Dear Conquistador

by Margery Hilton

  ‘I haven’t,’ Hilary admitted wryly. ‘I’m too pale and pink.’ ‘Nonsense.’ Juanita refused to listen to protests. Obviously she had decided that Hilary was to don the Spanish dress and no other. She took infinite pains to ensure that the accessories should be right, insisting on a shopping trip into town to select new shoes and then wheedled the loan of an exquisite black and silver lace fan from Dona Elena. Two nights before the family’s departure to Huaroya she held a private dress rehearsal and skilfully evolved a new hairstyle for Hilary, using innumerable small jewelled combs, also bought during the shopping trip. Finally, the dress on, she showed Hilary how to hold and use the fan, then she stood back to survey her handiwork.

  Certainly she had wrought a transformation.

  Hilary gazed at herself in the big mirror and wondered if the radiant vision in white and silver and black really was the pale and pink Hilary Martin. A close scrutiny would have discerned the wistfulness about the soft mouth and the shadowy hint of sadness in the hazel eyes, but Juanita was too intent on achieving the picture she had in her mind of how Hilary should look. She walked round, frowning, then gave a satisfied nod.

  ‘Si! You are beautiful. Not pale and pink. In fact you are very beautiful. Every man at the fiesta will fall in love with you.’

  Hilary shook her head as she began to divest herself of the finery. There was one man who would be immune to the results of Juanita’s handiwork ... the only man who mattered, she thought sadly.

  Despite herself, however, she felt her spirits lighten and her imagination caught by the excitement infecting everyone as the day of departure neared. They were flying to Huaroya, a mere two-hour flight over a distance that would entail two days of tortuous journeying by road. They were to meet the party from the Verdano Valley at the airport, and when they set off Hilary experienced a sudden sense of release.

  It had been very difficult to maintain a cool and aloof air on the occasions when she encountered the Conde within the bounds of the villa, and now, with the feeling that she could lose herself in a crowd, she realized how great had been the strain.

  Bruce Gilford was with the Navarre crowd, as were Don Miguel and several others Hilary remembered from that first week-end. It seemed so long ago yet it was only weeks, she thought inconsequently as she instinctively made towards Bruce.

  Perhaps her greeting was a little unguarded in its warmth, betraying that she could relax in his company and use that companionship as a shield. He gripped her shoulders, held them an instant before his hands dropped, and his eyes teased. ‘Hey! You’re glad to see me - I guess I’ll have to cancel dates a bit oftener if this is the result.’

  ‘Hi, amigo!’ Joaquin swaggered between them, and Bruce solemnly shook the small outstretched hand, slapping young Joaquin’s shoulder with a man-to-man gesture.

  ‘Joaquin!’ The Conde’s summons rang rather chill, and reluctantly the little boy obeyed, falling in with the straggling group boarding the plane.

  The party occupied most of the accommodation aboard the aircraft, and as soon as they were settled comfortably the sliding doors were closed to screen them from the other travellers at the rear. When they were airborne champagne was served to the Conde’s guests and by the time the plane skimmed down to the tiny airport at Huaroya most of the guests had forgotten restraint. Only Sanchia retained a subdued air, and Ramon’s gaiety seemed rather forced.

  Then Hilary forgot them and her own concerns for a while as new sights and scenes unfolded. Cars were waiting to drive the party to the Pacquera hacienda and in a very short time they were on their way through the fascinating old town. Its narrow streets were a blend of the ancient grey stone of Inca masonry and the flamboyant baroque of Spanish colonial. The cars were forced to crawl at times, hindered by plodding mules, heavily laden, overflowing carts and the market women with their baskets. There were disdainful llamas in the charge of an impatient small boy, girls wearing bright ponchos and stiff scarlet bowler hats carried sheaves of barley, and a solemn-eyed baby peeped from the wool shawl in which he rode, slung from his mother’s back.

  The narrow street widened suddenly into a square dominated by the magnificent carved facade of a church, the gilded dome of its campanario gleaming in the brilliant golden sunlight, and then the houses closed in again, so close that their overhanging balconies were within fingertip-touching distance overhead. They in their turn gave way to low wattle-daubed houses with scarlet-tiled roofs, and then the town was left behind and the cars began to speed down the road to the hacienda.

  When Hilary had thought of it she had pictured a simpler, more rural dwelling than the ornate luxury villa in Lima’s most exclusive suburb and when a twist of the road afforded her her first glimpse of the hacienda she gave a small exclamation of pleasure. It lay in a deep green fold nestled amid the hills, and it looked enormous. An ancient stone arch supported scrolled iron gates and framed the landscaped gardens and the long low shape of the house itself. She glimpsed green shutters against cool white walls, a deeply recessed entrance of dark studded timber within coloured brick nogging, and the cloistered terrace shaded under the overhang of mellowed red pantiles. Then the cars drove round the side and into a courtyard of old cobbles polished to bluish copper tones by age. And suddenly the place seemed alive with children.

  Joyous cries came from them, and their little brown faces rounded with welcome. ‘El compadre!’ babbled the voices, and the Conde was encircled by the small bouncing figures and eagerly outstretched hands. They fought to be the nearest when he picked up the tiniest mite and swung it aloft, and squabbled to carry his small leather personal case.

  ‘Their beloved patron has arrived,’ Bruce said somewhat cynically in Hilary’s ear. ‘ Such feudal philanthropy! ’

  Hilary made no reply. During those brief moments she had glimpsed a facet of the man she had not previously known. Among the children his usually austere features had softened to a tenderness she would not have believed he possessed.

  The memory of the small incident kept returning as the hours passed and she gradually found her way about the hacienda. There was no trace of the poverty and oppression she had been half prepared to see among the Indian workers on the estate. The men wore the air of simple dignity that spoke of pride and achievement in their work, the women looked contented and their babies plump and well cared for. Although it was holiday time the air of wellbeing did not seem to be a false impression engendered by a festive occasion.

  Finding herself alone later that afternoon, Hilary strolled idly through the gardens and down to the main gate. An outcrop of sun warmed stone a little way down the winding road provided a natural seat from where she could see the cluster of neat little homes down the valley where the hacienda workers lived. Nearby was the big open area where some of the festivities would take place the next day, and already the women and girls were at work decorating their float.

  The sounds of their excited preparations came clearly across the distance, and from somewhere unseen drifted the thin high notes of a flute. There was something hypnotic in the soft reedy melody and Hilary sat very still, the hot golden sun haze bathing her bare arms and head with languorous warmth. She did not hear the slow footfalls approach behind her and the long black shadow cast a sudden coolness across her an instant before the voice brought her to startled alertness.

  ‘You are looking forward to the festivities, senorita?’

  She raised her eyes to the dark imperious features and clenched her hands to stop the quivering that seized them like an ague.

  ‘Very much, senor,’ she responded formally.

  She thought she saw a flicker of anger glint in the full-lidded eyes but thought she must have imagined it, for he changed his stance and with the movement his eyes came out of the shadow. Their scrutiny was quite open on her upturned face in its frame of soft ruffled hair, and the slender, tightly clasped hands. To her dismay she felt the blushing tide of colour steal into her cheeks and almost jerked her head away.

 
; ‘I think we have surprised you today,’ he said suavely.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Let us walk, senorita.’ For the moment he evaded her sharp retort and held out his hand to help her from her perch.

  She tried to avoid it as she slipped off the worn old stone, but his hand caught her wrist and held it until she regained the smoother footing of the verge. When he released her she experienced the strange sensation of her wrist being the only part of her that was fully alive.

  The path he indicated led round the outer boundary of the hacienda for quite some distance. He remained silent until they came to a small gate and another well trod path to a new-looking single-story building with wide windows and flowering shrubs in gay-coloured pots dotted along its broad veranda. The Conde stopped at the door and it gave to his touch.

  Puzzlement parting her mouth, Hilary obeyed his gesture and slowly entered. She saw small chairs and low tables, bright pictures pinned along the walls, neat piles of books on low shelves - and a long blackboard on the wall at the far end of the airy room.

  ‘This is our new school.’ He was pacing with long leisurely strides, pausing by a particular section of the children’s paintings. ‘What do you think of our promising young artists?’

  ‘They’re very good.’ She studied the bold colours of the paintings, their subject matter instantly recognizable and uncluttered, as seen with the directness of a child’s vision. ‘I did not know you had a school here, senor.’

  ‘We opened it five years ago, and built this larger extension last year.’ He watched her move away to examine the colourful examples of traditional handwork with which the children had decorated their schoolroom. He came to look over her shoulder. ‘I suspect you are surprised again, Hilary.’

  Her lashes dropped to shield her glance and she made no reply, recalling again the spontaneous welcome from the children when he arrived. The memory of his tenderness with them evoked a tenderness in her own heart, one which she must not betray. She sensed rather than saw him pick up a clay model of a llama, then put it down before he said coolly:

  ‘This is your first glimpse of our more remote country. We are now on the eastern side of the Andes, in the heart of the Indios’ country, as far from Lima in character as from the moon.’ He moved on a pace, then turned to face her. ‘I realized right at the beginning that you had done your homework pretty thoroughly, and that today you were prepared to see semi-starving peons, coco-chewing Indios eking out their miserable lives as they toil to expand the wealth of the grasping hacendados. Is that not so, senorita?’

  The sardonic note in his voice stung her, more than the fact that he had come dangerously near the truth with his surmise. She said sharply: ‘These conditions do exist, senor. The Indian has been exploited for centuries - ever since the Conquistadors took his land. I have seen the barriadas on the hills outside Lima, where they come to seek work and strive to make homes out of nothing. And the indenture system is infamous,’ she added hotly.

  ‘I do not dispute it, even though some of us are endeavouring to become a little more enlightened,’ he said sarcastically. ‘On certain haciendas the experiment of cooperacion is proving most successful, and the Agrarian Reform Bill was a major step towards our aims.’

  He touched her arm and turned to leave. As they retraced their steps she sensed the subtle shift in his mood and by the time they reached the cool violet shadows of the cenador Hilary’s brief spate of defiance had flown. The slumbrous air of evening was already stealing across the golden-hazed garden, and the scents of roses and jasmine drifted to enchant the senses.

  The Conde raised one hand to the looping tendrils of the heavy vine enlacing the sun-blackened old timber supports until she had passed, and the heady scent of the sap rising in the thick stems came to tantalize her nostrils. His jacket brushed her arm, fleetingly, yet enough to bring the shiver of contact. A sigh trembled in her throat, making unsteady her soft murmur acknowledging his courtesy. The spell of the man had enfolded her again, reminding her of her helplessness to contain her errant responses to his every mood. The sigh escaped her as he paused, his profile aquiline against the golden sky beyond the dark vine, and said quietly:

  ‘But you must know, pequena, that even with the best will in the world we can’t put rich arable soil where it can never exist.’ He turned his head and the dark regard falling on her face was a warm, physical sensation. ‘Our mountains are inhospitable and our deserts barren, but one day our will shall prevail against poverty.’

  ‘There is so much,’ she sighed.

  For a moment he looked down at her, then the sights and sounds of other people within the house spilled through the open doorway, breaking the strange little circle of understanding they had shared, and suddenly he smiled. ‘Run along - you will want to make ready for the fiesta. It will soon be here.’

  ‘Yes, senor ... it will.’ Almost like a child she turned at his bidding and ran indoors.

  His smile stayed with her as she went to her room to shower and change for the evening meal, and even though the pattern of the evening’s sociality allowed her only two brief moments of casual contact with him a pulsating glow of happiness lived buoyantly within her until she fell asleep that night. It was still there, warm and secret beyond analysis, when the fiesta began its reign next morning. Even the superb confidence of Consuelo could not rob her of her gladness that the dark mood of the past two weeks was at last dispelled. She did not have to avoid him any longer; she did not have to fear that he still held anger for her sympathy with his niece ...

  He was the single dominant motif for Hilary during the kaleidoscope of colour and impressions that crowded the senses that memorable day. Afterwards she retained many vivid isolated memories, even as others blurred and were forgotten almost instantly afterwards. She could not remember the ride down to the town or where the house was with the broad carved balcony on which she stood with several of the others watching the colourful procession wend its way along the narrow cobbled street below. She remembered the float passing, and Joaquin throwing stream after stream of coloured ticker-tape, but she could not remember whose voice it was who told her that the two players enthroned on the flower-bedecked float represented Manco Capac, the first Inca ruler, and his queen.

  Later came the performance by the masked dancers. The sun blazed down on the bizarre ensemble, glittering on the silver decoration and gaudy beadwork encrusting the dancers’ costumes. Their fantastic headdresses swayed and dipped, and the painted masks seemed to take on a strange travesty of human expression as the dance worked up to a frenzied climax. The drums throbbed and the pipes wailed, and the heat shimmering in hazy waves above the sun-baked earth added its own hypnotic effect on spectators already intoxicated with the spirit of fiesta.

  Hilary was bemused by the heat and the noise and the drums. She could feel the echo of their throbbing rhythm when she was back in the welcome coolness of the hacienda. She lay on her bed for a while, waiting for the strange sense of unreality to ebb away, and closed her eyes. Almost instantly she fell asleep.

  The sound of car doors slamming awakened her and she sprang off the bed. It was after sunset, the guests were already beginning to arrive, and she had to bathe, change, do hair and make-up... and how was Joaquin coping with his miniature armour and sword? And Juanita with the costume that was still a closely guarded secret?

  The astringency of a cool shower brought her fully awake and restored the tension of restless energy. Suddenly she was looking forward to this evening more than she’d looked forward to anything for a long time...

  She found that Joaquin had coped extremely well. The tiny leather breastplate and sword belt were securely fixed over tunic and pleated breeches, and the stiff snowy ruff framed his small imperious face. Hilary stifled an urge to kiss him and complimented him solemnly, then left him strutting up and down the long gallery while she hurried along to Juanita’s room.

  There was no response to her first tap, and she called softly,
only to hear a muffled response that made her frown. Surely Juanita had not called: ‘Go away!’

  Hilary stood for a moment, indecisive, then she heard the unmistakable sounds of weeping. Abruptly she opened the door, exclaiming softly: ‘It’s me - Hilary,’ and closed the door behind her.

  The shutters were closed, making the room dim, and it took a moment or so for her eyes to adjust themselves. When they did she caught her breath and ran to the small curled-up figure on the bed.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter, querida mia?’

  The slender shoulder heaved under her hand. ‘Nothing - go away.’

  ‘Can’t I help?’ Distress made Hilary bite her lip. ‘I can’t leave you like this. Oh, what is it, darling? Are you ill?’

  ‘I wish I were. I wish I were dead!’ Juanita’s face remained buried in the pillow, and she groped for a soaked little handkerchief.

  Silently Hilary reached to the dressing table for a couple of tissues and tucked them down on the pillow. Juanita took them, blew her nose violently, and sobbed: ‘Oh, Hilary, what am I going to do? I - I am so miserable I could die!’

  ‘Is it Ramon?’ Hilary said quietly.

  There was a small convulsive movement against the pillow. ‘He is going away. For ever. Tio is sending him away. He ...’ Bit by bit,

  punctuated by heartbroken sobs, the story came out.

  It seemed that the Conde was dismissing Ramon from his job. He would be leaving immediately after the family returned to Lima, and the following day he was flying to Santiago where he was beginning a new job in the employ of a Chilean vinedo owner.

  ‘It is a vineyard - what does Ramon want with grapes?’ Juanita cried. ‘Oh, my uncle is cruel to send him all that way away from me. I hate him! Oh, Hilary—’ her small features crumpled and she flung herself into Hilary’s arms, ‘I shall never see him again. Ever!’