Death at Dark Water

by John D. Nesbitt

  “It must be pretty.”

  “Yes it is. Do you paint birds?”

  “No, not much. Again, perhaps as a smaller detail, off to one side.”

  “Perhaps you would like to see Cucu?”

  “Oh, please don’t bother. I assure you, I am not getting restless.”

  At that moment, the main door to the house opened, and a woman stepped outside. Devon rose to his feet, hat still in hand, as she approached.

  His first impression was that she was an attractive woman, with a trim and well-kept figure. She had shoulder-length dark hair, combed back and ridged up in front, with a dark, even hairline across the top of her forehead. Like her daughter, she had a pale complexion that, with an upper-class sensibility, she no doubt kept protected. She wore a white blouse, closed at the neck, set off by a black jacket and skirt of a lightweight, linen-like fabric. Like her daughter, she wore a small silver cross that lay against the upper part of her blouse. As she came closer, Devon noticed her soft brown eyes and a pleasant smile that showed small, white, even teeth.

  “This is my mother,” said Petra, also standing.

  “Emilia Reynosa Huerta de Torres, at your service.” The woman held out her hand.

  Devon took it in a light touch. “Devon Frost. The pleasure is mine.”

  “Please have a seat,” said the lady. She looked around in back of her, where the servant Consuelo was hovering. “A chair, please.” The older woman brought a chair from the portal and helped her mistress take a place by the table.

  “What a pleasure it is to have an artist at the rancho,” said Emilia.

  “It is a great privilege for me.”

  “The artist is enchanted by the old things,” Petra offered.

  Emilia looked at him. “How nice.”

  “Yes, one appreciates their antiquity. Also, they give one an idea of how things might have been in the days of the large haciendas.”

  “Ah, yes. Those times were different. More formal.”

  “And the hacienda itself, much bigger.”

  “Yes, and better. They had the best of everything.”

  “And the buildings themselves?”

  “Some of the originals are gone, but many are the same. In that respect, the haciendas in the south were always larger and more ornate, with fountains and flowers and beautiful gardens.”

  “In the south?”

  “Yes, for example, Guadalajara and Puebla and Cuernavaca. The climate is much more favorable there for lush gardens.”

  “Of course.” Devon realized she was thinking of one continuous Mexico, from the site of the current rancho to the old colonial towns where the Spaniards built, or commanded to be built, their churches and government buildings and elaborate residences. “I have seen paintings,” he said. “There are some very impressive buildings. Nevertheless, there are many interesting things to be seen here.”

  “To observe and to paint.”

  “Yes.”

  “He likes the loneliness,” said Petra.

  “Really?”

  “There is an atmosphere to appreciate.”

  “Ah, yes. And you come by yourself?”

  “Yes, I do. I am staying at the inn, in town.”

  “That’s good. And you are from the United States?” She spoke of it as if it were another country.

  “From the state of Ohio.”

  “Is your family there?”

  “A sister, nothing more. My parents passed away a while back.”

  “Do you not have a family yourself—no children?”

  “Not yet.”

  She smiled in an expression of sympathy, and with a nod of the head she said, “Then you are alone.”

  “For now. I am used to it. It is convenient for my work.” Devon reflected on her conversation. She showed the usual interest in family, but as she asked the same questions her husband had, Devon interpreted that Don Felipe must not have chosen to say much about his own impressions.

  “You are young yet. At some future time you can form a household.”

  “Thank you. I hope it is so.” He ran a quick calculation. From the looks of the portrait, which would have treated its subject well, the late Vicente would have been over sixty, which would have put him around fifty when Petra was born. By comparison, he himself was young, even though at thirty-five he felt the danger that life was going to pass him by.

  “He is still looking,” said Petra, “to find his art.”

  Emilia smiled, as if it didn’t matter whether she understood the full import of what her daughter had said.

  “Explain,” said Petra. “She is interested.”

  Devon hesitated. “Well, there is an idea that a man should make his mark in life. There is a saying that he should plant a tree, have a son, and write a good book. It is not said in what order. For me, it seems that I must settle some questions about my work and then tend to the hearth. Of course, I am not a writer, so the equivalent of a book would be a realized work, perhaps a major painting on display in a public place. But I need to gather my forces to do that.”

  “And the tree?” asked Emilia, still with her kind smile.

  “Oh, I have planted several. I have done various kinds of work.” He looked at Petra, as if he were now confessing. “I have tried to be an artist, but I have had to earn my own living.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” said Emilia. “Better than being a conchudo, like my nephew Carlos. He has never worked.”

  “And probably never will,” Petra added. “But we care for him very much.”

  “Of course,” said her mother.

  The door of the house opened, and Consuelo, who had been standing a few feet behind Emilia, moved aside as the master of the rancho, already wearing his wide hat, stepped forward and closed the door behind him. His spurs clinked as he walked across the paving stones and stood between his wife and his stepdaughter. He drew himself up to his full height, in an attitude of towering over those who were seated. Petra, without looking at him, shifted in her seat so that she had more of her back to him. The movement did not seem to faze Don Felipe, who raised a cigarette to his lips and took a drag.

  “You know the artist?” asked Emilia, looking up at him.

  Devon now saw a trace of sadness, or perhaps apology, in her eyes. He was struck with the inequity between husband and wife, even though they would be about the same age, somewhere around forty-five, and she had given the man his present status.

  The master smiled, but his eyes did not soften above the high cheekbones. “Yes. Earlier in the day. And how did you find the church? Agreeable?”

  “Yes, very satisfactory. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  Emilia, looking up again with a submissive expression, said, “Perhaps the artist could do a portrait of you, Felipe.”

  Another smile, and a twitch of the dark mustache. “I do not think I would be a worthy subject for such an effort.”

  The two women looked at Devon, who said, “I do not have much skill at that sort of picture. I would be afraid I could not do justice to the gentleman.”

  Don Felipe smiled again, this time with more humor. “I would be too hard on your patience. Better for both of us this way.” Then, excusing himself, he went out through the portal, his spurs clinking and the quirt swaying from his pistol hammer as a cloud of smoke trailed over his shoulder.

  “Is it true,” said Emilia, now turning to Devon, “that you do not do portraits?”

  “I have not found any talent for that.”

  “Not even for a picture of my mother?” asked Petra.

  Devon smiled to Emilia, who now looked embarrassed. “Do not fear. I will not subject anyone to my inadequate treatment.”

  “You are too modest,” she answered.

  “You are too kind.” As he said it, he saw the same trace he had seen earlier but could not identify—a mixture of apology and suffering, or an expression of inadequacy for not having done well enough and not being able to make amends. In that in
stant he admitted to himself that he would never be able to capture such an essence in a painting. Much better to stick to landscapes and still lifes.

  Consuelo returned to stand a few feet in back of her mistress. “Do you wish to take something, señora?”

  Emilia, recovering some of the grace she had shown before her husband appeared, showed her pretty white teeth as she smiled to her guest. “What would you like, sir? Something cool? Awater?”

  By that, Devon knew she meant a flavored water, probably with fruit. “That would be fine.”

  “Very well, Consuelo. A water of peach.”

  When the shadows had lengthened and the pitcher was almost empty, Devon thanked his hostesses and said he must be leaving.

  “It is very fine that you come and visit,” said Emilia as she stood and took his hand. “You are always welcome at this house.”

  “Thank you.” He turned to Petra. “And thank you.”

  “My mother is sincere when she says you are always welcome. We hope you come again soon.”

  “It will be my pleasure.” Warmed by their grace and hospitality, Devon took leave and made his way to the portal. There, hanging near the door to the house, was a wicker cage with a white dove inside. Petra must have mentioned it to Consuelo at some moment. It was a nice touch.

  He walked out into the enclosed area in front, where his horse stood at the hitching rail. Don Fe-lipe must have finished his lesson with the gray horse and the sack of grain, for the rest of the yard was vacant.

  Devon led his horse to the stone trough for a drink, then tightened the cinch and mounted up. He pulled his hat brim down against the afternoon sun and put the horse into a walk. A light breeze riffled through the cottonwood leaves, and a few flecks of sunlight played on the pool of dark water. When he looked forward again, the gatekeeper had appeared and was opening the gate.

  As Devon rode out onto the plains, he tried again to fathom the expression on Emilia’s face. She had not always looked like that, he was sure—not when she was a young and pretty widow some ten years earlier, before the later changes came to Rancho Agua Prieta.

  Chapter Four

  The dining room had the same subdued atmosphere as the evening before. At the edge of the soft light of the two oil lamps, the Virgin of Guadalupe held her benign pose on the wall, and beyond the suffused glow, the pale, smallish parrot gave an occasional cluck and shifted its position. Devon did not hurry with his meal, which consisted of rice, beans, and boiled stringy beef with red chile. He told himself again that this was what he had come for—to take things in slowly, appreciate them, and let the effects settle in.

  After a day in the sunlight and dry air and then a washbasin of warm water, his face felt clean and tight. He had drunk over a quart of water, and that effect, too, was taking its time to sink in. He wasn’t thirsty, but as often happened when he went on a long horseback or carriage ride, he felt like satisfying himself with a beer. Even that was a deliberate idea.

  It was an odd sensation, he thought, to feel as if he was being restored when he hadn’t been through any major ordeals to exhaust him. He had known men who, after a rigorous course of study, or a pro longed business failure, or a disastrous love affair, had felt the need to go away and stare at a lake, hover on the edge of the company of women, or enlist in a war. From the time he had set out on this venture he knew he wasn’t putting anything behind him or nursing any sorrows that he carried along. Yet he felt he was like those men, in that he needed to push himself out of his torpid state. Coming to this insular world was as good an idea as any other, and better than going to sit in sidewalk cafés in foreign cities, but he wondered if he was attuned. The church ruins were interesting but had not called up any spark; Petra was young and pretty, but on both occasions he felt as if he was talking to her through a thick plate of glass.

  He tore off a third of a corn tortilla, curled it, and picked up a bite of meat and beans. Now that he thought of it, there had been a couple of things that had awakened some feeling. One was the solitude, the lovely sadness, as Petra had put it, of being alone in the vast openness where so many people and things had passed into eternity. The other was the thought, or speculation, of what Emilia might have been like just ten years earlier, when she was the age that he was now, and of what might have caused her to take on the haunted look of a latter-day Jocasta.

  In the more congenial atmosphere of the cantina, Devon relaxed with a glass of beer in front of him. The objects hanging on the wall—the thick spurs, the rattlesnake skin, the coiled bullwhip—lent a familiar tone to the place. Lalo, the round-shouldered bartender, did not offer much conversation to Devon, but he was outgoing with the other patrons, clapping them on the shoulder and exchanging lively comments as he served their drinks. Devon could not catch the drift of their remarks, but he appreciated the good humor.

  Juanito, the blind singer, looked very much as he did the evening before, with his drab clothes and straight hair looking one day farther along since the last bath and clean-up. The stubble on his chin, likewise, suggested that soap and the razor touched his skin about once a week. Devon noticed that his sleeves were dirty, as if he had been leaning on grimy surfaces, and his fingernails were as dirty as a blacksmith’s.

  He played a song that Devon recognized from the evening before, a mournful ballad with a waltz rhythm, the kind called a corrido. It praised the brave horses that men rode into battle, and the patrons at the bar sang along. Rifle balls, cannon shot, valiant horses, dying for the patria—Devon did not knowif itwent back to the battles inwhich Juárez regained control from Maximilian, or to the war with the U.S., or to some idealized war. The past era itself did not seem to matter asmuch as the glory that was carried on in the song. From pictures Devon had seen and from accounts he had read, most of the soldiers went on foot, and many of them wore partial uniforms and peasant clothing, but in the song they were mounted, with rifle and pistol and saber, riding great-hearted horses into the maw of battle.

  Devon had not yet finished his first glass of beer when Carlos came in. He stopped to shake hands and exchange greetings with the other patrons and to get clapped on the shoulder by Lalo the bartender. Carlos said something with a jaunty toss of the head, and jolly laughter rippled through the little group. Then Carlos moved down the bar.

  Devon noticed he was wearing the same brown corduroy jacket and trousers as the evening before, and the white shirt did not look freshly laundered. The man was clean-shaven, however, and his expressive brown eyes were clear. His wavy hair was combed in place, and his drooping mustache, of a matching chestnut tone, was tidy and clean.

  Before calling for a drink, Carlos shook Devon’s hand and patted him on the forearm, at the same time telling him what a pleasure it was to see him again. Then he signaled to the bartender and accepted the shot glass and bottle. He positioned the glass and poured a shot, all in a measured style suggesting that there was a form to be followed. He set the bottle on the bar top, rotated it a quarter-turn, and pushed it back a couple of inches. He did not touch the shot glass until he was done with the bottle; then he hoisted the copita and took a sip.

  “Did you go out today?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did. I went to the rancho, and Don Felipe gave me permission to visit the church.”

  “Ah, how good. And did you find it to your liking?”

  “Oh, yes. Interesting. And calm. All very quiet.”

  “It is very good that they treat you well.”

  “Yes. I also met your cousin, and her mother, your aunt.”

  “Very gracious, my aunt.”

  “Indeed. And very courteous.”

  “And my cousin, did she look well?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “It has been a while since I have seen them.”

  “Perhaps they would enjoy the visit.”

  Carlos gave a sigh. “It would be nice, but things are not as they used to be at the rancho, in the time of Don Vicente.”

  “Yes, that can be seen. It h
as its own atmosphere now.”

  “Very serious.”

  “Your uncle seems quite dedicated to his horses.”

  “It is a great afición for him.”

  “I also met his mayor-domo, or caporal, as I heard him referred to. It was he who showed me how to find the church.”

  Carlos lifted the glass in his deliberate way and took another sip of tequila. “Oh, yes. Alfonso.”

  Devon appreciated the noncommittal tone in Carlos’s comments about the step-uncle and the foreman. “I wonder if you can tell me,” he began, “about a curious little thing I saw.”

  Carlos raised his eyebrows. “Maybe I can. What is it?”

  “This foreman, Alfonso, uses a saddle that has something odd. The pommel, which seems to be of wood, has been sculpted or worked so that it looks like a human face—more like a skull.”

  “Oh, yes,” answered Carlos, in the comfortable tone that anyone might use in talking about local customs. “It is an idea that some of these men have. Men who do not have a war to go to but would like to defeat their enemies.”

  “Really?”

  “It is an idea from the Chinese. Some of them, according to legend, mounted the actual skull of an enemy on the head of the saddle, and then it became the custom to put on smaller models. Symbolic ones.”

  “Huh. Do you think this fellow Alfonso is dangerous, then?”

  “Probably not. I think he’s more of a show-off, a kind of braggart or bully.”

  “He’s a good horseman.”

  “Oh, no doubt. If he were a common peon, they wouldn’t let him get on a horse.”

  “They?”

  Carlos seemed to hesitate at bringing out the word. “My uncle. He who is married to my aunt.”

  “Oh, yes. And as far as that goes, he seems like a bit of a show-off himself.”

  “That he is, for sure.”

  “He doesn’t need to put a little skull on his saddle.”

  “No, he has all the authority he wants.”

  “And, of course, he uses a different kind of saddle.”

  “He has several, but yes, his favorite style has a different kind of pommel.”