by Pam Lewis
Beyond those few buildings, everything was placed so randomly the town might have been a score of jacks thrown across a floor. Sprinkled about for miles were the little metal sheds where people lived, and oil wells that sprouted here and there, some covered entirely in metal sheeting to protect them from the ever-present wind.
One fine day—the house was nearly finished by then—she was on the Cerro when a tiny dark shape appeared on the northern horizon. She narrowed her eyes, concentrating, trying to decide if it was a mirage; people talked about mirages here, how not to trust what you saw until you could touch it. The speck grew larger. It took the shape of several wooden wagons that rocked and swayed from side to side, loaded dangerously high. As they came closer, she saw teams of skeletal horses, eight for each wagon. They stopped at the Almacén.
A few children came running to see. The children of Comodoro were peculiar. They didn’t play outside but stayed inside the little metal houses and came bursting out when something happened in the town. Soon the adults came out of their houses and made lines to unload the wagons of their huge bulging burlap sacks and lumber. That seemed to be the way of the town. When anything arrived, men formed lines.
The horses stood motionless, their heads lowered while the unloading took place. Then something happened. There was agitation, a disengagement of the line. One of the horses had dropped to its knees. Its companions in the team were skittish, jostling and sidestepping. Men shouted and slapped the downed horse, trying to make it stand. They stood back, looking at the animal. One of the men finally released the horse’s harness. The horse fell over and lay still in the dust while the rest of the team was pulled clear of it. Now more men came from the hotel and looked the horse over, walking around it, gesticulating, arguing with the driver of the rig. A horse was unhitched from the team and used to drag the downed horse across the expanse that was San Martin Street to the rear of the hotel, where it was hoisted, hind feet first, by a pulley. The cook, in his white apron, came jauntily out from the hotel. He slit the horse from chest to groin, stepped back, and let the entrails spill onto the ground. People applauded.
Minke’s stomach heaved. She leaned forward just in time to keep from throwing up on her dress. The heaves came in waves, over and over until she was vomiting bile. She shut her eyes, holding her stomach, rolled over, curled up on her side, and sobbed without bothering to wipe her mouth. She cried for the horse at first, for that poor pathetic broken animal who had pulled its load and done its work, then died before anyone even thought to give it a drink of water. She cried for the other horses, for the loss of their companion. And then she hauled in a long breath and cried out loud for Elisabeth and for Astrid, snatched from her so quickly. She cried for Elisabeth’s miserable, lonely last moments, for the murk that shrouded the events of her death, and for her own guilt at having let Sander persuade her to leave that day. She cried because if Astrid had lived, the two of them might be up here together right now, giving each other comfort. She cried for Mama and Papa, imagining them huddled together in their closet bed, devastated by her absence, and then she cried for the deep featherbed itself, all dark, cozy, and safe, and much as she hadn’t enjoyed bedding down with Fenna every night, she still cried for her sister and wished she could see her again. Finally, she cried for herself. She lay flat out on her back and sobbed loudly to the heavens for everything she had lost, her home, her family, everything she knew. Why had she ever said yes to Sander? It was true, she loved their times alone. She had thought she could endure anything as long as she had the safety of his arms at night, the lovely arousal, reaching such heights that her own intense feeling swallowed the world. She sobbed into her hands. She thought of those entrails again and produced another stream of vomit and bile.
She dragged herself to a sitting position and looked down the Cerro for Sander. There he was, dragging a sheet of the ridged metal across the dirt, upending it, and hammering it into place. It was only the middle of the day, too early to go back. She rose and walked to the western slope of the Cerro, where she could see to its base and the house Cassian was building, a house that stood all by itself, far from any others. Smoke puffed from his chimney; he was there.
She made her way down the path to flat land, backtracked to the right, and knocked at Cassian’s door. The metal door rattled, and she waited, cold seeping through her clothing, the wind an out-of-key violin that wouldn’t quit.
No answer. She knew he was there. She entered and found herself in his consultation room. “Cassian?” He’d made it so cozy. Persian rugs covered the whole dirt floor, a cushioned examining table stood at the center, and glass cabinets stood against the wall in which his medical tools were lined neatly in rows. Dangerous-looking scissors and knives with sharp points. Ten or so bottles of morphine.
She passed through the room and knocked at the door to the back room before cracking it. Four young men lay about like a litter of nursing puppies who’d fallen asleep on top of one another at the teat. They reminded her of the waiters on the ship, only these men were deeply asleep, absolutely still.
She pulled the door closed. “Well,” Cassian said, and she jumped. He stood in the doorway.
“I didn’t see you,” she said.
“I know.”
“Who are they?” She pointed to the young men.
“They work here,” he said with a shrug. “In the laboratory, as guards in the night.”
“Why the need for guards? What’s going on?”
“You look distressed.”
“I was sick. I saw a horse hung up and skinned. But why do you have guards? They’re not very good guards.”
He indicated she should take the leather chair and stood behind her, running his fingertips over her neck and throat. His touch was soothing. She could be drawn easily into the sleepy world Cassian created here.
He moved to the chair facing hers and held her hands. His smile reassured her. It took in every bit of his face, crinkling the skin at his eyes and mouth. “You’re safe here.”
“And yet you have guards,” she said.
“That’s different.” He made a dismissive motion of the hand, thought a moment, and then said, “At home the dangers are known, but there are still many of them. Falling through the ice, drowning in the sea, catching a fever.” He shrugged again. “Here everything is new, and you don’t know what can kill you and what cannot.”
“I’m not afraid of dying,” she said.
“All fear is ultimately about death. A great change like this requires a great deal of time to accommodate.” He smiled. “But you will. You’ll see.”
“And in the meantime?”
“There is no meantime, Minke, that’s the point. There is only now.” He rested two fingers on the inside of her wrist and shut his eyes to count. “You seem to be fine. Do you feel better?”
She did. The nausea was gone, and her calm was restored. “I want to see what they’re guarding.”
He thought a moment, smiled. “But of course.”
He led the way across the dirt yard to another building, mostly finished, with a low flat roof and three big metal chimneys puffing out steam. She had to duck. Inside, she found herself in a large darkened space that smelled as loamy as a mushroom cellar. Three large metal pots hung over loud gas burners tended by a young man with a long wooden paddle, stirring. Overhead, cloth bags hung from the ceiling, each holding something about the size of a small cannonball. Large tables in the center of the room held square trays of powder the color of honey. “What is all this?” she asked.
“Medicine,” he said.
“You make your own?” She recalled the boxes of small bottles in the storeroom of the house in Amsterdam. “Is Sander involved as well?”
“We’ve been partners in manufacture for many, many years.”
“And are you also partners in the store?”
Cassian shook his head. “The store is only a plaything.”
She didn’t understand the world of men, or at least n
ot these men. She walked back to Cassian’s house with him. It was still too early to return home, and she fell into the big comfortable chair. “At home there was a great deal for me to do. Here, very little,” she said. “I sew in our hotel, but I wish there was more to do.”
Cassian disappeared into his bedroom and emerged with several books. “You might spend time learning the language.”
“Spanish?”
“Of course. You’ll need Spanish and, while we’re at it, English as well. I find it’s easier to learn two languages at once rather than one at a time. Besides, English is surprisingly close to Dutch. Come.” He sat opposite her and began with English. “Repeat after me. ‘I am. You are. He, she, it is. We are. You are. They are.’ ”
THAT NIGHT THE hotel smelled of roasting horsemeat. She had no appetite, unlike Sander, who had worked all day. She waited in their room under the covers and listened for Sander to return. When she heard his steps in the corridor, she jumped out of bed. The moon was full, and she wanted to walk outside with him for a while. She wanted to see the moonlight on the ocean.
He’d been drinking and was in a sweet, mellow mood, hugging and kissing her as they walked outside and toward the sea.
“I thought seeing the sea would remind me of home,” she said. “But this sea is empty, whereas at home, there are the lights of fishing boats, the sound of the bells, the buoys knocking about.” She stared at the black vastness feeling small and lost. “Hold me, Sander.”
He put his arms around her from behind, and they both looked out to sea. “You miss home,” he said.
The wind had stopped its constant blowing, and the air was quiet. “Not that, exactly, Sander, but I do wonder sometimes.”
“Wonder what?”
“From what Elisabeth said, I imagined waving grass and lovely ranches and streams.” She could feel him loosen his hold on her. “Not that I’m complaining. I suppose there’s a beauty to it that grows on a person.” His arms slipped from her waist and rested at the sides of her hips. Had she gone and offended him? “It’s just that there isn’t much color here, you know? And I haven’t seen any girls my own age, and when will I ever wear my beautiful dresses?” She was chattering away like a schoolgirl, but she couldn’t stop, and tried to undo the damage. “But I’m sure in summer it’s beautiful. And Holland isn’t so different, when you think about it. It’s just as bleak in the winter.”
“You think Elisabeth exaggerated.”
“I’m not blaming her.” She drew in a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said anything at all. I don’t know what got into me.”
“Speak your mind, Minke.”
She mulled this over a moment. What did she want to say? She tried to organize the thoughts that had been tumbling about for weeks. “Why here, Sander? Why Comodoro? It’s a peculiar choice for a man like you.”
“And what sort of man is that?”
“A wealthy man such as yourself. And starting over with so little?” She wished he’d put his arms around her again, as he had at the start, and make everything good again.
“It’s not enough for you?”
“For me, it’s enough. But you had that grand house in Amsterdam.”
“You’re disappointed,” he said.
“I’m trying to make sense of things.” She spread open her arms to take in the whole town. “It’s just a surprise.” His calmness was maddening. “Say something, Sander. You asked me to speak my mind, and I did.”
“Let’s have a look at the house,” he said.
She felt baffled. He could be such an enigma, which, she reasoned, was a function of the difference in their ages but had to be resolved, even so. She didn’t know how to think things through the way he did. She would have to learn how to be more clear and not to be taken the wrong way. Blaming it on Elisabeth! That was the furthest thing from her mind, and yet she could see how it might have sounded that way to Sander. She walked beside him, zigzagging around the wires that marked property lines. It was impossible to walk a straight line in some places. Once at the house, Sander put a key into the lock, swung the door open, and lit the torch in a large room with a low ceiling and stacked with crates and sacks. A clean smell of wet plaster reminded her of home. Here was the house. He was giving her answers after all.
“What do the boxes contain?”
“The things we’re to sell. We’ll use this space for a store.” He opened another door. “Come.”
The door gave onto another space about the size of the front room but divided down the center by a shoulder-level partition, so that from the door you could go either way. The space to the right was divided down the middle by another partition into two smaller spaces. Sander, pointing to the right, said, “Our parlor,” and then to the left, “Our bedroom.” She hastened into it and looked about, seeing immediately a window that looked toward the sea. This would be home.
Just then came whooping sounds at a distance, and they rushed outside to see what was happening. They were met with an otherworldly sight that she would remember clearly for the rest of her days. A bright orange halo lay to the west with a more brilliant orange center. Fires. Five or six small ones and one very large—all sending out arcs and pinwheels of blazing sparks into the black sky. In all her life, she’d never seen so much fire or heard such sounds. She didn’t know if the sounds were animal or human.
People materialized from all over Comodoro, dark shapes, singly and in pairs and threesomes, coming out of their homes to see. It was beautiful to watch but even more beautiful to hear. The cries were jubilant. It was like looking at hell and hearing heaven, she thought.
Sander wrapped his arms around her. “The gauchos have come.”
7
THE VIBRATING BASSO profundo of hooves awakened her, and she jumped out of bed to the window. There was dust everywhere, along with massive horses and glints of silver. She dressed hurriedly—her red dress for the occasion. Sander had already left, saying as he went that he wanted to ready his goods for trade with the gauchos. This was the day he’d been waiting for.
She had no appetite, but it was necessary to eat. Sander had insisted on it. She was becoming too thin on the diet of meat that was so prevalent in Comodoro. She could be ravenous, but one look at a plate heaped with beef kidneys and she lost her appetite. Only at breakfast could she count on the small portions of bread and cheese she loved, the dark roasted coffee loaded with sugar.
The Explotación bar was transformed. Liquid smoke hung in the air, and it bustled with men from the town and with gauchos and smelled of yerba maté. The men standing parted for her to pass through to her small table at the back. The gauchos wore heavy silver spurs and red bombachas oily with use. The glinting everywhere of red and silver was all she registered as she passed among them, nervous, excited to be at her table, where she could watch unnoticed.
Her coffee was brought immediately, and she sipped the sweet dark liquid. They were stealing glances at her, and she lowered her eyes to the cup, pleased with herself for wearing red in their honor. She couldn’t keep herself from smiling and tucked her head so the smile wouldn’t be noticed.
“Mevrouw, may I join you?” a voice said, and when she looked up, she saw it was Pieps, but without his familiar white suspenders. His blond hair was longer and dusty. He’d grown a beard that had come in a startling red. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” She was desperate to speak to someone her own age, in her own language.
“They’ve been touching my hair,” he said with a laugh. “They’ll want to touch yours as well. They’ve never seen hair like ours. They’ll think we’re brother and sister.”
The owner, Meduño, brought her a piece of coarse dark bread and a thick slice of hard cheese, the closest she could come to an echo of the breakfast of her childhood.
“How do you like Comodoro now?” she asked Pieps.
“I love it. I belong here.” He opened his hands, thick with calluses and scars. “I have a future here. I’m a seal skinner.
It’s what I did at home, but here I can advance.”
“Where are there seals?”
“Up and down the coast.”
A gaucho was headed their way through the crowd of men. His sheer size was spectacular, not so much his height—he wasn’t nearly as tall as Sander—but his chest was enormous with power, so he looked as big across the shoulders as he was tall. At the table, he extended a big-boned hand covered in skin so thick it could be the hide of a reptile. His black bangs were cut straight over his eyebrows, and he had a black scarf knotted at his throat, the ends spread jauntily to the tips of his shoulders. “Señora.” He flashed white teeth in a face that was as weathered as his hands, the skin carved in troughs across his cheeks from squinting. His hand squeezed hers like a vise.
“Señor?”
“His name is Goyo,” Pieps said, and at the sound of his name, the gaucho grinned and bowed his head. “They were in the north when they had news of the arrival of the Frisia. May he sit with us?”
“Of course,” she said, and sat down gingerly.
“They are prepared to trade,” Pieps said. He talked about the horse-drawn pallets that had come in carrying more things the gauchos might want, the same wagon train that had stopped at the Almacén that time, how it always happened this way. News of any arrivals by ship or shore in Comodoro were always known somehow by the gauchos, who would travel hundreds of miles to trade. While Pieps spoke, Goyo stared at Minke, his face a grinning mask.
“Is he dangerous?” she whispered. Pieps poked Goyo and must have asked that exact question because Goyo made a fierce face at her, baring his teeth, and the two men laughed.