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“If what you want to do is elope with Penélope, and may God help you, what you need is money.”
Money is what Julián didn’t have.
“That can be arranged,” Miquel told him. “That’s what rich friends are for.”
That is how Miquel and Julián began to plan the lovers’ escape. The destination, at Miquel’s suggestion, would be Paris. Moliner was of the opinion that, if Julián was set on being a starving bohemian artist, at least a Paris setting couldn’t be improved upon. Penélope spoke a little French, and for Julián, who had learned it from his mother, it was his second language.
“Besides, Paris is large enough to get lost in but small enough to offer opportunities,” Miquel reasoned.
Miquel managed to put together a small fortune, joining his savings from many years to what he was able to get out of his father using the most outlandish excuses. Only he knew where the money was going.
“And I plan to go dumb the minute you two board that train.”
That same afternoon, after finalizing details with Moliner, Julián went to the house on Avenida del Tibidabo to tell Penélope about the plan.
“You mustn’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. No one. Not even Jacinta,” Julián began.
The girl listened to him in astonishment, enthralled. Moliner’s plan was impeccable. Miquel would buy the tickets under a false name and hire a third party to collect them at the ticket office in the station. If by any chance the police discovered him, all he’d be able to offer would be the description of someone who did not look like Julián. Julián and Penélope would meet on the train. There would be no waiting on the platform, where they might be seen. The escape would take place on a Sunday, at midday. Julián would make his own way to the Estación de Francia. Miquel would be waiting for him there, with the tickets and the money.
The most delicate part of the plan concerned Penélope. She had to deceive Jacinta and ask her to invent an excuse for taking her out of the eleven o’clock mass and returning home. On the way Penélope would ask Jacinta to let her go and meet Julián, promising to be back before the family had returned to the mansion. This would be Penélope’s opportunity to get to the station. They both knew that if they told her the truth, Jacinta would not allow them to leave. She loved them too much.
“It’s the perfect plan, Miquel,” Julián said.
Miquel nodded sadly. “Except in one detail. The pain you are going to cause a lot of people by going away forever.”
Julián nodded, thinking of his mother and Jacinta. It did not occur to him that Miquel Moliner was talking about himself.
The most difficult thing was convincing Penélope of the need to keep Jacinta in the dark. Only Miquel would know the truth. The train would depart at one in the afternoon. By the time Penélope’s absence was noticed, they would have crossed the border. Once in Paris, they would settle in a hostel as man and wife, using a false name. They would then send Miquel Moliner a letter addressed to their families, confessing their love, telling them they were well, that they loved them, announcing their church wedding, and asking for forgiveness and understanding. Miquel Moliner would put the letter in a second envelope to do away with the Paris postmark and would see to it that it was posted from some nearby town.
“When?” asked Penélope.
“In six days’ time,” said Julián. “This coming Sunday.”
Miquel reckoned it would be best if Julián didn’t see Penélope during the days left prior to the elopement, so as not to arouse suspicions. They should both agree not to see each other again until they met on that train on their way to Paris. Six days without seeing her, without touching her, seemed interminable to Julián. They sealed the pact, the secret marriage, with their lips.
It was then that Julián took Penélope to Jacinta’s bedroom on the third floor of the house. Only the servants’ quarters were on that floor, and Julián was sure nobody would discover them. They undressed feverishly, with an angry passion, scratching each other’s skin and melting into silences. They learned each other’s bodies by heart and buried all thoughts of those six days of separation. Julián penetrated her with fury, pressing her against the floorboards. Penélope received him with open eyes, her legs hugging his torso, her lips half open with yearning. There was not a glimmer of fragility or childishness in her eyes or in her warm body. Later, with his face still resting on her stomach and his hands on her white, tremulous breasts, Julián knew he had to say good-bye. He had barely had time to sit up when the door of the room was slowly opened and a woman’s shape appeared in the doorway. For a second, Julián thought it was Jacinta, but he soon realized it was Mrs. Aldaya. She was watching them, spellbound, with a mixture of fascination and disgust. All she managed to mumble was “Where’s Jacinta?” Then she just turned and walked away without saying a word, while Penélope crouched on the ground in mute agony and Julián felt the world collapsing around him.
“Go now, Julián. Go before my father comes.”
“But…”
“Go.”
Julián nodded. “Whatever happens, I’ll wait for you on Sunday on that train.”
Penélope managed a faint smile. “I’ll be there. Now go. Please…”
She was still naked when he left her and slid down the servants’ staircase toward the coach houses and out into the coldest night he could remember.
The days that followed were agony. Julián had spent all night awake, expecting that at any moment Don Ricardo’s hired assassins would come for him. The following day, in school, he didn’t notice any change of attitude in Jorge Aldaya. Devoured by anguish, Julián told Miquel Moliner what had happened. Miquel shook his head.
“You’re crazy, Julián, but that’s nothing new. What’s strange is that there hasn’t been an upheaval in the Aldayas’ house. Which, come to think of it, isn’t so surprising. If, as you say, Mrs. Aldaya discovered you, it might be that she herself still doesn’t know what to do. I’ve had three conversations with her in my life and came to two conclusions from them: one, Mrs. Aldaya has the mental age of a twelve-year-old; two, she suffers from a chronic narcissism that makes it impossible for her to see or understand anything that is not what she wants to see or believe, especially if it concerns herself.”
“Spare me the diagnosis, Miquel.”
“What I mean is that she’s probably still wondering what to say, how to say it, when, and to whom. First she must think of the consequences for herself, the potential scandal, her husband’s fury…. The rest, I daresay, she couldn’t care less about.”
“So you think she won’t say anything?”
