Free The Dancer and the Raja by Javier Moro Page B

the produce of the region. Anita finds the countryside almost familiar. This is the Punjab, one of the most beautiful and fertile regions of the country, a landscape of fields golden with wheat and barley, of flowering meadows surrounded by poplars, a waving sea of corn, millet, and sugar cane, crisscrossed by rivers with silvery waters and peopled by peasants in turbans who busily push their plows pulled by skinny oxen. The “granary of India” is so green that it reminds Anita of certain parts of France. The climate is benign at that time of the year and it is even cool at night.
    â€œWe’re arriving,” says Mme Dijon, interrupting the girl’s daydreaming. “We’re going to put some makeup on you and do your hair like a real princess.”
    Anita is startled. The imminence of their arrival causes a mixture of anxiety and excitement. The questions come flooding back: Will he come to meet me this time? How am I going to tell him “Your Highness, I am carrying your child”? When shall I tell him? How will he react? What if he doesn’t like the idea?
    â€œMadame, how do you say in French ‘I’m pregnant’? Je suis embarassée …?”
    â€œNo, not like that. You have to say: J’attends un enfant, Altesse . I’m expecting a baby.”
    â€œI’m expecting a baby … Okay,” Anita repeats looking at the countryside and stroking her stomach as though to confirm to herself that what is happening to her is true.
    Lola, her maid, appears with a lacquered wooden box that holds mother-of-pearl combs, silver brushes, and everything necessary to create a spectacular hairstyle, while Mme Dijon takes the dresses from Paris out of the cupboard.
    The first time she saw those dresses, in the apartment at the St. James & Albany, Anita stared at them as if they were working clothes. She was so upset and disconcerted at the idea of being separated from her parents that it was difficult for her to look closely at the superb creations by Worth and Paquin that the raja pulled out from their delicate wrappings of tissue paper, like a magician pulling doves out of his hat. Doña Candelaria stared wide-eyed, while Victoria, euphoric at such a display of haute couture , encouraged her sister, “Don’t be silly … You’re so lucky!”
    When Anita went into the bedroom to try on the dresses, she realized she had tears in her eyes. She stayed seated for a long time on the edge of the bed, waiting for the tears to pass. She needed to be on her own, even if only for a few minutes. Alone to drive away the fear of the unknown that plagued her now more than ever. When she had calmed down, she tried on the first dress, a long one with tight sleeves, and a high collar held up by stays and a very tight-fitting corset, and she stood in front of the mirror. For the first time she saw herself as a woman, not as an adolescent. She thought she would dress like that for the rest of her life, “like a lady.” As she turned round to see herself better, she began to realize that the dress suited her very well: the sleeves, the shoulders, the skirt … the cut was perfect. She began to see herself as pretty, and she liked that. Furthermore, the texture of the material made her feel as though she was encased in a velvet glove. But as her feet got caught up in the full skirts, she walked with difficulty. “I had no alternative but to go out into the sitting room,” Anita would write in her diary, “but I held up the dress in both hands in case I fell over.”
    â€œYou are dazzling …” the raja told her with a wide smile of satisfaction, as she sat down on the first chair at hand in order not to stumble.
    The prince looked at her like a sculptor contemplates the statue he is working on. Seeing them all so amazed encouraged Anita, who began joking about the problem with the skirts and petticoats. The newly arrived hairdresser had to