The Vineyard

by Maria Duenas

  “And that Don Luisito has croaked. That’s what I’ve been told, may God take him to His bosom. Even though he was so small, he used to like having a good time, although lately he didn’t seem in the mood for it. He used to come down this way a lot. Sometimes on his own, or with friends, or with Don Matí. He was a good man, Little Runt was, one of the best,” she said solemnly. And, to emphasize her words, she made a cross with a bony thumb on an equally grimy and twisted forefinger, and kissed it with a sound like a cupping glass.

  Mauro found it hard to follow her: she had no teeth, spoke in a hoarse voice, and used expressions he had never heard in Mexico.

  “Will you buy me a drink, kind sir, and I’ll read from your palm what is going to happen with your wealth and your future?”

  At any other time he would have shooed the woman away without a second thought. Leave me in peace, get away. Please, go, he would have said. Or possibly even without the please. That was what he had very often done in Mexico with those beggars who offered to read the secrets of his soul in exchange for a penny, and with the women who stopped him on the streets of Havana with cigars in their mouths, determined to tell his fortune in coconuts or shells.

  But perhaps the fault that night lay with the strong, mellow sherry that was already warming his insides, or the day full of shocks he had just had, or the confused sensations that had recently been tearing at his body with the fury of fighting cocks. Whatever the case, this time he accepted. “Go on, then,” he said, holding out his hand toward her. “Let’s see what you can see in my blasted future.”

  “My, what an incredible hand this is, my child. You’ve got more scratches on it than a day laborer after the wine harvest. It’s going to be very hard to read your fortune there.”

  “So leave it, then.” He immediately regretted having given way to such a stupid idea.

  “No, sir, no. Even if they’re hidden by many scars, I can see many things here . . .”

  “All right, go on.”

  From the back of the room could still be heard a quiet clapping of hands, the guitar, and a voice following the flamenco rhythm with verses complaining of love’s betrayals and revenge.

  “I can see you have known many things in life that were cut in half.”

  She was not wrong there. The father he never knew, a trader passing through his village who didn’t even bequeath him his name. Abandoned by his own mother when he was still very young, left in the care of a grandfather, a man of few words and emotions who always missed his Basque country homeland and never got used to the dry Castilian plains. His marriage to Elvira, the flight to the Americas, his eventual ruin—all of these at some moment or other had been crucial breaks in his life. There was little continuity: the Gypsy woman was on the right track. Although that was not so different, he imagined, from the fate of a lot of human beings with the same number of years behind them. The old trickster had probably repeated the same phrase hundreds of times.

  “I also see there is something you have your hands on now, and if you aren’t careful, you’ll lose that, too.”

  What if she means that the Montalvo mansion and the other properties will slip through my fingers? he imagined. And what if that break was thanks to a sizable quantity of gold ounces?

  “And is it also written that this thing I have my hands on is going to be taken from me by some gentlemen from Madrid?” he asked somewhat disdainfully, thinking of the possible purchasers.

  “That an old woman like me cannot know, my love. I can only say you need to use your noodle wisely,” she said, raising a crooked finger to her temple, “because as I see here, possibly you’re going to have doubts. And you know how the saying goes in Andalusia: a sardine that the cat takes away won’t return to your dish someday.”

  Mauro almost burst out laughing at this sublime piece of reasoning.

  “Very good, old woman. Now I can see my future as clear as day,” he said, trying to bring this fortune-telling session to a close.

  “Just one moment, good sir, one moment. There’s something here that’s glowing hot. But for that I’ll first need to wet my whistle. Come on, Tomás, my boy, give your grandmother here a glass of your best brew. On this gentleman, isn’t that right?”

  She didn’t even wait for the youth to place the glass on the table but grabbed it from him and gulped it down. Then she lowered her voice and spoke seriously and soberly.

  “A spider has you in its web, fine sir.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “You’re crazy about a female. But as you well know, she isn’t free.”

  Mauro frowned but said nothing. Nothing.

  “You see?” she said, running her scabbed finger across his outstretched palm. “It says so clearly here. Here, between these three lines, is the triangle. And before long, someone is going to leave it. By fire or by water, I see someone departing.”

  That’s only too obvious, you old witch, he was about to mutter as he pulled his hand violently away with a mixture of irritation and puzzlement. For days now in his mind’s eye he had seen himself on board a ship heading for Veracruz; he had no need of being reminded of it. With the Atlantic spray and breeze on his face, watching from the deck of a steamship as the white, luminous outline of Cádiz grew smaller and smaller in the distance until it was no more than a dot beyond the waves. Leaving behind this ancient Spain, this Jerez that had led him in such an unexpected way to relive sensations buried deep in his memory. Starting out again on the return journey: returning to his world, his life. Alone, as always. Returning to a world where nothing now would ever be the same.

  “And there’s one last thing I want to tell you, sir. Just one little thing I can see right here . . .”

  At that moment the door to the tavern flew open and Ysasi reentered.

  “Well, now, Rosario, what’s going on here? I’m only away for ten minutes or so and here you are bamboozling my friend with your nonsense. Tomás, your father’s going to give you a good thrashing when he gets over his whooping cough and discovers you’ve been allowing this old Gypsy woman in here night after night. C’mon, you old crone, leave us in peace and be off to bed with you. And take your granddaughters with you; this is no time of night for the three of you to be lounging about here.”

  The old woman obeyed without a word of protest; there were few with more authority among these people than the black-bearded doctor who out of pure altruism attended to all their aches and pains.

  “I’m truly sorry I had to abandon you.”

  Mauro waved away the apology as if he were also trying to dismiss the echo of the Gypsy’s voice. They immediately returned to their wine and their conversation. Another two glasses and talk of this San Miguel district and those around it. The Gorostiza woman’s convalescence; Another two, please, Tomás. And, finally, where everything led. Soledad.

  “You may think, quite rightly, that I’m butting in where I’m not wanted, but there’s something I need to know to complete the picture of all the pieces that are floating around in my head.”

  “For good or ill, Mauro, you’re already up to your neck in the lives of the Montalvos and their dependents. So ask away.”

  “What exactly is going on with her husband?”

  The doctor took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks in a way that lent his angular face a very different expression. Then he blew out the air, taking the time he needed to order what he wanted to say.

  “At first it was thought that what he had was nothing more than fits of melancholy: the illness that lodges in the mind and lashes out in a way that paralyzes the will. Bouts of sadness, bursts of baseless anguish that lead to dejection and despair.”

  So that was what it was all about: imbalances of the mind and temperament. The miner was beginning to understand. And to put two and two together.

  “So that’s why she says that his own son betrayed him, taking
advantage of his weakness to act in the family business against the interests of Soledad and her daughters,” Mauro noted.

  “I suppose so. Of course, in a normal situation I am absolutely convinced Edward would never have acted in any way that could harm them.” He smiled with a hint of nostalgia. “I’ve rarely seen a man so devoted to his wife as he used to be.”

  By now the tavern was full to the rafters. A second guitar had joined the earlier quiet one, and they were both being played with more enthusiasm. The subdued songs they had heard on their arrival had given way to a riotous mixture of hands clapping, guitars, voices, and stamping feet that made the whole tavern shake.

  “I can remember him on the day of the wedding,” Ysasi continued unperturbed, completely accustomed to all the noise, “with that aristocratic Norman air he used to have. Always so tall, so fair, so straight-backed. Suddenly there he was in the La Colegiata church, his usual elegance redoubled, receiving congratulations and awaiting the arrival of our Sol.”

  If Mauro Larrea had known what jealousy was, if he had ever felt it in his bones, he would have immediately recognized the feeling from the stab of some blind pain that passed through him as he imagined a radiant Soledad Montalvo saying I do, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, at the high altar. Idiot, his conscience whispered to him, you’re turning into a sentimental imbecile. And he could sense his agent Andrade laughing out loud at him on the other side of the ocean.

  “The fact was that on that sunny morning in early October no one could have suspected that scarcely two days later the grandson Matías, Luisito’s older brother, would die, and everything would begin to fall apart.”

  “And did no one care that she left Jerez? That a stranger was carrying her off to London, that—”

  “Edward, a stranger? No, no; perhaps I didn’t express myself properly, or perhaps I forget sometimes that you are unaware of details I take for granted. Edward Clayton was almost like one of the family; he was very close to them. He was the representative of the family business in England, Don Matías’s right-hand man for the export of his sherry.”

  Something did not quite fit: there was something not quite right about the image of this good-looking young man Mauro had just been imagining walking down the main aisle of La Colegiata to the sounds of the organ, with the beautiful Soledad on his arm, and the patriarch of the family’s solid commercial business. That was why, until he had the answer, he preferred not to interrupt the doctor.

  “For more than a decade he had been spending long periods in Jerez, and always stayed with the family. Back in those days he had nothing to do with Sol, or . . . or with Inés.”

  “Inés is the sister who became a nun, isn’t she?”

  Ysasi nodded, then repeated the name: “Inés, that’s right.” Nothing more. Mauro tried to fit all the pieces together in his mind, but not even a chisel would have enabled him to do so. From the back of the room, more clapping, more singing, more sublime flamenco and stamping feet.

  “Well, my friend, I suppose that’s life.”

  “What’s life, Doctor?”

  “That with age we begin an irreversible decline.”

  “But whose age are we talking about? Forgive me, but I’m becoming more and more lost.”

  The doctor clicked his tongue, flapped his hand resignedly, and banged the wineglass on the table with a thud.

  “Forgive me, Mauro. It’s the fault of me and the wine; I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That Edward Claydon is almost thirty years older than his wife.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  He had recently woken and was in the kitchen, his hair disheveled as if he had been fighting all the devil’s cohorts, and dressed only in a pair of trousers and a shirt open to the waist. He was trying to light the fire to heat some coffee, when he heard someone coming in from the yard at the back of the mansion. It was Angustias and Simón, the aged servant couple. He had had little opportunity to bump into them, but the house was grateful for their presence. The yard and staircase were cleaner, the rooms more livable despite their poor condition, his freshly washed white shirts were hung out on a line to dry and then appeared miraculously impeccable in the wardrobe. And at whatever time he arrived, there was always some warmth left in the hearth and something to eat laid out on a worktop.

  The dense clouds of the early morning had not yet lifted, and the chill and darkness had not left the kitchen, when he heard the couple wishing, “God grant us a good day.”

  “Look what we’ve brought you, young master,” said the woman. “My middle son hunted it yesterday. Look how beautiful it is.”

  She raised a dead gray-furred rabbit by its hind legs.

  “Are you going to have lunch here today, Don Mauro? Or if not, I can leave it for your dinner, because I was thinking of stewing it with garlic.”

  “I’ve no idea what I will do for lunch, and don’t worry about dinner, because I won’t be here.”

  The invitation that the chairman of the social club had mentioned a few days earlier had not taken long to arrive. A ball at the Alcázar palace, the residence of the Fernández de Villavicencio family, the Dukes of San Lorenzo. In honor of the Claydons, as the invitation said. A dignified but friendly gathering that would include all the cream of Jerez society. He could turn the invitation down if he wished; nothing and no one was obliging him to go. But, possibly out of deference, possibly out of curiosity toward this unknown world of landowners and thoroughbred wine producers whom he barely knew, he accepted.

  “Well, I’ll leave it in a pot on the stove, and you do as you wish.”

  “Where’s the Indian?” her husband broke in.

  “That Indian has a name, Simón,” his wife reproached him. “He’s called Santos Huesos, if you don’t remember. And he’s better than an apostle, even if he has hair as long as Christ on the Cross and skin of a different color.”

  “He didn’t spend the night here,” Mauro said. “He has things I need him to attend to elsewhere.” He did not go into details. As it was, he simply asked: “Could you prepare me a big pot of strong coffee, Angustias?”

  “I was about to do so; you don’t even have to ask. And once I’ve done that, I’ll start skinning the rabbit: you’ll see how delicious I make it. Poor little Don Luisito used to lick his fingers whenever I made it: I put in garlic, a splash of wine, and a bay leaf. Then I used to serve it to him with croutons . . .”

  He left her to her culinary reminiscences and went out to wash in the courtyard, a towel over his shoulder.

  “Wait for me to heat you some water, Don Mauro, or you’ll catch pneumonia!”

  By then he had already plunged his head into the freezing dawn water.

  He had woken with a start early that morning, even though it had been very late by the time he came home, with the sherry and the noise of the flamenco guitars and clapping still resounding in his brain. This is not going to be an easy day, he thought, thinking of the Gorostiza woman. He dried off the streams of water running down his chest. Better get started as soon as possible.

  The bells of San Marcos were ringing for nine o’clock Mass when he left the mansion, his hair still damp, on his way to Calle Francos. Manuel Ysasi was already at his door packing a stethoscope into his bag as he prepared to do his rounds.

  “How was the night?”

  “I heard nothing until I opened my eyes around seven. According to your servant, our guest complained a lot, but I’ve just been up to examine her, and apart from having the temper of a wildcat, she is fine. Although she doesn’t think much of you, to judge by the insults she dedicated to you.”

  They exchanged a few more words by the door, then said good-bye. The doctor was headed for Cádiz on professional business that he quickly explained, without Mauro taking it in at all. His mind was elsewhere as he made ready to confront the tropical storm fr
om Havana.

  When he heard Mauro call, Santos Huesos came out of the room next to Carola Gorostiza’s, followed like a shadow by the skinny mulatta. The same one she had left him with in the Plaza de Armas in Havana the night of retreat when her mistress asked to see him in that church, he recalled. But this was no time to call up scattered memories from the far side of the ocean; what was most urgent now was to work out what on earth he was going to do with that woman.

  “Don’t worry yourself, patrón, she’s quiet now.”

  “What was she complaining about?”

  “She got a little upset when she woke up this morning and saw she couldn’t get out of the bedroom, but it passed.”

  “Did you have to go in and talk to her?”

  “Well yes, I did.”

  “Did she recognize you?”

  “Well, now, of course, Don Mauro. She remembered seeing me at your side in Havana. And if you intend to ask if she wanted to know about you, the answer is yes, she did, patrón. But all I told her was that you were very busy and probably couldn’t come to see her today.”

  “How does she look?”

  “I think there’s not much wrong with her health. But with that foul character of hers, I don’t know how she’s going to take being kept a prisoner.”

  “Has she eaten?”

  At that moment Sagrario, the aged servant woman, came limping along the corridor toward them.

  “What’s that, young master? She was hungrier than a jailbird in La Carraca Jail.”

  “Did she go back to sleep?”

  “No, sir.” The person who responded was the sweet Trinidad, silent until now behind Santos Huesos’s back. “I’ve got her looking pretty as a picture; all I need to do now is her hair. She’s almost ready to go out.”

  “Ready to go nowhere,” growled the miner as he walked toward the room at the end. “The key, Santos,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Two turns of the lock and in he went.