The Vineyard

by Maria Duenas

  The early evening drained away in these fascinating perambulations until the clock chimed a quarter past seven. Mauro Larrea, unable to conceal his irritation at such empty chatter, started to bounce his right leg from side to side as if it were on a spring. Andrade, on the verge of breaking into a sweat, retrieved his handkerchief from his top pocket.

  At that moment, as though in passing, Doña Hilaria decided finally to get to the point.

  “But let’s stop discussing such irrelevancies. Tell us, gentlemen, what plans do you have in the offing?”

  Before his agent had a chance to come out with one of his intricate deceptions, Larrea said:

  “A trip.”

  The two women gazed at him as one while Andrade, who was now perspiring freely, wiped his shiny bald head with his handkerchief.

  “Soon, although I don’t know the exact date.”

  “A long trip?” inquired Fausta, a catch in her voice.

  Prevented by her mother’s verbosity, she had barely managed to get a word in until then. Mauro Larrea took the opportunity to gaze at her as he replied, attempting to give his words an optimistic ring:

  “I trust not, I’m going away on business.”

  She gave a relieved smile, which only faintly illuminated her plain face. Larrea felt a pang of remorse.

  Then Doña Hilaria, unable to resist seizing the reins of the conversation once more, blurted out:

  “And where is this trip taking you, Don Mauro, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  The noise of the cup, teaspoon, and saucer crashing to the floor brought the conversation to an abrupt conclusion. Thick brown splotches of chocolate covered the tablecloth as well as Andrade’s right trouser leg.

  “Goodness, how clumsy of me!”

  Although it had all been a subterfuge to prevent his friend from talking, Andrade made every effort to sound sincere.

  “Forgive me, Señora, I’m a dreadful oaf.”

  The aftermath of the staged mishap dragged on for a few long moments: Andrade stooped to retrieve the pieces of broken crockery from beneath the table despite the lady of the house’s protestations, then rubbed furiously at his trouser leg with a napkin to try to remove the stain while Doña Hilaria told him he was only making it worse.

  “Fausta, call Luciana and tell her to bring a bucket of water and some lemon juice.”

  But Fausta, taking advantage of the sudden commotion, and annoyed by her mother’s insistence on stealing the limelight, had devised a strategy of her own. She would have liked to bawl at her: They came here to see me, Mother; let me enjoy my moment of glory, but instead she simply pretended not to hear her mother’s command and leaned over to pick up a piece of broken porcelain that had landed at her feet. While Mauro Larrea was wearily contemplating the ludicrous tug-of-war between the lady of the house and his agent over the spilled chocolate, Fausta, still leaning over, her hands hidden by the folds of her dress, purposefully slid the sharp edge of a piece of cup across the tip of her thumb.

  “Goodness gracious, I’ve cut myself,” she whispered, sitting up straight.

  Only Larrea, sharing the same chaise longue, appeared to hear her. He turned his attention to her, leaving the other two engrossed in their battle with the stains.

  She showed him her thumb.

  “It’s bleeding,” she said.

  Indeed it was. A little—just enough to let a single drop fall onto the rug.

  Concerned, Larrea fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief.

  “Please, allow me . . .”

  He clasped her small, limp hand, carefully bandaged her thumb with its blunt nail, and squeezed it gently.

  “Keep pressing; the bleeding will stop in no time.”

  He could sense that Andrade was watching out of the corner of his eye, and it came as no surprise when he prolonged his absurd discussion with Doña Hilaria to divert her attention away from them. “So, you’d advise against rubbing the fabric?” Larrea heard Andrade say, as though household chores and garment care were of supreme concern to him. It was all Larrea could do to stop himself from letting out a loud guffaw.

  “I’ve heard that saliva is the best cure.”

  It was Fausta speaking again.

  “To stem the bleeding, I mean.”

  Her voice sounded calm. Calm but firm, resolute.

  My God, he thought, seeing her intention. By then she had loosened the handkerchief around her thumb and, like Salome proffering John the Baptist’s severed head on a platter, held it out to him.

  He had no choice but to place it in his mouth. They were running out of time and Andrade’s acting skills had reached their limit. Whether as a way of rebelling against her mother’s exuberant verbosity or because she wanted proof of Larrea’s desire for her as a woman, Fausta needed this contact with his hands and mouth, a sensual encounter however fleeting. He knew he couldn’t disappoint her.

  And so, pressing his lips to her thumb, he ran his tongue over the wound. He looked up to see her eyes half closed. He paused for a few seconds, then repeated the action. A stifled groan rose in her throat. You’re an utter cad, an accusatory voice rang out somewhere in his conscience. Ignoring it, he put the tip of her thumb between his lips and once again ran his moist tongue over the wound.

  “I hope that helps,” he said in a low murmur, releasing her hand.

  Before she had time to respond, a loud cough from Andrade made them turn around. Doña Hilaria was contemplating them with a frown, as if to say: What is afoot? What have I missed?

  Night was closing in, and there was little more they could glean from that wasted evening.

  “We shan’t intrude on you a moment longer,” Larrea said, accepting defeat.

  “Thank you for the splendid tea: you’ve been most hospitable,” added Andrade.

  While the two men let out a string of meaningless pleasantries, the mother insisted they prolong their visit. They wondered what the devil they should do next.

  Unsurprisingly, the superintendent’s wife took matters into her own hands.

  “My husband is on the point of concluding his business in Taxco,” she said with deliberate slowness as she lifted herself with some difficulty out of her armchair. “We found out only this afternoon that he will be returning to Mexico City in three, possibly four days at the very latest.”

  This was an obvious warning, or so they understood it. Hurry up, gentlemen, she seemed to be saying. If you don’t wish the superintendent to send you packing, you’d better hurry up and make your intentions toward his daughter clear before he is able to interfere.

  A dark hallway led them to the front door of the apartment, where once more Andrade and Doña Hilaria exchanged empty phrases.

  Just as they were about to step out onto the landing, the ginger tomcat approached them, mewling, from one end of the corridor. Fausta made to pick him up with the same affection as she had that morning. This is your last chance, compadre, Larrea told himself as he saw her stoop. He quickly imitated her gesture as though motivated by a keen desire to stroke the cat. And in that position, both half crouching, he whispered in her ear.

  “I’ll come again tomorrow night, when everyone is asleep. Send me a note telling me how to get in.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Twenty-four hours after he had left the Callejas’ apartment, Mauro Larrea was raising his glass and preparing to announce his plans to a carefully selected audience. Exactly the opposite of what his agent and prudence advised.

  “My dear Countess, my dear children, dear friends . . .”

  The stage in the dining room was set to perfection: two dozen lights from the ceiling chandelier shone onto the silver and crystal ware, the wines had been decanted, the elaborate French meal was about to be served up.

  “Dear Countess, my dear children, dear friends,” he resumed. “The reason I have asked you
here tonight is because I wish to share with you a pleasant piece of news.”

  As host he was sitting at the head of the table. Facing him at the far end, dressed in black, proud and imposing as ever, sat his daughter’s mother-in-law, the magnificent Countess of Colima. In reality, she was no longer a countess, nor could she claim any aristocratic title in the Mexican republic, and yet she was determined to be known in this way. To his right sat Mariana, her husband, Alonso, and Andrade. On his left, two wealthy, distinguished acquaintances accompanied by their wives, expert gossipmongers in Mexico City high society. Exactly what Larrea required.

  “As you all know, the situation in this country is far from reassuring to businessmen like myself.”

  This wasn’t entirely untrue; he was simply adapting the facts to suit his own interests. There was no doubt that measures introduced by the Liberals in recent years had been detrimental to the old Creole nobility, the landowning elites, and some businessmen. But not those who knew how to adapt. Several had even developed a flair for turning the stormy political situation to their advantage, procuring generous rewards and public contracts. This wasn’t so in exactly Mauro Larrea’s case, although he hadn’t done at all badly. Nor was he opposed to current Liberal measures, although he preferred to be cautious and avoid taking sides in matters that inflamed people’s tempers because of what could ensue.

  “The constant unrest forces us to reconsider our options . . .”

  “That atheist President Juárez will be the ruin of us!” cried the countess, interrupting him. “That Zapotec devil is leading this nation toward damnation!”

  Dangling from her ears, an impressive pair of diamond earrings swung furiously in rhythm to her outburst, glinting in the light of the candles. The wives of the other male guests nodded and made approving noises.

  The countess went on angrily:

  “Where did that savage learn to sit at a table and eat with a spoon, to wear shoes, and speak in Spanish? Why, in a seminary, of course! And now he spouts all this nonsense about civil marriage, seizing Church property, expelling monks and nuns from their convents! God help us, where will this all end!”

  “Mama, please,” Alonso chided her long-sufferingly, all too accustomed to her inappropriate outbursts.

  The countess grudgingly fell silent, then raised her napkin to her mouth and muttered a few more angry remarks into the square of linen that none of them could hear.

  “Thank you, dear Úrsula,” Larrea resumed calmly. He was well enough acquainted with the old lady not to be shocked by her vehement interruptions. “As I was saying, without needing to discuss any deeper political issues,” he added tactfully, “I wish to announce that, after giving the matter much reflection, I’ve decided to embark on new business ventures beyond the borders of our republic.”

  An astonished murmur issued from the mouths of most of the company, with the exception of Andrade and Mariana, for whom this was not news. He had told his daughter about it that very morning as the two of them rode along Paseo de Bucareli in the open-topped carriage she liked to travel in. The young woman’s face had shown surprise, followed by comprehension and approval, which she blessed with a smile. “It’s for the best,” she said. “I know you’ll succeed.” Then she caressed her belly, as if with the heat from her hands she wished to transmit to her unborn infant the serenity she was feigning for her father’s sake. Her many misgivings she kept to herself.

  “My dear Countess, my dear children, dear friends . . .” Larrea repeated for the third time, pausing deliberately for dramatic effect. “After considering at length the various options, I’ve decided to move all my investments to Cuba.”

  The murmurs became loud declarations, and the astonishment approval. The countess gave a mocking laugh.

  “Well done, Mauro!” she howled, banging the table with her fist. “Go to the colonies of the mother country! Return to Spain’s dominions, where law and order still rule, where you can respect our queen, and the right people are in power!”

  Expressions of surprise, applause, and congratulation flew around the room. Larrea exchanged a fleeting glance with his daughter. They both knew he still had a long way to go. Nothing had been remedied yet. This was merely a first step.

  “Cuba is full of opportunities, my dear fellow,” said Salvador Leal, a textile magnate. “You’ve made a wise choice.”

  “If I could persuade my brothers to sell our estates, I would follow you, surely,” added Enrique Camino, who owned vast grain farms.

  The conversation continued in the drawing room, where liqueurs and coffee were served, and speculation and predictions succeeded one another until midnight. Without lowering his guard for an instant, Larrea attended to his guests with his usual affability, fielding dozens of questions with vague assertions. Yes, of course, he had liquidated the majority of his assets; yes, naturally, he had excellent contacts in the Antilles; yes, he had been planning this for months; yes, certainly, for a while now he had been predicting that silver mining in Mexico was on an irreversible downward course. Of course, right, absolutely.

  Finally, he accompanied them to the mansion entrance, where he received still more hearty farewells and congratulations. Only when the clip-clop of horses’ hooves had disappeared into the early morning, bearing with it the last of his guests in their carriages, did he return inside. Halfway across the courtyard, he came to a halt, plunging his hands in his pockets, inhaling deeply, and gazing up at the sky. He held his breath for a few long seconds, then exhaled without lowering his gaze, hoping, perhaps, to discover one star among the many that would shed some light on his uncertain future.

  He remained like that for a while, in the center of the gray stone colonnades, without taking his eyes from the heavens. He was thinking of Mariana, about how it would affect her if he failed to revive his fortunes and ended up completely bankrupt; about Nico and his troubling unpredictability, and his future marriage that had seemed so secure and now felt dangerously uncertain.

  All at once, he sensed soft footsteps and a presence behind him. Without needing to turn around, he knew who was there.

  “So, you overheard everything, didn’t you, lad?”

  Santos Huesos Quevedo Calderón, his companion on many an adventure, the virtually illiterate Chichimec Indian who, through some extraordinary twist of fate, bore the surnames of two Spanish literary giants. Here he was, protecting his back, as ever.

  “Loud and clear, patrón.”

  “And you have nothing to say about it?”

  The reply came instantaneously:

  “Only that I’m waiting for you to tell me when we leave.”

  Larrea smiled, a look of bitter irony on his face. Loyal unto death.

  “Soon, lad. But before that there’s something I must do tonight.”

  He would go alone. Without his servant, coachman, or agent. He knew he was taking a blind leap and was prepared to improvise, depending on whatever willingness Fausta Calleja showed. At midmorning he had received a violet-scented note from the superintendent’s daughter with instructions on how to enter the Mining Board palace through a side entrance. She had ended the message with the words: I’ll be waiting. And so, blindly, Larrea ran the risk of getting caught somewhere he had absolutely no business to be. As if he hadn’t enough problems.

  He preferred to walk: his dark shadow would be less conspicuous than the carriage. When he reached the chapel of Nuestra Señora de Belén, he slipped down a dark side alley, enveloped in his cape, hat lowered over his face.

  What if one of Mariana’s suitors had behaved like this? Larrea reflected as he made his way there. What if some scoundrel had aroused his daughter’s naïve hopes and used her for his own ends only to toss her away like a cigar butt once he had got what he wanted? Doubtless he would have pursued the man and gouged his eyes out with his bare hands. Stop thinking about it, he scolded himself. Things are how they are, and t
his is your only way out. Surely at your age you’re not going to get sentimental.

  He walked on a few paces until the faint glow of a streetlamp revealed what he was looking for: a simple side door through which the staff could gain entry to their apartments—far removed from the imposing gates at the front of the building on Calle San Andrés. The door looked closed, but he realized it wasn’t when he gave it a gentle push and it squeaked open.

  He made his way up stealthily, feeling for the wrought-iron banister, careful on the wooden stairs, which he was unable to see and which creaked beneath his feet. Not even a meager candle illuminated the stairs, so when a loud whisper reached him from the floor above, he froze.

  “Good evening, Don Mauro.”

  He chose not to reply. Not yet. He took another step, then another. Before he reached the next floor, he heard the rasp of a match. A tiny flame instantly sparked a bigger one. Fausta had lit an oil lamp. He remained silent, but she spoke once more:

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d come in the end.”

  He looked up and saw her at the top of the stairs, illuminated by the orangey light. What the devil are you doing here, compadre? demanded the stern voice of his conscience when he had but four steps to go. Don’t complicate matters. It isn’t too late; find some other way of solving your problems. Don’t give this poor woman false hopes. However, driven by the relentless urgency of his predicament, he thrust aside his scruples once again. Reaching the top step, he mentally gave his conscience one last kick in the pants before deploying his most insincere gallantry.