by Maria Duenas
“With a bit of luck, tomorrow morning you two will be able to avoid going to Belén jail and will only have to go explain yourselves to the civil guard.”
Hearing this dire prediction, they both turned back to gaze at him.
“Alan Claydon has no intention of returning to Gibraltar. After I had put splints on his thumbs at the inn, he asked me for the name and address of his country’s representative in Jerez. I told him I didn’t know, but that wasn’t true: I do know who the vice-consul is, and where he lives. I also know that your stepson’s intention is to find him, explain the facts, and seek his support in bringing criminal charges against you, Sol.”
“She had nothing to do with that attack,” the miner interjected.
“That’s not the main problem, although it’s true that our friend from Gibraltar did mention an Indian—your servant, I suppose, Mauro—and a violent man on horseback whom I suppose would be you. But as things stand, that’s the least of our worries.”
They both looked at him questioningly.
At that moment, the coach drew up outside the house in Plaza del Cabildo Viejo. The sound of the wheels and the horses’ hooves ceased and Ysasi lowered his voice to a whisper.
“What Edward’s son is alleging is that his father, a British subject suffering from serious health problems, is being detained against his will in a foreign country by his own wife and her supposed lover. And to resolve this, he intends to call for urgent diplomatic action and the intervention of his country’s authorities from Gibraltar. His associates left for the Rock tonight in a mule cart to inform the appropriate officials as swiftly as possible. He himself has stayed on at the inn, aiming to return here tomorrow morning. He is furious and seems ready to implicate the whole world. He’s determined this won’t end here.”
“But . . . this can’t be . . . it goes beyond . . . this . . .”
Soledad’s indignation was so great, she could not immediately find the words to express it. Her fury threatened to explode beyond the coach’s dark interior.
“I’ll go myself to talk to the vice-consul first thing in the morning,” she said. “I don’t know him personally, except for the fact that he has not been in the post long, but I’ll go to see him and clear everything up. I’ll . . .”
“Sol, listen,” her friend said, trying to calm her.
“I’ll explain in detail everything that has happened today. Alan’s arrival and his . . . his . . .”
“Sol, listen to me,” the doctor insisted, desperately trying to make her see reason.
“And then . . . then . . .”
It was at this point that Mauro Larrea, seated beside her, turned and grasped her firmly by the wrists. Although this was no longer the sensual contact of the ball, or the caress of skin against skin, something again stirred deep inside him when he felt her delicate bones between his fingers and their eyes met once more in the darkness.
“And then nothing. Calm down and pay attention to Manuel, please.”
Soledad swallowed as if she were forcing down shards of glass, in a frantic attempt to regain her composure.
“For now you shouldn’t speak to anyone, because you’re too closely involved,” said Ysasi. “We have to think how we can approach the vice-consul more subtly, more indirectly.”
“We could try to stop Claydon from coming back to Jerez,” Mauro suggested.
“But definitely not using the methods you’ve already tried, Larrea,” the doctor said resolutely. “I don’t know how these things are settled between Mexican miners or elsewhere in that legendary New World you’ve come from, but that’s not how things are done here. Here, decent people don’t deal with their adversaries by pressing a gun to their head or by ordering their servants to become bone breakers.”
Mauro raised his right hand. That’s enough, he implied. Message understood, compadre, I don’t need any more sermons. It was then that he realized it was a long time since he had heard his agent Andrade’s voice in his conscience, and he suddenly saw why. Dr. Ysasi, speaking to him as a friend in the familiar way he used for the whole Montalvo family, had taken over Andrade’s role of telling him how to stay on the straight and narrow. Whether or not he took his advice was another matter.
“But, Manuel,” Soledad insisted, “you can explain to whoever is necessary that that’s not the way things are . . .”
“I can clinically confirm the state of Edward’s mental health. I can swear to all and sundry that you have always tried to protect him, and that for years you have been concerned day and night with his welfare. I can also testify that I have seen with my own eyes how his son has played dirty tricks on both of you, how he has sucked money out of you like a leech, how he has never had any regard for you and has taken advantage of his father’s mental condition to carry out a whole series of financial abuses. But my testimony would be worthless. Given my friendship with you, I am discredited from the start in this matter.”
The doctor’s argument could not have been more convincing. But it didn’t end there.
“And as for the alleged sentimental link between you two,” he continued, “I can also swear by all that’s holy that this man is not your lover, despite the fact that the Montalvo family properties have passed obscurely into his hands. But the fact is that all Jerez has seen you arrive and leave the Alcázar palace together. They have seen you dance together in perfect harmony and seen how well you get on. And dozens of others, people in the street, have seen over the past few days how you two have been going in and out of each other’s homes with complete freedom. If anybody should wish to give an evil twist to things, there would be more than enough evidence. Some people would no doubt maintain that you have blatantly trampled on the norms of decent behavior between an honest family woman and an unattached stranger.”
“For the love of God, Manuel, it’s not as though—”
“I’m not making any moral judgment on the way you behave, but the fact is this isn’t a big capital like London, Sol. Or like Mexico City or Havana, Mauro. Jerez is a small town in the south of Spain. It is Roman Catholic to the core, a place where certain kinds of public behavior can be hard to accept and can lead to unfortunate consequences. And you ought to know that as well as I do.”
Yet again the doctor’s argument was undeniable, however hard it was for them to accept. Shielded by being outsiders and protected by the comforting feeling that they were not part of local life, they had both felt free to behave as they saw fit in their desperate efforts to resolve their own problems. And although they were both certain they had not taken a single socially reprehensible step as far as their relationship was concerned, it was true that appearances suggested otherwise.
“I’m really afraid that it is just the two of you facing the abyss,” the doctor added. “And that being so, the sooner we decide what to do, the better.”
A dense silence fell over the three of them. They were still seated in the carriage, talking in low voices outside the main entrance to the house, while a quiet rain ran down its windows. Sol buried her head in her hands as if pressing her slender fingers against it could help her brain function more readily. Ysasi was still frowning intently. Mauro Larrea soon broke the silence.
“Without proof there is no crime. The first thing we must do is to get Señor Claydon out of this house and keep him somewhere that no one would ever suspect.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
They had been shut in the library for some time, trying unsuccessfully to come up with a sensible plan. The pendulum clock showed ten minutes past two in the morning. The ever-present bottle of liquor was half-empty.
“I think it’s a completely crazy proposal.”
This was Ysasi’s reaction to a suggestion from Soledad.
The idea of the safe place they could transfer her husband to had suddenly occurred to her. She immediately blurted it out with the same mixture of fear and euphori
a as if she had found a cure for polio. The doctor’s rejection of it was stern, definitive. Leaning against the mantelpiece as he downed his third glass of brandy, the miner simply listened.
“Nobody would ever dream of thinking Edward was in a convent,” Sol insisted.
“The problem isn’t the convent as such.”
Ysasi had gotten up from his armchair and was pacing the room with unsteady steps.
“Then what is it?”
“The problem is your sister, Inés. You know that as well as I do.”
Her lack of an answer confirmed his supposition. Normally so rational, articulate, and reasonable, the doctor now turned his narrow back on them, caught up in his own thoughts. Soledad went over and laid her hand on his shoulder.
“It’s been more than twenty years, Manuel. We have no other way out, we have to try it.”
His silence only led her to insist still further.
“Perhaps she’ll come around and accept it.”
“Out of Christian piety?” the doctor said sarcastically.
“For Edward. And for you and me. For what we all once meant to her.”
“I very much doubt it. She didn’t even wish to meet your daughters when they were born.”
“Yes she did.”
Ysasi turned, a look of surprise on his face.
“You always told me she would never allow you to see her.”
“That’s true. But as soon as I brought them back to Spain a few months after I gave birth, I took them in my arms each time to the convent church.”
The miner noticed that for the first time Soledad, always so dignified and sure of herself, could not prevent her voice from quavering.
“I used to sit on my own with each of them in front of the images of Saint Rita de Cascia and the Infant Jesus in his silver manger. And I’m sure that from some corner of that empty church she saw and heard me.”
Several intense moments went by, in which like a couple of snails they withdrew into themselves to struggle with a whole host of unhappy memories. Something told Mauro that their thoughts about the sister and friend they shared went far beyond that of a pious young girl who one fine day took the veil in order to serve the Lord.
The doctor was the first to poke his head out again.
“She would never even give us the chance to ask her.”
Combining scraps and fragments of their dialogue with a few details he had heard in recent days in Jerez, Mauro Larrea tried to imagine the situation. But he found it impossible. He lacked facts, elements, clear ideas, that would allow him to understand exactly what at some point in the remote past had happened between Inés Montalvo and her family, and why she never wanted to know anything more about them once she had entered the convent. However, this was no time to amuse himself playing guessing games, or to ask for precise explanations of something that really did not concern him. What was needed was swift action, the pressing need to find a solution. That is what led him to interject: “What if I were the one to ask her?”
He strode along dark streets narrow as knives, still in his tails, with a top hat and cape. The rain had ceased, but the ground was still full of puddles that he sometimes managed to avoid, and sometimes not. He was wide-awake, concentrating so as not to get distracted among the balconies with their wrought-iron bars and straw mats used for shutters. He could not allow himself the slightest deviation: there was not a minute to lose.
The whole of Jerez was asleep when three o’clock rang out from the tower of the La Colegiata church. By then, he had almost reached Plaza Ponce de León. He recognized the church by its window that Ysasi and Soledad had described for him. Renaissance architecture, they told him. And extremely beautiful, she had added. But there was no time to appreciate these details: all that interested him in this ancient work of art was that it marked the end of his journey. Now all he had to do was find the door to the Santa María de Gracia convent, where the sisters of the cloistered Augustinian order spent their time in prayer and meditation sheltered from the fickle world outside.
He found the door down a narrow side alleyway and pounded on it with his fist. Nothing. He tried again. Again nothing. And then, as the clouds suddenly cleared from around the moon, he saw a rope dangling to his right. A rope that made a bell ring inside the building. He tugged on it and a few moments later someone came scurrying to the door, drew back a bolt, and opened a tiny, barred window without allowing themselves to be seen.
“Hail Mary, full of grace.”
His voice rang out harshly in the bare night.
“Conceived without sin,” responded a frightened, sleepy voice from the other side of the door.
“I need to talk urgently to Mother Constanza. It’s a grave family matter. Either you tell her to come out at once, or in ten minutes I’ll start ringing the bell, and will not stop until I’ve woken the whole neighborhood.”
The window slid shut at once, the bolt was drawn back across it, and he was left awaiting the result of his threat. Wrapped in his cape on this dark, starless night, he was finally able to pause and consider the extraordinary circumstances that had led him to come and disturb the peace of a handful of innocent nuns instead of being tucked up in his bed like any honest person. He still did not know how much truth there was in the recriminations the doctor had made against Soledad and him regarding their closeness in public and the ostentatious way they had displayed their friendship. Quite possibly he is right, thought the miner. And now their attitude was being used against them, and threatened to have their enemies going for their throats.
While he was pondering this, he heard the bolt being drawn back again.
“What can we do for you?”
The voice sounded calm and yet firm. He could catch no glimpse of a face.
“We need to speak, Sister.”
“Mother. Reverend Mother, if you please.”
This brief exchange was sufficient for Mauro to realize that the woman he would have to negotiate with was far from being an innocent mendicant nun devoted to saying her prayers and making cream tarts for the greater glory of God. He would need to be careful: this was a struggle between equals.
“Of course: Reverend Mother, that’s right. Forgive my stupidity. However, I beg you to hear me out.”
“About what?”
“About your family.”
“I have no family but the Lord God and this community.”
“You know as well as I do that isn’t true.”
The silence of the deserted alleyway was so complete that the only noise came from their breathing on either side of the narrow slit.
“Who has sent you: my cousin Luisito?”
“Your cousin has passed away.”
He waited for her to react by asking a question about how or when Little Runt had died. Or for her at least to murmur a “May he rest in peace.” When she did neither, he ventured to say: “I’ve come on behalf of your sister, Soledad. Her husband is in critical condition.”
Tell her I’m begging her to help me, that I’m doing so in memory of our parents and our cousins, for everything that we once shared, that we once were . . . Sol had given him this message squeezing his hands as tightly as she could as she tried to hold back her tears. And even if it was the last thing he ever did, he was determined to deliver her plea.
“I find it hard to see how I could do anything for them, as they live outside our borders.”
“Not anymore. They have been back in Jerez for some time now.”
Again the only response was several moments of intense silence. Mauro went on.
“They need somewhere to shelter him. He is sick, and somebody is trying to take advantage of his weakness.”
“From what affliction does he suffer?”
“A profound mental disorder.”
He’s crazy! he was tempted to shout at her. And his wi
fe is desperate. Help them, for God’s sake.
“I’m afraid that this humble servant of the Lord can do little about that. In our convent we only care for the anxieties and tribulations of the spirit faced with the Almighty.”
“It will only be for a few days.”
“There is no lack of inns in this town.”
“Look here, Señora . . .”
“Reverend Mother,” she reminded him again, sharply.
“Look here, Reverend Mother,” he went on, trying to stay patient. “I know you have had nothing to do with your family for many years now, and I am not one to get involved in whatever matters may have separated you, or to beg you to put them aside. I’m only a poor sinner who knows little about religion and how to follow its teachings, but I still remember what my parish priest preached in my childhood about what it meant to be a good Christian. And among the fourteen good works—and correct me if my memory fails me—there were questions such as looking after the sick, feeding the hungry, giving the thirsty drink, giving shelter to the pilgrim . . .”
The whispered reply was as sharp as a dagger.
“I don’t need an impious Indiano to come here in the middle of the night and give me a lesson on the gifts of mercy.”
His reply, in a hoarse murmur, was even more cutting.
“I am only asking you, if you are not disposed to help your brother-in-law as the Inés Montalvo you once were, that you at least consider it as a damned duty corresponding to your present condition as a servant of God.”
“The Lord forgive me if I say you’re a heretic and a blasphemer.”
“You are quite right, Señora, to say that I have sinned more than enough for my soul to end up burning in the fires of Hell. But so will yours if you refuse your help to those so in need of it at this moment.”
The slit in front of him slammed shut with a thud that echoed all the way down the alleyway. Mauro did not move: something told him that this was not the end of the matter. A few minutes later his suspicions were confirmed when he heard the timid young voice that had first attended him.