by Carla Kelly
“I know it!” he exploded, slamming down the cup. “I know it!” Erlinda was silent, staring at her brother. Diego ran his hand over his beard. “I am sorry, Erlinda. I think I am speaking of a different kind of chill.” He took his tortilla in one hand, the chocolate in the other, and stalked down the hall to his room. The door slammed behind him.
Erlinda watched him go, then turned to Maria, appraising her with the careful glance that missed nothing. “Something is wrong.”
Marcia got up quickly and walked to the open back door. She looked at the garden, peaceful in the moonlight, and rubbed her arms as if she, too, felt the chill. How could she explain to Erlinda that this chill went deeper than the skin? She shook her head, and Erlinda sighed.
“If neither of you will talk to me, I suppose it is not my affair.” When Maria turned back to the table, Erlinda was gone. Maria carried her half-eaten tortilla out to the chicken pen beyond the garden and put it on the ground. She leaned against the fence and stared into the distance until she heard the bell for prayers.
Although Cristóbal was not in his place for evening prayers, he was sitting at the table with his brother before breakfast. His back was to Maria as she stood in the doorway tying on her apron. She was fearful of entering the room, unsure of her reception.
Cristóbal looked at Diego and without turning around said, “It is all right, Maria. Come in.”
“So you know her light step, too?” Diego said, pushing a cold tortilla toward his brother as he looked around to smile at her.
Cristóbal picked up the tortilla and rolled it into a cylinder. “I listen for it, the same as you do, Diego. It’s just that you won’t admit it.”
Diego flushed a deep red and got up. Without looking at Cristóbal he went to the outside door. “I will be in the corral.”
After her left, Cristóbal motioned for Maria to sit down. She shook her head. “I have to prepare the baking, Cristóbal.”
“As you will, then.”
The room was crowded with the silence between them. Cristóbal finished eating and came to her where she stood over the wooden batea, measuring flour. He put his hand on her shoulder.
“You think I should not tease my brother? I should not tease the master of the earth?”
She did not answer. The touch of his hand on her shoulder was warm, but his fingers pressed roughly, almost painfully, and he was standing too close.
“We used to make mud pies together. We shared the same bed. Can I not tease him if I choose? Or did I hit a nerve that time, eh, Maria chiquita?”
She shook off his hand. “Do not call me that.”
“Why not? Diego calls you that.”
“It’s ... it’s different.” She poured flour into the wooden trough, losing count of the measure.
He took the measure from her hands and stepped in front of her. “How?”
The room was so quiet that she could hear her own heartbeat. Or was it Cristóbal’s? He was standing so close, looking at her. Maria backed against the batea.
“Do not ask, Cristóbal,” she said quietly.
He backed away in turn and leaned against the kitchen table again. “We are much alike, Maria. We both want things we cannot have. You do not belong here any more than I do. Hush now, let me finish,” he said, waving her to silence. “Do not think my big brother will ever forget what he owes Las Invernadas. If he cannot acquire more land, more cattle and more of his Indians”—he spit the words out—“by marrying well, then he will not bother. Diego does not love—he owns.”
She looked at him. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
He took his hat off the peg by the door. He was across the room from her, but he still seemed close. “Perhaps you do not ... yet. But perhaps we are more alike than you care to consider. I asked for permission to marry you once. Perhaps I will do it again. Good day, Maria.” He put on his hat, adjusted the ties under his chin and was gone, moving silently down the garden path.
Maria wanted to slam the door after him, to let him know that she did not care for his words. Instead, she turned back to the batea and thumped more flour in, coughing as the white dust rose in her face. She stopped, staring at the flour. “By the saints, what am I doing?” she said and began shoveling the unneeded flour back into the sack.
While she measured the liquid ingredients into the batea, Cristóbal’s words were clear in her mind. She did not belong at Las Invernadas. But did she belong anywhere? She knew she should have died in the cholera epidemic. Failing that, she should have perished in the Indian raid on the supply caravan, or in Diego Masferrer’s cornfield. And now here she was, by some curious twist of God’s grace. But did she belong?
Cristóbal’s words had brought her back to her senses. If she had ever thought of Diego as husband instead of master, she would not do so again. Princes married poor girls only in the stories she had told Luz and Catarina.
“Foolish Maria,” she murmured out loud, dumping the bread dough onto the table. “Silly girl.”
Cristóbal sought her out more than ever. If Maria had thought he was courting, she would have discouraged him, but how could these harmless walks with the children or simple conversations between friends be called courting? Even if Diego, whose scowling eyes sometimes followed them, thought it was courting, Maria knew it was not. She and Cristóbal were two foreigners at Las Invernadas, two half-members of the Masferrer clan, dependent on Diego’s generosity—and sufferance.
Maria often walked with Luz and Catarina around the cornfield after the evening meal, while the sky was still light. She loved to watch impetuous Catarina test the limits of her surveillance, while Luz followed shyly. The children liked to play hide-and-seek among the corn rows, grown tall enough now to shelter them from each other’s eyes. Diego would not allow them beyond the walls alone, so Maria was content to lead them out and sit by herself as they darted in and out of the rows, chasing each other and shrieking with laughter.
And Cristóbal joined her there often, to sit cross-legged, saying nothing. One night, after considerable soul-searching, she turned to look at him. As usual, he was watching her, observing her face with the same leisurely air that characterized most of his actions. He had none of the driven nature of Diego. He did not appear to hurry from task to task, as did his half brother. He had the time to sit in silence and observe Maria. How different the brothers were. Maria smiled to herself.
Cristóbal leaned back and propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes still on Maria’s face. “Why do you smile?”
She shook her head, still smiling. “I was just thinking about you and Diego. You appear to be standing still, even when you are busy. ”
He laughed, and the laughter pleased her. It helped banish a different Cristóbal—Cristóbal the savage in thrall to Popeh. “You compare me to Diego Masferrer, who always looks busy, even when he is standing still!”
She joined his laughter. “Why is that?”
Cristóbal looked away then, his mood changing, his face suddenly serious. “Because all this is his, and he knows there are not enough hours in a day to get everything done.” His mood changed again, like a cloud passing over the sun, and he smiled. “You should have known him when he was younger, before our father died. He was different then.”
Cristóbal paused. “I should qualify that. Don’t I sound like Diego? He and I were both busy, even from the time of our early youth. You see how it is around here. But when the inheritance fell to him—and the burden—he went from being my brother to being my master.”
He said no more, and she did not press him. She was becoming used to his Indian silences. They sat together and watched the Masferrer sisters until the bell sounded for prayers.'
Cristóbal got up, reaching down his hand for Maria, and tugged her to her feet. “That bell,” he said, “that bell. It follows me everywhere.”
“It’s only prayers,” she said, motioning to the girls.
Again he was silent, leading the way down to the acequia a
nd across the bridge, moving with the wonderful grace that made him part of his surroundings. Maria thought again how much she would like to paint Cristóbal Masferrer.
He met her often at the cornfield and she found a certain peace in his silence, a security in his quiet that made her think of him often during the day. But she learned the impenetrability of that silence when she tried once to talk to him about Tesuque and Popeh.
They had been sitting as they usually sat, at the edge of the cornfield, Maria with her legs drawn up close to her body and chin on her knees, Cristóbal lying beside her, just at the edge of her vision.
“Cristóbal, tell me about Popeh.”
She had said it suddenly, quickly, and the words hung on the cooling air. She did not turn to look at Cristóbal, but sat staring straight ahead into the cornfield. When several minutes of silence passed, she turned her head slightly to look at Cristóbal. He was gone. He had risen silently and left her.
It was several days before he joined her again at the cornfield, and then he spoke of other things. Maria never asked him about Popeh again, even though she longed to know more, to understand the feelings of fear that came to her when she remembered Popeh and his eyes full of hate. But Cristóbal would not speak of what went on at Tesuque.
And then something happened, and he never came to sit with her again.
Maria remembered the date, July 15. She knew that she would never forget it, that each July 15 to come, some corner of her heart would go out to Cristóbal Masferrer. And she knew that she was not the only one who would remember.
The day began as all others. The rhythm of life at Las Invernadas had worked itself into Maria’s senses. She rose now by instinct, dressed, spent a moment in prayer before the room’s altar, then hurried to the kitchen, tying on her apron or smoothing her hair back with impatient fingers.
But this morning she did not enter the kitchen. The brothers were inside as usual, and they were quarreling. It was a loud, shouting argument. She knew she should not listen, knew she should go back down the hall to her room and wait there until there was silence again, but she heard her name spoken.
It was Cristóbal, his voice strained with tension, filled with a desperation that both surprised and saddened her. “You are sure you know what Maria wants! Do you ever ask her, eh? Do you ever slow down long enough to think about people?”
“You know I do, Cristóbal,” replied Diego, his voice low.
“I do not! We are not people to you. You pat us on the back as you fondle your dogs, a pat here, a kind word there, and then you presume to run our lives!”
The bench scraped back and tipped over as Diego leaped to his feet, all patience gone. “What would you have me to do, brother?” he roared. “Do you think it was my idea to take over Las Invernadas so young? Do you think I like working so hard that I fall asleep at the dinner table? Somebody has to run this place!”
Cristóbal too was on his feet. “But must you run our lives as well? I do not ask your advice or permission this time. I love Maria,” he said, the bare pleading in his voice going to Maria’s heart. “You told me once to think about it. Well, I have! All I want to do is ask her. She will say yes.”
“I do not think she will,” said Diego. “But you are not going to ask her anything. I will not allow it, not while she has committed herself into my care.”
Maria flinched at the sound of broken glass, followed by a resounding slap.
“Don’t you ever strike me again, Diego,” said Cristóbal, his voice heavy with menace. “If you want her for your own, just say so, my brother. Let her choose for herself. Who knows? Maybe she prefers someone who is too tired to love her.” His voice rose then, “But she does not come with cattle or nails or land or fence posts, so I think you are just playing the same game you have always played, you and all of you Spaniards. If you cannot have it, then nobody else will, either! We have had a bellyful of your games!”
Someone sat down heavily on the table. “Then I have failed you, Cristóbal,” said Diego quietly.
“You were bound to someday,” Cristóbal shouted.
“So be it then,” snapped Diego, the spark leaping into flame once more. “But Maria is not for you.”
“Not for your bastard Indian brother, eh? I know her better than you ever will, Diego mio.” Cristóbal’s voice was low, scarcely audible.
“No, you do not, Cristóbal, for all the time you have spent with her. And you never will, because you are Indian and we are not. It has finally come down to that.”
Then the brothers were silent, drained by the passion of their argument. Cristóbal spoke at last. “You will regret this morning’s work, my brother.”
The outside door slammed. In the silence that followed, she heard Diego weeping, his sobs heavy, dragged out of his body with great pain. Her own heart heavy, she turned and fled to her room.
Diego said nothing to Maria of the incident with Cristóbal, nothing to anyone. He was silent and withdrawn, in the evenings moving restlessly from room to room or sitting by himself in the unused sala. On the mornings when she was at work in the kitchen before him, Diego would enter quickly, looking around for Cristóbal. When he did not see his brother, he would eat in silence, ignoring her presence. Often at night she would hear him walking back and forth in the hall.
Cristóbal did not return to Las Invernadas until late July, and then one morning he was sitting in the kitchen beside Diego, the two of them dipping yesterday’s bread in last night’s chocolate, together as in earlier days. Maria entered the kitchen to begin her day’s work, too shy to look at either brother, excited by the presence of both of them.
“Dios bendiga, Maria,” said Diego as usual.
“And to you, Señor,” she answered as usual.
Cristóbal rose, wiping his hands on his shirt. “I will be with the cattle today, my brother,” he said. “Several have strayed beyond the Gutierrez place.”
“I am sure they have, my brother.”
“What? You do not know, down to the last horn and hide, where they are?” said Cristóbal. His words were teasing, his tone harsh.
“Don’t, Cristóbal,” whispered Diego, pushing back his cup and looking up at his brother.
“Very well, master,” said Cristóbal with a sweeping bow.
Maria watched the anger rising in Diego’s eyes, but still he said nothing. With a laugh, Cristóbal waved to her and left, closing the door gently behind him.
Maria bent over the batea, kneading the bread. Diego poured himself another cup of chocolate and sat there, watching it grow cold.
“Why did he come back, Maria?”
She shook her head, unwilling to look at him. She was crying into the bread dough, unable to control her sobs. She wanted to wipe her face, but her arms were sticky to the elbow with flour and water.
Diego got up, pulling out his handkerchief. He tipped her head back and covered her nose with it. “Blow.”
She blew, then he wiped her eyes with a corner of the handkerchief.
“Don’t cry, Maria. I cannot bear it. It isn’t your trouble.”
She looked up suddenly, her eyes full of anger. “Oh, yes it is!”
His voice rose. “It cannot be helped!”
“Not now. The thing has gone too far. I am to blame, and I know it.”
“You are not to blame,” Diego said, pocketing his handkerchief and sitting on the edge of the table. “I stare at my own sins when I look at Cristóbal.” He paused, looking away carefully. “So what should we do?”
“I should leave here, Diego.”
He smiled. She had never called him by name before. “And where would you go, Maria chiquita?” he asked softly, his eyes kind again. “You belong here.”
“I do not. Cristóbal belongs here.”
He made no reply. She wiped her hands on her apron and stood with them folded in front of her, torn by gratitude and guilt, love and despair. “I wonder why I did not die in that Indian massacre.”
He leaned towa
rd her and touched her arm. “I have wondered that, too, Maria. From the little, the very little, you have told me, I wonder, too. It is one of God’s mysteries, and it does us no credit to question it.”
She sighed and returned to the bread. After watching her a moment, Diego went out into the garden. He stood on the path, looked around him at the morning, stretched, rubbed his back and walked toward the footbridge. Maria finished the bread dough while the Indian servant girl swept the dirt floor. Usually Maria enjoyed the homey sound of the broom on the dirt, but today the whispering sound filled her with sadness. I will go to Margarita, she thought, although in her heart she knew that wasn’t the answer.
Maria was interrupted by Erlinda, who came into the kitchen with her sisters. “Here, Maria,” she said, “let us put these worthless ones to work.”
Luz and Catarina grinned at her. Erlinda held them close so they could not dart away. “Come, you scamps,” she said. “We shall help Maria gather the dirty linen. If we can get the washing done today, then it will not be staring at us when we return from Santa Fe.”
Her words were magic. Luz and Catarina scattered to collect the laundry. Erlinda and Maria pulled the wooden bateas from the storeroom and into the kitchen yard, where they started a fire in the large copper kettle.
“I suppose you do not think Santa Fe is much, Maria,” Erlinda said, “but to us, it is all we know of towns and cities.”
Maria picked up two leather buckets and started for the acequia. She looked back at Erlinda, who followed, buckets in hand. “Mexico City is a grand place, and I miss some of the excitement, but the air smells cleaner here, and I like to listen for the frogs at night.”
Erlinda made a face. “You sound like Diego. You will not believe this, but I have seen him sit outside, just listening to the crickets. And he has the most pleasant expression on his face.” She laughed. “Although lately he just falls asleep after dinner. How like an old ranchero he grows!”
Maria dipped a bucket in the acequia, watched it fill and felt it grow heavy in her hand. “Erlinda, he is so overworked.”
