by Barbara Wood
And then a small comfort occurred to Luisa: that Navarro would always be faithful to Angela. Luisa knew that he was interested not in conquest but in acquisition, that he was a man not of heart but of mind, that no heat burned within him but instead a cold mind that was forever calculating. His wife would provide sexual release, he would need no other women.
Angela took her mother’s hands, and said, “I will be all right, Mamá.”
Luisa was struck by the irony of the daughter consoling the mother when it should be the other way around. As she looked into Angela’s calm eyes, she wondered if perhaps the wisdom she sometimes thought she saw there was simply patience. “Perhaps in time, little one, you will love Navarro.”
“All that matters, Mamá, is that we are able to keep the rancho. Here is where I belong; here is where I wish to die.”
Luisa was shocked. That a sixteen-year-old bride should speak of death on her wedding night! But perhaps this was the Indian blood in her speaking.
Angela wished she could convey to her mother the deep joy she felt in this place, how much she loved Alta California and Rancho Paloma. Her heart was here. Sometimes, when she went out riding, she would tie Sirocco to a tree and lie down on the grass to watch the sky. And she could almost feel the earth reaching up to embrace her. It was as if she were part of this land, even though she had been born in Mexico. But she had no memory of Mexico or the long trek she and her parents had made along with the other colonists to found the new pueblo. It was almost as if her life began when she was five years old; that was as far back as her memories went.
Although, there were times— in dreams, or sometimes when she caught a scent on the wind, or heard a sound— strange images would flash in her mind and for just an instant she would have the odd feeling that she was someone else.
Because the wedding had been such a big affair, Indian women had been sent from the Mission to help out. One of them now was assisting Angela out of her wedding clothes and carefully laying them in storage. Angela saw the plain tin cross on a string around the woman’s neck and suddenly strange images flashed in her mind that almost felt like memories. A cave. A woman telling her to remember stories. Had Mamá taken her to a cave when she was small? But for what purpose?
When she had completely removed her wedding dress, which consisted of a tight bodice of rose-colored silk and a full skirt of white silk embroidered with tiny roses, Angela put on her long cotton nightgown and sat down to let her mother brush out her long, thick hair. There was sadness in every brushstroke, and in Luisa’s dark eyes as they took on a faraway look.
Finally, Luisa and the Indian woman left, leaving Angela to await Navarro’s arrival.
He knocked at the door, just as her mother had said he would, but instead of turning down the lamp and undressing in the dark, Navarro surprised her by leaving the light on as he removed his jacket and boots. While Angela sat demurely on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, feeling her heart start to pound, Navarro poured himself some brandy and settled comfortably into a chair by the fire, where the flames cast his skin in a curious pallor.
He held out his hand. “What are you doing over there? Come here and let me see you.”
He had brought the box containing her wedding gift to the small table between the chairs, and as Angela stood self-consciously before him, he lifted the lid and Angela saw the fiery glint of gold. Then he looked at Angela, gazing at her for a protracted moment, his eyes moving slowly up and down her body, resting for the longest moment on her hair.
Finally, he said, “You can take that thing off.”
” ‘Thing,’ Señor?”
“That thing you’re wearing.” He flicked his wrist. “Take it off.”
She frowned. “I do not understand.”
“Didn’t your mother tell you anything?” he said impatiently, rising from the chair. “We are married now. Husband and wife. The nightgown will not be necessary.”
Cheeks blushing a fierce red, she turned around and started to undo the buttons at her throat.
“No,” he said. “Face me.”
He sat back in the chair and tasted his brandy while Angela’s fingers clumsily undid the buttons. Then she slid each shoulder down, hesitating, noticing for the first time a strange coldness in his eyes. She slowly drew her arms out of the sleeves, her heart thumping wildly, and finally stepped out of the gown, bringing it up in front of herself for modesty.
Navarro rose from the chair and snatched the cotton gown away. “You will have no need of this from now on.”
Despite the heat from the fire, Angela shivered violently. She crossed her arms protectively over her breasts but an incisive look from Navarro made her drop them. His eyes brashly devoured her, leaving her not a shred of modesty. Finally, he opened the small chest and lifted out a pair of gold earrings more magnificent than the ones he had given to Luisa.
“When I visited Peru,” he said as he gently clipped each one to her earlobes, “I found an ancient city in the Andes that no one knows about. I and my men dug for months until we found tombs containing hundreds of mummies. Strangely, they were nearly all women, and all of the nobility or royalty judging by the wealth of gold buried with them.”
Angela stood frozen as he brought out silver bracelets encrusted with emeralds and fastened them on each of her wrists, saying, “The women were mummified in a sitting position, and then the corpses were covered in straw, and then dressed in magnificent fabrics, and gold and silver and jewels.”
Lastly, he brought out a breathtaking platinum necklace heavy with gold beads, jade, and turquoise inlay. As he reached under her hair and clasped the necklace at the nape of her neck, Navarro said, “I will tell you who I am. When Cortez conquered the Aztecs 240 years ago, there was a Navarro among his men who helped burn the cities to the ground. The son of that Navarro, and then the grandson, subsequently saw the natives of New Spain fall victim to the pox, fevers, and influenza. Millions of Indios died, wiping out entire villages and towns.”
With long tapered fingers he arranged the necklace on her breasts, and Angela shivered as much from his touch as from the feel of the cold metal on her skin.
“My ancestors,” he said, tracing the fullness of each breast with a fingertip, “took over the deserted land and we became prosperous. We owned mines and slaves, we ruled New Spain. This is what is in my blood, Angela, the legacy of the strong to take from the weak, the living to take from the dead. It is my destiny, and the destiny of the sons you will give me, to have power and dominion over others.”
He stepped back to regard his handiwork, Angela standing naked before him, her young body glowing in the firelight, her dusky skin a seductive backdrop for the precious metals and gems he had draped upon her.
“I am incapable of love, Angela. Do not look to me for tender sentiments. What I am capable of is making you the most envied woman in Alta California.”
He came close to her again and reached behind for her thick hair, drawing it over her right shoulder, arranging the luxuriant tresses as he had arranged the gold and jewels. “My mother was a great beauty. Men were always looking at her. One day she ran off with a lover. It look my father five years but he finally found them hiding on the island of Hispañola. He killed them both, as was his right. That will never happen to me.” He drew the long hair over her breasts, touching her nipples, watching her face for a reaction. “You have great beauty, Angela, and it belongs to me. This hair, this body, they are mine.”
His breathing began to quicken. A film of perspiration appeared on his forehead. “This hair is what I first noticed about you, as rich as the finest velvet, as rare as the blackest opal. It was this hair that I first determined to own.” He ran his fingers through it, lifting it up and draping it back over her shoulder. “Now that you are a married woman, you will wear this hair up. But when you are alone with me, you will always wear it down, like this.”
He walked behind her, standing so close that Angela could feel his breath on her
neck. “Bend over,” he whispered harshly.
Her voice caught in her throat. “Señor?”
She felt rough hands on her shoulders. “Do it!”
As she did as she was told, Navarro suddenly gathered her hair and pulled it back. “Hold still!” he ordered.
She started to struggle, and when she felt the painful, unexpected thrust, she cried out. When he commanded her to be quiet, reminding her of the wedding guests in the courtyard, Angela bit her tongue to keep silent. He pulled harder on her hair, as if it were the reins on a horse, drawing her head back so far that she could hardly breathe.
Angela squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw as he continued his assault, pain and humiliation flooding her. When she whimpered, he yanked harder on her hair, pulling her head so far back she thought her neck would snap. A red cloud began to form behind her eyes. She gasped for breath. His thrusts were brutal, knifelike. Hot tears stung her eyes.
When he finally released her, she slumped to the floor gasping.
Navarro buttoned his trousers and poured himself another brandy. “All your silly plans for orchards and vineyards, you can forget. I own this land now and I alone will say what is to be done with it. I will bring in more cattle and sheep, and plant more grazing grasses. Your domain, wife, will be in the bedroom and the kitchen.”
She blindly grabbed on to the edge of the bed and started to pull herself up, but Navarro ordered her to stay where she was, on her knees. “And there will be no more riding. It is unseemly for the wife of Navarro to gallop over the fields like a caballero. I have a buyer for Sirocco. The man will be here in the morning to collect the horse.”
“Oh no! Please, Señor—”
He strode back to the brandy bottle. “I cannot have you calling me Señor. We are married. It will not do. In front of others, you may call me Navarro. When we are alone in this chamber, you will call me Master.”
She gave him a shocked look. And then she saw the cold flat eyes and saw in them her future, and how utterly powerless she was going to be. Her mind worked quickly. “I will do as you ask, Señor,” she said with a dry mouth. “I will do anything you ask of me, if you will do one thing for me. Send my mother to Spain.”
He shook his head. “Your mother’s presence here is my guarantee of your obedience. Both she and your worthless, contemptible father will live here for as long as I desire.”
She began to cry. “Then I shall grow to hate you,” she whispered in hard, bitter sobs.
He shrugged. “Hate me now, it means nothing to me. I do not want your affection. I want only that you give me sons and that you keep your beauty. That I insist upon, that you never lose your beauty. Now, call me ‘Master.’ “
She remained silent.
“Very well. I shall evict your parents this very night. I wonder how long will they survive on their own, penniless.”
“No! Please! I beg of you.”
“Then do as I say and I shall continue to give your father an allowance to cover his wagers and your mother will continue to live in comfort. Am I understood?”
She stifled a sob. “Yes…. Master….”
He stroked her hair as she knelt before him. “Very good. And now, my dear, the night is yet young. What shall we try next?”
* * *
When she awoke she found herself in bed, naked under the blankets, in pain. Navarro was snoring at her side, deeply asleep. As she lay for a long time trying not to think about the humiliating acts he had forced her to submit to, Angela saw the marriage road that lay before her, all the years and dark nights to come.
A sob escaped her throat. She quickly stifled it and looked anxiously at Navarro. He continued to sleep.
When she crept softly out of bed and stole into the next chamber, he still did not stir. Angela bathed herself, knowing that she would never again be clean, and when she dressed, it wasn’t to put on the nightgown but her riding clothes for what she knew would be the last time. She moved mechanically and without emotion. She braided her hair, unaware that fragile bougainvillea petals from her pillow were trapped there. Then she stole out of the sleeping house and, quietly saddling Sirocco in the stable, led him out of the compound and out into the fields from where she rode westward down El Camino Viejo, past the tar pits, past the marshes, onward toward the low, jagged mountains silhouetted against the stars. She didn’t know where she was riding to or why. She was driven by instinct, and fear and humiliation. What happened tonight could never be told to anyone. She rode even though it caused her pain, or perhaps because of it, each gallop reminding her of what Navarro had done to her and was undoubtedly going to do to her for the rest of their married lives. Angela felt her helplessness turn to fury. She rode as if to send herself and her beloved Sirocco off the edge of the earth.
When she reached the foothills, skirting the village where unbaptized Indios still lived the old ways, she picked her way along a trail until she came to a curious formation of boulders scarred with strange carvings, which she somehow knew represented a raven and the moon. Here she found the entrance to a narrow canyon and, not knowing what had drawn her to this place, guided the horse up the rocky incline.
She found the cave without knowing how she knew it was there, and when she went inside she was overwhelmed with feelings of familiarity. I have been here before.
Angela had come only to rest. She knew now that she was going to run away, she was just going to keep riding until she found a safe place in the wilderness, far from Navarro and his cruelty.
Finally, all the tears and sobs that she had been forced to keep inside, burst forth in a fury of weeping. As she collapsed to the earthen floor and cried as if her heart would break, she prayed to the Virgin Mary, and after a while a voice whispered in her mind: You cannot run away, daughter. You have duties now which you cannot shirk. But there is courage within you, the courage of those who came before you.
Sitting up, her tears subsiding, Angela pondered this. And she realized she couldn’t abandon her mother. It would not only cause her mother pain, but running away would only bring shame upon the family. Possibly, Navarro would cast Lorenzo and Luisa out.
In the silence and solitude of the cave Angela felt her thoughts and emotions suddenly settle down, like birds once excited now coming to roost for the long, dark night. It left her with a strange and unexpected clarity of thought.
She knew what she must do.
Returning to Sirocco, who was nibbling greenery at the cave’s entrance, she unsheathed a knife from her saddle, returned to the silent darkness and, taking hold of her long braid, severed it at the base of her skull. Feeling the rope of hair lying like a quiescent snake in her hands, and the cool air on her bare neck, Angela thought: I have taken away his power.
As she buried the braid in the cold earth of the cave, she experienced no moment of triumph, no feelings of victory, for she knew Navarro would punish her for what she had done. But she had needed to commit this one act of defiance in order to save her spirit, because she knew it would be the last act of defiance she would ever be able to commit against her husband, and the memory of this moment, she knew, would sustain her in years to come.
Chapter Eleven
The men who gathered in the posh executive board room on this crisp morning exuded a relaxed confidence. Comfortable with their power and secure in the knowledge that they ran the show, they wore expensive suits and discussed golf scores. Three were talking on personal cell phones, two exchanged stock tips, Sam Carter was giving instructions to the woman who would be recording the minutes of the meeting, while a seventh man, his long white hair plaited into Indian braids, sat stoically looking out the window of this thirtieth-floor conference room high above prestigious Century City. On a mahogany sideboard stood a silver coffee urn and rows of china cups in china saucers. There were crystal glasses filled with water and a slice of lemon, and platters of cold cuts, bagels, fresh fruit. The napkins were linen and the forks and spoons silver. It was an atmosphere of wealth and cl
ubbiness, and as Sam Carter consulted his watch and saw that everyone was here, he felt extremely pleased with himself. It was he who had called this meeting, and he had no doubt as to its outcome. Handshakes and off-the-record promises practically guaranteed it.
“All right, gentlemen I think we can get this meeting under way. I’m sure we all have appointments for this afternoon.”
Wade Dimarco, who was to present his proposal to build a museum on the Topanga site, said quietly next to Sam, “We’re not going to have any trouble from Dr. Tyler, are we?”
“Erica is my employee, Wade, she does what I say.” Besides, Erica knew nothing of this meeting. Sam had made sure of that. By the time she found out, it would be too late. “Don’t worry,” he added as he clapped Dimarco on the back. “I can almost guarantee we’ll all be walking out of here today having arrived at a very amicable agreement.”
As they took their seats, with Sam instructing the members to consult the printed agendas that had been set before them, there came a knock at the closed door. The seven men at the conference table were surprised to see a woman enter, her manner and attitude businesslike. Sam and Wade Dimarco exchanged a glance and Harmon Zimmerman looked instantly displeased, while three of the men stared blankly at the stranger, and Jared Black smiled.
Erica ignored the smile. “I trust I am not too late, gentlemen,” she said as the door closed behind her. “I was not informed of this meeting until a short while ago.” She wore a navy blue business suit that consisted of a tailored jacket over a white silk blouse, a skirt that stopped at the knees, and sensible pumps. Her glossy chestnut hair brushed her shoulders in a soft pageboy.
Without invitation she took the only available seat, at the opposite end of the oval table from Sam. Several of the men rose politely. Sam glowered at her. “This is Dr. Tyler, my assistant. She is here to observe.”
Erica folded her hands on the table and tried not to let her anger show as Harmon Zimmerman started off the presentations. She avoided looking at Sam for fear she would lose control and say something she would regret. She avoided looking at Jared for the same reason.