Yet Carlos seemed to think the danger was real. Carlos, who appeared so self-assured when it came to greeting his fellow carousers, meeting a stranger, pouring a drink, and knowing his way among the back streets and dark ladies, lost his repose when he spoke of Petra and her jealous stepfather. Part of it could be the helplessness and self-pity of the lovelorn, but Devon was convinced that Don Felipe’s threats had shaken the young man, and Devon could easily picture the master striking a menacing pose as he gave his ultimatum.
Even if Carlos’s view was tinged with fear, he had said a couple of things that Devon took as reliable—that Don Felipe was capable of carrying out a threat, whether he actually would or would not, and that he had always gotten what he wanted and therefore might think he could have Petra. Carlos seemed to have formed those impressions rationally.
Devon shook his head. He could understand how a man might harbor private fantasies about a young woman, but he felt that the man’s thoughts must be distorted if he believed he could beat down the young suitors and force the girl to be his. Still, there was a good chance he really thought that way—maybe in the enclosed little world of Rancho Agua Prieta, itself a capsule in this remote, isolated region on the plains of New Mexico Territory where people carried on as if in an earlier time and place, Don Felipe believed he could make the laws.
Still, there was strong resistance within the young woman, even if the master killed off the young dogs. Maybe he believed that in spite of Petra’s turning her back to him, he could create an order in which she yielded and her mother acquiesced. Maybe he thought, in a more sinister way than the young suitor Ricardo, that if his will was strong enough and he insisted with the authority that was his, he would prevail.
Devon sat on the window ledge of the outermost wall and sketched a doorway on the other side of the utility room. This doorway framed another that stood diagonally across the nave, and that doorway in turn framed a window that stood on the opposite outer wall and looked out upon the plain. Each of the doorways had heavy wooden beams, gray and weathered, embedded to serve as the lintel, and the window on the far side had an arch of adobe blocks across the top. The window was set in an unplastered adobe wall, while both of the doorways were surrounded by irregular patches of plaster. Where the plaster had cracked and broken off, a sub-layer of adobe-colored mortar showed, and in some places, especially on the upper right side of the second doorway, the mortar had fallen away and the adobe blocks showed through. It was an inspiring arrangement, just as found—the stages of deterioration allowed by passive neglect, in contrast with the evidence that someone at one time had taken great effort to create a durable and aesthetically pleasing structure. In addition to that effect, he had found an intriguing perspective that seemed to place the viewer, at once, on the outside looking in and on the inside looking out. He did not know if he had the skill to capture and interpret it all as he envisioned it, but the opportunity itself was something to revel in. Alone, with only the occasional brushing sound of his picketed horse grazing outside, he felt that he was apprehending a fair portion of what he had come for.
The shadows moved as the light on the walls changed. He had shifted a couple of times to keep the sun out of the corner of his eye. Now he pulled his hat brim down on the left side. The second doorway, with its various textures of aged lumber, adobe, mortar, and stained plaster, was a perfect monument of decay and loss. In another half hour the sunlight would make it look too flat, and he wanted to catch as much of it as he could in this sitting. When this moment had passed, the scene wouldn’t be any good until he came at it fresh again tomorrow morning.
A rumbling, nickering sound from the horse made him look around. A quarter mile off, making its way in a light wake of dust, was the four-wheeled carriage he had seen the day before, being drawn by the same sturdy dark horse. His pulse gave a little jump. Beneath the shade of the canopy he saw the contrast of dark hair and light complexion.
So much for the present study. But if he had to be interrupted, this was one of the better ways. He shifted his legs around and landed with his feet on the ground outside the window opening.
As the buggy came closer, Devon recognized the driver from the day before—white-haired and leathery-toned, dressed in common garb and wearing a coarse straw hat. Again he parked the vehicle about ten yards away, and Devon sensed an ingrained discretion on the part of the servant. He left the carriage close enough that the lady would not have to walk far or be beyond a safe distance, but he kept far enough away that he would not seem to be listening in. When he had the lady handed down and on her way, he climbed back into his seat and assumed his patient, self-effacing pose.
Petra, meanwhile, walked in her assured manner, with her head up and her parasol protecting her light complexion. Her hair was pulled back again, and she wore large, round, red earrings so burnished that they looked as if they could deflect bullets. Her eyes tensed against the bright day, and her mouth held a tight smile.
“Good day,” she said. The small silver cross caught the sunlight where it lay against the light gray fabric of her dress.
He returned the greeting.
“I thought I might find you here. I came by merely to say hello and to see if you are all right.” She held out her gloved hand, which he touched and released.
“Just fine. I haven’t been bitten by any snakes or scorpions.”
She gave her close smile again. “The dangers of being an artist who ventures out of door. Like scientists who die from exotic poisons and virulent diseases.”
“I think my greatest danger here would be falling asleep and getting a sunburn.”
She cast her glance toward the ruins, as if the two of them had done enough of trying to be clever. “And how do things go? Do you advance in your work, in your pursuit?”
“So-so. I am trying to comprehend it slowly.”
“That is good. This is no place to be in a hurry.”
“True.” He motioned with his head toward the carriage. “Do you go out on an excursion with some frequency?”
“Not really. Most of the time I have nowhere to go. But with a visitor, it gives me something to do if I come by to say hello.”
“Very nice of you to do so.”
She gave a light laugh. “I, also, run the risk of very few dangers.”
He gestured again toward the buggy. “You are fortunate to have such a dependable man at your service. Even on a short drive—”
“Yes, he makes it possible for me to carry out my caprices.” She glanced in the man’s direction. “In truth, I have great trust in Miguel. He and Consuelo have been with the family since my father was young.”
“I have the impression that your father was well liked by his people.”
Her eyes met his as she nodded. “He treated them all very well. They never lacked the necessities, and if ever there was a baptism or first communion, he gave something. And for those who lived at the rancho itself, he always had a piñata at New Year for the children. Miguel and Consuelo’s sons and daughters are the age of my mother, and they still speak well of him when they visit.”
“It is a great blessing to have had such a good father, or a father who was such a good example of a civic man.”
Her eyebrows went up a little, and she tipped her head to one side. “He was not without his imperfections.”
“I’m sure.”
“In order to salvage the rancho, he had to take measures that some would criticize.”
“Like a man of business.”
“Somewhat. I told you that my grandfather did not work.”
“Yes.”
“He had been raised with the idea that he didn’t have to. His was a life of leisure. Well, for many years, things had been breaking down little by little, because of this careless treatment. Some pieces of land were reclaimed by the families of earlier owners and then neglected. Other pieces were poorly managed and had great debts against them. My father was very persevering in his reunification of the ranch.”
“By acquiring parcels.”
She nodded and seemed to be staring at a point on the wall beyond him. “Yes. Some of it he did with payment, and some of it he did with legal process.”
“By filing claims?”
“That, and lawsuits, and settlements.”
Devon shrugged. “I trust that he was justified.”
“Oh, yes. But he had good lawyers and he was a friend of the judge, so there will always be those who hold a grudge, who will say he took advantage of the system.”
“But he preserved the rancho.”
“Oh, yes. First, to recover what had slipped away in his father’s time and before that, so that he could maintain my grandfather and grandmother in the comfort they were accustomed to. And second, to provide for the future of my mother and myself.”
Devon saw little to be gained by sharing his impression that the sainted father may not have been entirely selfless in his objectives and methods. “That is an admirable achievement,” he said.
“Yes, but there were things he was unable to accomplish. This church, for example.” She motioned with her free hand toward the desolate walls. “It was his dream to restore it.”
“It would have taken a great deal. Only the basic shell is here. Many things were stripped away over time, and much of the surface would have to be refinished as well.”
“If God had granted him a few more years, he might have seen some success.”
Devon nodded but did not change his idea of what a huge project it would be.
“But it was not God’s will. Not to see this project realized, nor to see his family enjoy the later years in his own house, nor to see his daughter marry.” She dabbed at her eye with her gloved hand.
Devon had a fleeting vision of Don Felipe giving Petra away in marriage, and the idea was so incongruous that it kept him from thinking of any other way of advancing the conversation.
“But enough of that,” she said, widening her eyes and sniffing. “There’s no remedy for what’s in the past. My father loved his rancho very much, and the good thing is that it is still together.”
“Oh, yes.”
She tilted her head beneath her parasol. “And you, who come from so far away, what do you think of a place like Rancho Agua Prieta? Does it seem strange to you?”
“Not really. It has its own way of being. In English we have a saying that still water runs deep.”
She sighed. “There are many truths in life.”
He thought he should say something more. “It is interesting to know about the place, its history and all, to know how its fortunes have risen and fallen.”
“Oh, yes. There is much history. But there is also some change that is disagreeable.”
“Just from looking, a person would have little idea of anything in specific, other than change it self.” He made a backward motion with his hand toward the church.
Her face took on a bit of a sultry look. “Perhaps so. But at the rancho itself, would a person not observe something?”
“It is difficult to say. If I had known nothing of the past, I can’t say how much I would have observed about a change. From the outside, everything seems to be in its own order.” He tried to give a good-natured smile. “It is not, as they say, as if swineherds were living in the palace.”
“It’s not so far off. The contrast between this man and my father is so great, that I have noticed it and felt it every day for these past ten years.”
“Yes,” he said, still smiling. “But to one who had never known your father, the difference would not be evident, not on sight.”
“Perhaps so. But wouldn’t a person notice that ours is a house in which manners have some value?”
“Indeed. Courtesy and grace are immediately apparent.”
“And this presumptuous person, this upstart?”
“Well, when I met him on the grounds outside the house, I would not have known a contrast. Because of his…pride. As I said, from the outside. But within the patio, yes, I did notice a difference in sensibilities. But you had already given me your opinion of him, also.”
She laughed. “Some of my opinion.”
He felt a small relief as he laughed in return. “And, of course, I did not go into the house.”
“Oof!” she said, wrinkling her nose. “There it would be most apparent, with his habits that my father would abhor.”
“Such as?”
“Wearing his hat and spurs and pistol in the house, and smoking at the table.” She turned her head and gestured with it toward the plain, in the direction from which she had come. “Not to mention that.”
Devon followed her glance and saw a lone rider poking along, a man in a light hat and brown vest, idling on a dark brown horse. “The caporal.”
She pursed her hard red lips and flicked her eyebrows. “The same.”
“The master sends him?”
She turned to put the foreman at her back again, and as she did so she raised her forefinger to tap her cheekbone below her eye. “He tries to manage always to have someone keep an eye on me.” Then she twirled her parasol. “How foolish.”
Devon looked beyond her for a second and caught a glimpse of the carriage driver, Miguel, drowsing on his seat. It made sense. Don Felipe could not depend on the older, loyal servants to report on the stepdaughter, and he was so urgent to keep her from having contact with Ricardo that he had to keep her under surveillance.
Devon sighed. The day before, he thought the master might be spying on her because of her visit to the artist. There may have been some element of jealousy there, as in the later scene on the patio, but as Carlos had said, as long as Devon was just making pictures, the masterwould treat him like a priest. Aeunuch, in other words. Just an insignificant dilettante.
He brought his eyes back to Petra, who seemed to be waiting for him to say something. “It is the story of centuries,” he said. “The jealous elder.”
She raised her head in an expression somewhere between confidence and superiority. “To no purpose.” She turned her gaze again at the church, this time to the upper walls. “I have taken up much of your time,” she said. “You have your work. Time passes you by.”
“To the contrary. No time could be better spent than in such amiable conversation.”
“You are kind. But I must be going anyway.”
Devon glanced out toward the plain, where Alfonso still loitered.
“Not for that,” she said with nonchalance. “If it were only that, I would stay hours.”
He laughed. “Well, it has been an enjoyable visit. I hope to see you again soon.”
“A pleasure to stop by and say hello.” She held out her hand. “Until next time.”
As the carriage wheeled away, he was left to wonder whether she had come to see him out of interest or for the less generous motive of bedeviling Don Felipe and his foreman. That could account for her leaving so abruptly—to make Alfonso turn around and go back, and to give him nothing to report. Of course, there was the possibility that she had something to do at home. She wasn’t the type to roll out fresh flour tortillas every day at noon, but maybe she needed to shake out a couple of white linen handkerchiefs for Consuelo to press.
In spite of her petulance, though, he was sure she was deeper than she let on. He found it interesting to consider what she had left unsaid. She had made a general comment, on her previous visit, that Don Felipe disapproved of the young men in these parts, but she gave not the slightest indication that she and her stepfather were embroiled in an argument, complete with death threats, over a suitor. Also, as she spoke of Don Felipe’s habits in the house, she men tioned only his accoutrements and his smoking, not his tendency to crowd into a person’s space or to stand over in a dominating posture, much less any other gestures, such as looking and touching, that the girl’s father would truly abhor. She referred to only the most superficial aspects, yet she never implied that her contempt was limited to them. And the way she had turned her back on Alfonso, as
she had done to her stepfather the day before, was something to appreciate.
Devon went back to his sketch pad and, seeing that the moment had passed for working on the perspective of the doorways and windows, decided to work on an entirely different view. He went out in front of the church to ponder the high wall with its empty belfry arch. He could not help thinking what a focus of attention it would have been for Petra’s father, the late Vicente Cantera. Even if the man had never gotten past the stage of nurturing a pet idea, he would have looked at this wall and tower and would have thought what a fine image it would make with new plaster and paint and a stately bell.
It was hard to know, on the basis of Petra’s praise, how strong Don Vicente’s ambition to restore the church had been. But if he had rebuilt the rancho, and if had instilled a sense of pride and social class in his family, plus a yearning for the grace of an earlier era, all of which he seemed to have done, he might well have seen the church as an opportunity for a crowning achievement.
Devon could appreciate the ambition to restore a measure of quality. In the earlier days of the hacienda, in the colonial period, the residents would have seen themselves as a kind of New World aristocracy. Like the Europeans they read about, they would have had caged songbirds and artificial fountains. The women would have found seclusion behind the thick walls, to keep away from the common rabble, the dust, the wind, and the darkening sun. They would have read of women in Spain who had large bath areas in cool palace rooms, where they could lounge in deshabille while blind musicians played Arabic music, and they would have taken the trouble to have comfortable bathing areas while the summer heat raged outside. They would have had dances and receptions; they would have dressed for dinner. They would have gone out in closed carriages, and in good weather the ladies might have ridden their palfreys, groomed and caparisoned by the invisible servants. All of this and more the original hacendados would have practiced, emulating the best of their forebears, and members of later generations, like Don Vicente and Doña Emilia, who would like to recapture some of it.
Death at Dark Water Page 6
