The name of the girl who looks after us, who brings in the morning tea and closes the shutters, who whisks away the barely worn shirt and linen suit and lays them out again in the evening smelling of sun and meadows, is Soledad. She is the most exquisite of creatures. The texture of her skin – rosy café-au-lait, mat and aglow, the almond oval of her face, the mouth that looks as though it had opened only with this day, the delicate hands and wrists, the perfectly shaped feet, the grace and balance of her movements: everything about her is of finer clay. It is that flower-like exquisiteness compounded of fineness, innocence and youth, that is found in the more elusive animals, a hind, a fawn, more rarely in a human158 being and hardly ever in a member of the white race. Soledad’s expression is open, serene, inherently detached. She has a sweet smile, neither remote nor here; warmth not dependent for its kindling on surroundings; and uses a light singing voice all day. We look at her with awe. Such creatures seem hardly human; that they are, must be their tragedy. What can become of her among us? Mind does not touch her, nor vulgarity, but men will, and age. Twice mortal, her destiny should be the milk-white steed, translation in a cloud. She will be married to a village lout or by a rich man.
My own great-grandmother was Spanish, and though her beauty could hardly have been of the quality of Soledad’s, she was supposed to have been a very lovely girl indeed when she was married, taken to a northern country and received into an alien creed. I remember a very small, very wrinkled, old woman, indeed a little like Soledad’s own mother, who never left the house in which the authority was her children’s, and whose sweetness of nature was judged to be harmless. She hobbled about passages tatting lace, carrying a plate of pudding to her upstairs drawing-room. In spite of my shrinking from age – I was five – she and I drank our chocolate and ate sweets together entirely in the manner of equals.
This morning Soledad has a message for me from Guadalupe. Guadalupe is the … y … y … brothers’ old wet nurse who now looks after the fowls. It has transpired, Domingo and Andreas have overheard at table, that I have been to Rome, and Guadalupe requests the favour of my company to converse upon the subject. Guadalupe, with whom so far relations have been of the most tenuous, regrets having been unaware of the presence under their roof of a person who has been to Rome. At the moment she is engaged with a lapful of goslings, but if I would accommodate myself to the fowl-patio?
I love Rome perhaps more than any other place in the world. The very name at this immense distance, falling so lightly, so unknowingly from Soledad’s unconscious lips, stirs memory and longing.
‘Buenos dias, Señora.’
‘Buenos dias, Guadalupe.’
‘You have been to Rome, Señora?’
‘Many times.’
‘Many times! It is very pious.’
My answer to this is suitable. I was aware that the Eternal City has always been all things to all men. Goethe lived within its walls for eighteen months and successfully avoided seeing a single monument of Christian art. A reverse course is taken by the pilgrims of today who, the dust of the Seventh Basilica hardly off their knees, crowd into the Forum. The Colosseum is claimed both by the followers of the Apostles and the followers of Gibbon; others regard a visit to the Cradle of Christianity and the Fount of Law as a baroque treasure hunt and will look at nothing before Bernini. I thought I guessed Guadalupe’s need.
‘And did you see the Virgin every time?’
I had not guessed it. ‘I saw the Pope,’ I said guardedly.
‘Yes, yes, the Pope. A very good man no doubt. He looks after the Virgin. Did you see Her?’
One spring and summer I had a flat there, facing and level with the ninety-foot cipolin column of the Immaculate Conception. From sunrise to starry midnight, the statue of Maria Imaculata and the huge winged bronze Bull of St Luke almost at arm’s reach had looked into my windows and my terrace. ‘There is much of the Virgin in Rome,’ I said.
‘Of course. There would be. Was She well? Has She all She wants? What did She wear?’
‘Rome is a large place,’ said I.
‘Very large and very splendid. For the Virgin. You did see the Virgin, niña?’
‘I don’t think the Virgin is really visible in Rome. You are not thinking of Lourdes, Guadalupe, where people have seen her?’
‘Yes, the Virgin is seen at Lourdes also. But the Virgin lives in Rome, everybody knows that. In a palaçio called El Vatican. She has Her own railway now. It is very magnificent. You will tell me everything about it.’
‘Now Guadalupe,’ I said, feeling that prevarication would serve no further, ‘you know that the Virgin is in Paradise, not in Rome. Even Rome is not that. And the railway was built for the Pope. Don’t you know about the Assumption? You know the Virgin went to heaven.’
‘The Virgin left Rome? Just when She had the new railway? It was made all for Her. I gave two pesos to the Padre for the Virgin’s Railway. You are very confused, niña, with your talk of Lourdes and Paradise and the Pope taking the Virgin’s Railway for himself. As soon as these goslings are asleep, I shall say three rosaries for you. To clear your mind.’
All three of Don Otavio’s brothers and their wives are expected tomorrow and Don Otavio is all a-flutter with housekeeping. The cook has been drinking again and not yet herself. Jesús’ wife causes anxiety too, as she is said to have an eye on Don Otavio’s Juan. Juan is terrified as Jesús has already knived three youths from Ajijíc. The others show a tendency to lay down work and give themselves to watching the outcome of these events.
‘Do not let us have troubles, niños,’ Don Otavio implored them, ‘while my sisters-in-law are here.’
‘I’m surprised Jesús hasn’t had a go at Mr Middleton,’ said I, ‘the way Mr Middleton goes on about Jesús’ garden.’
‘It is not conceivable,’ said Don Otavio.
‘Troubles come when they wish to,’ said Domingo.
‘The horses have stolen the vegetables,’ said Andreas.
‘¡Niños!’ said Don Otavio. ‘¿Con su permiso?’
‘I’ve been over to the Villa,’ said Anthony, ‘you should see the liquor Otavio’s bringing out. Scotch; French brandy; cases of it. It’s all Don Enriquez’ really, he keeps it here. And a whole side of beef’s come from Chapala. I saw it.’
‘What a one you are for snooping.’
‘I gave the cook your Alka-Seltzer, E. They’re making ice-cream in the damnedest gadget you ever saw. Kind of bucket with a crank. But I do wish that Joaquím and Orazio were coming.’
‘Aren’t they?’
‘Hell no. No one young at all. This is serious. Didn’t you know? Don Enriquez is bringing out the agreement about this hotel proposition and they are going to pore over it. That’s why Luís is coming all the way out from Mex City.’
‘Anthony, you know too much.’
‘We ought to be at Jocotepec,’ said E.
‘Con permiso de Ustedes,’ said Juan. ‘Don Otavio wishes to know whether the Señores would be good enough to keep the parrot with them for a little while? Don Otavio is doing the flowers.’
‘We have our uses here,’ said I.
Don Otavio, followed by Soledad bearing linen and Jesús’ children bearing vases, crossed the loggia.
‘Always with a book,’ he said to E. ‘You must have so many.’
I looked up from mine and listened.
‘This one is always enjoyable,’ said E.
‘I am so glad,’ said Don Otavio.
‘You ought to have met Mr Collins, Don Otavio. He set such a standard of polite letter-writing.’
‘Who was the gentleman?’
‘A clergyman of the Church of England.’
Don Otavio covered a slight stiffening with a courteous smile.
‘And a personage of Jane Austen’s.’
‘Oh; he lived on the lady’s estates,’ said Don Otavio with the relief of full comprehension. ‘¿Con su permiso?’
They arrived in Don Enriquez’ motor launch an hour befor
e luncheon. An awning had been put up and a table spread with refreshments. Don Otavio, freshly powdered, in a Charvet shirt and a plum-coloured sash with a tassel wound around his waist, E, Anthony and I were waiting on the lawn.
Don Enriquez, in a white silk suit and utterly in his prime, was a fine, massive, worldly figure – masculine, at ease, intimating power and craft. Don Jaime looked like an ecclesiastical shadow of his elder brother: tapering, emaciated, with an austere face and a haunted expression that might have been ascetic but was above all hungry. Don Luís looked quite louche, with more than a touch of the motor salesman about him. Don Jaime wore a dark lounge suit, and Don Luís a brighter one. All three brothers were heavily powdered.
Their wives were slight, elegant, and beauties. Doña Victoria had fine hard features, and Doña Concepción a ravishing face. They wore plain white piqué dresses, almost tennis dresses, in what used to be called simple good taste, but Doña Concepción wore ruby ear-rings and Doña Victoria wore diamonds. They wore no make-up, except on their eyes and mouths.
Don Luís’ wife had stayed at Mexico having another baby.
They brought a number of servants. Don Enriquez brought a string of snipe for Don Otavio, and Doña Concepción the last number of Vogue.
We stood about the lawn with drinks, chattering and making a good meal of tacos until it was time to go in to luncheon. Don Otavio looked after everybody, but Doña Victoria appeared to be acting as hostess. Don Enriquez seemed too much at home to care.
Don Enriquez treats Don Otavio with affectionate condescension. Don Jaime treats him with almost concealed contempt, and Don Luís with open emulation. Doña Victoria is rather waspish to her brother-in-law, and Doña Concepción is charming.
Seeing Don Otavio among his family, we were suddenly struck by the utter anomaly of his position as an unmarried man.
He moved about his brothers with affection and respect. With perhaps most respect for Don Jaime and most affection and no less respect for Don Luís, and seemed to regard Doña Concepción as an equal companion and Doña Victoria with awe.
For some reason, both Don Enriquez and Doña Victoria are all over Anthony.
‘Tavio has not taken you to the Island yet? Qué tal, chiquito, what have you been thinking of?’
‘Querido, no one has been to the Island since Papa died.’
‘Yes, and that is why Don Antonio would enjoy it. It is quite savage. We all used to love it when we were boys. The inhabitants never go to the mainland. They cannot have seen a white face since we’re grown up.’
‘Enriquez, Don Antonio is grown up,’ said Doña Victoria.
‘He has Joaquím’s age.’
‘At which you were married and had a son.’
‘And they have not,’ said Don Enriquez comfortably.
‘I wish Joaquím’s tastes lay still outside the Circle des Jeux,’ said Doña Victoria, ‘we ought to make him take Don Antonio to the Island.’
‘How are Joaquím and Orazio, Sir?’ said Anthony.
‘Very well and expensive,’ said their father.
‘Don Enriquez, as a lawyer,’ said E, ‘what do you think of the present form of government in Mexico?’
‘No worse than most forms.’
‘If it has one,’ said Don Jaime.
‘Oh the politicos have their line. Their purpose I should say.’
‘Their purposes,’ said Don Luís.
‘You will find the country still a land of opportunity,’ said Don Enriquez.
E returned to her plate.
‘Otavio, must we have the beef covered in tomato sauce, too,’ said Doña Victoria, ‘when the fish was already done a la veracruzana? Was it not fresh?’
‘Angelita is not herself. Jesús’ wife is cooking. This is the only way she knows.’
‘She felt fine after the Alka-Seltzer,’ said Anthony. ‘She said it was the quickest thing ever.’
‘Yes, she had quite recovered, poor woman. So she went and had some more tequilita.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Doña Victoria.
‘They all need a little change, poor things, they are waiting for the Diez y Seis de Setembre,’ said Don Otavio. ‘The fireworks already started this week. I heard them this morning.’
‘What kind of fiesta is that?’ said Anthony.
‘Independence Day,’ said E.
‘Theirs?’
‘Ours,’ said Don Jaime.
‘Doña E has a very great knowledge of our history,’ said Don Otavio.
‘We are getting quite insular these days,’ said Don Enriquez, ‘with nobody able to afford to travel.’
‘My sons have not even been to Paris,’ said Don Jaime.
‘Well, you forget, querido, there was also the war in Europe.’
‘I know,’ said Don Jaime. ‘We had to send our girls to the Sacred Heart in Canada.’
E laid down her fork. ‘What would you say was the effect of the war on Mexico?’ she said.
‘We got a few scraps of business thrown our way,’ said Don Enriquez.
‘Quite a few,’ said Don Luís.
‘A lot of shopkeepers who had never eaten bread before made a lot of money,’ said Don Jaime. ‘And now you see them all over the place wearing shoes.’
‘The bars are full of them,’ said Don Luís. ‘One really can’t go out any more.’
‘You cannot imagine what it was like for clothes,’ said Doña Victoria.
‘What we all looked like,’ said Doña Concepción.
‘Buenos Aires and Rio were in the same boat of course. Some of us tried New York one season.’
‘Well, the colours were more gay,’ said Don Otavio.
‘Yes, there was that.’
‘France cannot be a country in decline with Paris still able to force the women of the Latin and Oriental races into black,’ said E.
‘¿Por favor?’ said Doña Concepción.
‘I admire your country,’ said Don Luís to E, ‘so many nice things to import from. Only not enough people to buy them here. There’s Coca-Cola of course, a very wonderful business, but the concessions are all for the Presidential Family.’
‘The Swans are reserved for the Dons,’ said I.
‘Our Presidents have too many brothers,’ said Don Enriquez.
‘Don Jaime, what do you really feel about the present Mexican Government?’ said E.
‘De quel point de vue, Madame?’
‘I don’t expect you approve their methods and ideals?’
‘Their methods render their ideals quite immaterial.’
‘I have a new bracelet, Tavio,’ said Doña Concepción.
‘Will you show it to me after siesta? I have something pretty for you to see too, chiquita.’
‘Would you say it was a stable government?’ said E.
‘Our politicos hang on,’ said Don Luís. ‘The new kind would rather share than quit.’
‘More stable than anything poor old Don Porfirio ever dreamt of,’ said Don Enriquez, ‘with us supposed to be out and the Indios taking no part.’
‘I take it, there is no body of informed middle-class opinion or pressure?’ said E.
‘Pressure for office,’ said Don Luís.
‘This country was founded by Spanish Gentlemen and their servants,’ said Don Jaime.
‘And galley slaves,’ said Don Enriquez.
‘The Indios used to take part,’ said I, ‘think of all those risings.’
‘They’d always follow a general with a band,’ said Don Enriquez. ‘But those days are over. Our politicians have tasted comfort. Nobody’s going to ride over the mountains any more. Besides, the US wouldn’t let us. The Revolutions are done with.’
‘The causes for them, too?’ said E.
‘Don’t those politicians like shooting any more?’ said Anthony.
‘A man can shoot private as well as public, boy,’ said Don Enriquez.
‘How could the United States stop anything?’ said E. ‘Economic sanctions? They would hardly affect th
e lives of the people such as they are.’
‘But frustrate the efforts of the politicos – nothing to spend their money on,’ said Don Enriquez.
‘Certainly no one would want to invade Mexico nowadays,’ said E.
‘The Germans planned a parachute landing on this lake,’ said Don Jaime.
‘Oh the Germans,’ said Don Enriquez.
‘And has your father got a Cadillac too, Don Antonio?’ said Don Luís.
‘Nobody could really take Mexico,’ said E, ‘whatever the weapons.’
‘You took half our country,’ said Don Jaime with a sudden burst of complete seriousness.
‘A very deplorable business,’ said E. ‘Lincoln to his eternal honour voted against it in Congress. But the Peace of Guadalupe-Hidalgo was made a hundred years ago. It was a very bad peace, but it was peace. And that is a long time for it.’
‘It is a long time to have kept half our country,’ said Don Jaime.
‘You can hardly expect us to return Texas and Arizona and California now.’
‘It would not be reasonable,’ said Don Enriquez.
‘Because they have become so rich?’
‘Because one cannot put the clock back,’ said E.
‘Why should it only move in one way?’
‘If it could move in the other, Texas and California, as well as the rest of Mexico, might find themselves once more under a Spanish Crown.’
‘We all came from Spain,’ said Don Jaime.
‘Not all your grandmothers, Jaime,’ said Don Enriquez roughly, ‘not by a long chalk.’
‘¡Chicos!’ said Don Otavio.
‘Doña Sibilla, what is your real opinion of Monsieur Christian Dior?’ said Doña Concepción.
‘I suppose he is very great?’ said Doña Victoria.
‘Perhaps a little avant-garde?’ said Doña Concepción.
A Visit to Don Otavio Page 16
