, and the host of candles round the Virgin whirled, to my wine-struck eyes, like a cloud of fireflies.
    Back in the streets, with midnight past, it was bright and brassy bedlam. The drums and cymbals crashed and thundered, and the wide pavements surged with young men, singing and fighting. It was the height of the night when anything might happen. Cries, salutations and groans of stifled desire greeted Kati as she passed. A tide of gallants began to follow her, lamenting her beauty and singing sad praises. One of their number, driven harder than the rest, detached himself from the group and approached her close, calling to-heaven that he was helpless before such perfection. ‘If I die for it!’ he cried, and tried to embrace her. With drowsy dignity I took her from him and pushed him lightly away. But the crime was done. Outraged by his boldness, and shocked to silence, his friends leapt upon him, twisted his arms, and sat him on the pavement. Then they began to chatter and scold him, scandal in all their voices.
    So we left them, and entered our hotel, which was near. We had not been in our room for more than a few minutes, when there came a loud banging on the door. It was Kati’s victim, covered with shame.
    â€˜Go home,’I said.
    â€˜I cannot,’ he answered.
    He stood in the doorway, white, drawn and trembling.
    â€˜I have made a bad thing, sir,’ he said, averting his eyes from Kati. ‘I cannot go until you forgive me.’
    â€˜ I forgive you,’ I said. ‘So go.’
    He remained unmoving, his head downcast.
    â€˜My friends outside,’ he said, ‘they do not know you forgive me.’
    Tell them,’ I said.
    â€˜No.