I had already burned the letter over the kitchen stove just as I had the first one … somehow this ritual gave me an odd sense of comfort. Yet the problem of Mark could not be dispensed with so easily. Half an hour before the coffee was to begin, just as I was beginning to place refreshments on the table, the doorbell rang.
My whole body jerked, and I nearly dropped a platter of finger sandwiches on the floor. Then I walked to the door as though there were irons on my feet hands still shaking, thinking, oh no, not now, Mark, not now.…
It was Lyla. She breezed in wearing her newest afternoon frock, kissed my cheek gaily, and headed straight for the table. “Oh love, you’ve forgotten the coffee spoons,” she said after a brief inspection. “Where do you keep them?” She was removing her gloves. “You can fit them over on this end with a little rearranging.” Finally she paused and looked at me. I was still standing at the door of the parlor. ‘Electra, you look positively ill. Don’t worry. You have plenty of time to fix things and even if you didn’t, no one would notice. These coffees have been going on for such a long time.
“Isn’t it lucky I came early?”
The talk that day began with the usual gossip. Someone complained of a maid scorching the kimono sleeve of her new evening gown, and this served as Lyla’s cue for a few minutes’ descriptive chatter about her new creation by the famous designer “Jenny”—its tunic coming just ten inches above the skirt hem. Then she sat down and It into, “… the new velvet hats—have you seen them?—exquisite!” For the first time I began to notice the other ladies seemed little interested in what Lyla had to say. They’d probably known for a long time what I was just beginning to learn: Lyla was extremely self-centered and unable to see beyond her own nose.
Aware suddenly that, as hostess, I was obligated to switch the center of attention elsewhere, I was about to open my mouth to speak when someone addressed Vera Frederick, just returned from Europe to pick up her daughter in school there. I had not met Vera before, and she struck me as being a good bit more intelligent than Lyla.
“The conditions over there were abominable,” she was saying. “We had a taxi confiscated right out from under us in Paris—”
“Whatever for?” someone asked.
“They need them for war vehicles. We had an awful time cashing those embassy checks—the lines of people were endless. Our steamer was stopped four times on the way home, and when we got here Mathilde was missing a valise and I was minus a trunk. All the same, we were grateful to set foot on the dock in New York. It’s like the whole world has gone mad over there—crowds of people everywhere, animals running all over, turning over garbage bins … the streets are unsafe.…”
One lady said timidly, “My goodness, and to think how I’ve griped about rising prices over here because of the Great War. I guess we’re lucky it hasn’t touched us any worse.”
Then someone else said, “It’s a puzzle to me who’s winning.”
“Everybody’s winning, or says they are,” Vera replied.
“And the Germans dropping bombs from those Zeppelins all over the place. You’d think they’d have more regard for human life than to do what they did in Antwerp,” said Treva Morse. A moment of awkward silence followed.
“If you were fighting for survival and the British had effectively cut off your food supply, you’d do well to have a port like Antwerp at your disposal. You can’t fight a war with clean hands,” said Vera.
“The Germans will win,” said Melva Scheiner. “They are persistent and determined. No one will get them, you wait.”
I was beginning to think there was a miniature war threatening in my own parlor. Worse still, all the tensions of the day had combined to give me a throbbing headache. I needed to get this coffee over with so that I could be alone to get a grip on myself.
Quickly I spoke up, “Ladies, shall we have coffee now? And Lyla, suppose you do the pouring … you are so good at that kind of thing.”
Her look of consternation was small price to pay for keeping my unsteady hands from everyone’s attention.
After the ladies were gone I pulled a shawl around my shoulders and went out to sit above the river, hoping its peaceful reflection would help to quiet my nerves. It seemed I was losing control of everything at once. While Mark had not shown up in San Antonio—thank heaven the incident of this morning had proven a false alarm—his letter made it obvious I was to have little peace. Though I had replied that I was working on something and would soon have another payment for him, I knew there was nowhere for me to turn.
I had seriously considered seeking a job. I had a ready-made excuse for Emory in case he protested. He was out of town so much, and I just didn’t have enough to keep me busy. Yet I had no training.…
One morning shortly after that as I pored over the classifieds at breakfast, Emory asked, “What are you looking for?”
I kept my eyes on the print before me. “Oh, nothing in particular.”
I was aware he continued to watch me and in a little while I looked up at him. His expression was concerned. “Lately you’re getting circles under your eyes,” he said. “Aren’t you sleeping well?”
I started to tell him of course I was, then thought of a better reply. “I have to know you’re home safe before I can rest and sometimes half the night passes before—”
“Have you thought of what you’ll wear to that Casino Club party on the eighteenth?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Actually … no.”
“Well it may be an important event, so get all gussied up. Buy something new.”
“All right,” I told him, and he brushed my cheek with a kiss and walked out.
After that I looked in the mirror and realized he was right about my harried appearance. If he was having a second look at Aegina Barrista, maybe I had no one but myself to blame for letting my problems take hold of me. I had to do better. I had to be more of a wife and helpmate to Emory, quit hiding in the shelter of the pillars at social gatherings—my usual custom, since I felt so ill at ease—and make myself noticed both as a woman and a good conversationalist.
First I had to concentrate on improving my looks. I parted my hair in the center and pulled it back into big braids winding down from the crown of my head Lyla Stuttgart bragged of her Limoges hair fashions from Europe, but I had plenty of my own hair to work with, thick and wheat-colored, especially if I applied lemon juice rinsings regularly. I hadn’t gone to that trouble lately.
I bought the most expensive dress of my life for the Casino Club party. It had a daringly low-cut white silk bodice that tapered to the waist and draped becomingly around my hips before dividing into three snug, beaded tiers. For just a nod at propriety, the dress was topped by a sheer overblouse that silhouetted the curves of my breasts in front and fastened down the back, beads winking here and there on the butterfly sleeves.
I purchased my first pair of long white kid gloves to match and white shoes and stockings. The sales clerk at Blum’s was obviously envious when she saw me in it, and Emory, on the night of the party, looked pleased and proud but said, “With a cloak and a train, you could ride on a float in the Battle of Flowers parade.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Of course. I’ve always had good taste in women”—he winked—“and how do I look? Like a prosperous gentleman, on his way up in the world?”
Actually he looked so well in his new midnight-blue suit and waistcoat that I couldn’t wait to get him home from the party, but stung by his flippant remark I said, “You’d look swell as a riverboat gambler.” (This was true in a way; and he certainly was a high roller.)
Sobered somewhat by the match of wits he said, “You know damn well you’ll have every man’s eyes coming out of their sockets tonight.”
“That was the idea, my dear. Shall we go?”
“Just one thing … what do you think of this?” he asked, slipping a large ring over the index finger of his right hand. It was an oval-shaped black onyx cradled in a hig
h gold-tub mounting—a beautiful piece, and the only one of its kind I’d ever seen.
I was praising him for his taste in gems when he interrupted, “And this is for you—an early Christmas present,” and opened a box which held an exquisite necklace, earrings, and bracelet ensemble made of Mexican opals. He’d had all the stones for months, he explained, and ordered them mounted in San Antonio by a jeweler renowned for his gold filigree designs.
I was filled at once with delight, and quickly exchanged the jewelry I was wearing for the stunning opals. They were perfect for my dress, almost as though they’d been ordered especially to accompany it. I was so touched by Emory’s generosity that I thought of nothing else at first. But then as I turned from the mirror and reached for my handbag a sordid question presented itself to my mind.
“What’s the trouble, don’t you like them?” Emory was saying.
“Why, of course. I love them,” I said glancing at him.
“Well that’s reassuring. You looked just now like you thought they belonged in the trash.’
“No, I was thinking of something entirely different,” I said nervously. “Hurry up. We don’t want to be late.”
Midway down the stairs we saw Nathan just closing his door to our right. His mouth opened in surprise, then drew closed. He mumbled something about a gay evening as I wished him good night. Outside Emory said, “You even had Nathan all agape and he is not exactly what you would call a man who runs with women.”
I don’t know that Emory already had designs on Adolph Tetzel as the banker who would be likely to finance the Barrista revolution, but it was well known that the Casino Club was still made up largely of upper-class German people who mixed with members of the military and, sometimes a bit reluctantly, with other German merchants who came up the hard way. Surely a party there would likely serve as the setting for financial overtures—reason enough to whet Emory’s interest in attending.
Lyla and her husband, Arnold, had invited us for this occasion. Her grandfather was one of the founding members long ago, when it was “strictly for the German culturally elite.” She had told me all I knew of the club’s strata, adding, “Arnold could never have gotten in without Papa’s help.”
Just where Tetzel and his wife, Sophie, fit into this complicated echelon I wasn’t sure. He owned the big International Bank of the Southwest downtown, but as I soon learned, he had migrated with his family from Germany in the 1840s, and took great pride in the fact he’d been in San Antonio when the railroad came in 1877, and had worked hard to build his fortune in the city. Almost from the beginning of the ball that evening, Emory made it his business to stay involved in conversation with him and, while I was aware of the fact he was feeling him out as to his views on Mexico, I was kept busy myself with no end of attentive gentlemen who cut across the dance floor during the fox trots, hesitations, and waltzes with remarkable grace. The balding, sallow-faced Arnold was often at my elbow while Lyla gossiped with a group of women, and I kept wishing to rid myself of him because our only common interest was the boring subject of street widening on Commerce.
Around ten o’clock Emory was at my elbow, guiding me over to meet the Tetzels. “Is he the one?” I asked, and Emory nodded confidently. Tetzel was tall and slender with wavy, gray-streaked light-brown hair, and a German accent as strong as Woody’s British dialect. He was not overfriendly to me, but polite. Sophie’s hair was grayer than her husband’s; she was chunky and awfully plain. She was also distant. As we engaged in stilted conversation, I kept wondering how Emory managed to get Tetzel to warm up to the point of talking business.
As we drove home Emory explained, “Oh, I’ve met Tetzel before and we have some mutual acquaintances. We didn’t get down to brass tacks tonight—oh, speaking of brass, did you see all the military around there? I was afraid one of those majors or whatever they were would overhear something, so I really had to keep it guarded. Now that the troops are coming back from Vera Cruz, I wish the Army would figure out some place other than Fort Sam to send them. I don’t like them under my nose.”
“So what did Tetzel say?”
“He agreed the right man might be able to make it in Mexico, regardless of all the fiascoes since 1910.”
“How about money?”
“I mentioned it would be costly, but he said now with the new reserve laws in effect, banks have more money to work with than before.”
“Hm … doesn’t sound like very much.”
“I know it. However, he invited me to lunch week after next.”
“I see … well, maybe I could curry Sophie’s friendship. She might not behave so stiffly next time I see her.”
He was pensive for a few minutes. “They’re a little funny on the surface, but maybe it’s to be expected. I’ve heard a story that just after the Tetzel family came over here and started farming up near Fredericksburg, there was an Indian raid. Half the family were wiped out. Their house and barn were burned, the animals stolen—they lost everything. But Tetzel is a fighter. He stayed and built it all back long before he moved here and went into banking. That calls for a strong constitution, and it’s one reason I think he might be the right man to help us.”
“Sophie said they lived on King William up until a few years ago. I guess I could have another day-at-home and invite her, for old times’ sake.”
“Don’t worry about it yet, not till I’m sure Tetzel wants to give.”
He’s shutting me out, I thought. “By the way, they didn’t do the tango tonight. I was hoping they would, weren’t you?”
“Hm? I—” he began, but then we both heard a loud pop and he said, “Oh, damn, we’ve got a flat tire. I should have had Nathan drive us.” He pulled off the road and reached for the tools, forgetting my question. For the next thirty minutes he worked on the tire, intermittently cursing, and returning once to throw his coat into the car. I couldn’t resist a chuckle at his wanting of any mechanical ability, especially as I thought of Nathan, at home and probably in bed by now, peacefully sleeping.
My cunningly phrased question went unanswered.
13
Early in January of 1915, Emory made a pact with Adolph Tetzel.
As Emory explained it to me, Tetzel would lend money directly to him, as needed, to finance the revolution to put Barrista in power. Tetzel fought for stock options in Cabot Consolidated Copper in exchange, but Emory, still stubborn about giving away any of his holdings, managed to persuade him to settle for a percentage of the profits, payable as soon as the first amount was deposited into Emory’s newly opened account.
At the time the revolution was successfully carried through, repayment of the loan would begin in installments over a five-year period. The period was negotiable, however, depending upon the sum total loaned. Quarterly interest on the unpaid balance would be due ninety days after the first amount was drawn.
“How long will he continue to receive a percentage of the profits?” I asked.
“As long as it takes me to repay the principal.”
“But if the mines are only turning enough profit to repay your original loan on them now, won’t that put you into a bind?”
“I intend to sell some of my stock in other interests, if need be. Tetzel offered to pay off the original notes, but I declined.”
“I hadn’t expected anything quite so complicated … or maybe a better word is ‘obligated.’”
“You’re certainly right about that,” he said with a wistful look. “It is by far the greatest risk I’ve ever taken. But I am sitting on one of the richest mining districts in Mexico. As soon as we get this blasted revolution over with and I can begin producing to the optimum and picking up more properties, repaying Tetzel will be the least of my worries.”
I gave him a reassuring smile and thought with frustration, my debt probably amounted to a pittance compared with the figures he was talking about, yet as a woman, my means of repaying it were frighteningly limited.
Before the end of the month it was time for Emory
’s trip to Mexico. He would carry no more than would fit into saddlebags. Nathan had painstakingly typed and proofed eight copies of Barrista’s lengthy Plan de Pacifica Reforma—one for Barrista, one for each of his four brothers, and three for trusted friends of the family. I was charged with sewing special pockets into the vests of two of Emory’s suits. As I did so I thought of Emory charging in his rumpled clothes through the mountains and valleys on a horse, camping out at night, eating God-knows-what and smelling worse than a Mexican bandit, while his Cole Six sat quietly in its place in the garage, gathering dust.
Conditions south of the border had never been worse, with outbursts of fighting first here, then there, as Villa declared open war on Carranza. The two great leaders were reduced to a couple of fighting cocks. The American Red Cross sent a large group of volunteers down in a valiant attempt to aid the wartorn Mexico City while one self-assumed leader after another declared himself President.
The great proclamations of the ABC Conference up in Ontario now seemed pathetically inadequate, if not downright laughable, and I wondered how I ever could have been naïve enough to think their attempts at peacemaking inside Mexico would amount to anything. Down there the term ‘Provisional President’ might as well have been an entrée on a bandido’s lunch menu. It was hard to tell who was official anymore, even for the United States, and members of the diplomatic corps were leaving regularly, doubtless with their hands thrown up in despair if not in response to the undeniably clear orders issued from the other end of a pistol. I knew now that Emory had shown remarkable wisdom in his views on the situation all along—what would have become of the peaceable Barrista, sent down under the auspices of the ABC, to lead the country? Would he by now be drawn and quartered, a sacrificial lamb instead of a leader with a growing list of disciples?
Keeping Secrets Page 8