Chapter 1475 - Hostess
"Your praise is excessively exaggerated," Lucrezia giggled. Dressed in an Italian-style gown that exposed her alluring neck and shoulders, she held an embroidered handkerchief in one hand, striking a pose to cover her mouth. The gesture let the lace sleeve slide down to reveal a segment of jade-like arm—enough to make every Spanish gentleman present swoon.
"I cannot be Euterpe. But you, Lord Count—all the wisdom and talent of Mars and Orpheus are gathered in you alone. Please gift me the beautiful song you composed, The Beautiful Spanish Lady. This gift is truly too precious."
A lewd and vulgar ditty, Sanabria thought. He had heard people singing this song in taverns and various occasions and wanted to loudly ridicule it. But ultimately he remained silent, only grunting a few times.
"This is precisely my honor."
"—I fear I may not be entirely worthy of your precious gift," the hostess continued in a deliberately coquettish tone. "I am not beautiful, nor was I born in Spain." A buzzing of whispers began in the crowd.
"I was born on Madeira, grew up in Porto, and married in Naples. Until coming to the Philippine colony, I never had the chance to set foot on the Spanish mainland. But under the protection of His Majesty Philip, every place my feet have trodden lies under the shine of the Spanish sun, bathed in his greatness and mercy."
The guests' whispers swelled into loud clamor. The men all removed their hats, placed them respectfully over their chests, and shouted: "Long live the King!" Seizing this enthusiastic moment, the Count announced he would play a march composed in praise of His Majesty Philip. Adopting a fresh technique never before seen by the audience, he played the harpsichord while using music and gestures to signal the small band beside him to follow his lead. Those few Filipino musicians evidently possessed extraordinary talent—they actually played through the entire piece completely.
Though a modern listener would find the performance of both soloist and band quite rough, the timbre thin and dim, and Pomp and Circumstance March played with no pomp at all, the guests' reaction and enthusiasm soared to unprecedented heights. Applause and cheers poured down like a thunderstorm. Men waved their hats; women dropped their folding fans. Everyone surged toward the performer like a tide, each wanting to shake the Count's hand.
Sanabria found himself sandwiched in the flow of bodies, moving forward involuntarily. When he finally managed to stand still, he saw an enthusiastic woman lifting the Count's hand to her lips, and two noble young ladies, disregarding their station, fighting over the handkerchief the Count had placed on the instrument lid. Aside from jealous resentment, the colony's number one tycoon felt increasingly the humiliation and anger of being ignored.
Suddenly, a strong wind blew up violently. Female guests screamed, holding down their skirts, dodging flower petals and leaves blowing everywhere. Lanterns and candles floating in the garden pool were mostly overturned and extinguished. Looking up, one could see the dark clouds that had only lingered on the horizon at dusk now obscured the mid-sky. Clearly, the weather was about to turn; the amusement in the garden could no longer continue.
Madame Ciarlo remained in high spirits. She beckoned the guests to return to the house, taking Count Vannanova's arm herself, lifting her skirt hem with one hand and walking in front. Sanabria wanted to follow but was blocked by a crowd of guests pressing close behind, all wanting proximity to the Count.
The light of torches burning under the porch shone through the glass windows into the house. Servants walked about lighting candlesticks one by one. Sanabria noticed that in the depths of the yet-unlit corridor, the glimmer of torches penetrating the window illuminated a niche. Before the statue of the Virgin knelt a figure in black robes—looking like a priest at prayer.
Who could that priest be? Sanabria knew the late Baron Ciarlo had always been rather cool toward the locally dominant Dominican Order. Though Madame Ciarlo presided over Manila's Santa Casa de Misericordia, her closeness with the Jesuit-affiliated fundraisers from Macau far exceeded that with local religious orders.
There was no time for further conjecture—not even time to glance at the niche again. In a flash, the crowded stream of people shoved him into the grand living room, sweeping him into that vortex churning with music, fine wine, and feasting.
The clouds that had piled up through the evening finally turned into a boundless curtain of rain, pouring onto the capital of the Philippine colony after nightfall. Baroness Ciarlo's villa was like an active water system: corridors served as river channels, guiding the flow of people toward the grand living room—that ocean of brilliant lights.
The walls were densely lined with fixtures; servants had filled every table and cabinet with candlesticks, hundreds of Australian bright candles burning as if they cost nothing. Such candles not only had bright flames but also lacked the black smoke and foul smell common to others, so they sold for high prices in Manila, becoming favorites of the wealthy. Glass, porcelain, and silverware sparkled under the candlelight, along with jewels on women, satin dresses, and men's medals and ribbons. Guests arrived in an endless stream through the heavy rain. Some whispered; some laughed loudly. Unlike the stiff, formal banquets hosted by the Governor and Mayor, everyone here wanted to enjoy themselves to the fullest at the home of the colony's most beautiful noblewoman.
"Hey, oho—look who's here?" Don Basilio shouted loudly. He was keen on chasing every feast in Manila, just as he was keen on emptying the purse of every shipowner arriving at the port. The guests' attention was drawn by the Port Tax Collector's shout.
They saw a man walking into the hall on tiptoe, as if afraid of stepping on something unclean and soiling his shiny Persian lambskin short boots. Except for the Count, this person could be called the tallest in the hall, but his figure appeared lanky rather than robust. A velvet coat with hems reaching his thighs, a belt covered in gold and silver embroidery, stockings with bows, and garters—all accentuated his dandyish frailty.
The newcomer ignored the other guests, including the Tax Collector. He habitually tossed his head so his brilliant blond hair would dazzle even more under the lights. Twirling his carefully groomed mustache with his left hand and fiddling with a gilt cane in his right, he strutted through the crowd, squeezed in front of the Count, and extended a hand with a tight lace cuff: "Don Eugenio Garcia Zapatero, His Highness the Governor's loyal follower and servant. Greetings to you."
As if afraid of being crushed, he quickly withdrew his hand from Weiss's palm, then immediately seized the Baroness's slender hand, respectfully placing it to his lips.
Weiss took two steps back, pretending to inadvertently avoid the "sweat-drenched" Mayor's wife who was pouncing toward him with open arms. He took a glass of Madeira from a servant's tray and ambled to Treasurer Andrade's side.
"That gentleman is a celebrity from the homeland, isn't he?" The Count asked in a conversational tone. "Perhaps I am ignorant, but one rarely sees such an elegant celebrity in the eastern colonies."
"Eugenio Garcia Zapatero. File Supervisor, Government House Secretary." Andrade sipped his sherry, trying to mask a face full of mocking smiles. "Or we could call him Mr. Salamanca's little bee. Nowadays, every Peninsular willing to condescend to come to the East Indian colonies can arbitrarily add a 'Don' before their name, even if back home he was just a poor wretch who couldn't pay debts or an escaped convict from a galley."
"It's said he writes a Latin sonnet for His Excellency the Governor every week. Last week, to celebrate the relief of the Governor's constipation, he specifically composed a poem." A bored young gentleman never missed any chance to mock people—doubly so when this Secretary's blond hair and Latin were equally suspect. "Count, if you could write a Latin ditty too, Mr. Secretary would hate you as much as Sanabria does. Right now, he only harbors a little hostility."
"Hostility—why?"
"Ah, the songs you played made Manila's ladies so infatuated—isn't that enough?" The young gentleman played with the glass in his hand. "Beware, Count. Your luck with women will invite many enemies..."
"Including you?"
"Oh, I'm not yet in urgent need of a respectable widow to fill my purse. But many people in this place covet that fortune and—title." The young gentleman glanced toward Madame Ciarlo, who was surrounded like the moon by stars.
Andrade couldn't help but let out a few dry "hehe" laughs, because his nephew was also one of Madame Ciarlo's many suitors. In the face of property and title, the age gap was obviously not a problem.
This conversation prevented them from hearing Eugenio's compliments to the hostess clearly, but Lucrezia's crisp laughter still drifted over: "—Although it is regrettable not to welcome His Highness's presence, receiving His Excellency the Governor's greetings through you is truly wonderful."
"Where has Lord Governor gone?" Captain Iker Zubizarretta asked with a heavy Basque accent.
This somewhat naive question was immediately rebuffed by Eugenio: "Lord Salamanca went personally to inspect the new fortifications in Cavite. Even with the bad weather, His Lordship decided to stay overnight in the barracks. From Madrid to Manila, I can swear before the Savior and the Virgin—an official like Lord Salamanca who spills his heart's blood for the lofty cause of God and King is unique, truly hard to find in the world!"
The Governor's Secretary waved his hands, launching into a performance of incomparably lofty passion and absolutely deep emotion, looking as if he wanted to drown all speech unfavorable to the Governor with a torrent of words.
Finally, the Count saved Captain Zubizarretta from his embarrassing predicament, proposing that to show respect for His Highness the Governor, he would play Pomp and Circumstance March once more.
(End of Chapter)