by Carla Kelly
“Do you think I would not like your Mexico City, Maria chiquita? Ay, ten cuidado, hermana! Have a care!”
She paused while he wiped the blood off with his shirttail. “No,” she reflected, “you probably would not. It would be much too tame.” He closed his eyes as she dug away at his arm again. “So you admire our saints, Maria?” he asked, changing the subject. “Jesus, Maria, have a care! I must use this arm again!”
“Sorry. You have to hold still. Yes, I admire your saints. At first I thought they looked foreign, but the longer I am here, the more they seem to fit.”
“Like you?”
“I could wish that, but who knows?” she countered, dabbing at his arm with her apron.
He opened his eyes. “Hand me the pincers.”
“No. Just hold still.”
“Oh, very well, very well. There must be some penance for falling off a horse.”
She smiled.
“About our saints,” he continued, straightening his arm. “I am sure we are the only family upriver with a santero. After Father built this hacienda, the Apaches burned it down. His Indians managed to drag out the carved chests in the sala, and some of the chairs, but everything else burned, including our Spanish saints. I remember Mama wailing about that. Here, give me the pincers. You find a clean cloth.”
She got up and found a clean dishcloth, tearing it in a long strip while Diego dug away at his arm, still talking. “So Papa put Emiliano to work painting new saints. I scarcely remember it. I’ve grown up with Emiliano’s saints. I know our neighbors laugh at us, but where can you find Spanish saints? The supply caravans come every other year, when they come at all.”
He held his arm out while Maria swabbed it with turpentine. “Sangre de Dios, Maria!” he exclaimed, “Can you not be more gentle?”
“You requested turpentine,” she said, and he laughed. She wiped the skin and dried it with her apron. Holding his right arm against her side, she began winding the strip of dishcloth around it. “Tell me, why Emiliano?” she asked, pausing to dab at the sweat on his forehead.
“Gracias, chiquita,” he said. “I am relieved you have humanity. Why Emiliano? He told Papa that before he was converted to the True Faith he used to paint the kachinas in the pueblo.”
“Kachinas? ”
“You will doubtless never see any. The priests have destroyed them all. I suppose you could call them Pueblo gods. Large masks, and also small figures, given to the young ones for instruction.” He straightened out one layer of the cloth. “I think Emiliano is my only Tesuque Indian who is really a true believer.”
“But what can you mean?” Maria asked. “What about the servants who come to family prayer every night?”
He shrugged. “My house servants are descendants of the Mexican Indians my grandfather brought from Mexico, and I know their allegiance. As for the others that come sometimes, my Pueblo Indians, I cannot say.” He shifted on the bench. “It is just a feeling, really, but in odd moments I wonder how deeply our ways have penetrated in this, place. The priests destroy the kivas and burn the kachinas when they can find them, but I wonder.”
Maria finished bandaging Diego’s arm, ripped the end of the cloth with her teeth and tied a knot securely in place.
“Gracias, Maria chiquita,” he said, getting up. “If you and Teruel have finished laughing, I shall gather my dignity around me once more and go back to work.”
“Before you go, Señor, have you heard from Cristóbal?”
There, she had said it. He turned in the doorway. “No, I have not. I was thinking of riding to Taos this week to speak with him. It has been too long.”
And he was gone. Maria cleaned the pincers, wiped off the table and replaced the jug in the storeroom.
That evening at dinner, Diego announced that he was leaving for Taos in the morning.
“This is sudden, my brother,” Erlinda said, passing him the bread.
He took a slice and buttered it. “I know. But I am concerned about Cristóbal. It is time he came home.” He shook his head. “We can never work out our differences if he is there and I am here.”
He sat with his elbows on the table until Catarina reminded him. Absently he took his elbows off the table and ate the bread. “I will visit with our Uncle Robles, too, and see if he has any horses to trade.”
Diego was gone before sunrise. When Maria came into the kitchen the next morning, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, all she found was a half-filled cup of cold chocolate. Maria held the cup in her hands a moment, then drank it, pausing to rest her cheek against the rim.
Diego was back in four days, alone. He rode in slowly after dinner, the barking of his dogs the only signal of his return. Erlinda dropped the mending she was struggling with and ran to meet him. He came into the kitchen with his arm around his sister’s waist. She helped him out of his dusty cloak and shook it off outside the door.
“Come, Maria, some food for Diego.”
He waved her away. “I am too tired. I just want to sit here.” He rubbed the back of his neck, discouragement tracing itself in every line of his body.
“Is all well?” Erlinda asked. “You came back so soon.”
“Certainly all is well, Erlinda. What could be wrong?” he answered quickly, too quickly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cloth sack. “Here, Erlinda, take this to Luz and Catarina. Tia Robles sends her love and some dulces.”
She smiled and took the bag. Maria returned to her mending again. Diego spoke. “Maria, it is good to see you. Cristóbal asked about you, and I told him you were well.”
She made no reply. Without thinking, she put down her mending, and began to massage his shoulders. He stiffened in surprise, then relaxed, sighing deeply.
“What is the matter, Señor? Please tell me.”
“Can I not fool you, Maria?” He was silent for a moment, turning his head quickly as she struck a tender spot. “Cristóbal is different somehow, Maria. But then, so is Taos. There is a trouble that has no name in Taos.”
He shifted slightly and unbuttoned his shirt so she could reach under it. His skin was warm to her fingers, the muscles tense.
“I confess I always feel uneasy in Taos. I do not speak their language. Taos has a brooding air about it. Always has, for that matter, as though they wait for something. I will take you there someday, and you will feel what I mean.” He tipped his head back to smile at her. “Maria, for one so small, your fingers are strong.”
“I have been kneading bread in the household of Diego Masferrer for several months now,” she said with a smile of her own.
“So you have. Well, as I was saying, Tio Robles tells me of an Indian in Taos, large of body, black of face. Tio does not know his name, but said he was stirring up trouble. The usual things—blaming us for the drought, saying that we Spaniards are the cause of the land’s unrest, things like that. We have heard it all before, but now ...” He left the sentence unfinished, closing his eyes as she rubbed his back.
“And Cristóbal?” Maria asked. Her shoulders ached, but she needed to go on touching Diego Masferrer.
“He has none of his usual warmth. We visited for several hours, but he kept looking at me as though I were the enemy.” He bowed his head over the table and Maria took her hands from his shoulders. “He is an Indian. I forget, but he is an Indian.”
“He is your brother, Señor,” she said quietly, sitting beside him.
“Not in Taos.” Diego ran his fingers over Maria’s hands folded on the table in front of her. “Such strong hands.”
He got up from the table suddenly. “I had better speak to Mama. She will want to hear the news of Taos I bring from her sister.”
Two days later, as suddenly as he had left, Cristóbal Masferrer returned. Maria was down at the acequia with the leather buckets, hauling water, when she looked up to see him standing on the other side of the footbridge. He stood as he always did, one leg bearing his weight, head angled to one side.
Without a word, he crossed the bridge and t
ook the buckets from her, dipping them in the acequia, then carrying them into the kitchen, ignoring the stares of the Mexican servant girls. Maria stood and watched him. He made enough silent trips to fill the water barrel.
“Thank you, Señor,” she said when he came back outside.
“It is Cristóbal, Maria, only Cristóbal. Some of us will never be ‘Señor’ around here.” She had heard him speak sharply before, but this time the anger was barely concealed beneath his words.
“I know what you mean. I used to be a ‘Señorita muy elegante’.”
He leaned against the beehive oven. “Does it not bother you to come down so in the world?”
She considered his question. “No. I would wish I had a dowry still, for I would like to marry someday ...” She stopped in confusion, remembering his offer and his kiss.
He leaned his head against the oven. Maria noticed for the first time that his hair was unbound, worn the Pueblo way. “Ah, you have been talking to my big brother. Land and sheep and cows marry land and sheep and cows. Indians are traded and sold, bought and paid for. Those of us who do not have these things do not fare so well.”
“Surely you are different from the other Indians.”
He stalked toward the footbridge, and Maria followed. “I did not mean ...”
He turned and put his hands on her shoulders. “You do not hurt me, Maria. I do not think you ever could. But I learned something in Taos. I am no better than my brothers in the fields.” He gestured toward the cornfield and the Pueblos stooping over their short-handled hoes. “All that I have is at the sufferance of others.”
“It is the same with me,” Maria said softly.
“And does this not bother you?” he lashed out.
“No,” she replied. “I am glad enough to be alive.”
He took his hands off her shoulders, looking at the Indians in the waist-high corn again. “Poor Maria,” he said softly. “What choices does a woman have? But a man is different. Sometimes when my brother says ‘my Indians’ in that possessive way of his, I want to tear his heart out. If he has one.”
He left her then, and she watched him walk back to the stable where his horse was tied. “Oh, Cristóbal,” she whispered. “What has happened?”
He was sitting in his usual place at the dinner table that evening, speaking of inconsequentialities to Erlinda and telling his little sisters of their Taos cousins. Diego relaxed visibly as he listened to him. Cristóbal even joined them in the chapel for evening prayers. Sitting beside Maria, his responses were firm, though he refused to kneel and kiss Diego’s hand when he left the chapel. If Diego was surprised, he did not show it.
Cristóbal stopped Maria in the hall. “Come with me to Tesuque tomorrow. I saw Emiliano when I was there this afternoon, and he says he has something for you. I think the man is an old fool, but perhaps he means well. Will you come?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation.
Maria watched him walk the length of the hall to the kitchen. When he did not come back with the candle for his bedroom, she knew he had left the hacienda. She turned to go to her own room, but Diego stood behind her.
“Dios, you are silent!” she uttered.
“Am I? That may be a virtue I am learning from my brother.” Diego took her by the arm and led her toward the sala. He had already gotten his candle from the kitchen. The small flame flickered and almost went out as he opened the door and pulled Maria inside, closing the door behind him.
“What is it, Señor?” She remembered their last interview in the sala and felt a growing uneasiness.
He motioned her to a hard chair. The seat was so high that her feet did not touch the floor.
Diego smiled. “Ridiculous furniture. Is it any wonder that we never use this room—except for unpleasant discussions?” He set the candle down and pulled a chair up until he was sitting close to her.
“I need your help,” he said. “I have pondered this since speaking with Cristóbal this afternoon, and my thoughts do me little credit.” He shook his head. “Even now, I do not know quite what to say.”
“My lord?” she asked.
“I wish you would not call me that,” he said absently.
“I know you do,” she replied, “but when I kneel to kiss your hand each night, it seems to follow.”
“The effort was too great for Cristóbal tonight,” he said.
“I saw. You are right. He has changed. But what is it you need of me?”
“Only a small thing, Maria chiquita,” he said, the sun wrinkles deepening around his eyes as he smiled. He ran his hand over his close-cut beard. “When you are in Tesuque tomorrow, keep your eyes open.”
“What do you mean, Señor?” she asked, sitting up straight.
“There is a cunning about Cristóbal now that worries me. He looks at me as if he were measuring me for a coffin.”
“Surely you are imagining this,” she said, thinking as she did so of Cristóbal’s words to her by the acequia.
“You are probably right. But watch for me, please. In Tesuque you must be my eyes.” He held out his hand.
She hesitated, then put her hand in his and shook it. “I will.”
He walked her down the hall to the door of her room. Catarina bounded out when she heard their footsteps.
“Catarina,” said Maria, “you are supposed to be asleep.”
“I could not,” she insisted. Diego put his arm around her shoulder, and she leaned against her brother. “Besides, Maria, you promised us another story.” She looked up at Diego. “You can come in, too. Maria takes off her dress and we all sit cross-legged like Indians while she tells us stories.”
“Oh, I could not,” Diego said.
“You could. Maria would not mind,” Catarina insisted.
“No,” said Diego, taking his hand off her shoulder and giving her a small push. “Now go to bed. Maria will join you in a moment.”
“Do as your brother says,” Maria admonished. Catarina went into her room.
“I shall not keep you,” Diego said to Maria. “But you will not forget our pact? And you will speak of it to no one?”
Maria gave her word, then went into her room and closed the door softly behind her. She took off her dress, shook it out and hung it on her clothes peg, putting her petticoat next to it. Quickly she took the pins out of her hair and brushed it with one of Erlinda’s old brushes. When she got in bed, Luz cuddled next to her. Maria put her arm around the child, delighting as always in the small one’s warmth.
“What would you like to hear tonight?” she murmured, marveling at how much Luz looked like Diego.
“The story about El Cid,” declared Catarina. “The part where the men strap his corpse to his horse and he rides out of Valencia.”
“Santos, Catarina! You like all the gory parts!” said Maria, propping her pillow against the wall and snuggling down with both sisters. “Besides, I told you that one last night.”
“But I like it,” said Catarina.
Maria looked down at Luz. “And what about you, my darling? What would you have?”
“If you please,” said the smaller one, her voice already full of sleep, “I like the story about the poor girl who marries the rich prince. Tell us that one, but put in some good parts for Catarina.”
“Very well,” said Maria, and wove a story, complete with Apaches and a daring rescue, that the girls had heard many times. They huddled close to her as she told of the Indians and sighed with pleasure when the prince declared the lack of dowry was no obstacle to his love and, on bended knee, swore his undying devotion.
When she was finished, the candle was guttering low in its socket. Catarina looked up and dragged herself into a sitting position. “Tell us the part about the Indian raid again.”
“Oh, Catarina,” said Maria, “you are so bloodthirsty. Perhaps you should have been a man.”
Both girls giggled. Luz looked at Maria. “But is it true, Maria?” she asked, her eyes on the storyteller. “Do things like
that happen? Do princes marry poor girls?”
Maria pinched the candle’s light out with her fingers. “No Luz, they do not. Not ever. At least, that I know of.”
Chapter 8
The Demons of Tesuque
Maria did not see Cristóbal at breakfast. After finishing her chores, she took off her apron and stepped outside the kitchen door. The sun was warm on her face after the coolness of the hacienda. She slipped off her shoes and walked down the row of beets to begin her weeding. The children of Diego’s Mexican servants who usually tended the kitchen garden were busy in the fields this morning, weeding the growing corn. She saw them on the far side of the acequia, working alongside Diego’s Indians from Tesuque.
She knelt between the rows and pulled weeds, humming to herself, filled with a contentment she could not have explained to anyone who had known her in Mexico City. Here was Maria Luisa Espinosa de la Garza, gently reared descendant of conquistadores, grubbing about on her knees in someone else’s garden patch. She who used to dress in velvet and satin now knelt barefoot in her homespun jerga. Her hair that used to be so carefully arranged hung long and braided, caught at the ends with rawhide strips. Her face was tanned and freckling, her hands rough with work.
Maria patted the soil around the beets, enjoying the feel of warm earth between her fingers.
Cristóbal stood at the end of the row, a dark shadow against the clear sky. Maria smiled and thought that it would be nice to paint him. She stood and wiped her hands on her dress. “Let me get my shoes and tell Erlinda where I am going.”
Cristóbal snorted. “Do not tell her! She will find another fifty things for you to do to keep you from me!”
His words startled her with their vehemence. “Do not be absurd.”
She went inside to put on her shoes. Erlinda was there, instructing the servant women how to clean the glass in the windows, something they did several times a week, but never to Erlinda’s complete satisfaction.
“Erlinda, I am going to Tesuque with Cristóbal.”
“Does Diego know?”
“Yes, of course. I told him last night.”
“I have nothing to say, then. Vaya con Dios.”
