by Maria Duenas
Three strides brought Larrea close. He peered in through a window, but all he could see were cobwebs and grime.
“They made off with all the furniture years ago.”
“What did you say?”
“I’m telling the new master that they made off with the furniture years ago!”
“By the Virgin, it’s been years . . .”
“And this was Don Matías’s office. And the administrator’s.”
“This was the reception room for visitors and buyers.”
“And behind is the barrel workshop.”
“What was that?”
“The workshop, Marcelino, the workshop!”
Larrea kept on walking, ignoring their shouting, and soon came to the main building. Although it looked shut, he guessed that the big door would give way as easily as the gate onto the street.
He leaned the weight of the left side of his body against it and pushed.
Stillness. Rest. And a silence in the dark interior that made him shudder. That was his first impression when he stepped inside. A cathedral ceiling with exposed wooden beams, a beaten-earth floor, the light filtered by rush curtains hanging at the windows. And the smell. That smell. The aroma of wine that floated through the streets of Jerez and was multiplied a hundredfold in here.
Four naves communicated with one another thanks to arches and stylized columns. In front of him the floor was covered with hundreds of dark wooden casks piled up in three rows.
Orderly, dark, serene.
Behind him, as if in a token of respect, the old storemen fell silent.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Larrea went to attend to the rest of his business in a confused state, his eyes and nostrils still filled with the winery. Bewildered, disorientated by the sensation.
His steps took him next to Don Senén Blanco’s office, to inform him that he had decided to settle in Jerez while he was waiting to sell. After that he again made his way along the narrow Calle de la Tornería. Back home.
“There was a visit for us, patrón.”
Santos handed him something that he had been half expecting: an envelope with a blue wax seal on the back. Inside was a brief message written in small, firm handwriting on thick ivory paper. The Claydons had the honor of inviting him to dinner the following evening.
“Was it she who came?”
“She sent a maid, a foreign woman.”
That evening they shut the street gates so that no one would see him roll up his sleeves and share the workload with his servant as they continued to make the mansion look more respectable. Bare-armed, and with the strength that in earlier days they had employed to descend mine shafts and penetrate along underground galleries, they now pulled up grass and weeds, tidied and fixed tiles on the walls and roof. They were covered in dirt and scratches. They cursed, blasphemed, spat. Until the sun set and there was nothing else for it but to stop.
The next morning was spent at the same task. It was impossible to tell how long their stay would be, and so they might as well fix up the house. At the same time, working with his hands and brute force as he once had to mine silver in the depths of the earth, Mauro Larrea kept his mind busy and let the hours pass by.
Night had already fallen by the time he left for Cabildo Viejo Square. It was also known as the Plaza de los Escribanos, because every morning this was where scriveners sat under awnings to attend to complainants and plaintiffs, mothers of the soldiery and lovers—anyone who needed to put in black-and-white whatever was coursing through their minds and hearts. Before that, with the last of the daylight, Larrea had scrubbed himself clean with one of the bergamot soaps that Mariana had added to his luggage, and then shaved in a cracked mirror that Santos Huesos had found in one of the attics. He dressed in his best evening wear, and even fished a bottle of Macassar oil out of one of the trunks and spread it generously over his thick hair. It had been a long time since he had taken such care over his appearance. Go easy, you idiot, he reproached himself when he realized why he was doing all this.
At this time of day, the handsome façades that embellished the square—the Renaissance town council building, the Gothic San Dionisio church, and the imposing private mansions—were deep in shadow, and the bustling activity in the streets had already begun to ease off. In Mexico, Mauro Larrea would never have dreamt of attending a dinner on foot. He always used to arrive in his carriage with his coachman, Laureano, dressed up in showy livery and the mares in their finest harnesses. Now he was striding down the winding streets of the old Arab quarter, feeling the effects of all his hard work in his aching muscles and with his hands deep in his pockets. Smelling the wine in the air, avoiding stray dogs and puddles, caught up in this alien world. And yet he was far from feeling ill at ease.
In spite of arriving at the appointed hour, it was a long while before someone answered his raps on the splendid bronze door knocker. A stiff, bald butler finally appeared and ushered him in. He walked across a fine marble-encrusted compass rose decorating the hallway. “Good evening, sir, please do come in,” the man said to him in English as he accompanied him to a room on the right of the central courtyard. Unlike his open yard in Mexico and in the house where he was staying in Jerez, this was a veranda covered by a glass roof.
Once the butler had left, nobody came to greet him. It must be some foreign custom, he thought to himself. No other servant appeared, nor could he hear any of the domestics scurrying about that usually preceded a dinner. Nor was there the sound of footsteps from the family’s four daughters.
Accompanied by the loud ticking of a magnificent clock over the lighted fireplace, Larrea decided to take a good look at the habitat of the last of the Montalvos. The oil paintings and watercolors decorating the walls. The heavy drapes, the vases filled with fresh flowers on their alabaster plinths. The thick carpets, the portraits, the oil lamps. More than ten minutes had gone by before at last he heard her steps in the hall and saw her enter the room, giving off a busy, energetic air as she arranged the folds of her skirt, trying to smile and sound natural.
“I’m sure you must be thinking that we are completely rude in this house. I beg you to forgive us.”
He was so distracted and caught up by her whirlwind appearance that for a few moments his mind could not take in anything else. She was wearing a green velvet evening gown that exposed her attractive if somewhat bony shoulders, was gathered in at the waist, and had a neckline just high enough not to undermine her elegance.
“And, above all, I must ask you to excuse my husband. Some unexpected business has meant he had to leave Jerez. I’m extremely sorry, but he won’t be able to join us this evening.”
He was on the verge of saying “I’m not sorry, my dear; not sorry in the least.” Probably her husband was an interesting man. Well traveled, educated, distinguished. And rich. The complete English gentleman. But even so . . .
He decided to be polite, however.
“If that’s the case, perhaps you prefer to cancel the dinner. There will be another opportunity.”
“Not in the slightest, not at all, I won’t hear of it . . .” Sol Claydon insisted. She paused for an instant, as if realizing she needed to calm down. It was plain she had been caught up in something else and found it hard to readjust. Perhaps it was the demands on her time in her husband’s absence, or some adolescent problem with one of her daughters, or a slight disagreement with her staff . . .
“Our cook would never forgive me,” she added. “We brought her with us from London and as yet she has had little chance to demonstrate her skills for any guests.”
“In that case . . .”
“Besides, if you’re thinking you might be bored spending an evening alone with me, I should tell you that we will have company.”
Larrea could not tell if there was any hint of irony in her words. He had no time to dwell on this, though, because at that moment, even
though he had not heard any knock on the front door, another person entered the room.
“Ah, at last, Manuel, my dear.”
Her greeting betrayed a sense of relief that did not go unnoticed by Larrea.
“Dr. Manuel Ysasi is our doctor, an old and cherished friend of the family, as were his father and grandfather before him. He is the one who attends to all our ailments. And Mauro Larrea, as I have already told you, my dear, is—”
He preferred to anticipate her.
“The intruder who has turned up from across the sea. A pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m delighted to meet you at last; I’ve heard all about you.”
And I’m delighted as well, thought Mauro as he extended his hand to him. You were the Runt’s doctor and the only person to whom Zayas sent news of his death from Cuba. To you, and not to the two men’s cousin, Soledad. I wonder why.
A smartly uniformed maid came in with an aperitif tray. Their conversation remained inconsequential but gradually became less formal: Dr. Ysasi, a slight figure with a black beard, was addressed as Manuel, while the other two settled on Mauro for the Mexican miner. What do you think of Jerez? How long are you thinking of staying? What is life like in the independent New World?—empty questions that received insubstantial replies until the butler announced dinner was served in his best English.
“Thank you, Palmer,” Soledad replied in English, in the firm tone of the mistress of the house. She added in a low voice in Spanish: “It’s costing him a great effort to learn our language.”
They crossed the ample hallway and climbed the stairs to the first-floor dining room. The walls were lined with chinoiserie paper, and the furniture was Chippendale. Ten chairs surrounded the table, which was covered in a linen cloth, with two slender candlesticks and places laid for three.
The servants began to scurry behind their backs. Wine was served in cut-glass decanters with silver mouths and handles as the different courses, the conversation, and impressions began to flow.
“And now, to accompany the poultry,” their hostess said at one point, “what the finest palates in Jerez would recommend would be a good amontillado. But my husband had wanted to try something else from our cellar. I hope you like this burgundy.”
She raised her glass delicately; the candlelight brought out deep-red glints from the wine, which she and the doctor contemplated admiringly. Larrea on the other hand took advantage to study her once more without attracting attention. Her bare shoulders contrasting with the moss-colored velvet of her dress. Her long neck and sharp collarbones. Her high cheeks and smooth skin.
“Romanée-Conti,” she went on, unaware of his scrutiny. “It’s our favorite. After extremely lengthy negotiations, four years ago Edward became their sole representative in England. It’s something that honors us and makes us proud.”
The two men tried the wine, and both praised its body and aroma.
“Magnificent,” Larrea said sincerely. “And since we’re on the subject, Señora Claydon . . .”
“Sol, please.”
“Since we’re on the subject, Sol . . . As I understand it, and I beg you to forgive my curiosity and my ignorance, your current business is not exactly producing wine as your family used to do but selling wine that others make?”
Before responding, she placed her glass on the tablecloth and waited while the carved slices of meat were served. Then she raised her enchanting voice. To him.
“That is more or less the case. My husband, Edward, is what is known in English as a wine merchant, which has little to do with the idea of a merchant we have in Spain. He does not usually sell wines directly for consumption. He is . . . let’s call him an agent, a marchand. An importer with international connections who looks for—and, I have to say, generally finds—excellent vintages in different countries and makes sure they arrive in England in the best possible condition. Port, madeira, clarets from Bordeaux. He also represents several French growers, mostly from Champagne, Cognac, and the Burgundy region.”
“As well, of course,” the doctor broke in without a qualm, “as making sure that our sherry reaches the Thames. That is how he came to marry our lady from Jerez.”
“Or why the lady from Jerez married an English wine merchant,” Soledad retorted, playfully and with a touch of irony, “to increase the fame of our solera. And now, Mauro, your turn to answer a question: Please tell us what apart from the property transactions has brought you here. If it’s not being indiscreet, what exactly do you do?”
For the umpteenth time, he repeated his story, trying to sound both convincing and truthful. Mexico’s internal tensions and the friction with European countries, his interest in diversifying his business—all the senseless patter he had been concocting ever since his daughter’s eccentric mother-in-law had provided him with a ridiculous argument that to his great surprise seemed to make sense to anyone hearing it.
“And before you decided to make your way outside Mexico, what did you do there?”
They were still enjoying the pheasant with chestnuts and the splendid wine, dabbing their lips with the linen napkins and conversing quite naturally. The white wax candles were slowly burning down, and the husband was not mentioned again. The fire continued to crackle in the hearth, and the evening rolled pleasantly on. Perhaps for that reason, because of the fleeting sensation of well-being Mauro Larrea had not felt in his bones for such a long time, and even though he could anticipate that what he was about to say would send his distant agent into a rage, Larrea chose not to hold back.
“In reality, I was never anything more than a miner on whom fortune smiled at a certain point in life.”
Sol Claydon’s fork remained poised between plate and mouth. After a couple of seconds, she deposited it once more on the Crown Derby china as if it were too heavy for her to be able to concentrate. Now the two sides of the new owner of her family’s inheritance fitted together. On the one hand, the impeccable evening tails he was wearing now, and the elegant frock coat she had first seen him in, his determined way of buying and selling, his worldly manners and tastes. On the other, those broad, square shoulders of his, the strong arms that had supported her as she went down the stairs, the big, weather-beaten hands bearing the marks of his adventures . . . his intensely masculine presence.
“A mining entrepreneur, I suppose you mean,” said Dr. Ysasi. “One of those who risk their money in excavations.”
“Yes, in recent years. But before that I was toughened up deep in silver mines, smashing rocks in the darkness, sweating blood six days a week to earn a miserable pittance.”
There, I’ve said it now, compadre, he told his agent mentally. Now if you wish you can shout at me all you like. But I had to let it out: now that my present is one big lie, you have to understand that I want to tell the truth about my past at least.
From across the ocean, Andrade made no reply.
“That’s very interesting,” said the doctor, sounding sincere.
“Our dear Manuel here is quite a liberal, Mauro, a freethinker. He flirts dangerously with socialism. I’m sure he won’t leave you in peace until he’s heard all about you.”
When the desserts arrived, they were still conversing in a lively vein, skirting around the awkward details that had brought him to Jerez: Gustavo Zayas, Little Runt’s death, his shady deal. “Charlotte russe à la vanille, our cook’s specialty,” announced Soledad. To go with it, the sweetness of a Pedro Ximénez wine that seemed as dense and dark as ebony. Afterward they moved to the library: further relaxed conversation while they savored the aromatic coffee, glasses of Armagnac, pistachio Turkish delight, and magnificent cigars from the Philippines, which she offered them from a small carved box.
“Please do feel free to smoke.”
Mauro was surprised that she had to give her permission until he realized he had not seen a single woman with a cigar or cigarette in her mouth since
his arrival in Spain. Nothing could be further from the situation in Mexico and Havana, where females smoked tobacco as much as men, and with equal enjoyment.
“Tell us about your children, Mauro,” she said.
He touched on the subject briefly as they sat in comfortable armchairs surrounded by leather-bound books in glass cabinets. About the child Mariana would soon be giving birth to, about Nico’s stay in Europe and his imminent marriage.
“It’s hard when they’re so far away, isn’t it? Even if it’s more convenient for them, at least in our case. That’s something you’re spared, Manuel, being such a confirmed bachelor.”
“So are your daughters still in England?” asked Larrea, allowing the doctor no chance to comment. Now the pieces were falling into place, and he could better understand the strange quiet in the house.
“That’s right. The two younger ones are at a Catholic boarding school in Surrey, and the two elder ones are being looked after by good friends in Chelsea, in London. As you can imagine, they were desperate not to give up all the attractions of a big city: the balls, the functions, their first suitors.”
“How are they getting on with Spanish, by the way?” asked Dr. Ysasi.
“I must confess to my shame that Brianda and Estela are dreadful at it. They find it impossible to pronounce the rolling R’s, and to distinguish between tú and usted. It was easier with the older ones, Marina and Lucrecia, because I spent more time with them and took very seriously the idea that my children should not lose a large part of their identity. And yet, with the younger two . . . well, things have changed, and I’m afraid they are more moved by ‘Rule, Britannia!’ than by Andalusian songs. They’re much more the daughters of Queen Victoria than of our Spanish Reina Isabel.”
All three of them laughed. The clock struck eleven and the doctor suggested he and Larrea should leave.