by Maria Duenas
“And what is this lady like when she hasn’t taken it into her head to collapse?”
Sol appeared to have recovered some of the sparkle in her doe’s eyes, and a touch of the subtle irony that usually guided her conversation.
“Arrogant. Haughty. Cold. Impudent. And I can think of a few other adjectives that I will keep to myself out of politeness.”
“Do you know she spent these last years writing to Luisito, insisting time and again that he cross the ocean and visit them? She described the splendid life they had in Havana, the great coffee plantation they owned, the immense satisfaction Gustavo would feel on seeing him again after so many years, and how often she had imagined what their beloved Spanish cousin would be like. She even seemed, if you’ll forgive my being rude, to be leading him on. Gustavo probably never told his wife about poor Little Runt’s physical limitations.”
“Don’t worry about being rude; I’m convinced you’re not mistaken. But how do you know about all this?”
“From the letters signed by her that I keep in my writing desk drawer. I took them from Luisito’s house with the rest of his personal belongings before you moved in.”
So it was Carola Gorostiza who dragged Luis Montalvo to Cuba, knowing full well he was a bachelor who owned several properties but had no descendants and was a blood relative of her husband. And doubtless that was why she schemed, persevered, and did not give up until she had him draw up a new will that cut out his nieces and left his first cousin Gustavo as his only heir, even though he had not seen or heard from him for two decades. Clever Carola Gorostiza. Clever and tenacious.
They were interrupted when the doctor came back in.
“Everything is as it should be,” he said, taking his seat.
Soledad closed her eyes for a moment and nodded, comprehending what Manuel Ysasi meant without any need for words. Mauro Larrea looked at both of them in turn. All of a sudden the trust he had gained during the lunch and previous days seemed to crumble as he felt he was left out of their complicity. What are they hiding from me? What do they want to keep me away from? What is going on with your husband, Soledad? Why are you so distant from Gustavo? And what on earth am I doing in the midst of you all?
Oblivious to what the miner was thinking, the doctor resumed his meal and the conversation. There was nothing Mauro could do but defer his suspicions.
“I’ve looked in on our lady friend and given her a generous dose of chloral hydrate so that she stays sedated. She won’t wake for several hours now, but even so, I think you need to consider what you intend to do with her.”
Throw her to the bottom of an abandoned mine, the miner would have liked to tell him.
“Send her back where she came from” was what he in fact said. “How long do you think it will be until she is in a fit state to undertake the return journey?”
“I don’t think it will take her long to recover.”
“However that may be, the crucial thing right now is to get her out of this house and keep her out of circulation.”
Silence spread over the dining room table as the three of them pondered a solution. Sending her on her own to Cádiz to wait for a ship would be too risky. Keeping her in the ruinous mansion on Calle de la Tornería was out of the question. Lodging her in some public hostelry was even more unthinkable.
Until Sol Claydon came up with her proposal, a suggestion that crashed like a stone thrown at a windowpane.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
They debated the pros and cons over cups of black coffee in the library.
“I don’t think you realize what a huge blunder you’re making.”
“Do we have any other choice?”
“What about trying to talk to her calmly, to get her to consider what she’s doing?”
“And tell her what?” Sol broke in exasperatedly. “Are we to sweet-talk her so that she is kind enough to go back to Havana and get out of our way? Persuade her gently that she should leave us in peace?”
Leaping from her seat like an enraged cat, she took four or five aimless steps and then turned to face the two men once more.
“Or shall we tell her that in the name of Luis Montalvo, just waiting to be inherited by her and Gustavo as soon as they carry out the necessary steps, there are stocks and shares worth several hundred thousand pounds sterling? What if we also reveal to her that this money belongs to my family, saved from the clutches of my daughters’ stepbrother thanks to my murkiest, most despicable machinations?”
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes flashing. She took another few steps, her long skirt brushing the flowery arabesques of the carpet, until she was standing next to the armchair where Mauro Larrea was seated with his legs crossed, observing her.
“Or shall we tell her that this gentleman here is so fine and generous that he will forgive her husband his considerable gambling debts so that she can enjoy her fleeting visit to the mother country? That he is going to return for nothing the properties that that idiotic, cowardly, and irresponsible cousin of mine chose to wager on a night of billiards?”
Consciously or not, voluntarily or involuntarily, to emphasize her words she had rested her right hand on Mauro’s shoulder. Far from withdrawing it as her indignation grew, when she was asking the second question full of disdain for Zayas her fingers only dug more deeply into it, almost passing through the cloth of his frock coat close to his neck, sending an irrepressible surge of desire shooting though the miner’s insides.
“Besides, Manuel, it’s Gustavo we’re talking about. Our dearly beloved Gustavo. Don’t forget that.”
Even with Sol clutching his shoulder, and his unexpected reaction that shook him body and soul, he was aware of the bitter sarcasm in this last remark. “Our dearly beloved Gustavo,” she had said. And in her words, as was the case whenever that cousin was mentioned, there was not the slightest trace of warmth.
Manuel Ysasi responded resignedly.
“Well, in that case, and even though I’m still convinced that keeping her against her will is a huge mistake, I suppose you leave me no other option.”
“Does that mean you agree to have her in your house?”
She lifted her hand from Mauro’s shoulder to gesture toward the doctor. He felt suddenly bereft.
“I hope you both understand that if this affair ever gets out in Jerez, I risk losing most of my patients. And I don’t have a prosperous wine business or silver mines to fall back on; I live from my work, and then only when I manage to get paid.”
“Don’t be such a pessimist, Manuel, my dear,” Sol said with a hint of mischief. “We’re not going to abduct anybody. We’re merely going to offer a few days’ free hospitality to a not-entirely-welcome guest.”
“And I’ll personally make sure I take her to Cádiz and put her on board ship just as soon as you decide she is well enough to travel,” Mauro concluded. “In fact, I’ll try to find out promptly what day the next steamer for the Antilles is leaving.”
Ysasi brought the conversation to a close with dark irony.
“I stopped believing in the intervention of a wonderful supreme being in our humble earthly affairs a long time ago, but may God have mercy on us if anything goes wrong with this crazy plan.”
They installed her in the doctor’s residence on Calle Francos, in the old house he had inherited from his father, who in turn had inherited it from his grandfather. Ysasi lived there surrounded by the same furniture and the same maidservant who had served his family for three generations. They chose a bedroom at the back, overlooking a yard for animals, with a narrow window that was conveniently far from any neighboring dwelling. They put the slave Trinidad in the adjoining room so that she could attend to all Doña Carola’s needs. Soledad gave instructions to Sagrario, the aged maid. Chicken broth and omelets, lamb sweetbreads, lots of jugs of fresh water, frequent changes of her sheets and chamber pots, and a categorical r
ejection of any attempt she made to leave.
Santos Huesos took charge of the key and stood guard at the end of the corridor.
“What if she causes trouble, patrón, and the doctor isn’t here?”
“Send the old woman to look for me.”
Then he gestured briefly toward the Indian’s right hip: the place where he always kept his knife. After waiting for the others to return to the lower floor, he made himself clear:
“If she goes too far, calm her down. Just a little.”
As soon as everything was settled, Sol announced she would be on her way. Doubtless she was needed for her husband’s complex problems, the ones Mauro was still in the dark about. Or perhaps she simply had no strength left to continue the fight.
Sagrario, the age-weary maid, appeared, dragging her feet and limping slightly. She brought Sol’s cloak, her gloves, and the elegant hat with ostrich feathers: an outfit better suited to the sophisticated streets of the West End of London than for crossing the narrow streets of Jerez in the middle of the night.
Her carriage was waiting outside, and Mauro accompanied her to the front entrance.
“So you will find out about the next sailings for Cuba?”
“It will be the first thing I do tomorrow morning.”
There was hardly any light in the strip between the house and the street; the weak light of a candle distorted their features.
“Let’s hope that it all comes to an end soon,” she said, slipping on her gloves. Just to say something, without making any great effort to show she was convinced it would.
That it all would come to an end soon. Everything: a huge, bottomless sack that could fit a thousand of their own and other people’s problems. They would need more than their fair share of good fortune for all these to be tossed into the air and come out intact.
“We’ll do our best to make sure it does.” And then, to disguise the lack of conviction he also felt, he added: “Do you know that this very morning I learned that there could be some possible buyers for your family’s properties?”
“You don’t say.”
Impossible for her to convey any less enthusiasm.
“People from Madrid. They’ve almost agreed on a purchase elsewhere, but are willing to consider my offer as well.”
“Especially if you’re offering an advantageous price.”
“I fear I may have no other choice.”
Standing in the semidarkness with her back to the Triana tiles of Ysasi’s old family house, her hat and gloves already arranged, and the cloak around her fine shoulders, she gave him a tired half smile.
“You’re in a hurry to get back to Mexico, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You have your home awaiting you, your children and friends . . . and possibly a woman, too.”
He could just as easily have replied yes as no, and neither would have been a lie. Yes, of course: my splendid colonial palace on Calle San Felipe Neri awaits me, as does my lovely daughter, Mariana, by now a young mother; and of course my young pup, Nicolás, on the verge of becoming linked to the highest society in Mexico as soon as he returns from Paris; so, too, do my many powerful and prosperous friends, and more than one beautiful woman who has always shown herself willing to share her bed and her heart with me. Or: No, of course not could also have been his answer. Actually, there is very little awaiting me back there. The deeds to my house are in the hands of a usurer who is choking the life out of me with his inflexible time limits. My daughter has her own life, and my son is a dunderhead who will end up doing whatever suits him. I have gagged my friend Andrade, who is my brother and my conscience, so that he can’t shout at me for being such a half-wit. And as for women, not one of those who has passed through my life at some point or other ever succeeded in attracting, moving, or perturbing me one percent, Soledad Montalvo, as much—ever since that cloudy midday in your family’s dilapidated mansion—as you have attracted, moved, and perturbed me.
What he finally said was a lot less detailed and emotional, far more neutral: “That is where I ought to be.”
“Are you sure?”
He looked at her in confusion, knitting his thick eyebrows.
“Life sweeps us along, Mauro. It took hold of me when I was young and dropped me in a huge, cold city, to live in an alien world. Twenty years later, when I had already adapted to that universe, circumstances have brought me back here. Unforeseen winds sometimes chart the paths we take, and at other times our return journey. Often it is not worth fighting against them.”
Raising a gloved hand, she pressed it to his lips to prevent him from contradicting her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A clinking of glasses and bottles; the hubbub of relaxed voices and the strumming of a guitar. About a dozen and a half men and only three women. Three Gypsies. One of them, very young and skinny, was absorbed in rolling cigarettes, while a second, livelier-looking girl was allowing an elegant gentleman to flirt with her, though without any great interest. The third, with half-closed eyes and a face as wrinkled as a Malaga raisin, seemed to be dozing as she leaned back against the wall.
Almost nobody there was as well dressed or as refined as the doctor and Mauro Larrea, but the arrival of the two men in the bar in the San Miguel district did not seem to surprise the other clients. Quite the opposite: several called out “A good evening to you” as the two crossed the threshold. God grant us a good night, Doctor and friend. A pleasure to see you here again, Don Manué.
After a frugal meal at the doctor’s bachelor residence, they had checked that Carola Gorostiza was still asleep, that the young mulatta was resting next door, and that Santos Huesos was at the ready in the passageway for what he hoped would be a calm night. Reassured that nothing untoward would happen until the next morning at least, Manuel Ysasi suggested they go out to get some fresh air.
“Did you read my mind, Doctor?”
“You’re already acquainted with where high society entertains itself. What would you say to me taking you to see the other Jerez?”
That was how they had ended up in this tavern on Plaza de la Cruz Vieja, in a district that in the distant past had been a neighborhood outside the walls but now formed part of the south of the city.
They sat at one of the empty tables on benches that had been dragged into the area lit by oil lamps. Behind the nearby counter was a wide shelf filled with bottles and casks of wine. A serious-looking youth less than twenty years old was drying dishes silently while casting melancholy glances at the young, skinny Gypsy girl. She meanwhile went on rolling cigarettes without once raising her eyes from her task.
The youth, evidently the bar owner’s son, came over, quickly bringing two narrow glasses filled with an amber-colored liquid; they had not needed to order.
“How is your father, my lad?”
“Huh, so-so. He can’t seem to get better.”
“Tell him to come and see me on Monday. And to carry on with the mustard poultices and inhale from a bowl with pine needles in it.”
“Whatever you say, Don Manuel.”
The boy had scarcely left their table when a young man with bushy sideburns and dark eyes came up to their table.
“Two more noggins for the doctor and his companion, Tomás. Today I’ve got the coin to pay.”
“Forget it, Raimundo, forget it . . .” the doctor protested.
“What d’you mean, Don Manué, with all I owe you?”
The stranger turned to Mauro.
“I owe my boy’s life to this man, my friend, if you didn’t know it. Yes, he saved the life of my kid, he did. He was sick, very sick . . .”
At that instant, a woman wearing rope sandals and wrapped in a coarse cotton shawl rushed into the bar. Peering anxiously left and right, she finally discovered the person she was looking for. She reached them in three hasty strides.
“Oh, Don Manué, Don Manué . . . Come to my house a moment to see my Ambrosio, for the love of God, no more than a moment, I swear . . .” she insisted in a panic. “My neighbor just told me she saw you heading this way so I’ve come looking for you, Doctor; he’s dying on me. He seemed fine this afternoon, quiet as could be, when something came over him . . .” She sank her clawlike fingers into the doctor’s hand and pulled. “Come and take a look for a moment, Don Manué, for the love of God, he’s just across the way from here, right next to the church . . .”
“It was a bad idea bringing you here, Mauro,” the doctor growled, freeing his hand. “Will you excuse me for a quarter of an hour?”
He hardly had time to say “Of course” before Manuel Ysasi was wrapping his cloak around his shoulders and following the agitated woman to the door. After placing two more glasses of wine on their table, the bar owner’s son returned to his task, still casting forlorn glances at the young Gypsy girl. The man with the bushy sideburns returned to the group at the back of the room, where one person was still strumming a guitar, another was clapping his hands, while a third began softly launching into a song about ill-fated love.
Mauro was almost glad to be left alone to enjoy the wine without having to talk to anyone. No need to pretend or lie.
The respite did not last long.
“I hear you’ve taken over Little Runt’s house.”
He was so caught up in holding up the glass and contemplating the mahogany-colored wine as it swirled around the glass that he had not seen the old Gypsy woman approach carrying a straw-bottomed chair. Without asking or waiting for permission, she sat down at the table diagonally opposite him. From close up she appeared even more ancient, as though her face were a piece of leather scored with a knife. She had thin, oily hair drawn back in a small chignon. From her ears dangled a long pair of gold and coral earrings that pulled her earlobes down to her jawline.