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conversations spoke of the raja’s desire to take Anita away for a while to Paris to educate her in the art of being the wife of a king, and then to marry her. A real fairy tale, too pretty to be true. Anita, for her part, felt flattered by the interest she had aroused in that personage. But she could not take it seriously. “… you’re not enough to make me your beloved,” she sang to him coquettishly, warning the interpreter not to translate the words.
    Anita was too young to think seriously about love. She had only flirted a little with Anselmo Nieto, who was twenty-three and lived a Bohemian’s life in Madrid. Anita enjoyed his company, and although he was more in love with her every day, not imagining the competition that had appeared out of nowhere, their relationship was nothing more than a close friendship.
    The more Anita rejected the raja, the more determined he was to have her. He was crazy about her. One had only to observe him sitting in his box, engrossed in the performance of the curtain raisers. The contrast of Anita’s figure, which, when she was still, seemed sweet and serene, with her uncouth air and her brazen, unrefined way of speaking, drove him wild. Once the dance was over, he sent his interpreter again and again to invite her. Sometimes Anita accepted and turned up accompanied by Doña Candelaria. The regulars could see her mother shaking her head in refusal from a distance. The raja was silent, always looking at the young woman. One night, in his box, he invited them to have dinner after the show. She did not accept, of course.
    â€œWhat about lunch? Couldn’t you come and have lunch with His Highness?” inquired the interpreter.
    Anita looked at her mother and sister, Victoria, for guidance. Suddenly Doña Candelaria nodded, and the raja must have felt the tide beginning to turn in his favor.
    â€œYes … if it’s for lunch, yes … as long as my mother and sister can come with me …” said Anita.
    The lunch took place in the dining room of the Hotel Paris, and the raja was as pleasant as could be. Anita had never been in such a “high-class” restaurant, as she said, and she liked the experience, more because of the rococo decoration and the attentiveness of the waiters than the food, because what she really liked was ham, potato omelette, and roast chicken. Everything else seemed insipid to her. The conversation was about the imminent wedding of the king of Spain. Anita looked at “her king” curiously, trying to imagine herself alone with that man who was so close to her and yet seemed so far away. He was quiet, deliberate, and proud without being distant. He was a perfect gentleman with dark skin and impeccable manners. He spoke six languages, had been all over the world, and rubbed shoulders with famous people everywhere. What’s this man doing falling in love with me? Anita wondered, sufficiently lucid to not really believe it. The interpreter interrupted her daydreaming, “His Highness tells me that if you would like to see the wedding procession, you can all come here tomorrow. He will not be here because he will be attending the ceremony at the Jerónimos church. You will be able to see it all perfectly from the balconies of his rooms.”
    It was time for coffee, and after Anita and her sister had said good-bye to go to their dancing class, the raja invited the interpreter and Doña Candelaria to move into a small private room to talk confidentially. It seems that Doña Candelaria’s eyes gleamed when she heard the raja speak about the “generous dowry” he was prepared to give them in exchange for Anita’s hand. A dowry that could well ensure peace of mind for the Delgado family ad vitam aeternam .
    â€œYour Highness, I can’t let you marry my daughter if she’s only going to end up in a harem, you know. I can’t do it, not for all the gold in the world