The Vineyard

by Maria Duenas

  “Don’t get involved, patrón.”

  It took a while for him to understand what he was hearing.

  “Don’t get involved,” he heard his servant say again.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, bemused.

  “So, I’m not the only one who drank too much, or what?”

  “They are human beings. Like you. Like me. They sweat, eat, think, fornicate. They get toothache, they mourn their dead.”

  He made a huge effort to summon a few dim memories from the previous night. He vaguely recalled last seeing Santos Huesos in Plaza de Armas, when the crowd began to sing the opening verses of “La Paloma” to the strains of the military band. Santos Huesos had been standing shoulder to shoulder with the slender mulatta girl with the generous smile.

  “Has Doña Carola’s slave girl been turning your head? Did she start gossiping the moment I went to meet her mistress?” Did—”

  “The slave girl has a name. She’s called Trinidad. They all have names, patrón.”

  He spoke in the same old voice. Serene, melodious. But resolute.

  “Do you remember when we used to go down in the mines? You made us work our hearts out. You were hard when you had to be, yet always fair. You never treated us like animals. We were free to stay or leave as we wished.”

  Sitting up in bed, Mauro Larrea buried his face in his hands, trying to regain some clarity. His voice sounded cavernous.

  “We’re in Havana, damn it, not in the Real de Catorce mines. Those days are long gone; we have other problems now.”

  “Neither your men nor your children would want you to do what you’re thinking of doing.”

  From beneath the mosquito netting, he saw Santos Huesos’s figure slip out of the bedroom. Larrea slumped back on the bed as soon as he heard him close the door softly. He lay there until long past dawn but didn’t fall asleep. Befuddled and numbed by the drink he had filched from Doña Caridad to take the edge off his disquiet, he couldn’t decide whether the Chichimec Indian’s presence in his room had been a grotesque dream or a depressing reality. He lay there for what seemed like an eternity, an acid taste in his mouth and a vague anguish churning his insides.

  Don’t think about it, you fool, don’t think about it, he repeated to himself silently as he washed and dressed, then attempted to alleviate his diabolical hangover with cups of black coffee. There was no sign of Santos Huesos having returned. Nor did his friend Andrade’s voice come to his aid.

  It was almost ten o’clock when, nursing a splitting headache, he left his lodgings to face the city’s daily hubbub. All he had to do was withdraw the money and sign the relevant receipt, and that would be that. A simple operation. Quick. Painless. Don’t think about it, brother, don’t give it another thought.

  His attention was so utterly focused in one direction that, upon entering the courtyard, he nearly fell flat on his face. He cursed rudely as his foot came up against an unexpected object. This turned out to be a young black woman, who instinctively let out a shrill cry.

  She was sitting propped against the column of the open gate, one breast protruding through her white blouse. Before the toe of Larrea’s boot had struck her thigh, she had been innocently nursing her baby swathed in a cotton rag. Clutching at the wall to steady himself, his hand flat against the whitewashed surface, Mauro looked down.

  A firm, round breast loomed up at him. Attached to it, a tiny mouth sucking at a nipple. And all at once, confronted by this simple image of a young mother with dark skin nursing a child, all those thoughts he had been desperately trying to thrust from his mind overwhelmed him with the force of a river bursting its banks. His hands extracting Nicolás from his wife Elvira’s bleeding body; his hands on Mariana’s belly the night of his departure from Mexico, sensing the new, unborn child. The skinny little slave girl violated by her aging master while she was cutting sugarcane; the baby daughter she had brought into the world when she was only thirteen, who was subsequently prized from her as one might peel away the skin of a fruit. Life wrenched asunder. Flesh and blood, breathing souls. Lives that burst forth amid agonizing screams and vanished on a precarious, fragile thread; lives that arrived bearing solace in the face of despair, healing rifts, bringing into the world a certainty that could not be bought or sold. Human life, undeniable life.

  “Good morning, Larrea.”

  Calafat’s voice greeted him from the far side of the courtyard, interrupting his musings. Doubtless the banker had come down to his office after breakfast and seen him there.

  Larrea responded by standing up straight and raising his arm. As if to say, I have nothing to say, I want nothing. Calafat looked at him and pursed his lips.

  “Really?”

  He gestured silently with his chin. Yes. Then he wheeled around and disappeared into the crowded street.

  He found his room exactly as when he had left; the maids had not yet been in to clean it. His rumpled bedsheets were half strewn across the floor, his dirty clothes sat in a pile, the ashtray was full, and the carafe, containing only a thimbleful of liquor, lay upturned beneath the bedside table. He slipped off his linen jacket, loosened his cravat, and closed the shutters. Then, leaving everything as it was, he sat down to wait.

  At ten thirty, he heard the clock on the customs building strike the half hour. Eleven o’clock, eleven thirty. The light outside shone more brightly amid the gloom, projecting slender, horizontal lines on the walls. Finally, toward midday, he heard footsteps, shouting, shrieking. A commotion was drawing closer. Banging, creaking, doors slamming, as if a tornado were wreaking havoc inside the building. Until, without anyone bothering to knock, his door flew open.

  “Wretch. No-good son of a whore! You’re a coward and a traitor!”

  “You can withdraw your money from Calafat’s bank whenever you wish,” he said impassively.

  He’d had plenty of time to foresee how she would react.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she shouted. “I gave Novás my word you would come!”

  Doña Caridad limped in after her, issuing a torrent of apologies. Four or five slaves followed behind, jostling each other in the doorway. Infected by her mistress’s rage, the little bichon barked as though possessed by the hounds of Hell.

  Ahead of them all, Carola Gorostiza filled her lungs with air and spewed her final warning:

  “You haven’t heard the last of me, Mauro Larrea; make no mistake about that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Later that evening Mauro returned to El Louvre Café, perhaps to avoid dwelling on recent events. Or to take the edge off his loneliness amid the crowd.

  Weaving around the tables nearest the entrance, occupied by youths and swellheads, he made his way to the restaurant at the rear. With its luxuriant palms and enormous mirrors multiplying the number of diners, the room had a lively atmosphere. He ordered grilled red snapper, accompanied once again by French wine. Dispensing with dessert, he finished his meal with a coffee Cuban-style: strong, concentrated, with a hint of brown sugar to take away the bitterness. He had been lying to Doña Caridad the day before when he said his stomach couldn’t take so much coffee. On the contrary, the thick dark liquid was about the only thing that had sustained him since his arrival.

  While enjoying his fish, he had noticed several newcomers making their way up the broad staircase at the far end of the restaurant.

  “Are there more tables upstairs?” he asked the waiter when he settled the bill.

  “All the tables you could wish for, Señor.”

  The card games ombre and monte bank were currently all the rage, and the upstairs room at the Louvre was no exception. Although it was still relatively early, a couple of games were already under way. At a corner table a lone domino player slammed down his tiles, while from another came the rattle of dice. But Mauro Larrea’s eyes were drawn toward an area at the back illuminated by hanging lamps.<
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  Beneath them stood three billiard tables. Only one of them was occupied, by two men halfheartedly launching shots—Spaniards, he guessed, from their thick suits and formal manner as well as their accent, harsher and more clipped than that of the New World inhabitants.

  He strolled over to one of the empty tables, running his hand thoughtfully over the polished wooden edge. Picking up a billiard ball, he pressed the cold ivory in his hand, felt its heft, then let it roll. Unhurriedly, savoring each moment, he plucked one of the cues from its stand. An indescribable feeling of well-being washed over him, like a comforting caress after a bad dream, perhaps the only taste of serenity he had had since disembarking in Havana.

  As he surveyed the sea of green baize, he found himself finally confronting something he knew, something over which he could exercise his will and his mastery. All of a sudden, he was transported back to places that had disappeared in the recesses of his memory: the turbulent, menacing evenings in the mining camps, all those afternoons spent in filthy dives swarming with rowdy miners with blackened nails, desperately searching for the mother lode, a stroke of luck in the form of a seam that would take the sting out of poverty, unlock the door to a future free of the pangs of hunger. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of billiard games in dimly lit bars, playing on until dawn, with friends he had left behind along the way, with enemies who had become brothers, men who one fateful day would be swallowed up by the earth, or by some tragedy they were unable to overcome. Hard, terrible, devastating times. Even so, how he missed them now. At least back then he had a clear-cut reason for getting out of bed each morning.

  He gripped the cue firmly and leaned over the table, extending his left arm to its full reach as he readied the shot. So far removed from the world he knew, frustrated and uncertain as he never thought he would be, for an instant Mauro Larrea rediscovered the man he had once been.

  His carom was so cleanly executed that his compatriots at the neighboring table instantly stopped talking and stood their cues on the floor. Without introducing himself or learning their names and their professions, he played a first game against them. As the night wore on, they were replaced by other men who were more or less seasoned, keen to see how they measured up to the newcomer. He proceeded to win game after game as the room began filling up with people. Soon there was scarcely a free seat at any of the upstairs tables, and the smoke and voices rose to the rafters, spilling out from the high windows overlooking the Parque Central.

  He was cueing up for his next shot on the white, concentrated on calculating the precise force with which he needed to hit the red ball resting against the cushion at the far end of the table, when something, he didn’t know what, distracted him. A sudden movement, an unexpected comment. Or perhaps the simple intuition that the order of things had been disrupted. Without altering his position, he glanced up, his eyes straying beyond the edge of the table. And then he saw him.

  He realized instantly that, unlike the other spectators, Gustavo Zayas wasn’t merely enjoying his performance but was boring into his skin with his blue-eyed gaze.

  With apparent calm, he slid the cue between the circle formed by his fingers, striking the ball with a loud crack. Then he stood erect, checked the time, and realized he had been playing for three hours. Eliciting a few murmurs of disappointment from the crowd, he replaced the cue in the stand with the intention of calling it an evening.

  “Permit me to buy you a drink,” he heard a voice behind him say.

  Naturally. He accepted Carola Gorostiza’s husband’s unexpected invitation with a simple nod. What the hell do you want with me? he thought as the two of them made their way through the crowded room. What tales has your wife been telling you?

  He accepted the offer of a brandy and requested a pitcher of water, which he downed in three glassfuls, suddenly aware of how thirsty he had been. He realized his cravat had come loose and his clothes were drenched in sweat, but his disheveled hair and glassy eyes were visible only to others. Zayas’s appearance, by contrast, was immaculate, his hair neatly combed as always, his clothes and manner exquisite. Beyond that, he remained impenetrable.

  “We met at Casilda Barrón’s ball, do you remember?”

  They were seated in two armchairs before a balcony that opened onto the Cuban night. Larrea contemplated Zayas for a few seconds before replying: the man had a look of sullenness on his habitually tense face. For God’s sake, man, what’s ailing you? he wanted to ask. But instead he replied: “I remember perfectly.”

  Their opening conversation was interrupted by several men approaching to congratulate Larrea on his excellent game; one recalled having seen him at the ball in El Cerro, another at the theater. They asked his name, where he was from—Spain? Yes, well, no, yes—and offered him cigars. They invited him to their salons and gaming tables, and despite the trivial nature of the banter that followed, Larrea began to feel that in the eyes of the world he was at last somebody again.

  Gorostiza’s brother-in-law remained attentive and vigilant as he sat, legs crossed, though he scarcely uttered a word.

  “It was noble of Señor Zayas to allow you to steal the limelight this evening,” declared one of those present, a customs agent if Larrea recalled correctly.

  He raised his glass. What?

  “Such expertise with a cue must run in the blood with you Spaniards. God alone knows why we Creoles haven’t been blessed with it.”

  There was a burst of laughter, and Mauro Larrea halfheartedly joined in. Then another voice explained:

  “Ever since he arrived in Havana all those years ago, our friend here has remained unrivaled at the billiard table.”

  All eyes turned toward Zayas, the best player in town, who had been chivalrous enough to allow an upstart to shine in his own territory.

  Tread carefully, brother. Tread carefully, his agent’s voice exploded in his brain.

  He felt like yelling back at him, But where the hell were you when I was desperate for your advice about that loathsome slave trader?

  Andrade was insistent: Calm down, Mauro, don’t rise to the bait. In this decadent city, gambling is a means of achieving one’s designs. Tonight you have made a name for yourself, as well as contacts, and this will bring opportunities. Have a little patience, compadre, just a little.

  His friend’s wise counsel came too late. A fresh wave of euphoria was already coursing through Mauro’s veins. His easy triumphs over those nameless opponents had restored a shred of self-confidence, which in these wretched circumstances was like a balm. He was pleased that they had admired his game; that for a few solitary hours he had ceased to be a lost, invisible soul; that, albeit fleetingly, he felt once more like a man whom people respected and appreciated.

  And yet something elusive had been lacking. There had been no fever in his eyes, no throbbing in his temples: tension had not seized him in the gut like a hungry coyote. He would not have slammed his fist into the wall had he lost, or howled like a banshee had he won.

  But now, upon discovering that the husband of the woman who had refused to help him was the best billiard player in Havana, he felt the old fire stir in his belly. In the old days, that fire had made him try his luck blindly, to take on precarious business ventures or tough men twice his age with infinitely more money and experience.

  As though borne on the sea breeze coming through the open windows, he felt the soul of the young miner he had once been—intuitive, dogged, bold—seep into his bones once more.

  You didn’t invite me for a drink to tell me how well I play, you bastard, he wanted to tell Zayas. I know there’s something more: you’ve heard something about me that displeases you, whether or not it’s true.

  Zayas then spoke up.

  “Would you excuse us, gentlemen?”

  When they were finally alone, a waiter topped up their glasses and Larrea turned toward the balcony to get a breath of fresh air, running his fingers
through his unruly hair.

  “Go ahead then, speak your mind,” he told Zayas.

  “Keep away from my wife.”

  He nearly burst into laughter. What kind of insinuations, hogwash, and lies has Carola Gorostiza been feeding her husband?

  “Listen, my friend, I’ve no idea what stories you’ve—”

  “Let’s settle the matter with a wager,” Zayas declared impassively.

  Don’t you dare, he heard Andrade yell inside his head. Explain to him, tell him the truth, disentangle yourself. You must stop this, you lunatic, before it’s too late. But his agent’s voice was growing dimmer as a surge of adrenaline began coursing through his body.

  He took a last draw on his cigar before tossing the butt in an arc through the balcony window. Leaning forward in his chair, he drew his face slowly closer to the supposed cuckold.

  “What are the stakes?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The moment it grew light, he sent Santos Huesos to investigate.

  “A neighborhood down by the bay, full of bad people, patrón,” he proclaimed on his return. “That’s El Manglar. And La Chucha is a black woman, old as the hills, with a gold tooth. She runs a business that is half brothel, half tavern. The roughest, rowdiest characters from the outskirts go there along with the most illustrious men in Havana. To drink rum, beer, and contraband bourbon. To dance if they have the opportunity, and sleep with whores of every color, or gamble away their money until dawn. That’s what I found out.”

  Zayas had told him to be at El Manglar the following evening at midnight. “You and me. At La Chucha’s place. A game of billiards. If I win, you agree never to see my wife again; you leave her alone for good.”

  “And if you lose?” Larrea had asked with a hint of bravado.

  Carola Gorostiza’s husband fixed him with his pale blue eyes.