The Vineyard

by Maria Duenas

  “I could have followed my friends’ example, taken my capital out of Mexico and invested it in Europe, in case the disastrous situation into which this foolish nation is plunged grows even worse.”

  While the countess’s back was turned, Mauro Larrea took the opportunity of catching his daughter’s eye. He shrugged his shoulders, spreading his hands in a clear gesture of puzzlement, a look of alarm written all over his face. She limited herself to lifting a finger to her lips, signaling Hush.

  “God knows I’ve never been one to engage in speculative ventures,” the countess went on, still with her back turned. “The pulque business has always brought us a steady income: maguey grows like a weed, the extraction process is simple, it ferments by itself, and it is drunk day and night by Indians, mestizos, and bona fide Christians alike. And the advent of bottled pulque has given the business another boost.”

  She turned around, having finally found what she was looking for: a pair of bulky leather pouches, which she held out to him. Meanwhile, as though at a distance from what was going on, Mariana remained supine, reclining on the chaise longue, caressing her belly.

  “We’ve been making good returns for years, but in the present climate I don’t see how to make our money grow. That’s why I wish to hand part of it over to you. As mother-in-law to your daughter and future grandmother of the child my son has given her—in short, as a member of your family—I’m asking you to invest this money.”

  He refused outright, shaking his head from left to right. She persisted with steely determination.

  “Naturally, you will keep part of the profit, as I once heard you explain is the case with your mines. I believe the usual amount is one-eighth.”

  “That’s correct, one-eighth. But this has nothing whatsoever to do with mining. This is an entirely different matter.”

  “Even so, I am offering you twice that amount for your pains, for acting as my intermediary. You will keep a quarter of any profits you obtain from investing my capital.”

  Both stood firm, the countess in her insistence, Larrea in his refusal. Until Mariana intervened, with an air of casual distraction, as though oblivious to the implications of what was going on.

  “Why not accept, Father? You’ll be doing Úrsula a huge favor. Isn’t it an honor that she has such confidence in you?”

  With this she gave a long, drawn-out yawn before adding nonchalantly:

  “I’m sure you’ll invest it wisely. It’s only a small amount to start off with, but if all goes well more could follow.”

  Larrea gazed at his daughter in astonishment, while the old lady gave a smile tinged with irony.

  “To be absolutely frank with you, Mauro, the naked truth is that in the beginning your daughter’s dowry interested me more than her beauty or her virtue. But as I have gotten to know her, I have come to realize that, besides the considerable material wealth she has brought to this marriage, as well as making my son happy, Mariana is a clever woman, and she gets that from you. As you see, she is already concerned with establishing economic ties between our two families. Were it not for her, I might never have thought of asking you to do this.”

  A servant entered, excused himself, and distracted his mistress with a hurried account of some small domestic accident that had occurred in the courtyard or the kitchens. Two other servants arrived offering different versions and explanations. The countess went out into the gallery muttering to herself, and for a few moments gave her full attention to the matter.

  Larrea took the opportunity to stand up and stride over to Mariana.

  “What on earth led you to come up with this absurd idea?” he murmured hastily.

  Despite her advanced pregnancy and apparent sleepiness, Mariana sat upright on the chaise longue as agilely as a young cat, glancing sideways to make sure that her mother-in-law was out of earshot, busy issuing orders in her usual high-handed manner.

  “So that you can begin your new life on firm ground. Or did you think I was going to let you go off here, there, and everywhere without any support?”

  Although it broke his heart to oppose his daughter, he was determined to leave the countess’s palace empty-handed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He had a bitter taste in his mouth as he left the mansion on Calle Capuchinas and returned home. For having refused upset Mariana, for refusing the matriarch of the family to which she now belonged.

  “Santos!”

  His command brooked no argument.

  “Start packing. We’re leaving.”

  Everything had been decided, and properly arranged. Now he only had to resolve the problem of the documents, but with his foolish game of seduction he had Fausta practically eating out of his hand. Something would need to go terribly wrong for him not to achieve his objective that night.

  In the meantime, he had no time to lose. And to that end he shut himself away in his study with Andrade to deal with the last few important matters. Since his return from the countess’s house, they had toiled ceaselessly over legal documents, bulging files, open ledgers, half-finished cups of coffee.

  “There are still some outstanding debts,” said his agent, swiftly running his quill pen over a page of figures. “We can pay them off by auctioning or pawning fixtures and fittings from the estate at Tacubaya. As for the palace here on Calle San Felipe Neri, we’ll leave behind enough furniture to keep up appearances and sell the most valuable objects: the Bohemian crystal, the best paintings, sculptures, ivory carvings. The same applies to any personal possessions or clothes that won’t fit in your luggage: more money with which to plug the gaps. From now on, Mauro, your only possessions will be what you travel with.”

  “Be discreet, Elias, I beg you.”

  Andrade looked up at him over the tops of his spectacles.

  “Have no fear, compadre. I intend to place everything with people I trust, with moneylenders and pawnbrokers in the provincial towns. I’ll dispose of each item separately, using middlemen: no one will question where it comes from. Your initials, stamped or embroidered, will be removed; I’ll do my best to leave no trail.”

  They heard a knock at the door. Before permission to enter was given, a head poked through.

  “Don Ernesto Gorostiza has just arrived, patrón,” announced Santos Huesos.

  The two friends’ eyes flashed at one another. Of all people. What damnable bad luck.

  “Show him up, of course.”

  The agent bundled the most compromising documents into drawers while Larrea straightened his tie and stepped outside into the corridor to receive the newcomer.

  “Ernesto, let me begin by apologizing for the deplorable state of my house,” he said, extending his hand. “Doubtless you have heard that I’m about to leave the country. Indeed, I was planning to pay a farewell visit to you and your wife, Clementina, and our beloved Teresita.”

  He was absolutely sincere: he couldn’t possibly have left the city without saying good-bye to his son’s future in-laws, and to the young woman who was pining for his foolish boy Nicolás. But of course now wasn’t the best time.

  “Why, half of Mexico knows by now, my friend. Don Cristóbal had scarcely finished pronouncing the Ite missa est first thing this morning when the countess started spreading the word outside La Profesa Church.”

  This doesn’t bode well, Larrea said to himself. His agent, to whom the newcomer had his back turned, raised a forefinger to his temple to mimic shooting himself in the head.

  Had rumors of his bankruptcy reached Gorostiza? Had he come to break off their children’s engagement? The most sinister imaginings assailed Larrea like ferocious dogs: Nico subjected to public ridicule after being spurned by his fiancée’s family; Nico knocking on doors that remained firmly closed; Nico in rags, with no prospects, transformed into one of the dandies who were hounded out of cafés every night.

  Despite everything, Mauro Larre
a’s exterior scarcely revealed his anxiety. On the contrary, genial as ever, he offered his guest a seat, which he accepted, and a coffee, which he declined.

  “What about a glass of papaya juice? Or a French anisette?”

  “A thousand thanks, my friend, but I shan’t detain you. I can see that you’re busy.”

  Andrade excused himself on some vague pretext and left the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him. Once they were alone, Ernesto Gorostiza began to speak.

  “Look, I’m here on a matter that combines the material and the personal.”

  He was impeccably dressed and took his time over every word, pressing his fingertips together as he formed each sentence. Fingers that couldn’t have been more dissimilar to Larrea’s: tapered, with the appearance of never having handled any implement besides a letter opener or a fork.

  “I don’t know whether you’re aware that I have a sister living in Cuba,” he went on. “Carola, the baby of the family. She was married very young to a Spaniard recently arrived from the peninsula, and they left for the Antilles together. We haven’t seen them since, and we don’t know much about them. But now . . .”

  Larrea was tempted to fling his arms around the man, overcome with a pang of emotion. So you didn’t come here to ruin my son; you aren’t going to humiliate my foolish boy; you still think he is worthy of your family. Thank you, Ernesto, my friend, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  “. . . Now, Mauro, I need a favor.”

  Larrea’s huge sense of relief at discovering that the motive for Gorostiza’s visit was in no way related to his son, Nico, merged with a sense of unease when he heard the word favor. Curses, here comes the catch.

  “Some weeks ago, we sold my mother’s hacienda in El Bajío—you will recall that she passed away recently.”

  How could he have forgotten the pomp and ceremony of that funeral? The splendid hearse drawn by four horses sporting black feather plumes, the cream of Mexico City society paying their last respects to the matriarch of an illustrious clan.

  “Now that her estate has been sold off, I am obliged to give Carola her share, which as one of five siblings amounts to a fifth.”

  Larrea, who was beginning to see where this was headed, said nothing.

  “You know as well as I do that the current economic climate in Mexico is unfavorable for investment, and yet we’re talking about a not-inconsiderable sum. I was thinking of sending her the money via an intermediary, but when I heard of your intentions, it occurred to me that if you, who are virtually one of the family and someone in whom I have complete trust, could take it for me, I would be infinitely grateful.”

  “Consider it done.”

  The calm assurance Larrea intended to convey with his words was understandably at odds with his true feelings. What damned luck! More commitments. More burdens. Less freedom to move. And yet, if by agreeing to this favor he strengthened the ties between Nico and the Gorostizas, then God be praised.

  “We’ve had little contact with her over the years. She was married young, to a Spaniard. Did I already tell you this?”

  Larrea bobbed his chin discreetly, not wishing to embarrass his guest by making too much of the fact that he was repeating himself.

  “He was a good-looking young man who arrived in the Americas with a solid amount of capital behind him. Reserved, although extremely polite, he came from a distinguished Andalusian family, with whom for some reason we never found out he had cut all ties. Alas, he showed no interest in forging any with us, for we would have welcomed him with open arms, as we will your son when he weds our Teresita.”

  Larrea nodded once more, this time with a look of gratitude, even though his stomach was churning. May God hear you, brother. May God hear your words and shine upon you so that you never regret what you just said.

  “Despite the offer of their own apartments at our palace on Calle de la Moneda, he preferred to cut loose and set sail for Cuba. Naturally, Carola accompanied him. Perhaps you will understand better if I tell you in confidence that my sister fell pregnant before they were betrothed, and the wedding was brought forward to avoid a scandal. Although she subsequently lost the baby, within three months of meeting they were already man and wife. A week later we were waving them good-bye as they sailed for the Antilles. Later on, we heard that he bought a coffee plantation, they moved into a good house, and they adapted to the social life of Havana. And there they remain to this day.”

  “I see,” Larrea murmured, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “Zayas.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Gustavo Zayas Montalvo is the husband’s name. I’ll give you their address when I deliver the money to you.”

  At this, Gorostiza clapped his hands together languidly before rubbing his palms.

  “Good. You can’t imagine my relief.”

  As the two men descended the staircase, they decided that their respective agents should handle the details and delivery of the money. Out in the courtyard, their final exchange turned to Nico’s sojourn in Europe.

  “By the time he comes back, he’ll have grown into a conscientious young man,” Gorostiza said. “Theirs will be a match made in heaven. Teresita spends her days praying that all will be well.”

  Larrea felt his stomach churn once more. Finally, at the entrance, they took their leave of one another with a hearty embrace.

  “I am forever in your debt, my friend,” Gorostiza said.

  “Anything for you and your family,” Larrea replied, clapping his shoulder.

  The moment he saw the carriage roll away, he returned to the courtyard, calling for Santos Huesos at the top of his lungs.

  He had to finish the preparations as quickly as possible and leave immediately to avoid any further demands that might hamper his mission.

  It is said that man proposes but God disposes, and in this instance the proverb was borne out by an unexpected second meeting with the old countess after lunch. As was her custom, she arrived unannounced, when the house was still in disarray. On being told that she was on her way upstairs, Larrea gave an angry snort. He hadn’t finished going through the paperwork, his hair was unkempt, his shirt half-unbuttoned. What the devil does she want now, the old crone?

  “I imagine you knew I wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  She was carrying the two bags of gold he had refused hours before. One after the other, she deposited them on the table with a thud that emphasized the weight of their contents and the coins chinking inside. Then, before her host could offer her a seat, she swept aside some documents on a nearby armchair and, smoothing her skirts, sat down.

  Larrea stood watching her, arms folded, making no attempt to conceal his irritation, a stern look on his face.

  “May I remind you, Countess, that as far as I’m concerned I resolved this matter this morning.”

  “Precisely, my dear, you resolved it, but I didn’t.”

  He gave another angry snort. What with the house in turmoil, and his own disheveled appearance, he no longer had time for social niceties.

  “For God’s sake, Úrsula, will you please leave me in peace.”

  “I’m asking you to help me.”

  For once, the pompous old lady’s voice sounded almost humble. Suppressing his irritation, Larrea let her have her say.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Mauro, in a way that I haven’t been with my own son. I feel frightened. Terribly frightened. A deep, instinctive fear.”

  He contemplated her with disdain. Frightened, this fierce, proud noblewoman, who was accustomed to having the world at her feet? Whoever would have thought it?

  “My family has always remained loyal to the Spanish crown. I grew up dreaming of crossing the Atlantic, visiting Madrid, the Palacio Real, the splendors of Toledo, the Escorial . . . Until everything collapsed when we broke away from Spain. Of course
, we had no choice but to adapt. And now . . . now this nation is starting to fill me with dread: its crazy governments, the excesses of its leaders.”

  “Not to mention Juárez’s profanities and his attacks on the Church. You’re singing the same old song, Countess.”

  “I trust no one, Mauro: God only knows where this madness will end.”

  She lowered her gaze, entwining her long, twig-like fingers. For a few tense moments neither of them uttered a word.

  “Mariana put you up to this, didn’t she?”

  Confronted with her silence, Larrea crouched down until his face was level with hers. They made an odd couple, the distinguished old lady in her perennial widow’s weeds and the miner in his shirtsleeves, squatting in an effort to bridge the distance between them.

  “Tell me the truth, Úrsula.”

  She clicked her tongue as if to say, Curses, he found me out.

  “That daughter of yours certainly has her head screwed on, my boy. Ever since you left she’s been insisting I come here, and she succeeded in convincing me.”

  Mauro Larrea gave a mocking laugh, hands on his knees as he straightened himself up. Mariana, resourceful and determined as ever. He had very nearly been persuaded that the countess was turning into a timorous old woman when in fact his daughter was pulling the strings.

  “After all,” she went on, “everything I own will one day belong to Alonso, and therefore to your daughter. Your daughter, and the child they are expecting, the pure mixing of our two bloods.”

  Silence floated in the air as each thought about the young Mariana in their own way. The countess contemplated her through the eyes of a shrewd businesswoman, beginning to see her as an admirable promoter of the family’s interests. Larrea for his part did so as the father who had been present at every stage of her life, from the moment he cradled her tiny newborn form, wrapped in a rough towel to keep her warm, until the moment he led her up to the Altar de los Reyes to the strains of the organ in Mexico City’s cathedral.

  Stop denying your own daughter, you sonofabitch, he told himself. Not only is she intuitive and clever, above all she’s protecting you. Why dig in your heels in confronting this deluge of catastrophes while insisting on shutting her out? Do this for her. Show your trust.