The Vineyard

by Maria Duenas

“Naturally,” she admitted, arranging the hem of her skirt to avoid its getting too dusty. Or possibly pretending to do so. “That’s how I know you are willing to live like a savage, with no furniture and with a leaky roof, until you manage to sell at any price properties for which you never paid a penny.”

  That damned notary. When and where did you blab all this, Senén Blanco, the miner muttered to himself. Or damned notary clerk, he thought, remembering Angulo, the unctuous employee who had taken him to the mansion on Calle de la Tornería for the first time. He tried to keep his voice calm.

  “Forgive me being so frank, Señora Claydon, but I believe my personal affairs are none of your business.”

  In order to reestablish a distance between them, he had used her married name again. When she stopped gazing at the horizon and turned toward him once more, he could see she was clear-minded and determined.

  “I’m still trying to take in the fact that we no longer own a single stone or cask or sad vine stock of what was once our great family fortune. Allow me at least a legitimate right to curiosity: that of trying to find out who the person really is that has ended up possessing what we once had and fancifully thought we would be able to keep. Anyway, I beg you not to see my inquiries as a gratuitous invasion of your private affairs. I am also keeping a close eye on you for a selfish reason: I need you.”

  “Why me? You don’t know me; I suppose you have other friends. Someone closer, more trustworthy.”

  “I could say that it’s for a sentimental reason: the legacy of the Montalvos is now in your hands. That creates a bond between us and in some way makes you Luisito’s heir. Does that convince you?”

  “I’d prefer a more honest explanation, if it’s not too much to ask.”

  There was a sudden gust of wind. White dust spiraled from the chalky earth, and a few strands of her hair came loose once more. Then the English wine merchant’s wife gave her second reason, the real one, without looking at him, her eyes fixed on the vines, the immense sky, or empty space.

  “What if I tell you I’m desperate and you appeared out of the blue at the most crucial moment? Because I realize that you’ll disappear as soon as your fortunes change, and so when the wind starts to blow against me once more, I’ll find it too hard to trace you.”

  An elusive exile, a fleeting shadow, he thought with a stab of bitterness. That’s what cursed fate has turned you into, compadre. Into a mere coatrack on which to hang a dead man’s name or to be clung to by any beautiful woman willing to hide her disloyalty from her husband.

  Unaware of his thoughts and determined at least for him to hear her out, Soledad went on outlining her plans.

  “It would only mean pretending to be my cousin temporarily to a lawyer from London who speaks no Spanish.”

  “You know as well as I do this isn’t some pantomime. Here in Spain, in your England, or in the Americas, it is out-and-out fraud.”

  “You would only have to be polite, perhaps offer him a glass of amontillado, allow him to verify you are who you say you are and reply in the affirmative when he asks.”

  “When he asks what?”

  “If over the past few months you have carried out a series of transactions with Edward Claydon. Some transfers of shares and properties.”

  “And did your cousin really do that?”

  “The truth is, I did it all. I counterfeited the documents, the accounts, and the signatures of both of them: of Luis and of my husband. Then I put part of the shares and properties in the names of my own daughters. The rest, though, is still in the name of my deceased cousin.”

  A question shot through his mind. For the love of God, what kind of woman are you, Soledad Montalvo? She, however, did not appear to be affected: she must be more than accustomed to living with all this on her conscience.

  “The lawyer must be on his way; in fact, I think he’ll be here very soon. There’s someone in London who is questioning the authenticity of the transactions and is sending him to check. He’s accompanied by our administrator, someone I trust wholeheartedly, and whose discretion I can rely on.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “He knows absolutely nothing, and believe me when I tell you that’s the best for all concerned. He’s going to be out of Jerez for a few days on business. I don’t intend him to find out anything.”

  By the time they left La Templanza the sky was less friendly, with clouds brewing, while the breeze continued to stir up white dust devils among the vines. They rode back in tense silence until they entered the town once more. Both of them were relieved to hear the rattle of carriages on the cobbles, the cries of the dairymen, and here and there a snatch of song behind a barred window from an anonymous girl busy with her chores.

  When they entered the Claydon stable Mauro Larrea did not wait for the groom but leapt from his horse and helped Soledad dismount. With her hand in his just as before.

  “Please at least consider it” were her last words before she admitted defeat. As though to underscore them, her steed gave a loud neigh.

  His only reply was to touch the brim of his hat. Then he turned around and walked off.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  He was still irritated as he pushed open the wooden door to the mansion, determined to put an end to Soledad Montalvo’s crazy scheme before she could get her hopes up in any way. He would go to his bedroom, collect the documents from her cousin Luisito that Calafat had sent from Cuba, then return to her house and put a stop to everything.

  He went into the austere room, furnished with the bare minimum: a brass bed with a sunken mattress, an armchair propped against a wall, a wardrobe with a door missing. His trunks stood in one corner.

  Hastily, he undid the clasps on one of them and rummaged inside, but could not find what he was looking for. He did not bother to close it again but opened the other one, tossing on the floor all the absurd domestic items that the attentive Paulita Fatou had lent him from Cádiz. Embroidered napkins flew through the air, and so did linen sheets. A satin bedspread, for heaven’s sake! Finally he found what he was looking for at the bottom of the trunk.

  Stuffing the papers between his frock coat and his chest, in less than ten minutes he was alongside the San Dionisio church, staring at the entrance to the Claydon mansion beyond the scriveners’ colorful stalls and the passersby crowding the square. A few moments later, he raised the heavy bronze door knocker.

  Palmer, the butler, opened much more quickly than on the previous evening. Even before the door had fully opened, he was anxiously ushering Larrea inside. A glance was enough to show him that everything was exactly as he remembered it, although now it was bathed in the sunlight filtering through the glass roof over the courtyard. The compass rose was still in the floor, the leafy plants in their Oriental tubs.

  He had no time to take anything else in: as if she had been on the alert for any call from the entrance, he saw Soledad coming to meet him. She was still in her riding habit, looking slender and gracious; all she had removed was her hat. But from the few feet that separated them, he noted a profound change in her: her face was ashen, her eyes terror-stricken. She held her long neck stiffly, and her skin was as pale as if the blood were no longer flowing through her body. Something was threatening her as if she were an animal at bay: a beautiful roe deer about to be hit by a gunshot, an elegant chestnut mare set on by coyotes in the middle of the night.

  The look they exchanged was magnetic.

  Voices could be heard behind the half-open door she had just appeared through. Stern men’s voices. Foreigners. A faint murmur emerged from her mouth:

  “Edward’s son’s lawyer came sooner than I expected. He’s here already.”

  All of a sudden, from somewhere deep inside, Mauro Larrea felt an irrational urge to clutch her to him. To feel her warm body against his chest, bury his face in her hair, whisper in her ear. Whatever happens, Soledad, ev
erything is going to be all right, he wanted to tell her. But inside his head, with the insistence of the sledgehammer he had so often used to smash at minerals deep in the mines, a single word was repeated over and over. No. No. No.

  He took two steps toward her, and then three and four.

  “I can see this isn’t a good moment for us to talk. I’d better go.”

  Her only response was a look of utter anguish. Sol Claydon was not accustomed to begging for favors. He knew she would never ask any. But the words her lips could not pronounce were obvious from the despair in her eyes. Help me, Mauro, they seemed to be shouting. Or that is what he understood.

  All his caution and doubts, his strict determination to stay within the bounds of good sense and not allow himself to be swept away—all of it dissolved like a pinch of salt in boiling water.

  Putting his hand on the curve of her waist, he forced her to turn around and head back toward the room she had just left. Two words emerged from his mouth:

  “Let’s go.”

  The men inside fell silent when they saw the couple come in. Solid, sure of themselves, striding confidently. Or so it seemed.

  “Gentlemen, a good day to you. My name is Luis Montalvo and I believe you wish to speak to me.”

  He walked straight up to them and extended his hand forcefully. The same hand he had used to conclude deals and agreements when he was transferring tons of silver; the one he had used to introduce himself to the cream of Mexican society and to sign contracts with a whole series of zeros on the right-hand side. The hand of the influential man he had once been, and which from now on he would pretend still to be. Except that now he was about to do so using the bogus identity of a dead man.

  The meeting took place in a room he had not seen on his previous visit: an office or study, possibly the place where on other occasions the master of the house conducted his business. Now, however, there was no one sitting in the leather chair behind the desk: all those present were close to the door, gathered at a round table strewn with documents.

  The two men standing there introduced themselves without entirely managing to conceal their astonishment at his sudden appearance. Soledad immediately repeated their names and their positions so that Mauro would know who he was dealing with. Mr. Jonathan Wells, the lawyer representing Alan Claydon, and Mr. Andrew Gaskin, administrator of the family firm Claydon & Claydon. She simply mentioned the name of the third person, a young, inexperienced clerk who rose from his seat and nodded politely before sitting down once more.

  Briefly recalling their conversation in La Templanza, Mauro Larrea deduced that the first of these men—in his forties, fair-haired, lanky, and with bushy sideburns—was what might be called his adversary. The second—shorter, with less hair, and nearing fifty—was his ally. The Alan Claydon whom Sol had mentioned a moment earlier must be her husband’s absent son. There was someone in London who questioned the authenticity of the transactions, she had told him out among the vines. It was clear now whom she meant by that. And his lawyer was present to defend his interests.

  Both these gentlemen were dressed with some elegance: fine cloth frock coats, gold fob watches, shiny boots. What do you want from her? What risk is she running? How do you intend to punish her?—he would have liked to ask all this of the fair-haired Englishman. While these questions were going through his mind, Soledad, who had miraculously recovered her composure, began to speak in a rapid mixture of Spanish and English.

  “Don Luis Montalvo,” she said, gripping his forearm with feigned assurance, “is my first cousin. As I believe you are aware, my maiden name is also Montalvo. Our fathers were brothers.”

  A dense silence descended on the room.

  “And to prove it,” he added, forcing himself not to react to the contact with her, “allow me to . . .”

  He slowly raised his right hand to his heart, crushing the cloth of his frock coat. The unmistakable sound of crumpled paper could be heard. He slipped his fingers into the inside pocket. The tips brushed against the folded-up documents he had taken from the trunk: the ones Calafat had sent him from Cuba. While the others observed him in bewilderment, he felt their weight. The thickest must be the death and burial certificates: they had to stay where they were. The thinner one, which was no more than a single folded sheet, was the identity document that allowed Runt to travel to the Antilles.

  He had been planning to hand over both documents to Soledad as proof of his refusal to get mixed up in her problems. And yet now her anguish had completely undermined his determination. As four pairs of eyes looked on in astonishment, he gently took the document between his thumb and first finger and slowly, very slowly, removed it from its hiding place.

  “In order for there to be no uncertainties, and for my identity to be proven beyond all doubt, please read and verify this.”

  He handed the document straight to the English lawyer. Even though he did not understand a word of what was written on it, the lawyer studied it closely and then showed it to the clerk for him to copy in his flowery handwriting. Don Luis Montalvo Aguilar, born in Jerez de la Frontera, residing in Calle de la Tornería, the son of Don Luis and Doña Piedad . . .

  Silence reigned in the room as they all looked on closely. Once the clerk had finished copying the document, the legal representative passed it to the administrator. He folded the paper and returned it to its supposed owner without a word. During all this time, Sol scarcely dared breathe.

  “Very well, gentlemen,” said the bogus Luis Montalvo. “Now I am entirely at your disposition.”

  Sol translated his words into English, then invited them all to sit around the table, as though realizing that this part of the conversation could take a long time. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked, pointing to a side table well stocked with liquor, a splendid silver samovar, and sweetmeats. After all the men declined, she served herself a cup of tea.

  There ensued a whole series of questions, many of them direct and probing. The lawyer was obviously well prepared. Do you confirm that you met with Mr. Edward Claydon on such and such a day . . . ? Do you affirm that you know . . . ? Are you aware of having signed . . . ? Do you admit having received . . . ? Surreptitiously, hidden among the phrases she translated into Spanish, Sol gave Mauro tiny clues as to what he should reply. As they improvised, an almost organic complicity grew up between the two of them. This was so seamless and convincing it was as if they had spent their whole lives together pulling handkerchiefs out of a top hat.

  Mauro fended off the attacks with aplomb while the clerk painstakingly wrote down all his replies with a goose quill pen. Yes, sir, you are correct. Yes, sir, I ratify that point. You are quite right, sir, that’s exactly how it was. He even allowed himself to embellish his answers with a few minor inventions of his own. Yes, sir, I remember that day perfectly. How could I not recall that detail? Of course I do.

  There were tense silences between each question. All that could be heard was the scrape of the quill across the sheets of paper and the background noises entering the window from the busy square outside. At one point the administrator served himself a cup of tea from the samovar. Sol left hers practically untouched, while the lawyer, the clerk, and the supposed cousin did not so much as moisten their lips. The questions often concerned Sol as well; she replied with unshakable equanimity, straight-backed, her voice calm, her hands on the table. During the gaps in the questioning, Mauro fixed his attention on them: on the slim wrists emerging from the lace cuffs peeping out from her riding habit; on her tapering fingers adorned with only two rings on the ring finger of her left hand. A superb single diamond ring and a gold band. Her engagement and weddings rings, he guessed. Her wedding to a man to whom on a certain day in the past she had vowed love and loyalty, and whom she was now deceiving by stealing his fortune from him little by little. And he himself was helping her do it.

  Almost three hours had gone by before it was a
ll over. Sol Claydon and the fake Luis Montalvo emerged from it unscathed, completely in control after having shown at all times an impenetrable self-assurance. No one could have guessed that they had just walked blindfolded along the edge of a precipice.

  The lawyer and his clerk began to gather their papers. Mauro Larrea played with the other man’s identity document between his fingers. Standing by one of the windows, the administrator and Sol quietly exchanged a few words in English.

  They said good-bye: the older administrator warmly, the younger lawyer with polite coldness. The clerk simply bobbed his head once more. Sol accompanied them to the entrance hall while Mauro remained in the study, trying to recover his composure, as yet unable to get everything into perspective and still less to judge the consequences he could face for what had just taken place. All he saw with any clarity was that Soledad Montalvo had cleverly and systematically been transferring into her cousin’s name shares, properties, and assets from her husband’s business until he had been practically fleeced.

  While the voices of the departing Englishmen could still be heard in the distance, Andrade’s far-off howl somehow slipped into his mind. You’ve just become the greatest idiot in the universe, compadre. May God forgive you. In order not to have to respond, Mauro got up, poured himself a glass of brandy from a decanter, and gulped half of it down at once. Just at that moment, Soledad reappeared.

  She closed the door and leaned back against it. Then she raised her hands to her mouth, completely covering it to stifle a huge cry of relief. And like that, with the bottom half of her face covered, their eyes were fixed in an endless gaze, until finally he lifted his glass as a tribute to the brilliant performance they had put on.

  Eventually she moved away from the door and came toward him.

  “I have no words to express how grateful I am.”

  “I trust that from now on everything will be better.”

  “Do you know what I would like to do now, if it weren’t completely inappropriate?”