“This may be. But like the characters in George Orwell’s Animal Farm, some are more equal than others.”
Sarah said something in Spanish. He nodded sharply and turned to me.
“Ladies, you must excuse me,” he said. “I have several stops to make in San Miguel. A city full of artists. What could be better for a dealer than that?”
Sarah replied tartly in Spanish. He laughed and promised that he would return later that day.
“Come on in,” she said, wiping perspiration from her brow with a handkerchief. “I made some fresh iced tea. It’s too hot to stand outside in the sun.”
There was something different about her today, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. She was subdued, a weary expression on her face. It made her appear older than I had originally perceived her to be.
We crossed a narrow courtyard and entered her house. Inside, it was considerably cooler than on the street, the building’s stone structure providing natural air-conditioning. Sarah’s studio was on the main floor in what would ordinarily have been the living room. It was a large space completely given over to her work, with tall windows open to the courtyard on one side and to an alley on the other.
She was obviously hard at work. Two wooden easels held paintings, each with a piece of wrinkled canvas thrown over it to hide the unfinished composition from prying eyes. The easels stood on either end of a rough planked table, on which were cans of turpentine, linseed oil, and a jug of what appeared to be dirty water. Used coffee cans, mayonnaise jars, and assorted other kitchen containers held brushes, palette knives, and half-squeezed tubes of paint. A vase of flowers stood next to a plate with leftovers from a recent meal, and a pile of soiled rags sat on a laptop computer. She had one tall stool, which must have served both the easels, and a smaller table strewn with an array of bottles, pens, paints, and thin brushes, as well as a carton containing paper with a pile of miscellaneous items dumped on top—keys, wadded tissues, a wallet, a bracelet, coins—as if she’d emptied her pockets into the box. Stacks of paintings, some clearly unfinished, leaned against the walls. Pen-and-ink drawings rendered in blue and red were hanging at angles, tacked up on a long wall.
An arched opening at one end of the room led to the kitchen and dining room, both a riot of colorful tiles, fabrics, and accessories. A radio, set to loud, played Latin music. Sarah switched it off on her way into the kitchen.
I glanced around for a chair. Apart from the stool, the only place to sit was a battered upholstered sofa, the seat cushions concave with age and covered with serapes, their different patterns both clashing and blending with each other and with the large and small pillows casually thrown against the back. I decided not to chance it, having too often struggled to rise from an overly soft seat or one where the springs were long gone. I remained standing and inspected the work on the walls.
When she returned from her kitchen with two tall glasses of iced tea garnished with mint leaves, I said, indicating the paintings, “It looks like you’re in a particularly productive mode, Sarah.”
“I’m trying to gather enough work for a show, but it’s tricky,” she said. “My productivity ebbs and flows, like the tides and phases of the moon. When I get into a particularly industrious mood, I try to take advantage of it, knowing it will fade and I won’t produce anything worthwhile.” She set the tea down on her worktable, pushing the plate out of the way, and fetched a chair from the dining room for me. “For some reason, tragedy always spurs me on,” she said, leaning on the high back of the chair. “Maybe I use my work as an escape.” She dropped her chin and shook her head. “I still can’t believe it,” she said.
I knew instantly what she was referring to. “Yes, it is shocking.”
“No one told me that Woody had been killed,” she said, her voice hard, her eyes boring into mine. “I had to hear it on the radio.”
“You didn’t know?”
“No. I only knew he and Vaughan had been kidnapped.”
“I’m so sorry you weren’t informed right away, Sarah. I assumed someone would tell you.”
“It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.” She slapped her hand on the top of the chair. “Damn!” she said, pacing to the window. “He must have resisted, tried to fight them off. Mr. Macho Man, Woody was, full of bravado, self-professed soldier of fortune. Damn!”
“I know you were particularly close to him,” I offered.
She swung back to glare at me. “Close? Like in lovers?”
“I had the impression that you and he might have had a romantic relationship, but maybe I was wrong.”
“You’re right, Jessica. You were wrong. Woody was a friend, that’s all. He might have wanted more at one time and tried to initiate it, but I discouraged him. He was too old for me, not so much in age as in attitude. Anyway, I like younger men. I know I hurt him by feeling that way, but he had many women to choose from. He didn’t suffer long.”
“But you remained good friends,” I said.
She shrugged. “Sure. Why not? He was a good guy. His heart was in the right place, unlike most of the expats around here. They have no appreciation for the people whose country they’re happy to inhabit. All they care is that nothing gets in the way of their privileged lives now and then. They should try living for a day like the majority of poor Mexicans,” she snorted, “like the people who work for them. If they did, they might see things differently.”
She delivered her expression of empathy with conviction. I knew only a little of the plight of poor Mexicans, my knowledge confined to what I’d read about uprisings that had taken place over the years and the government’s attempts to quell them. Rebelling against in-place governments by impoverished citizens certainly wasn’t unique to Mexico. It happened in myriad countries around the world, cries for justice and equality too often deteriorating into outright revolution, bloodshed, and thousands of shattered lives.
“You’re very passionate about this subject,” I said.
“You can’t live here, Jessica, and not be,” she said in a tone leaving no room for debate. “At least I can’t.”
“I’m not surprised, given the subjects of your paintings, like the one you sold to Olga and Vaughan.”
Her expression registered discomfort for a moment; then her face cleared. “Don’t you want your tea?” she asked, pushing the chair in my direction with one hand and handing me the glass with the other.
I took the tea, turned the chair around to face her, and sat quietly, sipping. Sarah perched on the stool, her glass of tea untasted in her hand.
“How did you happen to come to San Miguel?” I asked. “You’re too young to be retired and trying to stretch a pension like a lot of the other Americans. Was it the art community that drew you?”
“I used to live in Texas. I moved to San Miguel fifteen years ago because of a man I’d fallen in love with.” She held the cold glass up to her face, rolling it against her cheek. Her eyes closed, seeing visions from her past, not the guest sitting in front of her. I watched the emotions flit across her face, pleasure morphing into distress. Abruptly, she focused on her hand, gulped half the tea, and set the glass down heavily on the table. “He was Mexican, handsome, bright, and committed to his cause,” she said, turning to face me.
“Which was?”
“Freedom, of course,” she replied. “What other cause is there? He fought the oppression of the people by the government. He was full of fire and zeal, and eventually I was, too, because of him.”
“What happened to him?” I asked, not sure I should.
“He was murdered, too.”
“How dreadful.”
“He led a demonstration in a small village south of here. It wasn’t much of a rebellion. Workers at a factory went on strike to protest their pitiful wages and lack of benefits. The government sent troops to quell what they considered a dangerous riot.” She guffawed. “Dangerous riot, indeed. He stood at the head of the strikers and shouted the demands they were making. Soldiers opened fir
e and gunned him, and some of the strikers, down in front of me.”
“You were there?”
She nodded. “I had his body brought back here to San Miguel and arranged for his burial.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “It must have been a traumatic time.”
She gave me a wry smile. “San Miguel is becoming a city of losses for me. But you didn’t come here to discuss my love life. Or did you?”
“No, of course not,” I said. “You had indicated you were coming back to the house yesterday, and you didn’t return. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“That’s very kind of you,” she said in a tone that hinted that she thought I wasn’t being truthful.
“Who have you spoken to about Woody’s death?” I asked.
“I don’t recall,” she said, stroking the brushes in one of the paint cans. “It was all over town shortly after I left the Buckleys’ house—on the radio, on television.” She sighed and gazed up at me. “How is the tea?”
“Terrific. I pride myself on the iced tea I make back home in Maine, but yours is delicious, too. The mint leaves give it a wonderful flavor.”
She took a brush from the can, swirled it around in the dirty water, and rubbed it with a corner of the paint-stained rag. “Everyone has a skill they can call their own,” she said.
I couldn’t tell if she was being snide. “I know I’m intruding on your work, Sarah. I have the same problem you do when I’m writing a book. Some days the words just flow, and I try to turn out as many pages as possible. Other days—”
“Art and the artist,” she said, brightening. “The eternal question: Where does creativity come from, and how do you keep it flowing year after year? What’s your answer?”
“I wish I had one,” I said, sipping my tea.
The telephone rang. She excused herself and left the room.
In her absence, I got up from my chair and went to where her new works were displayed on the wall. The line drawings and washes were very different from the art hanging in Vaughan and Olga’s home, more impressionistic than those gracing my friends’ living room wall and more sophisticated than the younger work in their dining room and hall. She was working in a different medium, using watercolors and inks instead of the oils I was used to seeing. Was she experimenting with something new, or making an effort to paint in a style more appealing to prospective buyers? As I examined her work, my eyes strayed to the table with the ink bottles and boxes of pens. What I had earlier taken to be a bracelet was, on second glance, not a piece of women’s jewelry at all. It was a man’s watch with a woven leather band, and if I wasn’t mistaken, it was the watch that Woody’s son, Philip, claimed to have misplaced.
Interesting, I thought. Had he come to the studio to tell Sarah of his father’s murder? For consoling? That seemed a safe assumption. Why Sarah, I wondered, and not another of his father’s friends? It might not mean anything. Still, a man didn’t usually remove his watch, unless ... Were Sarah and Philip engaged in an affair? I judged her to be in her early forties; Philip was considerably younger, barely out of his teens. But she said she liked younger men. And men of any age would be drawn to her dark beauty and intensity, her talent and passion. What ran through my mind at that moment was that if that scenario were true—that Woody’s young son was romantically involved with a woman his father had coveted—it could spawn some pretty strong feelings between father and son.
I returned my attention to the art on the easels. Lifting a corner of the covering, I studied what she’d hidden from view. This was the kind of oil painting I’d begun to associate with her, dark and violent. But I thought I remembered Olga saying those were early works. Why would she be working on a painting she had finished years ago? I leaned close to see the detail in the scene. It was a montage of Mexican peasants. Some held rifles above their heads, or pitchforks and other farm tools. Their faces were set in anger. But not all of them. Sarah had started to paint out the faces of two figures. One was completely obscured, but the features of the other were still visible through the thin layer she’d brushed over them. He stood in the center of the group, and if I wasn’t mistaken, the face belonged to Woody Manheim.
Sarah’s sudden reappearance in the room startled me, and I bumped against the table holding the inks and watercolors, causing the liquids to slosh around in their containers.
“Don’t get that ink on you,” she said. “It’s permanent.” She held out her smock to show me the stains.
“An occupational hazard,” I said.
“Yes.” She noticed the watch on the table and scooped it up, dropping it into a pocket.
“Thanks for letting me interrupt your creative efforts today, Sarah,” I said.
“I needed the break,” she said.
She walked me to the street.
“Mind a word of advice?” she said.
“I’d welcome it.”
“Don’t hold out too much hope for Vaughan.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll be really surprised if he doesn’t suffer the same fate as Woody.”
“Why would you say that?”
“It’s a violent world.”
“Well,” I said, taken aback, “I certainly hope you’re wrong.”
Chapter Nineteen
I stepped outside Sarah’s carved door and came face-to-face with Captain Gutierrez.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I came to visit Sarah Christopher,” I said. “I assume you’re here for the same reason. Am I right?”
“I do not have to tell you my business,” he said, brushing past me and slamming the door behind him.
I sighed. The sky had turned dark gray, reflecting my mood and heralding the arrival of rain sooner or later. Low rumbles from a distance, barking dogs, and the pealing of church bells, a common sound in San Miguel de Allende, assaulted my ears. The Buckleys’ house was not too far from here, but in which direction? I started walking uphill, changed my mind and turned back toward the Parque Benito Juárez. Down the cobblestone street, a man in a blue shirt pulled his hat lower on his face and slipped into an open doorway. Farther away, I could make out the beginnings of a pageant of some sort. Mounted horsemen carrying flags and wearing sombreros edged in dark colors were lined up in formation, the bobbing noses of their steeds pointed in my direction. I decided it would be easier to get my bearings if I returned to my El Jardin starting point and found my way back to Olga’s from there.
The sound of wood slapping against something solid above me caused me to look up. A woman had flung open the shutters on her window and now leaned out. I suppose my face reflected my question about what was occurring. She grinned down at me. “Fiesta!” she called out. “Fiesta!”
The horsemen were moving closer, the hooves of their mounts audible on the cobblestones, and the rumbles I’d heard clarified into the beating of drums, the sounds competing with the barks and howls of the dogs in the courtyards of homes up and down the street. I watched the parade draw near and saw the man in the blue shirt emerge from the doorway. Other doors opened and children and their parents spilled into the street, the little ones hopping and dancing as the procession made its way uphill. They raced toward me, laughing, their parents calling out to caution them. The man remained where he was. He wouldn’t have captured my attention except that I was sure I’d seen him before, when I went to police headquarters that morning. Just a coincidence, I told myself as I turned uphill toward El Jardin, scarcely a block ahead of the parade.
When I reached the park’s perimeter, I paused and waited for the horsemen to pass by me into the square. I craned my neck to see where I’d come from, checking for my tracker. You’re being foolish, I told myself. If he’s there, he’s just coming to watch the fiesta. Even so, I considered approaching him should he show up again, but my view was suddenly cut off by a line of women in black dresses with purple stoles, two of whom held aloft a picture of a saint, presumably the one in whose honor the festiva
l was being held. In the midst of them was a wooden cart made to resemble a white coffin with black outlines drawn on it. Standing in the coffin replica were children dressed in white with colorful bands across their chests, like beauty pageant contestants but with a more serious purpose.
Concha dancers, bare-chested but for intricately detailed breastplates, followed next. I wondered how they could keep their balance in the huge feathered headdresses shaped like giant disks, which were easily more than half the height of their bodies. But they not only kept their balance, they danced to the beat of the drums, their steps at first measured, then as the tempo increased, more frenzied. The people in the park deserted their benches and gathered for a closer look at the dancers. I was swept along with the crowd as they moved toward the entrance to La Parroquia, the huge Gothic church that towered over the square.
Bringing up the rear of the procession were two mariachi bands, one female and one male. The women wore long sky blue skirts with matching bolero jackets on which white flowers were embroidered, while the men were in tight black suits with gold and silver fringe down the sides of their pants and along the sleeves of their jackets, their hats large and colorfully fringed. Each band played its own music, the sounds of their trumpets, guitars, bass guitars, and violins adding to the general cacophony, the notes blending and competing as the musicians moved into the street in front of the church, the whole accompanied by the pealing from La Parroquia’s spires, which drowned out all other sounds every few seconds as the heavy bells reached the zenith of their arc and the clappers pounded out their heavy knells.
Around me were Mexican men in historical costumes consisting of white pajamas and sandals, similar to figures commonly seen in the paintings of Diego Rivera, and everywhere was the sound of drums whose incessant beating was louder than the thunder I thought I’d heard.
The festivities filled El Jardin, where vendors, who sold their wares daily in the park, had decorated their carts with Mexican flags and red, white, and green bunting. The park was packed with people; locals and tourists alike mixed with the costumed revelers, the atmosphere bursting with celebration and joy. I flinched as the sound of fireworks burst overhead. You’re jumpy today, Jessica, I told myself.
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