‘As important as Mr Middleton?’
Don Otavio realised that he was confronted with that unfamiliar thing, a joke. He took it with a smile. ‘More important. But Mr Middleton does not know.’
‘Do they get on?’
‘Their houses are not in the same place. They have esteem for each other. Perhaps we need not tell Mr Middleton that you are going to Mrs Rawlston’s today.’
‘We will tell him that I caught a touch of the sun on that hill.’
‘No, not sun. It would not be wise. It is one of the three things Mr Middleton cures. Sunstroke, dysentry and malaria.’
‘Does Mrs Rawlston cure also?’
‘No. Mrs Rawlston goes to law. She makes the Indios sue the Government when she thinks they ought to. She goes to court herself, and pleads and does everything. She does not like lawyers.’
‘Her Spanish must be very good?’
‘One understands everything she says, and she says much.’
CHAPTER SIX
Bridge with Mrs Rawlston
… in nice balance, truth she weighs,
And solid pudding against empty praise.
MRS RAWLSTON lived in a large, dark, ugly, dishevelled house, full of raffia and pots of jam in the hall, desolate and at the same time cozy.
‘Come on in, Mrs B,’ she said, ‘we’re all waiting for our bridge game on the porch.’
I had been rushed through luncheon by Don Otavio and packed off on mule back, forty-five minutes of it through the sub-tropical afternoon.
I found two English people on the verandah, necessarily sprung from somewhere.
‘How do you do,’ they said.
‘How do you do,’ said I.
We settled round a wobbly card table. Mrs Rawlston waved me to the seat opposite her own. ‘You a good player, Mrs B?’
‘A very bad one, I’m afraid.’
‘Better cut for partners,’ said Mrs Rawlston. We did, and she drew me.
‘Blackwood, Peter?’ said the Englishwoman.
‘Blackwood,’ said the Englishman.
Mrs Rawlston picked up her pack and dealt.
‘I believe it is my deal, Mrs Rawlston,’ said the Englishwoman.
‘What’s that?’
‘I believe it is my deal,’ said the Englishwoman in a clear voice.
‘Never mind, let’s get on with it,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘It all comes to the same in the end.’
‘By,’ said Mrs Rawlston.
‘Pass,’ said the Englishwoman.
‘Pass.’
‘Pass.’
‘Two no trumps,’ said Mrs Rawlston.
‘Pass,’ said the Englishwoman.
I hesitated.
‘I said two no trumps,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Two, mind you.’
‘Now, now, Mrs Rawlston,’ said the Englishman, ‘we can’t have that.’
‘You must forget you heard,’ said the Englishwoman.
‘I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, anyway,’ said I.
‘Remember I passed first round,’ said Mrs Rawlston.
‘Now really, Mrs Rawlston …’
‘Three spades,’ said I.
‘Spades?’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Got any?’
We made the first rubber in two hands. There seemed to be a feeling that it was not deserved. I moved to the seat opposite the Englishwoman.
‘Blackwood, partner?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘it seems to get one up so awfully high. I never dare bid fives and sixes. I suppose if one wants to go for slam … What do you think?’
There was silence.
‘Mrs Rawlston can see your cards,’ said the Englishman.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said I.
‘Shove a bit of paper under that leg, Peter,’ said Mrs Rawlston; ‘floor’s uneven. That’s better.’
‘No clubs, partner?’ said the Englishwoman.
‘No. Oh I’m so sorry, yes,’ said I.
‘Revoke,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Three tricks for us. Put ’em down, Peter; my piece of paper’s blown off. That wind from Vera Cruz is up again.’
‘Surely, two, Mrs Rawlston.’
‘Three tricks for a revoke. Don’t get one often these days, people reading Culbertson and counting up their hands the way they do.’
‘I am most frightfully sorry,’ I said; ‘it is too bad of me.’
‘A diamond,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘No, let’s make it a heart. Two hearts; Did’ye hear me, Peter? Where did you leave that mule, Mrs B?’
‘The San Pedro mozo took him home. They are going to send the boat for me.’
‘Well, I am going up to four hearts,’ said Mrs Rawlston; ‘I don’t see why not. Those friends you got with you at San Pedro are Yankees, ain’t they?’
‘Only Mrs A. Her cousin is from the South. Maryland.’
‘I call it a Border State,’ said Mrs Rawlston.
‘Mrs Rawlston, I just bid five clubs.’
‘You did, did you. Now what shall we do, Peter, risk it?’
‘Your cards!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said I.
‘Six hearts,’ said Mrs Rawlston.
‘Double,’ said the Englishwoman.
‘That always sounds so brave,’ said I.
‘Your lead, partner,’ said the Englishwoman.
Wildly unnerved, I led a high heart.
‘Our opponent’s suit.’
‘I am sorry! What have I done? And you doubled. How can you forgive me. I’m really quite impossible.’
‘It does not matter at all.’
‘Game and rubber,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Let’s have some tea. Peter, how much would it cost us if Mrs B had led a club?’
‘She would have cashed her ace and king; made the impasse in spades, got rid of her singleton, drawn a trump and established her queen, led another round of spades and made her partner trump your diamond.’
‘No, no, no, I couldn’t possibly have done all that.’
‘Five down, doubled and vulnerable.’
‘Tea,’ said Mrs Rawlston, ‘I made you all some beaten biscuit.’
‘Not beaten biscuits! Mrs Rawlston,’ said the Englishwoman.
Tea was delicious. Georgian silver, lovely china, covered dishes full of baked creations with homely exotic names, spoon bread and batter bread, soda biscuits and popovers, as light as down, with the warmth of the oven upon them, melting in the mouth, before the fresh, cold sweet butter.
‘Mrs Rawlston makes her own butter, too. Don’t you, Mrs Rawlston?’ said the Englishwoman.
‘Always beat me own butter,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Milk’s the trouble in this country. No one knows the first thing about cows. When those San Pedro boys were kids, their father raised a Black Angus for them. A Black Angus for milking! Silly old man he was. Always rushing round after one thing or another, and all he ever got was money. Boys were scared to death of him, all but Enriquez. Couldn’t even keep his wife from her popish tricks. Drawing-room always full of cringing tutors; Jesuits more like. Mrs B is staying at San Pedro.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the Englishwoman.
‘Clever boy, Tavio. Always got his own way. Big brothers were sent off to school, little Tavio stayed home with mamma. When she died, Enriquez and Jaime and Luís and their families had to leave their home and earn their living, who stayed home again? Tavio. Then this aunt, the nun, said she’d leave him all she had to leave as long as he entered the Church. She’s still got plenty, if she can make those priests keep their paws off it. Tavio didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no. He just didn’t get married, in case. “Well, Tavio,” I tell him. “where’s your black coat? Ain’t you ordained yet, or whatever you Catholics do when you turn parson? Been a long time making up your mind, haven’t you? Twenty years, is it? And in no great hurry to support a wife either. Well, you got yourself fixed up real nice, Tavio – the run of the place, everything done for you, snug as a bug and not a thing on your mind. With your fine bachelor’s quarters at Mexico, too.
Well, I’ll say this for you, you were a good son and you’ve got nice manners.” And I might add, he sets a good table and he gives to the poor.’
‘Thank you, I will have another of these delicious scones, Mrs Rawlston.’
‘What you do for your milk and butter, Peter?’
‘We send Josefina into Chapala twice a week.’
‘City stuff. Now, my son-in-law eats lard. Just what you’d expect, as I tell him.’ Mrs Rawlston turned to me, ‘My son-in-law is a German. Can’t stand ’em.’
‘The prejudice is not unique.’
‘“Lard,” I said to him, “that’s all you used to have in your own country, ain’t it? Then why don’t you eat honest Christian butter on your bread when you have it? Ain’t that what you came here for? Don’t you know good stuff from bad? Ain’t that why you Germans always come running into other countries, because you don’t like it at home? And then you get so fat you have trouble getting yourselves out again. Don’t you know when you’re not wanted, you Germans?”’
‘Are you going to have your daughter and grand-children this summer, Mrs Rawlston?’ said the Englishwoman.
‘They’re all at Cordoba for his holiday. I don’t see why I should have my house full of Germans because my daughter was fool enough to marry one. I told them so. Now why did Diana have to marry that German for? Losing all their wars, too.’
‘Oh come on, Mrs Rawlston, you know that Diana is very happy with him.’
‘Maybe. I wasn’t when they all came and lived with me after Pearl Harbour because he was kicked out of his job. He had nowhere else to go, Diana said. “Why don’t you go and fight for your country, Karl?” I told him. Not he. Mope in my house, read my paper, month in month out – though I didn’t mind his reading it half so much the day after Stalingrad – until he got himself that big job at Mexico he’s got now. I said to him, “Job, Karl? Why don’t they lock you up? Don’t they know any better?”’
‘Oh now, Mrs Rawlston, Karl Waldheim was no Nazi, poor chap.’
‘He’s a German, ain’t he? Good enough for me. Now have you all quite finished? Drink up your tea, Peter. Come along, let’s get on with our bridge game.’
‘Mrs Rawlston, may we have another look round your lovely garden?’
‘Nothing new in it since lunchtime, dear; and Mrs B can come over in the morning and look at it if she wants to. Come along, it’ll be getting dark soon. I don’t get a bridge game every day these days.’
It was getting dark. An oil lamp was brought and fluttered fitfully in the wind from Vera Cruz that had sprung up good and proper, and so did the cards. Every so often a whole deal would be lifted off the table by a gust.
‘Pick ’em up, pick ’em up. All comes to the same in the end,’ said Mrs Rawlston.
Birds shrieked in the rushes; settled for the night. Stars rose. The boat came from San Pedro. Frogs croaked. Mrs Rawlston had revoked three times.
‘Never mind, doesn’t count, lamp’s too low to tell spades from hearts.’
Our score sheets had long been blown away.
‘Wind bother you?’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Any of you want to go in? Light’s no better and for meself I see no sense in stuffing indoors on a fine summer night. Always sleep out-of-doors. Got kind of used to it in the Revolutions. Had to then. Or those Indio soldiers would have gone and stolen my fruit. When there was a moon they’d come, or in the small hours – they’re scared to death of the dark – and I’d pop out on them. “Now what d’you think you are doing,” I’d say to them, “going about the countryside robbing people’s gardens and murdering them in their sleep. Haven’t you got no homes of your own? That’s no way of making a revolution, that’s petty larceny. Ain’t you ashamed of yourselves, you great hulking men, how many are there of you? thirty – can’t ye count? – with your silly knives and your great clumsy guns, what you think you look like? And me an old woman all alone. What you want to go and kill me for, you louts? Don’t you have enough killing on your fiesta days?” That’d fix them. Never touched my fruit, poor devils. They’re not bad, those Indios. Revolutions went a bit to their heads, murder every day and no one to tell them their places. Early years weren’t much; some of Villa’s bands were tough. Later we got the El Cristo Rey gangs. They were much the worst. Kind of revivalists. Did everybody in who wasn’t for the Church. Out for blood they were and no nonsense. Thousands and thousands of them all over the country. They’d come streaking into the villages on horseback with those great big banners and that cry they had, CHRIST IS KING. My, people were scared. Came after me, too. “What you think I am?” I told them, “a heathen? I believe in Our Lord same as you do, and better, without your papist fripperies”. I had my own gun then, no use talking sense to the Cristeros. Had to use it too, and, what’s more, take cover. They fired a round into the garden and left me for dead. Always in such a hurry they were. Well, so now I sleep out of doors, rain or shine. Kept my gun too. I guess it would be the death of me if I slept inside a house now. You don’t change your habits at eighty-nine. Yes, eighty-nine come November; and seventy-two of them in Mexico. Born in the year before the War between the States.’
‘Dummy? I? Again? Want some of my prunella any of you? Made it last fall. Diana says it ain’t half bad, never touch it myself. I like my drink from abroad.’
‘No thank you, Mrs Rawlston,’ said Peter.
‘No thank you,’ said I.
After the seventh rubber, the Englishwoman rose. ‘Mrs Rawlston, it has been a lovely evening. Thank you so much.’
‘Not going, are you? Won’t you stay to supper so we can have another hand or two afterwards?’
‘I’m afraid we have to go,’ said the Englishwoman, ‘the dogs are waiting for us.’
‘That’s too bad. Mrs B, you’ll stay another minute, I have something to give you for Tavio.’
Scores were reconstructed by memory. I had played four rubbers with Mrs Rawlston and it was found that I was seven pesos to the good. If ever money was supposed to burn in a pocket, this did.
‘Well, goodbye, dear Mrs Rawlston, and thank you again so much.’
‘Come again soon, Peter.’
‘You must come to San Antonio, Mrs Rawlston.’
‘Goodbye,’ said I.
‘Goodbye,’ said the Englishwoman.
‘Goodbye,’ said the Englishman.
‘Mr Middleton’s bite was worse than his bark,’ said E.
‘It was all laid on,’ said Anthony, ‘landlady on the doorstep, lease made up.’
‘Mr Middleton met us at his gate watch in hand,’ said E.
‘I had my share of barks, too,’ said I. ‘Muffled barks.’
‘Did you not enjoy the Saunders’?’ said Don Otavio.
‘They did not enjoy me.’
‘Oh you,’ said E ‘Stuffing beaten biscuit. I’d give anything for real beaten biscuit.’
‘I gave too much. Now tell me what happened. Are we safe?’
‘Don’t worry. No cottage for us. I settled it.’
‘My dear. And how did you put it?’
‘By evasion.’
‘E said we couldn’t decide anything without you,’ said Anthony.
‘So it is not all settled?’
‘And you would let him know tomorrow.’
‘Oh E. You didn’t?’
‘Well, you see, Mr Middleton’s bark was not muffled.’
‘Aw,’ said Anthony, ‘let’s write him a note and forget about it.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Don Enriquez Unfolds a Plan
But fruits of pomegranate and peach,
Refresh the Church from over sea.
DON OTAVIO is going into Guadalajara for the day. Don Otavio’s departures are worthy to be seen. The engine of his brother’s motor launch, brought in the night before from Chapala, has been revved thunderously since dawn. Early Mass is an hour earlier, and the Padre is rowed over from San Juan Cosalá. For his efforts the Padre is given breakfast at the Hacienda. While the Padre eats, the
parrot is locked in the linen room as his language cannot be trusted and Don José is an old man. The barber also appears an hour earlier. Soledad and Carmelita are summoned to the El Dorado to assist at the toilet. People cross and recross the lawn with various items: the bulky entrails of the water filter to be repaired at Guadalajara, tins of petrol for Don Otavio’s car waiting at Chapala, crates of fruit and sheaves of flowers for Don Otavio’s relatives; provisions, cushions. These are stowed in the launch, taken out again, looked at, rearranged. At nine the garden fills with spectators, servants and petitioners. At ten, Don Otavio’s chauffeur appears on the lawn dressed in white ducks and a beach shirt, bearing a rug; at a quarter past, Don Otavio’s valet bearing in his arms Don Otavio’s female Maltese terrier, curled and decked out with a large satin bow. She is to spend the day with Don Otavio’s favourite sister-in-law. At half past ten, Don Otavio issues from the house, splendid like the moon, all in white silk, his silvery hair brushed upwards, a Charvet tie over his holy medals, bearing nothing. A volley of advice springs from his mouth. His progress to the waterfront is punctuated by miscellaneous requests: the cook would like a funnel, Carmelita a length of ribbon, Juan some scented oil. Don Otavio grants them all. He steps into the launch. Two live chickens with bound legs are deposited at his feet. The engine gives a terrific roar, dies down, throbs again. Pietrá, the chauffeur’s wife, who at this instant decided to accompany her husband, is handed into the boat. Domingo comes running with a little girl in a revolting bandage that is to be changed by the nuns. Don Otavio draws her on to his lap. A mozo from Jocotepec who wants a lift leaps on to the prow. Thirty people break into que Dios les proteja, Don Otavio raises a hand in gracious salute, and the boat glides out.
A Visit to Don Otavio Page 15