The Vineyard

by Maria Duenas

“I’ll leave. Go back to Spain for good, and she will remain in Havana. I’ll leave the field open to you: you can be lovers for all the world to see, or do as you please. You’ll never hear from me again.”

  Holy Mother of God.

  Had Mauro Larrea not been inside so many of the wretched bars that sprang up around the mines, Zayas’s proposal would have struck him as the deranged bluster of a man consumed by misplaced jealousy, or the ravings of a poor devil who had lost his wits. But among gamblers accustomed to playing for high stakes, whether in Mexico, Cuba, or in the furnaces of Hell itself, however outlandish the proposal made by the man opposite him, no one would have doubted his sincerity. He had seen even stranger bids placed on a table during a heated card game or a cockfight. Family fortunes, silver mines with rich deposits, an entire year’s earnings wagered on a single card . . . In a bar he had once seen a desperate father surrender his teenage daughter’s virginity without any qualms. He had witnessed many such things during countless nights of carousing. That was why Zayas’s challenge, however bizarre, did not take him aback.

  What amazed him was Carola Gorostiza’s ability to deceive her husband without ruffling a single black hair on her carefully coiffed head. Ernesto’s sister had revealed herself to be at once shrewd, deceitful, manipulative, and perverse. Your wife has led you to believe that I am courting her, he had wanted to tell Gustavo Zayas the night before. That you are standing in my way, when in fact she is the one who is deceiving you, my friend. And as a result of this lie, which you appear to have swallowed whole, you are proposing a game of billiards, which I intend to accept. I will take up your challenge even though I never had anything to do with that creature who’s your wife, nor would I should I live to be a hundred.

  If that’s true, Andrade would have raged, then why the devil are you picking up the gauntlet thrown down by this foolish fellow? Larrea, however, had managed to muzzle his agent’s voice in advance to prevent it from intruding on his conscience. For reasons he himself couldn’t understand, he had decided to play along with this twisted game, and had no intention of backing down.

  That was why, the first thing the next morning, even before going down to breakfast, he had sent Santos Huesos out to gather information about El Manglar and La Chucha. Three hours later he had his answer. El Manglar was a swampy area inhabited by lowlifes, and La Chucha was a former prostitute who now owned this legendary den.

  He lunched frugally at Doña Caridad’s guesthouse. As luck would have it, she did not eat with them that day. She had likely remained in Regla with her niece, who had just given birth. In any event, he was relieved she wasn’t there, since he was in no mood for her chatter or her prying. After coffee had been served, he shut himself in his room, preoccupied, contemplating what awaited him that night. What style of game would Gustavo Zayas play? What exactly had his wife told him? What would happen if he won, or if he lost?

  When he perceived that Havana was abuzz once more after the torpor of the postprandial siesta, he went out.

  “Señor Larrea, a pleasure to see you again,” Calafat greeted him when he arrived at the banker’s offices. “Although I suspect that you haven’t come to tell me how much you regret not having invested in our venture.”

  “I have other concerns today, Don Julián.”

  “Promising ones?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  He took a seat at the familiar mahogany desk, then said bluntly: “I need to withdraw some funds. Don Gustavo Zayas has challenged me to a game of billiards. Although in theory there is no money at stake, I prefer to be prepared for any eventuality.”

  The old banker handed him a cigar before replying. As usual. The two men clipped them and lit them in silence. Also as usual.

  “I heard all about it,” Calafat declared after taking a first draw.

  “I thought as much.”

  “Nothing remains a secret for long in this indiscreet Pearl of the Antilles, my dear friend,” the banker added, with a hint of bitter irony. “Normally, I would have heard about it in La Dominica while taking my midmorning coffee, or someone would have been sure to mention it over dominoes. But this time news traveled even faster: the first thing this morning some visitors came making inquiries about you. I’ve been expecting you ever since.”

  Larrea responded by taking a long draw on his cigar. Sonofabitch Zayas. This is more serious than I thought.

  “As I understand it, this is an affair of the heart,” the banker said.

  “So he believes, although the reality is very different. However, before I explain, I’d like to know who was making inquiries about me and what they wanted to know.”

  “The answer is three of Zayas’s friends wanting to know a bit of everything, including the state of your finances.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “That it was a private matter between you and me.”

  “I thank you for that.”

  “You needn’t: I was simply doing my job. Absolute confidentiality regarding our clients’ affairs has been the cornerstone of this business ever since my grandfather left his native Mallorca and founded it at the turn of the century. Although there are times when I wonder whether we wouldn’t have all been better off had he remained an accountant in the peaceful port of Palma instead of venturing to this profligate island in the tropics. But forgive my senile digressions, my friend, and let us return to the present. Tell me, Larrea, if this isn’t an affair of the heart, then what the devil is behind this extraordinary challenge?”

  Mauro weighed possible responses. He could tell a barefaced lie. Or simply disguise the facts a little, alter them to suit himself. Or he could be open with Calafat, tell the truth about himself. After a brief pause, he decided on the final option. And so, condensing the facts although concealing nothing, he described the tortuous journey he had made from prosperous miner to Carola Gorostiza’s alleged lover. He spoke of the American Sachs, the Tres Lunas mine, Tadeo Carrús and his oaf of a son, the countess’s money, Nico and his unknown whereabouts, the disastrous errand Ernesto Gorostiza had entrusted him with, the accursed sister, and finally Zayas’s challenge.

  “By the Virgen de la Cobre, my friend, you’re proving to be every bit as hot-blooded as these crazy Caribbeans all around us.”

  You and Andrade would get along like a house on fire, you cautious old devil, Larrea thought, even as he surprised himself responding to Calafat’s words with a bitter laugh. What on earth do I have to laugh about?

  “Just so you know who your clients are, Don Julián.”

  Calafat clicked his tongue.

  “Gambling is a serious business in Cuba, are you aware?”

  “As it is everywhere.”

  “And, in the eyes of these impetuous islanders, what Zayas has challenged you to is a kind of duel. A duel to save his honor, fought not with swords or pistols but rather with billiard cues.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “However, there are a few details that concern me.”

  He drummed his fingers on the table as both men reflected in silence.

  “No matter how brilliant a player he is,” the old man went on, “it would be too risky, too reckless of him, to assume he will beat you.”

  “I have no idea how good he is, of course. But you’re right: any contest at this level contains an element of risk. Billiards is . . .”

  He paused for a few seconds, searching for the right words. Despite the countless times he had played in his life, he never had occasion to speculate about the game.

  “Billiards is a game of skill and precision, brains and technique, but it isn’t purely mathematics. There are other factors involved: a player’s physique, his temperament, the setting. And, above all, his opponent.”

  “As for that, how well Zayas plays won’t be known until tonight. In the meantime, what troubles me is what might lie behind this chall
enge.”

  “I just told you: his wife has convinced him that I—”

  Calafat shook his head emphatically.

  “No, no, no. I mean, yes and no. Zayas’s wife may have wished to punish you and at the same time make her husband jealous, possibly convincing Zayas that there’s something going on between the two of you. But what intrigues me is something that goes beyond the mere rage of a cuckold, if you’ll pardon the expression. Something favorable to him, which she has unwittingly placed in his lap.”

  “Forgive me, but I don’t quite understand what you’re aiming at.”

  “Let me explain. To my knowledge, Gustavo Zayas is no forlorn lamb who bleats the moment he can smell a wolf nearby. He’s a smart, levelheaded fellow whose businesses haven’t always done well; a man who seems somewhat tortured, perhaps as a result of something in his past or the woman he shares his life with; who knows? But he is neither a coward nor a braggart.”

  “I scarcely know the fellow, but that seems like a fair description.”

  “Well, let’s suppose he loses tonight. Wouldn’t that make it suspiciously easy for you and his wife to pursue the alleged relationship you are having, or intending to have? If he wins, nothing changes. But if he should lose, which is something he himself could bring about with little effort, he is promising to step aside and elegantly leave the way open for you two to enjoy a future full of happiness. Doesn’t the whole thing strike you as a little odd?”

  That scoundrel Zayas, thought Mauro. The old fellow could be right.

  “Forgive me for being cynical,” Calafat went on, “but I’ve been thinking this over all day, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Gustavo Zayas simply wanted to rid himself of his difficult wife. After his friends left my office this morning, I sent out my spies, who came back with stories about a family estate in Spain.”

  “Yes, I heard something about an inheritance from a first cousin.”

  “A cousin who died at their coffee plantation shortly after he arrived, and who bequeathed them a substantial amount of land in Andalusia.”

  “Land, properties, vineyards, or some such.”

  “If you win tonight, his faithless wife will remain safely in the hands of her valiant Mexican lover. He will have washed his hands of her and be free to leave, to go back to the mother country or wherever he pleases. With no constraints or responsibilities, or any claimants making demands on him. And without his wife.”

  Too convoluted. Too risky by far. And yet, he thought, perhaps somewhere amid all this farfetched nonsense there is a grain of truth.

  “What about the state of his finances?”

  “Turbulent, I suspect. Rather like his marriage.”

  “Does he owe you money?”

  “A small amount,” replied Calafat discreetly. “Financial ups and downs appear to be the stuff of their marriage, as are quarrels, separations, and reconciliations. Despite his best efforts, Zayas seems unable to square his accounts, either on his plantation or in his marriage. And one has only to look at her attire to see that she spends money as if it grew on trees.”

  “I see.”

  “So,” the old man summed up, “Zayas just needs to lose the game tonight in order to saddle you with his wife, thereby clearing the way for his honorable farewell to Cuba.”

  Intricate as it might sound, Calafat’s theory wasn’t entirely illogical.

  “What a couple,” the old man murmured, following his words with a curt laugh. “But don’t let me to add to your worries, Larrea. My suspicions are doubtless the mere imaginings of an old fantasist. The real reason for this contest is probably the wounded pride of a husband whose wife has manipulated him in order to get his attention.”

  May the Lord hear you, Larrea was about to say, without much conviction, but once again deferred to the old man’s conjectures.

  “The only thing we can be sure of is that time is not on your side, my friend, so I suggest we focus on keeping one step ahead. Now, tell me—”

  “You tell me something first.”

  The old man raised his hands in an expansive gesture. “Whatever you wish.”

  “Forgive my bluntness, Don Julián, but why do you appear so interested in this disagreeable business of mine, which is of no consequence to you?”

  “Because of a simple question of logical procedure. We agree that Zayas sees this as a sort of duel, correct? In which case, as with any veritable duel, you will require a second. As the custodian of your assets, and in view of the fact that you’re all alone on this island, I feel a moral obligation to assume that role.”

  This time Mauro’s laughter was genuine. So what you want is to look after me, you old rogue. At my age.

  “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, dear friend, but I’m perfectly capable of confronting an adversary at a billiard table without any help.”

  Instead of a smile, he glimpsed a serious grimace beneath Calafat’s bushy whiskers.

  “Allow me to explain, then: Gustavo Zayas is Gustavo Zayas, El Manglar is El Manglar, and La Chucha is La Chucha. I am a respected Cuban banker and you are a ruined Spaniard, washed up on these shores by the winds of fate. Need I say more?”

  Larrea realized in a flash that Calafat was right. He was on shifting, possibly treacherous ground, and what the old man was proposing was as simple as it was wise.

  “So be it, then. I’m grateful to you.”

  “Needless to say, an excellent game of billiards is a far more honest pursuit than the vile business of buying and selling wretched Africans.”

  But the sinister shadow of Novás and his vessel from Baltimore with its shackles, chains, and tears had momentarily vanished from Mauro Larrea’s thoughts. Anxieties and speculations were jostling in his mind, while his blood started to fizz with excitement.

  The old man stood up and went over to the windows to open the shutters. Thick, leaden clouds loomed in the evening sky. The heat that day had been suffocating, and the air had grown increasingly humid with each passing hour. The wind was still low, and not a single raindrop had fallen, yet the heavens threatened to open at any moment.

  “A storm is brewing,” Calafat muttered.

  He became reimmersed in thought as the noise of wheels on cobblestones seeped in through the window along with the raucous cries of the carriage drivers and a myriad other sounds.

  “Lose.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Let him win,” declared Calafat, his gaze apparently fixed on the street outside.

  Without stirring from his chair, Larrea contemplated the slight figure of the old man against the window and waited for him to continue.

  “Confound Zayas. Make him think that his plans have gone up in smoke and suggest a return match. Then go for the jugular.”

  The suggestion struck him like a lightning bolt. Between the eyes, dazzling.

  “He fully expects you to fight him tooth and nail,” Calafat added, wheeling around. “Regardless of your alleged affair with his wife, he knows how much a resounding victory would help you establish your presence here in Havana, in this land of strong passions, where we worship heroes even if their glory lasts only a day.”

  Larrea recalled the sweet, electrifying sensations of the night before, like a naked woman’s hand caressing his back beneath the sheets, when he had realized he was visible again, respected in the eyes of others. He felt alive and emboldened. The thought of no longer being a ghost, of becoming once more the man he had been, albeit by winning a simple game of billiards, was as alluring to him as a siren’s song. Perhaps it was worth going through all this infernal nonsense just for that.

  “The fact is, my boy, that by accepting Zayas’s challenge you’ve already shown you have what it takes,” Calafat exclaimed as he moved away from the window and approached him.

  No one had referred to him as “my boy” for a very long time.
He was used to being addressed as “patrón,” “master,” “sir.” Mariana and Nicolás called him padre, in the formal Spanish way, never using the more affectionate term papa, which was customary in the New World that had become home to all three of them. But not for a long time had anyone called him “boy.” And, despite his fall from grace, his unease, and his forty-seven years of intense living, the word did not displease him.

  He glanced at the sober wall clock above the old man’s grizzled head, and at the oil painting of the port in the bay of Mallorca, from which Calafat’s cautious ancestors had embarked for the wild Caribbean. Twenty to eight: time to get ready. He slapped the arm of the chair with his palm before rising and picking up his hat.

  Placing it on his head, he said: “Since I am to be your ward, why not pick me up and take me to dinner before the battle commences?”

  Without awaiting a reply, he started toward the door.

  “Mauro,” he heard as he clasped the handle.

  He turned around.

  “I’ve heard people talking about how brilliantly you played at El Louvre. Prepare to live up to your reputation.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The light shower that was falling when they left the restaurant on Paseo del Prado had become a deluge by the time they reached El Manglar. The muddy paths had turned to sludge, and the violent gusts of wind swept away anything that wasn’t tied down. The rage of the tropical seas was determined to triumph that night, causing dogs to howl, forcing boats to seek moorings at the quaysides, and denuding the city’s streets of carriages, traps, and any other sign of human life.

  The only light that greeted them as they ventured into the quagmire came from the yellowish glow of a few lanterns, scattered haphazardly, as if the hand of a madman had dropped them there at random. Had they visited the place on any other day at that hour, they would have found a mass of humanity strolling up and down among the alleys lined with low-roofed dwellings: whores with enticing smiles flaunting their naked flesh; bearded sailors whose boats had just docked; scroungers, braggarts, pimps, and cardsharps; young men from good families; cocky toughs carrying blades up their sleeves; ragamuffins on the lookout for cats or cigarette ends; ample-bosomed matrons frying pork rinds in their doorways. These were the types who inhabited El Manglar from dusk until dawn. Yet, when Calafat’s carriage rolled up outside La Chucha’s, there wasn’t a soul in sight.