by John Horst
“Robert.” He poured and gulped and smiled at the engineer. “This is bad business about the Indian getting killed.”
“You mean Dan George, the attorney.”
“Yes, yes, the attorney, of course.”
“Don’t know that he has been killed. He’s only a little overdue. Could have gotten waylaid, could have a little señorita no one knows about. Why would you think he’s dead, Miles?”
“Oh, I’m sure of it, Robert. Sure of it.” He gulped again. “This is a mess down here. A real mess.”
“I’m not so sure about that, either, Miles. Now that Madero is recognized as president, he seems to be getting things in order. He’s got Zapata on his side so far, I don’t know that things are so bad.”
“Well they are.” The old man snapped, then caught himself and smiled at Curtin. “Look, Robert. I’ve gotten off on the wrong footing with that young lady and the Indian. I know that now, but, well, I’ll cut to the chase. We want this land.”
“Oh?” Curtin looked behind him for a file, grabbed it and put it on the desk in front of him. He didn’t look up. “Who wants it?”
“We, the company. And I’ll tell you, Robert, I’ve arranged it so you and I get a good cut. How’d you like to be a wealthy man in another year?”
This got Curtin’s attention. “What do you mean, you’ve arranged it?”
“With the boys at the home office. I told them you and I get a bigger percentage of the yield.”
“I would rather you not talk to them about me, Miles.” He saw the old man’s face change. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, Miles. I do. Thank you. But I’m satisfied with how things are going. This is making good money for the young woman and the company and you and I are doing okay.”
“Well, I’m not.” He poured and gulped yet again. “I haven’t saved for my dotage as well as I should have, Robert, and I don’t know how much longer I can work, my liver’s probably as big as a watermelon. I need this.” He poured another with shaky hands.
“They aren’t interested in selling, Miles. That’s an end to it.”
“But it would be best for everyone if they did. Mark my words, this place is a powder keg. The Indian dying is just the beginning. These natives have been brewing for a fight, anarchy, for years. It’s only a matter of time before some corrupt official, or Villa, or Zapata or some other warlord comes in, takes over, and then the girl will be out, we’ll be out, or worse.”
Curtin grinned. “You sure know how to cheer a fellow.” He suddenly stopped grinning. “Why me, Miles? Why are you being so good to me?” He looked on at the old man’s reddening face.
“Look, Robert, I’m no choirboy. I want this land for my own personal gain, I’m not doing this for you, or the company or the young woman. I’m doing it for me. If we can extract the yield we’re getting over the next eighteen months, at the rate I’ve negotiated, you and I might not have to work again for the rest of our days.” He looked into his drink, then up at Curtin. He seemed genuine, he seemed to mean what he was saying. He continued. “Like I said, I didn’t handle it well with the girl, but I could see you had her attention. She’s not a bad looking little thing. A shade or two darker than I like, but…”
“And I’m to go convince her.” He smiled at the memory of the strong willed young woman. “Don’t know that I’m up to it, don’t know that anyone’s up to it.”
“You are.”
Curtin was beginning to become annoyed, and then caught himself. There was no profit in showing Tolkenhorn any more than he had to. Tolkenhorn didn’t have to know everything that was on Curtin’s mind. He looked back at the papers on his desk, then looked the man in the eye. “What do you have in mind? Nothing illegal and nothing dangerous.”
“Nope, neither of the above, and more importantly, Robert, because I know you, know you have an ugly streak of goodness and decency about you, nothing unethical. Just go back East, that’s not so hard to do, things are under control here. Take a nice cruise on the ship back there, stretch it out, stop off in Havana and get yourself a few boxes of good cigars, enjoy yourself a little. You never have any fun, lad. You’re a young man. You should enjoy this time in your life. God knows, you feel like hell at my age. So don’t waste your youth with your nose to the grindstone. When you get there, tell her about the Indian, tell her what we have in mind.”
He blew a long breath through his teeth. “Oh, so I’m the one to tell her that her lawyer and longtime family friend is missing, presumed dead? Nice. I knew there’d be a catch.”
“It’s bad news, but coming from you will help. You two have a connection, she respects you.”
“Right.” He stood up and stretched his back. Tolkenhorn would be sloppy drunk in another half hour, and Curtin didn’t want him falling over in his office. He looked at the old man one more time. He became more serious, more serious than Tolkenhorn had ever seen him to be. “Just understand one thing, Miles. I do have an ugly streak of morality about me, but it wouldn’t do to get me riled. Understand?”
Miles thought about grinning, then saw the look in Curtin’s eye. He shivered a little and looked back at his drink. “Understood.”
IV Portent
Adulio waited in the headmistress’s office. He stood erect and formal even though he was alone. He fiddled with the pencil curl on his Homburg and ran a finger under each of his moustaches. He was a twitchy man who’d served Alejandro del Toro faithfully for more than twenty years. When Uncle Alejandro died, Marta made the man the caretaker of the hacienda. He was smart and competent and obsessed with work and order. He was neither tall nor short, but always looked diminutive, he carried himself small, kept his eyes to the ground. One would suspect that he was a terrible boss, a terrible leader, and that he would never be able to get things done, but he could. It was very strange, but he always got things done.
He had watery eyes and his lips moved in constant conversation, an audible one when he was speaking to another person, and an inaudible one when he wasn’t. It was an odd habit and it amused Marta. She liked him, and out of respect for the strange twitchy little man and out of respect for her beloved Uncle Alejandro, never poked fun at Adulio or made him feel uncomfortable. He was likely the only person in the world who saw Marta act respectfully, articulately, and responsibly, always.
Their conversations were invariably the same, never casual, never unimportant, and Adulio would end every interaction with his young mistress with “as you please.” No matter what the subject, command, request, and Marta was amused by this as well. She thought that she could tell Adulio to go and find a stout rafter, throw a riata over it and hang himself and he’d bow, jerk his neck downward the way he always had a habit of doing and say, in his crisp, clipped voice, “as you please,” and likely go ahead and do it.
For his trip back East he was dressed impeccably in a cheap wool suit and a tie in the custom of his land. He stood out like a beacon on the outskirts of Baltimore, walking resolutely to his destination, despite the fact that he’d carefully shaved just that day, trimmed his long mustaches and gotten a haircut from a real barber instead of one of the ranch hands. He especially picked a grey Homburg out in Tampico for the journey, but it did nothing to make him fit in. He was a Mexican Indian through and through and his dark skin, dark from his bloodline and years in the sun, could not be made insignificant by the muted tone of his wool sack suit.
Marta came in, not a little surprised to see him. He’d worked for her for many years and they would see each other perhaps one in every two of those. As far as she could tell, he’d never traveled farther than to Tampico, but here he was, standing in the office in Maryland, waiting for an audience with his boss.
She moved around him as he stood staring at his hands holding the hat’s brim. She sat at Madame’s desk and waited for him to sit down. She looked him in the watery eyes and he immediately handed over his pouch with tobacco and papers.
As she deftly rolled a cigarette for herself, and then one for him, she sa
t back and smoked. Adulio waited. She blew a plume at the ceiling and looked at the glowing cigarette tip with satisfaction. She looked on at her overseer. “What is your business here, Adulio?”
“Señorita,” he too stared at the end of his cigarette. “Dan George is missing.”
Marta sat up straight in her chair. She was concerned as she loved Dan George as an advisor and a friend. “What do you mean?”
“He was due to the ranch five days ago and he has not yet arrived.”
“Did you contact his office?”
“Yes, we did and he left the day he said he would. No one can account for him. Señorita, we fear the worst.”
Marta smoked harder. She looked on as Adulio continued. “Señorita, the land is in a terrible state down there, and we fear that the lawyer is dead.”
She felt a deep pang. She’d learned to feel sorry for the dead over the past many years. She felt it when the old man died and when her uncle Alejandro and Uncle Bob had died. She now felt it for Dan George. She looked up again at the watery eyes.
“And you are certain of this, Adulio? Have any authorities been notified?”
“I’ve made inquiries, but there is no real authority. The army is in a shambles, all brutes, then there is Pancho Villa who we are not certain can be trusted, but it could not have been him, he is in jail now.” He looked at her as she prepared another cigarette. “And there is something else, Señorita.” He waited until she looked him in the eye, directly. When he had her full attention he continued. “The oil men. I am not trusting them. I am not certain what it is, but something is happening, something that will make all trouble for us.”
“The lawyer?”
“And the young one, the engineer.” He watched Marta’s eyes. She was taking it all in, reflecting, processing, formulating a plan. He continued.
“The young one, Curtin, is coming to see you. I beat him here by one day. He will be calling on you tomorrow. He and the lawyer, Tolkenhorn are going to try to convince you to sell.”
She waved her hand airily. “They know that won’t work, they’ve tried it.”
“But Señorita, I am thinking that they are becoming more persuasive.”
“Impatient?”
“Sí, impatient. I am thinking that maybe they could have had some hand in Dan George’s disappearance.”
“I see.” She sat back and considered the man for a moment. She always thought that he was a good man. He was dedicated to the hacienda and dedicated to her. “And why have you come all this way when a wire would have served the same purpose?”
“I want to warn you and ask you to come home. This man Curtin will try to persuade you to sell the land and move on. He will tell you that Dan George is dead and that the land is in discord and strife and that you will be better off without it, that it is no place for a young lady and that it is too dangerous.”
“I see. And you say the opposite, Adulio?”
“Yes. I know you, Señorita. I know your…” he suddenly became embarrassed.
“My what?” She knew what he was going to say, but pushed him nonetheless.
“Your stock.” He looked at his hands and his eyes watered more. “You do not scare easily, Señorita, and you love the land and the people. I know this. I believe you are needed back home, back with us. I just wanted to tell you this thing to your face, because I believe it.” He waited and then continued. “It is your place, Señorita. It is your land. Mexico is your land and it is bleeding and it needs strong people such as you. It is time. You are a grown woman. A lovely…” he stopped himself as he was becoming more embarrassed, felt himself fawning over his boss and knew it was not the proper thing to do. “Señorita, you can live a life of leisure, I know this. You can go off and live and enjoy yourself and want for nothing for the rest of your days, but something larger is in store for you.” He was talking nonsense now, but it was from the heart. He suddenly looked up again with his watery eyes. “I am sorry to speak so freely, Señorita. I love the land and it is time you take your rightful place as the hacendada. Make the powerful ones see that there are good hacendados, make the anarquistas and the others who want to tear the land apart and the people apart understand that the system can work, not the way it worked under Díaz, but the way it worked for many years for your Uncle Alejandro,” he crossed himself and kissed his fingers, “and the way you have made it work.” He watched her tap the ash from her cigarette and continued. “Please Señorita, please come home.”
With that he stood up, held his hat brim with both hands now, appearing like an overgrown rodent, sitting on its haunches, looking on at something that might do it harm. He bowed reverently and waited, uncomfortably, as if the speech was now over and someone should have to come in to physically remove him, help him from the stage.
Marta stood up. She considered him. He made her think about the things that had been eating at her for a long time. It was time and she knew it.
Curtin was cold. Freezing cold and exhausted as he lay in a snow bank out of the wind. He slept and waited and after a long time the rescue party found him. They bundled him up and rushed him back to base camp and he lived. He lived and warmed up and didn’t lose any toes. He regained his vision after two days and began to eat hardily after three. All the men in his party were dead and he was the leader and the strongest and took the initiative to go after help and leave them and his decision cost them all their lives and the preservation of his.
So, his selfless act was selfish and self-serving and there was not a little whispering around the place. It was a heavy burden to carry for a man who’d not reached his twenty-fourth year.
He got up and closed the window. It was unusually cold for a June morning in Baltimore, and as he kicked off the covers, was fully exposed, not used to the cool weather farther north. He had the dream every time he’d get a little cold in his sleep. He looked at his watch, four forty-five on the dot; it was the same every day. He could never sleep beyond four forty-five.
He got dressed and ate a good breakfast. The Emerson was beginning to be his favorite hotel. He looked at his watch and read three newspapers. He decided to walk the five miles to the school. By nine he was ready for his audience with the pretty young woman. He checked his papers, they were all in order. He checked on the cigarettes again. He’d gotten her half a dozen packs of what he hoped were a brand she would like.
She was especially cool to him and he didn’t know why. She took the cigarettes and thanked him for them, then took one from his case and they smoked together in silence for a while.
In a bold move he got up, walked to the window and closed the blinds. The sun would not blind him now. He walked back to his chair, adjusted it upward so that they’d be looking eye to eye. He sat down and gave her a friendly smile.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here, ma’am.”
She didn’t respond. She smoked aggressively, blew great clouds at him until they were regarding each other through a significant haze. He continued.
“Something is going on, ma’am. Something that I am not certain about, but know that it’s not right.”
“What do you mean?” She sat forward in her chair. This was getting interesting.
“Tolkenhorn’s got some scheme going, he wants me to convince you to sell out. He’s convinced that he’ll make a great fortune and he’s trying to convince me that he’s got your best interest in mind.” He looked at the end of his cigarette and continued. “I’m not so convinced of all that.”
“I see.” She thought about Adulio’s warnings and was a little confused. Whom could she trust now? “And what is in all this for you? You’re not just some messenger boy.”
“No, I’m not. He cut me in on the bonus that would be paid if we got the land away from you. I’d likely make a lot of money.”
“And you don’t like money.”
“I like money well enough. But that doesn’t mean I’m planning to rob a bank, or take advantage of you. Don’t want to earn my fortune th
at way, ma’am.”
She waved him off, airily, dismissively and lit another smoke. “Stop calling me that. Call me Marta. God you’re not that much older than me. Ten years?”
“Well, not even, not quite.” He felt a little self-conscious at that. He felt more akin to her and closer to her age. A ten year difference made him feel like an old man and he still held out some preposterous hope, that kind of primordial or instinctive attraction that any beautiful women held over a man.
“What do you think I should do?” She commanded.
“I don’t know. Frankly, ma’am…Marta, I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what you want.”
“What if I were to tell you that I want to go back down there and take my place as the hacendado. Take an active role in running the place and take an active role in the revolution and see if I can try to help bring some order down there?”
“Then I’d say you shouldn’t sell.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t tell me that it was no place for a girl? That I should take your money and live out my days wasting away as do the idle rich, running up and down the Italian Riviera or some other nonsense?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that to you, and I don’t see you as a girl, and I don’t imagine you scare very easy. No doubt this is a dangerous time for Mexico. I’m not going to tell you that you won’t possibly meet your end down there, like Mr. George has. But…”
“Do you really believe he’s dead?”
“I don’t know, but it’s logical to think he is.”
“What if I told you that I’ve heard talk that you and Tolkenhorn had something to do with that?”
Robert Curtin thought about that. He knew where she’d heard it and now wondered how much she knew already about all that was going on down there.