Letters to Mrs Hernandez

by C S Gibbs

  Vendor's stalls ran the length of the platform, offering chipaa, amongst other things, which, on purchase, proved to be a rather tough and flavourless pastry ring of the worst kind of stodge. Ben bought a coffee to wash it down, which was of infinite blackness and strength. Thank goodness that he had only bought a small one, he thought, as anything larger would have kept him awake for a week.

  Three stray dogs lazed and dozed on the platform, making no effort to beg, attracting no attention. The stray dogs of Buenos Aires had already brought themselves to Ben's notice, earlier in the week, when he witnessed one crossing the busy road outside Constitucion, meat scraps in its mouth, coolly picking a way through the oncoming cars.

  Aboard the train from Moreno, there was a sudden explosion of the rural. Buildings were now single storey and had more space around them, with the concrete giving way to greenery. Also, the people getting on to the train at the new stops appeared less European and more indigenous than the people of Spanish, French, Italian and English extraction who he had so far encountered in the city.

  To his English eyes, the Pampas, with its flat farming landscape, could easily pass for Lincolnshire, until the illusion was shattered by the appearance of a Spanish villa or trackside cactus.

  Joining him in the compartment were a mother and her boy – a sweet faced child of about eight years old. He had bright eyes and seemed to have no fear as he wandered out in to the corridor and raced up and down to work off his energies. He returned to the compartment and set his attention to Ben – such a foreign looking fellow was a novelty for him and he wandered up and asked a question in Spanish.

  “I'm sorry, I can't speak Spanish,” was all that Ben could say, but this was no deterrent to the boy, and Ben could almost understand the questions simply from the boy's tone, “Why are you speaking so strangely? Can't you speak Spanish?”

  The unstoppable force of young inquisitiveness had met the immovable object of an Englishman with no grasp of any foreign language.

  In the end, it was youth that gave way to ignorance and the boy shrugged and retreated to his mother, who smiled at Ben and spoke softly to her son about the importance of not bothering pale looking strangers.

  Outside, the ramshackle, tiny dwellings of the poor abounded. Some were proudly kept, others were less so. A graveyard came in to view, surrounded by a high perimeter wall, above which rose the tightly packed, elaborate stone monuments of the clearly well-to-do departed, which created a miniature skyline, all determinedly reaching for the heavens. It seemed strange to him that out here, the dead warranted better accommodation than the living.

  One more stop to go. An old man who had joined the train a couple of stops previously had been sipping away on a cup of maté – Ben was yet to try this fabled drink of the Argentinians, but had seen some of the locals at the engine works with their wooden cups and metal straws, slurping away at this strange drink. He was intrigued, especially when the man finished his drink, rose from his seat and emptied the leaves from his cup out of the window.

  It was the last event of the journey, as the train had finally reached Mercedes. The spire of the cathedral rose high above the rest of the low-level buildings in this provincial farming town, whilst the station house was another piece of Victoriana – a plain building made of squares and rectangles, with large double doors in between its classical columns.

  Ben alighted with around two dozen other passengers.

  At first, he was walking toward the stairs of the underpass, to get across to the exit, but soon realized that he was on his own in this endeavour.

  All the other passengers were simply stepping off from the platform and taking the short and simple path across the tracks.

  Ben was stunned by this relaxed Latin disregard for protocol, which to his upright and proper British sensibilities was 'simply not the done thing' in extremis! He looked around for the stationmaster, who would surely restore order, only to find him standing in the middle of the tracks, assisting an elderly lady with her bags.

  “Well, I am certainly not in Kansas any more,” he said to himself, “Or Derby, for that matter!”

  “No, señor, tu es en Mercedes!” came the familiar voice of Hector from behind him.

  “Welcome to Las Pampas, my friend. I see that you are becoming acquainted with our customs.”

  “It's certainly not what I'm used to. They'd all get fined ten shillings if they did that in England.”

  “Yes, that is true, but they are not in England. They can all see that the track is clear. There is no sign of danger and no harm is being done. See, the old lady over there is across the track, now, and on her way home. She would have struggled with all of those stairs.”

  Logic had triumphed over regulation and the two men stepped from the platform and strode across the tracks. Ben felt a surge of self-consciousness for indulging in this most defiant of behaviour – for him, it felt like something of a taboo, but no one else batted an eyelid.

  Outside the station sat another Citroen Traction Avant (imported especially by Hector at the behest of Vero to satisfy her love of Parisian chic), engine purring for the most part, but giving the occasional, impatient growl.

  After putting Ben's case in the boot, Hector showed him in to the back of the car and then climbed in to the passenger seat.

  “I believe that you have met our driver before?”

  With her hands clasped on to the steering wheel and clad in driving gloves, Vero turned around, dropping her head and winking over the top of her sunglasses.

  “Buenas tardes, señor!” she grinned, cheekily, her ivory teeth clenching a cigarette holder.

  “Goodness me, a lady chauffeur!” remarked Ben.

  “My dear boy,” proffered Hector, “This is by far the best way to travel.”

  “And the fastest!” exclaimed Vero, who bashed the accelerator to the floor, launching the car forward with a near-demented fanfare on the horn. Pedestrians before them darted for safety like frightened mice.

  Both men were pinned back in their seats.

  “But . . .” concluded Hector, “Not necessarily the safest!”

  Drumrolling over the cobbled road in front of the station, Vero tore through Mercedes as if she were approaching take off speed. Due to some occasional blinking, Ben missed the chance to look properly at the beautiful church, the cathedral and the elegant plaza mayor, amongst the town's tidy grid system of sleepy side roads.

  “Don't you worry about the police?” asked Ben.

  “Why should I? They've never caught me!”

  Vero's great velocity was checked after reaching the outskirts of the town. Once the grid system of houses gave way to farmland, so ended the luxury of a sealed road and the race was over, as Vero had to negotiate a rougher track, criss-crossed with the deep scarring of tractor and lorry tyres and pock marked with an infection of cattle hoof prints.

  The car arrived at its destination with the sun just preparing to set, so that the flat terrain was floodlit with a golden glow, framing the estancia and its surrounding high hedgerows. An archway over the entrance gates sported the lettering, Estancia Fuga. Ben asked its meaning.

  “Fuga means 'escape',” offered Hector.

  “Like a country retreat? An escape from the city?”

  “Oh, darling, you are too diplomatic, again,” interrupted Vero, as she parked the car and switched off the engine. The trio disembarked and faced each other over the roof of the car. She spoke to Hector, first.

  “You know as well as I do that it has another meaning and that is why we chose it!”

  “Yes, it can also mean 'elopement'.” surrendered Hector.

  “Which, to be honest,” said Vero, turning to Ben, “Is what we did so that we could be together. And we are still together, still happily eloping. Come, Ben, let us show you our little hideaway.”

  The wide, single storey estancia's pale yellow plasterwork was still glowing in the dying sun, with weeping trees gracing its flanks. The white painted window
frames were largely open to allow some ventilation, but the housekeeper was closing them in anticipation of the nightly festivities of the local insect population.

  After climbing the few steps up to the front porch, they made their way through the main entrance at the house's left corner. Ben found himself stepping in to an entrance hall bedecked with pictures of life on the Pampas, of gauchos, lords, ladies and livestock, all set upon simple, white plastered walls. The housekeeper appeared again. She was a blonde lady in her late thirties, wearing a brown floral dress with a white pinafore.

  “This is Sandra, our cook and housekeeper – she will take your things to your room. Make yourself comfortable,” said Vero, “We will have some dinner, soon.”

  Ben sat upon the sofa, which was facing a huge fireplace. The polished wooden floor was graced with cow hides, which were also draped over the furniture. In the corner stood a frame, upon which was a saddle.

  “You should have a sit upon that and get ready for your first horse ride, in the morning,” urged Hector, “I'll have you riding like a gaucho in no time.”

  “And then I'll teach you how to do it properly!” chuckled Vero, still keen to keep the joke going.

  “My dear, haven't you got something more important to do, such as mucking out the horses?”

  “In these shoes?” Vero glanced down at her post-box red shoes, with open toes and raised heels, then looked aghast at her husband. “As a matter of fact, I do have something important to do: prepare myself for dinner. Don't forget that we have company. Why don't you check if your young understudy has any dance moves?” She gestured towards Ben, who looked horrified at the thought of having to dance.

  “Don't worry, Ben. He dances better than he rides horses.”

  “That's because you dance like a horse!”

  “Ciao!” Vero skipped out of the door and her high-heeled shoes beat a tango beat retreat up the stairs.

  Hector raised his recently poured whiskey to the final fingers of orange sunset that were reaching through the wide front windows and enjoyed the orange and yellow hues within the glass. He passed a matching tumbler to Ben, then savoured the warm aromas of the liquid and finally took a welcome sip.

  “So, Ben, you have danced before? Which steps do you know?”

  “Well, there's the Lambeth Waltz . . . after that there's just the Hokey Cokey, I suppose. Not much, really.”

  “So you cannot tango?”

  “Not a step.”

  “Well, Vero has challenged me to make a young gentleman of you and we shall start with the tango.”

  The two men worked their way through their whiskeys as Hector versed Ben on the basics of the tango, its history and significance to the Argentine people. Several Carlos Gardel songs took a turn on the gramophone that sat on a tall table to the right of the fireplace and Hector demonstrated how the first move was based upon a simple, five step pattern which simply repeated throughout the songs.

  Ben copied Hector until he had mastered the moves, followed by seven and nine-step moves.

  “And now, my young Fred Astaire, we have to do this together,” instructed Hector, “I will be Ginger Rogers . . . for now, at least! Don't be shy, now!”

  Ben hesitated at the notion of joining hands and partnering Señora Hector.

  “Come, my introverted English friend, this is how my father taught me. He told me two old truths about the tango: firstly, that it is the vertical expression of horizontal desire.”

  “Yes, I've heard that one, before.”

  “Of course. So you will also be familiar with the phrase, 'It is not the kill, but the thrill of the chase'?”

  “Yes, I'm familiar with that one, too.”

  “Good. So let me tell you now that there is no greater chase than the tango! Now, let us learn and one day, when you are fighting off the female admirers, you will thank me for this lesson!”

  Hector replaced the gramophone needle at the start of the record and counted the pair of them in.

  By the fourth playing of the record, the hesitations and stumbles were gone, as was Ben's other left foot.

  “Look! The pupil is becoming a master!” Exclaimed Hector. “Now, let me take over. It is your turn to be Ginger.”

  “Actually, I always saw myself as more of a Marlene Dietrich.”

  “You are not tall enough. Now shut up and dance!”

  The odd couple strutted and glided across the estancia's tiled floor, knocking the cowhide rugs and high-backed chairs as if they were skittles. Hector accompanied his masterful moves with a running commentary:

  “One day, you should try this one,” and “This move is Vero's favourite!”

  Barely audible above the noise of the gramophone and Ben's thundering hooves was the sound of high-heeled shoes descending from a lengthy and indulgent hour of self-pampering and outfitting, but Hector picked up on the familiar tones and, with the music reaching its final phrase, decided to finish with a flourish.

  “And now for the grande finale!”

  Laughing, he grabbed Ben and flung him away, then pulled him back like a drunken rag doll.

  Spinning him around and tipping him over on to his back Hector dropped down on one knee and caught his Marlene with consummate panache.

  The final chord struck and the door opened. A figure entered and stood right in front of the hapless Hollywood pairing.

  There was a long pause, accompanied only by the scratching sound of the gramophone needle, which was clicking its way repeatedly around the end of the record.

  Still leaning back across Hector's knee and staring upwards at this figure in the doorway, Ben could see the upside-down face looking back at him in silent amusement.

  But this was not Vero. Certainly, the hair was jet black and the skin was tanned, the lips were full and the eyes were dark, but these eyes were . . . oriental ones.

  The stranger spoke.

  “Well, considering that you have yet to say anything, that was quite an introduction.” Despite the foreign accent (which Ben could not place, but then, he could hardly place any accent that was not from Britain) the neat, clipped vowels were strangely akin to those of a BBC Radio announcer.

  “Oh, er, yes,” stammered Ben as he clambered to his feet, and Hector set about winding up the gramophone and putting yet another Carlos Gardel disc on the turntable. “I'm Ben Hutchinson. And you are?”

  “Setsu Kimura.”

  The two shook hands and the eyes of both new acquaintances finally met in the upright and locked in a gaze.

  Fascination filled the both of them. Setsu had never seen eyes so blue, whilst Ben never any so shiningly dark. Throughout the gaze, the handshake had quite unconsciously transformed in to a deliberate holding of hands, with no great need or desire on either part to relinquish.

  Thoughts fly faster than the blinking of an eye, and both young people experienced a flood of ideas and questions during that first instance of meeting. Setsu wondered about the young man and in an instant set about making an analysis of him: such a pale complexion, so thin and with his clothes hanging off him, especially on his shoulders – he looked like he could do with a decent meal and a better tailor. He spoke English, so was he American or British? Either way, he was almost certainly, therefore, a man whom she would have to officially regard as an enemy . . . a spy, perhaps? But that was only if she chose to see him that way. She was not at war with anyone, herself. Anyway, surely spies look more sinister? No, he looked too honest, that smile was genuine and rather appealing. She would have to speak with Vero at the first available opportunity.

  Ben, on the other hand, was perplexed. He had only seen oriental people in geography books at school, or badly portrayed by heavily made up Americans in Fu Manchu films at the cinema. They looked so different in real life. Was she from China? But she spoke very good English, so perhaps she was from Singapore? If it was the latter, then that would make her pretty much British, anyway? Whatever nationality she was, she certainly was so very . . . beautiful. The lips were
full and dark, which made her smile all the more pearly white. She was quite tall for a lady – he thought that all Orientals were short (that was the stereotype, wasn't it?) and she was a very elegant dresser in her blue floral one-piece. Perhaps Vero had helped her to choose it? Was Vero trying to fix him up with this lady? He would have to speak with her at the first available opportunity.

  “That's saved me from having to introduce the pair of you to each other,” said Vero, brushing past them both to berate Hector for his dance floor antics.

  “So this is what happens when I leave you two boys alone? I suppose that you will be wanting to play with your toy soldiers now?”

  “What a good idea, darling!” Laughed Hector, “But first, let us have some drinks.”

  He set his sights on a bottle of Malbec as Sandra entered with the first large platter for the meal and the quartet settled at the dining table, with the men facing the ladies. Hector led the conversation.

  “Setsu has been a friend of ours for a while, now. She is working at the International School in the city. We met when she did some work for us.”

  “Yes,” cut in Setsu, “They needed someone to translate for them at a business meeting, so that Hector could sell some more of his beef overseas.”

  “Would that be to China?” asked Ben.

  “No,” and here, Setsu looked a shade pensive, but pressed on with her answer, knowing that it would certainly provoke some sort of reaction from Ben, “It was for Japan.”

  “So you speak Japanese?”

  “Yes. I am Japanese.”

  There was little that Ben could find to say. For the first time in such a long while, he had met a girl and been utterly smitten on the spot. Of course, this had happened on rare occasions in the past, notably once in the queue for tea at the works - but his excitement was usually given at least a day or two of fermentation before any hopes could be raised or dashed (usually, it had been the latter). Never before had he scaled so quickly the heights of romantic optimism, only to find that in an instant he would tumble from the summit in an avalanche of disappointment.

  He sat, facing Setsu, with Hector to his left, and feigned interest in the sumptuous meal, which Sandra had laid out on the table. For the first time since leaving England, Ben found that he had lost his appetite – the morcisha, pulpa and seco would normally have been bolted down with the gusto of a golden retriever, but his mind reverberated to the simple, agonising refrain: she is stunning, I just want to talk to her, but she is the enemy.