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The flowers came with a letter from the raja. Anita read it slowly because she had difficulty reading, and besides, because she had slept so little because of the upset, her eyes were swollen. The prince made his apologies: “It was not my intention to upset you, and much less to insinuate something that I could not even imagine. I beg you to accept these flowers as a sign of my deepest respect toward you …” Anita sat down at the table in the tiny dining room and sighed. Then she looked at the flowers again. They were camellias.

6
    On this hot night when she cannot sleep, Anita remembers that other night when she had not slept either. She had felt offended, insulted deep inside by a man she hardly knew. It had been her first experience as a woman in the male jungle. She herself had been surprised at the intensity of her reaction. Now, with hindsight, it seemed childish. She should have laughed.
    Tonight she is tormented by the aftertaste of that feeling that left her unable to sleep. Even though she struggles to avoid it, she finds it hard not to let herself be affected by the feeling she has been manipulated. She had her life worked out, her modest job, her flirtation with Anselmo Miguel Nieto, who had even openly declared his love for her, her sister, whom she adored, her parents, her girlfriends … A whole universe that tonight seems warm, cosy, and welcoming. Why did a dazzling Moorish king have to appear in her normal, happy life and launch her into a world of luxury and exoticism that she does not know and cannot enjoy?
    She is sufficiently lucid to know that she should not think in this way, but deep in her heart she feels sorry for herself. She has been weak when she should have been strong. She fell into his arms—into his bed—too soon. She was not able to resist. Yes, the fault is hers; a woman of her age knows what she is doing. Or at least, she should. But he should have waited a little longer …
    The cawing of the crows cuts through the air laden with warm mist. The effluvia of the sea rise to the suite. It smells of something indefinable, a mixture of the smoke from the little camping stoves in the street where the poor people make their food, dampness, and a different vegetation. The smell of India.
    Suddenly she feels that if she could flee, get on a boat and go back to Europe, she would without a moment’s hesitation. Reversing her steps, rewinding the film of the last two years of her life, finding herself back in her world, the warmth of her family, feeling the cold of Madrid again, the smell of dog-roses that comes down from the mountains in springtime, the crispiness of freshly made churros , laughing again at the gossip in her tenement, posing again for Anselmo … My God, where is all that now! Until today she felt that at any moment she could unravel the threads, that with one stroke of the pen she could stop time, choose, say yes, say no, live her life more or less as she pleased. But in the heat of that night of anguish she realizes that it is going to be impossible to retrace her steps. She feels hemmed in by destiny, far away from everything, alone. It is almost hard for her to breathe. She realizes that if Dr. Willoughby confirms her pregnancy in the morning, there is no going back. Her life is no longer a game. Now things are for real.
    That a prince from India should want to carry Anita off was such an unusual event that it galvanized the curiosity of many people. The Camellias became famous because of it, although they would have preferred to be known for their talent. In the circle of Bohemians and intellectuals, there was an enormous amount of intrigue and gossip. Would the raja succeed in carrying off our Anita? That was the question on the lips of all the regulars, especially when they looked toward his box and saw Anita’s mother involved in lengthy conversations with the Indian and his interpreter. The news that filtered out from those