Book Read Free

Landfalls

Page 10

by Naomi J. Williams


  “Of course,” Monneron said. His expression was not one of delight, but it also betrayed neither reluctance nor dismay. This even-tempered cooperativeness was one of the things Lapérouse most valued about his engineer. “Major Sabatero and his wife are helping me figure out where in town I might procure a few needed supplies,” Monneron said. “Why don’t you join us, Monsieur Dufresne?”

  The naturalist perked up at the mention of Eleonora, and dutifully followed Monneron out of the room. His gait had a cheerful, ungainly bounce to it. Had he always walked like that, or was the promise of being let in on a secret and the continued company of a pretty woman enough to turn him around? This, from a man who had all but threatened to harm himself if he were not released from the expedition! Lapérouse watched him go, annoyance mounting. Sometimes the role of captain seemed to resemble nothing more than that of nursemaid.

  He turned back toward the drawing room to find José standing behind him. The steward had also been watching the two Frenchmen make their way down the corridor. “Señor,” José said, acknowledging Lapérouse with a perfunctory nod, one side of his mouth curling up slightly. But in the instant before that, when Lapérouse first turned around, he had caught José in an unguarded moment, and his expression had worn nothing of his usual forced politesse with its hint of contempt. No, in that second before he remembered himself, before he nodded his head and said “Señor,” his face had been soft, collapsed by some distress.

  Lapérouse held the man’s gaze. Was it just resentment? More guests meant more work for the steward, of course. The presence of guests also meant more supervision and the necessity for a greater show of propriety. Or—here was an odious possibility—perhaps José suspected Eleonora’s virtue. Or had been instructed to guard it. The very young and quite pretty wife of an old and possibly impotent man, playing hostess to young men, French men, men long deprived of female company and scheduled to leave again very soon. Or maybe José’s vigilance was for his own sake. Perhaps he feared Eleonora might find a way to produce an heir, after all. Or maybe he was himself in love with his father’s wife.

  “I need to see Monsieur de Lamanon,” Lapérouse said, speaking louder than he needed to. “Señor La-ma-non,” he repeated. “He’s at the home of Señor Moraga, Don Mateo Moraga. Can you send word?”

  As the steward nodded his understanding and turned away, Lapérouse felt oddly as if he had bested the man in some unspoken contest.

  * * *

  Lamanon marched into the drawing room, breathing hard and already talking. “Monsieur de Lapérouse,” he boomed, “I do hope you’ve prevailed on Governor O’Higgins to let us explore the interior.”

  He had a way of stressing a word—Governor—to show his contempt for a thing. Lapérouse felt draining out of his head every diplomatic intention with which he had armed himself for the meeting.

  Lamanon was still talking: “I had to forgo an outing with Don Mateo to be here. He wanted to show me a porphyritic rock formation just outside of town.”

  “Sit down,” Lapérouse ordered, pointing to a hard wooden chair opposite him.

  Lamanon made instead for a stuffed chair farther away, and lowered himself onto it slowly, with a show of ruffled dignity. He was in his early thirties, but with his heavy jowls and haughty demeanor, the midcentury cut of his expensive waistcoat, and the top-heavy, weak-legged body typical of gout sufferers, he seemed closer to fifty. The chair squeaked under his weight.

  “I’ll not mince words, Monsieur de Lamanon,” Lapérouse said. “Neither you nor any of the other savants have any business making, or attempting to make, your own arrangements for excursions off of the ships. Such discussions should be between the local authorities and me or Captain de Langle. At the very least we should be consulted first.”

  Lamanon raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Is that why O’Higgins refused us? Because we had not gone through established military channels?”

  “Governor O’Higgins had his own reasons for refusing you, mostly having to do with your safety.”

  “This place is overrun with underemployed soldiers,” Lamanon said. “Surely he could summon up an armed escort for us. Isn’t that how colonists keep peace with natives, by making a great show of force?”

  Lapérouse sighed. Few things were more distasteful than arguing against a position with which one essentially agreed. “The colonists have just concluded a treaty with the Indians,” he said. “They do not wish to risk the delicate peace they now enjoy.”

  Lamanon snorted. “Since when have naturalists begun wars?”

  “We have no choice but to respect his judgment, Monsieur de Lamanon. I am not going to argue with a man who has already shown us the greatest generosity.”

  “So you will not support us in this matter?”

  “I already have. The governor’s mind is quite made up.”

  “What does Monsieur de Langle say?”

  Lapérouse opened, then closed, his mouth, fighting a rising swell of anger. The man was relentless—and that faculty for homing right in on elements of discord! There was something diabolical about that kind of intelligence. “Monsieur de Langle was at the same meeting with Governor O’Higgins,” he finally said. “He too was disappointed on your behalf. But he understands there is more at stake here than scientific curiosity. It would be well for you and the others to do the same.”

  Lamanon leaned back in his chair. It squeaked again, and Lapérouse wished fervently it would collapse beneath him.

  “Is that all, sir?”

  “That is all.”

  Lapérouse listened as the heavy footsteps left the room, then rested his head against the tall back of his chair and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his mouth had gone slack, and he was startled to find Eleonora standing before him.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” she said, looking apologetic but not displeased.

  “No, no, no.” Lapérouse sat up, then stood, wincing at the stiffness in his backside. No doubt he was feeling the delayed effects of his horseback ride into town. “I was just resting my eyes,” he said, blinking himself into greater wakefulness. He hoped very much he had not been snoring. At home, Éléonore would sometimes poke him awake during Mass or at a concert—and occasionally, at dinner with his prickly sister, Jacquette, and her family. “You’re the only person I know who can snore sitting straight up,” Éléonore once told him, half amused and half vexed.

  “I’m sorry, Éléon—Doña Eleonora,” he said, piling on his embarrassment. “You came to tell me something?”

  Eleonora looked at him, eyebrows drawn in friendly concern. “You look tired, sir, if you will excuse my saying so. It is hard work, overseeing all of your people.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You are an excellent leader to your men.”

  He laughed. “And how can you tell, Doña Eleonora?”

  She raised one dark eyebrow. “Many ways,” she said archly. “But here is an example: Monsieur Dufresne tells me you have denied his request to leave the expedition, yet he seems happier now than he was before.”

  He nodded. “All I had to do was insist that he spend more time with you,” he said.

  It was her turn to laugh—a girlish, spontaneous laugh he was thrilled to have elicited. She looked down, hiding a blush, and toyed with the tasseled ends of a blue silk mantilla draped over her shoulders. Complementing the mantilla was a pale gray skirt. It was as stiffly pleated and pouffed as the skirts he had seen her wear before, but the modest color made it seem less garish, or perhaps he was growing accustomed to Chilean habits of dress. This skirt too had buttons down the front—four of them, large and silver—holding closed a panel along one of the pleats. He was terribly curious about the buttons, about the need for an opening, there, but a gentleman could hardly ask.

  “Sir…”

  “Yes?”

  “We are about to take a light lunch now. Would you like to join us, or do you prefer to remain here, where you can continue to work? I can send
in a tray.”

  Lapérouse leaned forward. “Is Monsieur de Lamanon still here?” he whispered.

  Eleonora smiled conspiratorially. “No,” she whispered back. “It will just be the major and me.”

  “How about Monneron and Dufresne?”

  “They left to run errands in town related to the fête. They would not allow either of us to accompany them.”

  “I should hope not,” Lapérouse said. “We must be allowed a few secrets, after all.”

  She smiled with an apologetic shrug, suggesting that Monneron and Dufresne had already let on about the planned spectacle. He frowned. Was even a level-headed man like Monneron so susceptible to the charms of a pretty woman? Of course this was a young woman who had a particular gift for asking direct questions with disarming politeness.

  “It is all right,” she said. “I am very discreet.”

  “All women say that.”

  “Yes, but with me it is true.” She gestured out into the corridor. “Shall we?”

  He offered her his arm. She took it with a squeeze that delighted and confused him. He hoped she did not notice his hobbling, postride gait as they walked down the corridor.

  * * *

  They sat at a round table in a small, sunny room that Eleonora explained was where they had meals when “it is only us.” The Sabateros’ “light” lunch required two servants to dispense, and consisted of platters of olives and cheese, fresh fruit, three kinds of bread, smoked ham, a flagon of wine, and a savory bean dish the major said was the Araucanians’ finest contribution to the local cuisine. José poured a light red wine for Sabatero, who took up the glass, sniffed its contents, took a sip, then handed it back, gesturing for the steward to try it. José brought the glass to his own lips and took a sip, then nodded and said something in Spanish. He took another sip before handing the glass back to Sabatero. They looked for all the world like two wine merchants, father and son, judging the quality of a new vintage. Eleonora wore a pained expression throughout the exchange, and Lapérouse found himself wondering what really happened when “it is only us.” He imagined Eleonora subjected to meals at which José sat at table with them like an equal.

  “This wine is from our own vineyards,” Sabatero explained, motioning for José to fill the other two glasses. “I worried it might be too young. It is not suitable for a heavy meal. But José agrees with me it is fine for lunch.” He raised his glass, then regaled his guest with stories of his exploits in the wars against the Araucanians. Eleonora listened intently at first, and Lapérouse guessed she was monitoring how well he told the stories in French. No doubt they had practiced earlier. The major acquitted himself admirably, however, and gradually Eleonora’s gaze grew distant. She looked every bit the petulant young person bored by the too-oft-repeated tales of her elders but compelled to sit through yet another recitation. And then she came suddenly and terribly back to attention, her cheeks flaming and her eyes fixed and cold. Sabatero was relating an anecdote about a company led by a criollo who had been given the post against the better judgment of his superiors and then confirmed their misgivings by proving so incompetent that both the regiment and the man’s reputation needed to be rescued by Sabatero. Lapérouse knew without being told that the story must be about someone Eleonora knew—her own father, perhaps. When a servant came to announce the return of Monneron and Dufresne from their shopping excursion, she said, “Excuse me while I go and see,” and fairly fled the room.

  Sabatero poured himself more wine and leaned over to refill Lapérouse’s glass. “To our wives,” he said.

  Lapérouse raised his glass only as high as politeness required, then set the glass down.

  “I understand, Count, you also are married to a Creole,” Sabatero said.

  Lapérouse looked over at Eleonora’s empty chair. “Actually,” he said carefully, “my wife was born in France.”

  “But not raised in France. Bourbon?”

  “Île de France.”

  Sabatero nodded. “It changes them when they are not raised in Europe.”

  “I had not noticed that.” What it changes, Lapérouse thought, remembering his family’s long opposition to Éléonore, was their standing with other Europeans. He felt his face warm with resentment—both at the memory evoked and at Sabatero’s assumption that they would share this contempt for their wives’ creole roots.

  Sabatero smiled a wide, toothy smile. “The criollos here, they make very much noise about purity—purity of their blood.” He pointed to the veins of his forearm. “But this purity, it is a—how do you say it?—a fiction. My Eleonora, her family has been in Chile one hundred fifty years. What is the chance, do you think, that her blood is completely Spanish? Tell me, what do you think?” He leaned toward Lapérouse and raised his thick, wayward eyebrows, revealing watery, red-rimmed eyes. “That is right, sir,” he went on, though Lapérouse had said nothing. “It is zero.” He made the fingers of one hand into an O. “I knew Eleonora’s grandmother. She was mestiza. Yes. Eleonora has an older sister—you are surprised, sir, she has not mentioned it, naturally. The sister is still at the convent. She is a bit”—he tapped his head—“simple, you might say. But the real problem: she looks too Indian. Her parents make her a nun. And I marry the younger one. She is a good wife. But she is a typical criollo, and she has her distaste for Indians where she should not.”

  He gestured for José to approach the table and pressed the wineglass to him. To José’s credit, thought Lapérouse, the steward looked embarrassed and stood by Sabatero without drinking. Sabatero looked up at José with unmistakable pride. “This is a good man. He takes care of everything for us.”

  Lapérouse could think of no response, torn between discomfort and disgust. He reached by instinct for his wine, then set the glass down. A servant entered the room and announced the arrival of a Señor Delphin.

  “Ah,” Sabatero said, his face resuming a pleasanter, more businesslike expression, “this is the merchant Don Ambrosio recommends to you to supply your ships. His grandparents were from France, and he speaks good French, not like me. He waits for you in the drawing room.”

  Lapérouse required no second invitation. On his way out, he passed the larger dining room, where he could hear Monneron’s voice. Peering in, he saw the long dining room table at which he had taken his first meal in Concepción. Monneron and Dufresne stood over it examining their acquisitions, which Lapérouse could see included a large coil of rope and a portable brazier. Eleonora stood opposite them, smiling at something one of the men had said. He wondered that her good humor could be so easily restored. He wondered that she had any cheerfulness left at all, living with an old man who held her in contempt and who, Lapérouse now suspected, might be pressing his mixed-blood bastard son upon her.

  “But what if it catches fire?” she was asking.

  “Then our demonstration will be brief,” Monneron said. Dufresne and Eleonora both laughed.

  He wished he could join them, could take part in their joviality and exorcise the strange and unpleasant lunch he had just endured. But the lives of more than two hundred men depended on his successful procurement of four months’ worth of provisions, and Señor Delphin was waiting. Anyway, he knew his presence would alter the mood in the dining room. It was a peculiar isolation that came with command: one was forever excluded from easy sociability with others while still being at the mercy of highly placed bigots and pompous gabblers the world over.

  He made his way down the corridor, picturing as he did the drawing room in his house in Albi and the untidy pile of books and sewing Éléonore always left by her favorite chair, a faded fauteuil she had had shipped from Port Louis. No matter how long he lived, he would never feel he had spent enough hours there. It was with some surprise that he turned into the Sabateros’ drawing room to be greeted, not by Éléonore, but by a fast-talking merchant dizzy with delight over the largest sale of his career.

  * * *

  The evening meal was a happier occasion than lunch, as O
’Higgins did most of the talking and Sabatero very little. Lapérouse was impressed: O’Higgins was a man who sought peace, not simply through a superior show of force, but by learning to talk with his adversary. He actually knew the Araucanian chiefs and spoke of them by name with what seemed like genuine respect. The problem with a fascinating dinner companion, of course, was that one listened, rapt, and ate and drank without moderation. And the trouble with eating and drinking too much was that although one fell immediately to sleep afterward, it was a sleep neither restful nor lasting.

  Lapérouse came to in the middle of the night, feeling slightly sick and aware that he had spent much of the night in a restless half sleep as one document after another floated before his mind’s eye, demanding attention: the bill of exchange he needed to write up for Delphin; maps of the Pacific Ocean, with possible routes plotted out between Chile and the Sandwich Islands, Alaska, China; his shipboard journal, almost a month behind; letters he needed to write to the ministry; the unfinished letter to Éléonore.

  He opened his eyes and stared into the blackness. He could make out the shape of the window in the room, but nothing else. Somewhere in town, a confused rooster was crowing. Closer, he could hear footsteps making their quiet way across the courtyard. Another restless soul in the house. He wondered whom he would meet if he went out there. Most likely a servant making his or her rounds in the night. Perhaps the vigilant and ubiquitous José. The footsteps stopped nearby, and then he could hear the sound of a door—it was just a few doors down from his own—cautiously opening and closing.

  Could it be Eleonora’s room? He knew where it was—or he thought he did. Right before dinner he had seen her leaving the room two doors down from his. She had not seen him—at least he did not think she had. Now he imagined himself being the one walking across the courtyard, the one opening and shutting Eleonora’s door, and discovering at last the purpose of those mysterious buttons: silver buttons that were cool to the touch and slipped right through their buttonholes, cloth-covered buttons that resisted, requiring force to pop off, giving way to fabric, soft and white, and then it was hands—his own, reaching through warmer and warmer layers of gauze, and hers, small and white, reaching out to him, then his own again, fingers running through the fringe of her mantilla and unplaiting her hair, long and black, spreading it like an open fan around her head. Ashamed, he tried to switch to Éléonore, remembering the last time they were together before he set sail, the time he might have left her with child. But she had wept that night, naked shoulders shaking in his arms. Their first time, then—but no, she had cried then as well—and he was back to yielding buttons and fabric and hair, groping in the darkness for her, for himself, desire prevailing for the moment over compunction, over memory, even over fatigue.

 

‹ Prev