The Vineyard

by Maria Duenas

  Holy Mother of God. What a fool you were, Luis Montalvo. And you, Gustavo Zayas, the king of billiards in Havana. Why, after inheriting from your lunatic of a cousin, didn’t you return at once to your homeland to restore the fortunes of your disastrous family legacy? Why did you insist on risking everything with me? Why did you try your luck in such a crazy manner? Fortunately, Fatou’s great desire to explain shook him out of these reflections.

  “In short, now that our former colonies are on their own and all we Spaniards have left are the Antilles and the Philippines, what is saving our ports and markets from going bankrupt is having been able to redirect our overseas trade toward England and Europe.”

  “I see . . .” muttered Larrea.

  “Of course, if one day the children of Britannia stop drinking sherry and we find winds of independence blowing in the Caribbean and the Pacific as well, then the province of Cádiz and all of us within it will sink without a trace. So here’s to sherry, if only for that reason . . .” said Fatou, raising his cup with an ironic smile.

  Larrea copied him, with little enthusiasm.

  Discreet coughs from the butler interrupted their toast. “Don Antonio, excuse me, but Don Alvaro Toledo is waiting for you in the reception room,” he announced. This brought their pleasant conversation to a close, and each of them went about his business. Fatou went downstairs to catch up with the appointment he was late for. And Mauro Larrea was left to fill the hours of waiting as best he could, and to do battle once more against his feeling of unease.

  He set off down Calle de la Verónica, accompanied by Santos Huesos. The mining Don Quixote and the Chichimec Sancho, with no horse or donkey to ride. Just to see. And perhaps to think.

  Ever since he had arrived in the Americas at the age of twenty-two with two children and a couple of bundles of old clothes, the name of this city had constantly resounded in his brain. Cádiz, the mythical city of Cádiz, the far end of the umbilical cord that continued to unite the New World with its enfeebled mother country even though nearly all her infants had already turned their backs on her. Cádiz, from which so much came, and to where less and less returned.

  He had been constrained to journey to Mexico from Bordeaux, since relations between the Spanish metropolis and its rebel former colony were extremely tense, and in the years when Spain refused to acknowledge Mexico’s independence, maritime traffic was much easier from the French ports. That was why Larrea never really knew what this legendary port—the southern gateway to the Americas—was like. And that windy autumn morning when the levanter blew in from Africa with spectacular gusts, when he could finally explore its nooks and crannies and get an overall view of it, up and down and from all sides, he did not recognize it. In his mind he had idealized Cádiz as a huge, bustling metropolis, but however hard he looked he could not find any trace of that.

  Its population was three or four times smaller than Havana’s, and it was infinitely less opulent than the ancient capital of the Aztecs. Surrounded by the sea, it was modest but charming, with its narrow streets, its houses all the same height, and the watchtowers from which ships entering the bay or departing for other continents could be seen. Without ostentation or brilliance; reserved, attractive, and manageable. So this is Cádiz, he told himself.

  There was no lack of people thronging the streets, almost all of them walking and almost all the same skin color. Stopping unhurriedly to greet one another, exchange a few words, a message, or some gossip, or to complain of the treacherous wind raising the women’s skirts and stealing papers and hats from the men. Negotiating, trading, settling their business. But this scene was nothing like the thunderous, uncontrollable din of the cities in the Americas. There was no trace of the tumult of Mexican Indians crying their wares or of the slaves hurrying through the pearl of the Antilles, carrying huge blocks of ice or sacks of coffee on their shoulders.

  As he walked through Plaza de Isabel II and along Calle Nueva, he found no cafés as splendid as La Dominica or El Louvre. There was not even a tenth the number of carriages on Calle Ancha as on a similar street in Havana, nor any grand theaters like El Tacón. Nor could he see any monumental churches, or heraldic coats of arms, or palatial mansions similar to those of the sugar aristocracy in Cuba or the old miners of the Mexican viceroyalty. None of the squares could compare with the vast Zócalo he used to cross almost every day in his carriage before fortune turned her back on him. And the gentle Alameda leading down to the bay was nothing like the splendid paseos of Bucareli and the Prado, where Creoles from Mexico City and Havana enjoyed a ride in their carriages and landaus to see and be seen. No sign of the chaos of animals, people, and buildings filling the streets of the New World that he had so recently left behind. Spain was withdrawing into itself, and little remained of the glorious empire on which the sun never set. For good or ill, everybody was being forced to become the master of his own destiny. So this is Cádiz, he repeated to himself.

  They went into a fried-fish stall to eat, and then walked down toward the sea. Nobody seemed surprised by the presence of a Mexican Indian with a lustrous head of hair alongside a foreign gentleman: they were more than accustomed to seeing people of a different color and way of speaking. As the gusts of wind ruffled the hair on both men, lifting the tails of Larrea’s frock coat and Santos Huesos’s colorful poncho, they stared at the ocean from the Banda del Vendaval. And Mauro Larrea finally thought he understood. How could he, a ruined miner, comprehend everything Cádiz was or had been: what had happened over the centuries on its streets and quays; what was discussed in its social circles or behind closed doors; what had been defended from its walls and bulwarks; what promises had been made in its churches; what courage it had shown in adverse times; or what cargo had been loaded and unloaded on ships that raced to the Indies and back, time and time again? What could he know about this city and this world if for decades he had not spoken or thought or even felt like a Spaniard, if his essence wherever he set his foot was that of a permanent foreigner, a pure ambiguity—an exile from two countries, the child of a double uprooting, not properly belonging anywhere, or with a place of his own to return to?

  Evening was falling by the time he and Santos Huesos climbed back up the slope of Calle de la Verónica toward the Fatou family residence. They were greeted between the coughs of the ancient butler, Genaro, inherited by the young couple along with the house and business.

  “Soon after you left this morning a lady came asking for you, Don Mauro. She called again after lunch, around three o’clock.”‘

  Larrea frowned, at a loss, as the rickety old man held a silver platter out to him. On it was a simple card. White, spotless, distinguished.

  MRS. SOL CLAYDON

  29, CHESTER SQUARE, BELGRAVIA

  LONDON

  The last two lines had been firmly crossed out. Underneath, in handwriting, was a new address:

  Plaza del Cabildo Viejo 5, Jerez

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  As agreed, Larrea arrived at Don Senén’s office at eleven in the morning. The notary proceeded to introduce the land agent Don Amador Zarco, an expert in assessing the value and transfer of farms and haciendas throughout the Jerez region. A large, middle-aged man built like a butcher, with plump fingers and a strong Andalusian accent, Don Amador was dressed like a well-off farm owner, with a wide-brimmed hat and a black sash around his waist.

  After their mutual greetings and amid the sounds floating in from the noisy Calle Lancería, the agent proceeded to describe the properties in great detail and give his estimates of their worth. Forty-nine acres of vineyards with its ranch, wells, cisterns, and the corresponding equipment. A winery in Calle del Muro with its warehouse, offices, storerooms, and other facilities, not to mention hundreds of barrels—many but not all of them empty—a variety of tools and a cooper’s workshop. A three-storied house on Calle de la Tornería with seventeen rooms, a main courtyard, another rear yard, servants’ quar
ters, coach houses and stables, as well as other ancient buildings that he proceeded to describe in detail.

  Mauro Larrea listened with all his attention and when, after a long, tedious list, Don Amador announced the estimated value of each of these properties, he almost thumped the table and let out a fierce whoop of joy. With that money he could cancel at a stroke at least two of the three installments of the debt he owed to Tadeo Carrús and celebrate his son Nico’s wedding in style. Jerez was in a fervor thanks to its wine and its trade. Everyone had told him as much, and so he would be able to sell first the winery and then the vineyard, or the reverse, in no time at all. Or possibly the house first and then . . . in any case, he was about to emerge from the well and see the light.

  While Larrea was savoring his good fortune, the notary and the land agent exchanged looks. The agent cleared his throat:

  “Señor Larrea, there is one condition,” he said, jerking the miner out of his daydreams, “which to some extent governs any further proceedings.”

  “And what might that be?”

  His mind was racing. Was it that everything was in such a deplorable state that this would somewhat reduce the price of the properties? He didn’t care: he was prepared to settle for less. Or perhaps that some of the goods would take longer than others to be sold? No matter, they could send him the final sum all in good time. He meanwhile would return to Mexico and take up the reins of his life where he had left them.

  It was the notary who spoke next.

  “Well, it is something we had not contemplated, something I discovered when we finally found a copy of the last wishes of Don Matías Montalvo, the grandfather of Don Luis and his cousin Don Gustavo Zayas. It is a clause in the will that the patriarch insisted on: the family properties were to be indivisible.”

  “Explain, would you?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “What about twenty years?”

  “By the irrevocable decision of the testator, twenty years must pass from the moment of his death before the main items of the inheritance can be split and put up for sale independently of each other.”

  Frowning, Larrea leaned uncomfortably forward in his chair.

  “And how long will it be until this condition is met?”

  “Eleven and a half months.”

  “Almost a year, then,” Larrea said sourly.

  “Not as long as that,” retorted the agent, trying to sound positive.

  “The way I interpret it,” the notary continued, “is that this is a way of guaranteeing the continuity of everything built up by the deceased patriarch. Testamentum est voluntatis nostrae iusta sententia de eo quod quis post mortem suam fieri velit.”

  Enough of your damned Latin! Larrea almost shouted. Instead, he clenched his fists and restrained himself as he waited for clarification.

  “As the Romans put it, my friend: a will is the just expression of what one wishes to see done after one’s death. Matías Montalvo’s restrictive clause may not be very common, but it’s not the first time I’ve seen something similar. It is usually stipulated in cases where the testator does not completely trust the heirs’ commitment to continuity. And so this clause shows that the good old man did not exactly trust his own descendants.”

  “In short, that means . . .”

  It was the land agent who made things clear, in his thick Andalusian accent.

  “It means that everything has to be sold together: mansion, winery, and vineyard. Which, and I hope I am wrong in this, I don’t think is going to be easy in the short term. These are good times in this region, and the wine trade attracts capital day and night, with people coming here from places that most people cannot even locate on a map. But with everything bundled up together like that, I’m not sure. There will be some who want a vineyard, but not a house or winery. Others who want the winery, but not a vineyard or house. And I know people who are looking for a house, but not vines or a winery.”

  “Be that as it may,” the notary interrupted him, in an attempt to restore calm, “it’s not such a long wait.”

  A year isn’t a long wait? Larrea almost roared at him. You have no idea what a year means at this point in my life. What do you know about my needs and obligations? He only just managed to restrain himself.

  “How about renting?” he asked, stroking the scar on his hand.

  “Renting the properties? I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that, either: it is also expressly forbidden in the will. Not sold or rented. If that had not been the case, Luisito Montalvo would have been sure to look for someone to rent the properties and so make money out of them. Don Matías was a farsighted man: he wanted to be sure that the jewels among his assets would stay as a pro indiviso lot. All or nothing.”

  There was a fierce intake of breath from Larrea, who was no longer hiding his frustration. Then he expelled all the air.

  “Damn the old man,” he said out loud, stroking his jaw.

  “If it’s any consolation, I very much doubt that Don Gustavo Zayas had any knowledge of that clause in the will when you two agreed on the transaction.”

  Through Larrea’s mind flashed the memory of La Chucha’s brothel and the ivory billiard balls shooting across the green baize as if possessed. The brutal shots he and Zayas had played, their fingers covered in talc and chalk. Their aching bodies, unshaven cheeks, and disheveled hair; their unbuttoned shirts, the sweat. He, too, doubted very much whether at a time like that his adversary had any thought of such legal technicalities.

  “Anyway, Don Mauro,” the land agent said, “if you so wish, I’ll set about the task at once.”

  “What is your commission, my friend?”

  “The normal figure is a tenth part.”

  “I’ll give you fifteen percent if you can sort it out in a month.”

  The agent’s jowls shook like a cow’s udder.

  “That seems very difficult to me, sir.”

  “And twenty if you’re able to resolve it within two weeks.”

  The agent stroked his chin. Holy Mother of God! Larrea went still further.

  “Or a quarter of the price if you can find me a purchaser before next Friday.”

  The land agent walked away, bemused. As he replaced his hat and started off down Calle Lancería, he remembered what he had been hearing for years about these returned Spaniards from the colonies. Sure of themselves, and resolute: that was what he had been told about them—those Indianos who had become millionaires overseas and who in recent years had made the return journey and were buying land and vineyards like someone buying lupine seeds to eat from the market.

  “Hasn’t the fellow just offered me the biggest commission in my life without so much as blinking?” he said out loud, bringing his great bulk to a stop in the middle of the street. Two women passing by looked at him as if he were raving, but he did not even notice. This Larrea fellow is selling, not buying, he reminded himself. But his attitude fit exactly all that he had heard: not just determined, but bold. He spat on the ground. What a rogue that Indiano is, he thought. With a touch of envy. Or admiration.

  Oblivious to the land agent’s reflections out in the street, Mauro Larrea and the notary continued signing documents and completing the final legal requirements. It was all over in half an hour.

  “Are you going to decide to move to Jerez while all this is settled, my friend? Or are you thinking of staying on in Cádiz? Or perhaps returning to Mexico to await the outcome?”

  “For the moment I’m not sure, Don Senén; this latest news has considerably upset my plans. I’ll have to think closely about what best suits me. As soon as I decide anything definite, I’ll let you know.”

  Santos Huesos was waiting for him in the office doorway. The two of them set off through the puddles that a light morning rain had brought. The rain had ceased as suddenly as it had begun. They walked past the Consistorio council building, thr
ough Plaza de la Yerba and Plaza de los Plateros, and finally started down the narrow Calle de la Tornería.

  “Have you got the keys, lad?” he asked Santos Huesos.

  “Of course, patrón.”

  “Then let’s go to the house.”

  Neither of them had any real idea for what reason.

  Unlike the previous day and his lengthy walk around Cádiz, when he had observed everything and tried to analyze it, on this occasion Larrea scarcely noticed his surroundings. He was looking inside himself. Trying to take in what the land agent and the notary had just told him. None of the whitewashed façades, the wrought-iron grilles, or the activities of the passersby interested him in the slightest. All that was consuming him was the thought that he had a fortune within his grasp but very little possibility of seizing it.

  “Go and take a look,” he said to Santos as he opened the studded wooden gate. “See if you can find somewhere for us to eat.”

  As he crossed the courtyard with its filthy tiles and withered leaves soaked by the rainwater from earlier that morning, he was again struck by the sense of decay. He walked slowly through all the rooms: first on the ground floor, then on the one above. The moldering main rooms; the inhospitable bedrooms. The tiny, bare chapel, as cold as the grave. No altar, no chalice, no wine decanter, no little bells.

  He heard footsteps on the staircase behind him, and asked without turning around:

  “Back already, my friend?”

  His voice echoed through the empty mansion as he continued to consider the chapel. Not even a simple crucifix on the wall. All he could see was a bulky shape in one corner covered with a piece of cloth. Pulling it away, he found a small prayer stool underneath. Its maroon cloth was half eaten away by rats, and some of the crossbars had broken off. It was just about big enough for a small child to kneel on.

  “My grandfather Matías had it made for my first Communion.”