Back at his study, he returned to wondering whether Petra would show up today. Alternating with that hopeful thought was the worry that Don Felipe might come by and, still transferring his jealousy to any possible pretendiente, might be less hospitable than before. By now Alfonso would have learned that Devon was continuing his friendship with Carlos, and if he passed that information on to Don Felipe, the master might decide, on a whim, that he didn’t need to patronize the arts anymore.
At mid-morning, shortly after Devon noticed the first two ravens settling down where he had left the snake, he heard the clop of hooves and the creak of the buggy. Going to the window on the opposite side, he saw Petra once again beneath the canopy of the carriage. He hiked himself up and over the window ledge to meet her.
Gray-haired Miguel remained in his seat, so Devon walked over to the buggy. “Buenos días,” he said.
“Buenos días,” she answered. “I do not want to take up much of your time this morning, when you are so engaged in your work.”
Devon noted how she phrased it this time. “Not at all,” he said.
“But my mother and I are sorry not to have a complete meal or a satisfactory visit yesterday, and we would like to invite you to come again today, if you can accept.”
“Will it not displease the master of the rancho?”
She made a light puffing sound, then said, “My mother has expressed her displeasure at not being able to receive you properly yesterday, as well as her wish to make amends today.”
“I appreciate that. However, he gave me to understand yesterday afternoon that I was welcome principally to pursue my interests here at the church.”
She made the dismissive puh sound again. “Have no worry. You will be welcome, as always, if you choose to accept.”
“Of course I do. It is very gracious and kind.”
Her eyes flashed in the interior of the buggy. Then she leaned forward, showing yet another pair of hard, glossy red earrings. She held forth her gloved hand. “You are the kind one,” she said, “to change your schedule two days in a row, especially in view of the unpleasant scene yesterday.”
He smiled as he took her hand and released it. “I think very little of it, as it was so long ago.”
She gave a light laugh. “Thank you. My mother will be happy to know we can expect you.” She sat back in her seat.
Devon stepped aside and watched as the buggy turned and rolled away, lifting wisps of dust and fragments of dry grass. Shewas a plucky one, all right.
As Devon approached the stone gateway of Rancho Agua Prieta, the most prominent features presented themselves now as familiar sights. The dark pool on his left appeared to be resting in the shade of the cottonwoods, and the long, low roof of the stables looked solid and timeless. A hired man emerged from the small-leafed trees behind the stone wall on the right and swung the gate inward. Devon touched his hat as he rode past.
All along the row of stables, horses came to the open upper doors and looked out. A couple of them neighed. Ahead on the left, the snubbing post stood unoccupied again, and around closer on the left, no movement appeared outside the bunkhouse or the blacksmith shop. At the other end of the parade ground, the doors to the carriage room and the tack room were both closed, as were the double doors to the portal. Devon rode his horse to the stone water trough, where he dismounted as usual, loosened the cinch, and let the animal drink.
As had happened on his first visit, he thought he heard a peacock cry. He had not seen any of the birds—not on the roof of the buildings, where they might like to perch, and not strutting around in the yard—nor had he seen feathers or droppings anywhere. Furthermore, he had the general sense that peacocks cried more in the mornings and evenings than at midday, which made him think it might be some other sound he heard, but he did not dismiss the possibility that one or more lived at the rancho.
He tied the horse at the hitching rail and knocked on the doorway that was set into the portón, or large door. Expecting to be met by Consuelo, he was surprised when the door opened upon the younger and radiant Petra.
“Come in,” she said, opening the door further and standing back. She was wearing a dark blue dress, open at the throat, and he could see the top of her silver cross.
“Thank you.” Devon took off his hat and passed through the doorway.
“The weather is not too hot yet?”
“Just a little,” he said, fanning himself once with the hat.
She led the way to the entry to the house. “Come along,” she said. “It is cooler inside.”
Raising his eyebrows, he followed.
Inside, he and Petra waited on a slate entryway area as Doña Emilia rose from a couch and came toward them, her hands in front of her at waist level in an open gesture.
“How nice of you to come, señor artista,” she said, with her soft brown eyes meeting his.
“The pleasure is mine.” He touched both her hands and let go.
“Let us sit down.” She swept her hand toward two couches and an armchair. “Dinner will be soon.”
Consuelo emerged from behind the lady and took Devon’s hat. He glanced around and chose a seat at the end of a leather couch. Petra and her mother sat on the other, facing him.
He smiled and looked around. The main walls of the house were of thick adobe, which accounted for the cooler temperature, and the interior structure was done in heavy posts and beams. At the end of the other couch, a square post rose up from a trapezoidal base for about seven feet. At its top, another trapezoidal figure, longer than the one below, sat long-side-up as it rested on the post like a capital. Running lengthwise with it and overlapping on it in over-and-under notches were two square beams about six inches by eight. Upon the main beams lay a series of crossbeams, and upon them lay close-fitted, varnished planks.
Lowering his gaze, he met the pleasant expression of Doña Emilia. Her dark hair was combed back and ridged up as before, and her neat hairline made a pretty contrast with her pale complexion. She was dressed again in a white blouse, black jacket, and dark skirt, and when she smiled, Devon appreciated her white, even teeth. Her face seemed relaxed, with less of the haunted look he thought he had seen before.
“And how does your art progress?” she asked.
“Well enough, I believe. I do things in parts or pieces, rather than try to do one large work in its entirety. Later, I will see how to put things together.”
“It can be seen that you know your art and how to practice it.”
“I cannot predict that it will be any good at all.”
Petra spoke up. “The artist is very modest, mama. Always. My father would hold him in esteem, don’t you think?”
Emilia showed a trace of pain as she smiled. “I’m sure.”
“Excuse me for changing the subject,” said Devon. “But it seemed to me that I heard the cry of a peacock when I was outside. But I have not seen any of the birds. Are there some?”
The lady’s kind expression resumed. “Miguel keeps a few of them in a large cage. Out back, near the orchard. I think he has three. There used to be more, but Felipe doesn’t like them very much, so he has them penned up.”
Consuelo appeared from an adjoining room and announced that dinner was ready. Devon arose and followed the two ladies. In the dining room a long dark table was flanked by two high-backed chairs on each side and one at each end. Petra sat at the far end and indicated for Devon to sit at the side on her right. Emilia sat opposite him. Devon looked at the other place setting and wondered if Petra had deigned to sit at the same table as Don Felipe. Then he looked at mother and daughter, who were both smiling.
A minute later, Devon heard the heavy fall of boot heels and the clinking of spurs. Don Felipe appeared in the doorway, dressed in his embroidered black outfit and still wearing his pistol and his wide-brimmed sombrero.
Devon rose to say hello.
“Sit down,” said the master, using the formal mode as always, for courtesy. He took off his hat and hung it on
the knob of the chair that sat between Devon’s place and his.
Emilia turned her smile toward her husband. “It is so good that the artist is able to join us today.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And also,” she continued, smiling now at Petra and then at Devon, “that we are all seated together. As a family, we do not always take our meals together.”
Devon stole a glance at Petra, who was smiling with what seemed like exaggerated innocence. Then from the corner of his eye he observed Don Felipe, who was scowling at the salt shaker. Devon thought the scene might be comical until he saw Don Felipe raise his eyes and take an appraising view of Petra, whose expression quickly turned to one of disdain. Don Felipe’s eyes fell to the salt shaker again.
Consuelo came in with two bowls of soup, which she set down in front of the two ladies. She left and came back with two more for the men. With no comment, the four of them picked up their spoons and began the meal.
Devon gave his attention to the taste of the soup, which seemed to be made from diced potatoes and bits of dried meat. He liked the taste of the black pepper.
Petra’s voice came out in a cheery tone. “This is one of Consuelo’s best soups. How good that she serves it when the artist is here.” She directed her smile at him. “It will help you remember the best things about us.”
Devon nodded, then glanced at Don Felipe, who had a sullen cast to his face as he kept his eyes lowered.
Petra turned now to her mother. “We don’t know how long he will be with us, so we must treat him well when we can. Aman of talent and intelligence—you were right about that, Mama, although he is always very modest.”
Devon looked at his own bowl.
“Do you think we could persuade him,” Petra went on, “to stay longer? He could do your portrait.”
“Oh, he should do yours,” said Emilia in a teasing voice.
“Only to practice. What do you think, señor artista? Could you do it?”
Devon cleared his throat. “It is not my best skill, as I said the other day. I have done very few portraits, and they have not come out well. Not in my opinion.”
“You could practice with Petra,” said the mother.
“Yes,” said the daughter. “And then you could turn your real talent to a worthy topic. Don’t you think my mother is beautiful, señor artista? ”
“Well, of course.” Devon could feel Don Felipe’s glare as, in response to Petra’s question, he looked across the table to give Emilia a most perfunctory smile. His glance fell on the silver cross that lay on her blouse, and the sight of it put him at ease.
“Then how can you resist?” Petra continued. “You can do mine first, as she suggests. I will sit motionless for days.” She held her head up with her lips in a pout. “You will say it is terrible, and I will say fine. We will tear it up, burn it. Then you will do one ofmy mother. You will say you cannot. We will insist. Then you will give in, and you will find it easy. Simple. The beauty, the grace, the perfection will inspire you.”
“You are very cheerful,” said Devon. “I am sure you do not make light of me, for it is all in praise of your mother, but I am also sure I could not do it.”
“Can’t you see,” came the stern voice of Don Fe-lipe, “that he doesn’t want to?”
Petra, still in her airy voice, responded, “Oh, but I hope to convince him.”
“He says the same thing he said the other day.”
“Yes, but thatwaswhen you said youwould not be a worthy subject. Youmust agree that such could not be the case with my mother. She is most worthy, and she would bring out the best of the artist’s talent.”
Don Felipe gave a nod of recognition toward his wife. “Of course she is most worthy. But it would be very discourteous to make the artist feel as if it were an obligation.”
Petra smiled again at Devon. “It is his modesty only. Is it not?”
“I do believe,” he answered, “in all honesty, that I lack the talent.”
“As I said, pure modesty. But set the beautiful woman before you, with no distractions, and the result would be a marvel.”
Devon smiled again at Emilia, this time with less restraint. “All that your daughter says is true, except that I would have the talent. I beg you to believe me that I would be very clumsy, and it would embarrass me, in spite of the excellent model.”
“Do not fear,” said the gracious lady. “Nobody is going to ask you to do something that would make you feel uncomfortable.”
Devon nodded in appreciation.
“I’m not done yet,” said Petra, still in her laughing tone. “But we’ll let this topic go for the time being.”
Consuelo took away the soup bowls two at a time and on the return trip replaced them with plates of chicken and rice. As Devon set about using his knife and fork to separate the thigh meat from its bone, Petra’s voice came up again.”
“Please tell us, señor artista, do you hunt birds where you live?”
Devon paused to think of the right words for his answer. “I have hunted ducks, and a small bird, smaller than a pigeon or a dove. About this size.” He held up his closed fist.
“Codorniz,” said Don Felipe.
“Is that what it is?” asked Petra.
“A small bird,” Devon went on. “It runs on the ground, and it flies.”
“Codorniz,” repeated the master, this time raising his head and giving a hard stare.
“How do you call it in English?” Petra asked.
“It is called quail.”
“And how do you hunt them?” she continued.
“With a shotgun,” Don Felipe answered.
“Yes, with a shotgun.”
“Ducks and quail both?” asked Emilia.
“Yes. The little pellets disperse.” Devon sprayed out his fingers to illustrate the idea.
“I’ve eaten duck,” said Emilia. “It is very good.”
“Oh, I would love to have duck again,” Petra put in. “Perhaps you could bring me some. Do you shoot many?”
“It is very far.”
She smiled. “Oh, yes. And how do you cook the quail?”
“In a sauce, usually. One needs several to make a meal.”
“Like the tórtola,” said Don Felipe.
Devon looked up, and Emilia must have caught his uncertain look, for she said, “The gray dove.”
He nodded.
“How interesting,” Petra continued. “Is it true that some men hunt only for sport, that they do not eat what they hunt?”
“I believe so. They give it away.”
“To the servants.”
Devon shrugged. “To them, or to friends, or to the poor people.”
“Ah, yes.” After a pause she added, “So are you good with the shotgun?”
“Normal. I don’t go out very much.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m sure you are very good, and you are being modest again. Don’t you think so, Mama?”
“Maybe.”
After the chicken and rice, Consuelo brought out a flan, or custard. Don Felipe finished his in no time and lit a cigarette, while Devon, following the example of the women, carved off a little at a time with his spoon.
“I am very interested in your customs,” Petra began. “Do you go to the theater?”
“At times. Especially if I am in a larger city.”
“Oh, I just love the theater. And the opera? Do you go to hear it?”
“Not so much. More the theater.”
“And museums?”
“I go to see art exhibits, and sometimes historical ones.”
“Historical?”
“Yes, artifacts from earlier times. Some exhibits travel. For example, there was one of the Spanish. Uniforms, helmets, swords, that sort of thing. And another of findings from Egypt.”
“I was in a museum once. My father took me when we were in the Republic. It was a museum that was dedicated to birds. All birds. Many beautiful ones—tropical parrots and other curious things, in very pret
ty colors. Some of them were two, three, four, all the same.”
“There are museums of that kind, also. Natural history. Even unto fishes and snakes.” He glanced at Don Felipe, who registered no response behind his cloud of smoke.
“And when you go, do you go alone?”
“Sometimes.”
“You go with girls, don’t you? With ladies. Oh, I’m sorry. That is an indiscreet question.”
“No, that’s all right. I’m not that delicate.”
She narrowed her eyes again as she paused with a dab of custard on the tip of her spoon. “I imagine you have many girls who go after you.”
He laughed. “No, not really.”
“Oh, yes,” she teased. “You are being modest again. You don’t want to say. But you, with your blond hair and blue eyes, I’m sure there are many who look for you.”
Devon did not consider his sandy hair to be blond, but he did not think it was anything to contradict. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think so, Mama? With blond hair and blue eyes, all the girls look for him?”
“Maybe.”
“They don’t insist very much,” he said.
“You didn’t leave any sad ones waiting for you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And you’re not running from any?” She gave him a playful look.
“Not that I know of.”
“Then maybe you did not come here just to look at old churches.”
“I came here to see all the wonders of landscapes, vistas, and sad old ruins.”
“And to paint only those things.” She put her lips into a pout again.
“I see we’re back to that topic.”
“Perhaps we are. I thought perhaps you did not want to do a portrait of a lady because you were afraid someone would be jealous.”
“Oh, no. Even if there were someone, my art is my own.”
Petra laid her pretty hand on the table between them. “That is good. I may convince you yet—you of the pretty blue eyes—to do a portrait of a subject worthy of your art.”
Death at Dark Water Page 12