‘Not entirely a classic?’ said Doña Victoria.
‘Mama always went to Worth,’ said Don Otavio.
‘Con su permiso,’ said Doña Victoria, and we all rose.
Everybody went at once to their rooms. The two couples had been put up at the Hacienda and Don Luís at the Villa. Don Otavio came running back. ‘Would you like to look at my new Vogue?’ he said to E. ‘I know you don’t take the siesta.’
‘Thank you. Very kind. Thank you.’
‘I am afraid Concepción says it is not a very exciting number.’
‘Anthony, do see she doesn’t lose it,’ said I.
Doña Victoria and Don Jaime stayed awake too. They settled in the shade of a papaya and began a game of bézique.
Two hours later Doña Concepción and Don Luís reappeared, joined the others, and the four swiftly settled round a bridge table. Presently Anthony came out, chose himself a chair, and sat with them.
E crossed the lawn, bearing in one hand Professor Brogan’s work on the French Republic, in the other a volume of Phineas Finn.
‘What did you do with that Vogue?’ I called down.
‘Oh my God!’ said E. ‘Where is it?’
After another while, Don Enriquez strolled out, freshly valeted, and boarded his launch. He was off to pay his respects to Mrs Rawlston.
I went to find Don Otavio.
‘Angelita is worse,’ he said.
‘I was afraid so. Don Otavio, I wish you would let me do the cooking tonight.’
‘It cannot be thought of.’
‘I have had to cook before, you know.’
‘I believe it is taught in some of the modern convents. At least in Canada. The Sacred Heart at Montreal has cooking classes. Of course my nieces did not take them.’
‘Think what Jesús’ wife will do to the snipe.’
‘Jesús’ wife will not cook tonight. Jesús beat her. They have had a disgusto.’
‘Who will cook? Is there anyone not prostrate with alcohol and domestic strife?’
‘Guadalupe, poor woman.’
‘Will Doña Victoria like Guadalupe’s food?’
‘Nobody will.’
‘Well then?’
‘It would not be suitable.’
‘Oh nonsense, Don Otavio. I shall have everything ready for Guadalupe to keep hot and you needn’t tell anyone.’
‘We could tell Concepción.’
‘Of course we could. And Anthony. So it is settled. Domingo and Andreas shall help me and Soledad’s mother can keep the fires going. You see I am already familiar with the workings of your kitchen.’
‘No, no, I cannot let you. What would Doña E say?’
‘That she was proud to be a citizen, native-born, of a democratic country. If she noticed the difference, but she won’t. I hope you will. Because I cook very well.’
‘It is a very great kindness, Doña Sibilla. Now I must go to the cellar. ¿Con su permiso?’
‘What are you going to give us to drink tonight?’ I said, keeping my tone light.
‘I thought of bringing up half a dozen of that nice Sauterne. It is not at all bad. And some sparkling burgundy with the birds. Luís likes it. And a little champagne with our pudding. It is only Argentinian, alas, but very sweet.’
‘Don Otavio,’ I said, ‘Anthony tells me that you still have some very wonderful claret. Some of the 1900 Margaux and Lafites, if I can trust my ears. Well you know, they won’t keep much longer.’
‘Yes, yes, those old red wines. They are very bitter. The French Ambassador, Monsieur de Clerveaux, gave them to my father. Nobody liked them very much.’
Here courage failed, and the cry from my heart remained unuttered.
‘Guadalupe, this is no time for prayers,’ said I. ‘Stop those Ave and chop me some onions.’
‘… Santa María Madre de Dios … llena eres de gracia …’ Guadalupe made frantic signs for me to keep quiet.
‘All right, all right. But must you hold your beads too?’ I thought of a curé we knew in Tourraine who used to tell his pious housekeeper who, as he put it, courrait à la messe à toutes les heures, “si vous voulez servir le Seigneur, allez vous faire Bonne Soeur; mais si vous voulez me servir, moi, faites votre cuisine,” and I longed to tell Guadalupe.
‘… y en la hora de nuestra muerte Amen. Ready, niña, here are your eggs, boiled half soft as you said. Twelve Ave. I was not praying.’
‘And do you all time your cooking by saying Hail Marys?’
‘The Ave for eggs. The Pater for cutlets, the Creed for frying. It is longer.’
‘Such a practical religion ours. Little the Protestants know.’
Anthony popped in, keeping me informed of what went on. Don Enriquez has returned at nightfall and taken Doña Concepción’s seat. Doña Concepción has gone upstairs with Don Otavio. The rest are still at bridge. Doña Victoria, Don Jaime and Doña Concepción are players of international tournament level. Don Luís and Don Enriquez, in that order, are first rate but not in the others’ class. Don Otavio is not bad and he, Anthony, just good enough to be able to tell.
‘And my, they are fast,’ he said, ‘a hand a minute. And they only go for the fat hands. A peso a point. It isn’t bridge, it’s bigtime gambling.
And they say they won’t play poker when they’re just the family.
‘You don’t have to worry. They won’t play with us. You and I and Otavio are supposed to have a nice game of rummy after dinner.’
‘It doesn’t look much like a business visit,’ said I.
‘They’re taking it easy. You wait – they’ll be in a fine tizzy in a day or two. Everybody is already pow-wowing with somebody on the sly. Don Enriquez went to see Mrs Rawlston to find out what the chances are for the road this year. She’s supposed to know everything that goes on down here. And Otavio has a hunch he’ll be told he must marry, so Luís has been offering him his wife for hostess, but Otavio isn’t so keen on that either. He’s sent a messenger to this aunt at Guadalajara, he’s supposed to be a great favourite. Don Jaime has sent a message too, only Otavio isn’t supposed to know about that, but he does.’
‘And how do you know, Anthony?’
‘From Juan. Juan is friends with Don Enriquez’ valet, and Otavio says everything in front of Juan.’
‘And are you in turn a witness to Juan’s soliloquies?’
‘Hell, no. I ask.’
High fast bridge went on with the interruption of dinner, until half past one. But this morning there is a conclave. It is held in the drawing-room of the El Dorado, and the women are present.
‘They’re only going to settle preliminaries,’ said Anthony. ‘Money isn’t coming up today.’
We bathed. Refreshments had again been spread on the lawn, but it was long past two and nobody to partake. Mr Middleton had called while we were in the water and left a message that he wished to talk to us about arrangements for our coffins and would we come to tea tomorrow. At last Doña Concepción emerged from the villa. She asked Domingo for a vermouth and flung herself into a chair.
‘I am so glad for Tavio about this hotel,’ she said to me. ‘I hope it will come off. He will enjoy it so. He likes looking after people. We used to tease him that he ought to enter a nursing order. He has had such a lonely life, poor boy. Did you know he had a vocation? His mother was so pleased. Then there were the Revolutions. My husband said it was difficult enough for people like us without having a priest in the family. My father-in-law was not popular. So it was all put off. Tavio was heartbroken. He went to Mexico for a time. I am afraid he made some very bad friends there. When he came back everything had calmed down, and he could have entered the Church then. My husband says it may be quite useful to us now. But Tavio was no longer sure. Perhaps it was not a true vocation, and all worked out for the best. Who knows?
‘Yes, I should love another vermouth. Tavio has never been happy in the world,’ Doña Concepción went on with the garrulity of weariness, ‘and if it was a true vocation, and he m
issed it, that would be a very terrible thing, would it not? Our aunt, Isabella-María – she is really Sister Madalena in Christ, but she is only a lay-nun; the Holy Father made her a countess when we all lost our titles, my husband says we haven’t really lost them at all, but as we cannot use them any more it comes to the same, does it not? men are so peculiar about those things, don’t you find? it was very kind of the Holy Father and he only did it because Aunt Isabella-María is so very important to the Church, but of course papal titles are papal titles, one couldn’t possibly use them, only South Americans do – well, Aunt Isabella-María says we must have patience and that we do not know the ways of God. I pray a great deal for Tavio. You see, he has no mother to pray for him, that makes always such a difference, doesn’t it? Not that she isn’t interceding from where she is. Now it looks as though Tavio might enter the Church after all. But it would have to be Orders. You see, he never studied. My husband and brothers-in-law say they would much rather have him an abbé. Aunt Isabella-María has been very good to Tavio. She likes him to live at San Pedro. He loves it. My husband does not. Luís would like to live here, but he and Doña Asunçión are very poor. They have nine children. Nine alive, I mean. Enriquez and Victoria of course stay here whenever they want to. This is what the trouble is about this morning. Oh, I wish they’d come out; it must be past lunch time. Doña Sibilla, do you have to have many rooms to make an hotel?’
‘Rooms are rather essential.’
‘How many?’
‘It depends. If you are thinking of San Pedro, I should say there were just the right number for its size. About twenty bedrooms, are there?’
‘Eight would not do?’
‘It seems hardly worth starting an hotel on eight.’
‘That is what Tavio and Luís keep saying. My husband got very angry with Luís. He says it has nothing to do with him as he lives at Mexico, it is we and the Enriquez’ who come out here from Saturday to Monday. Enriquez says he must have nine rooms reserved for himself and his family. My husband thinks we ought to make sacrifices, after all we need not take the governess each time, but even so five rooms are hardly enough for us. Victoria says Tavio ought to let them have the first floor of the Villa to themselves, and put us up on the second. Tavio did not like that. He said an hotel was one thing but it was not suitable to give up his home too. Victoria said it was ridiculous for a bachelor to live in a house that size and she had much better manage the servants. Enriquez said the Hacienda was his home and it was natural to want to keep a few bedrooms. Luís said it was absurd to want to make money and at the same time live like cardinals and Enriquez said he never grudged a man his comforts and told Luís to mind his business. It was all very dreadful and difficult. What will they all do? I left. I do not think they noticed.’
At luncheon everybody was a shade more polite to us than yesterday. Don Enriquez was himself, Don Otavio was quiet and Don Luís thinking. Only Don Jaime showed strain and Doña Victoria annoyance. It was during this luncheon that Jesús stabbed Juan.
There was a wild shriek from the kitchen quarters, and had we not heard Jesús utter another one and seen him rush past the loggia with out-flung arms, we should never have known what had happened. None of the people present ever told.
When we reached the kitchen Juan lay on the floor, his eyes closed, in quite a deal of blood. Angelita, Guadalupe, Soledad, Soledad’s mother, Pedro and Domingo stood about with averted eyes and sullen blank faces. Carmelita, Jesús’ wife and Andreas had slipped out as we came in.
We bent over Juan.
‘Is he badly hurt?’ said Don Otavio. He was dead white and shaking from head to foot.
‘What’s going on here?’ said Don Enriquez.
There was silence.
Fortunately Juan moaned, and moaned dramatically.
Don Enriquez shrugged, and he and Don Jaime walked out.
‘Give me some water, quick, niños,’ said Don Otavio.
‘And some scissors,’ said Doña Concepción.
‘Run and get the box with the medicines from my bathroom,’ said Don Otavio.
No one stirred.
Anthony ran. Don Otavio, Doña Concepción and I did what was necessary. It became obvious at once that it was a deep flesh wound and nothing at all. The knife had gone in at the back, and come out again at the side without entering the rib-case. We spoke reassuring words to Juan. He kept his eyes shut and lay quite still.
‘No, no,’ I said to Anthony who had produced a rather surprising store of his own, ‘we’re not going to monkey with streptomycin. This is clearly a case for iodine, clean gauze and a couple of days in bed.’
‘You’re not going to have a doctor?’ said Anthony.
‘You can see it is nothing,’ said I.
‘The doctor lives twelve miles from here,’ said Don Otavio.
‘And drinks this time of the month,’ said Don Luís.
‘Juanito, would you like the kind witch from Ajijíc?’ said Don Otavio.
Juan gave a faint nod.
‘We will send for her at once. Which one do you want? Consuela or the lady from Germany?’
‘The lady from overseas,’ said Juan and, struck by his powers of speech, opened his eyes.
‘You see, niños, Juan is not dead. He will get well. All like before. Pedro, Juan is your friend, is he not? Come and help us now.’
There was no response.
‘Pick up that knife and put it out of the way,’ said Don Luís.
The knife was lying on the floor. A long knife with a wooden handle, more like a good butcher’s knife than a weapon.
‘Pick up that knife, I tell you,’ said Don Luís. ‘Can’t you hear me?’
They made no sign.
‘Aw, what’s the odds,’ said Anthony, and picked up the knife.
‘They are afraid,’ said Don Otavio.
‘They are all like that,’ said Don Luís. ‘Our law arrests the witnesses of an accident, or anyone who has anything to do with it afterwards. And as these kind of things are never brought to trial, they usually stay in gaol for years. It’s an old old law. Of course it only goes for public incidents, there’s no need for them to behave like that here. But it’s no use, I don’t suppose they’ve even heard of the law, they’re just terrified. It’s become an Indio habit. Unreasonable as cattle.’
As Juan was still convinced that he could not move, and the others refused to take the slightest notice of him, Don Luís, Anthony and Don Otavio had to carry him to bed.
‘Where does he sleep?’ said Anthony.
‘Across my door,’ said Don Otavio.
‘Hardly the place to receive the lady witch from Germany,’ said I.
‘We can put his blanket in the room where Domingo and Andreas sleep.’
‘Well Anthony,’ I said later in the afternoon, ‘this puts the lid on your source of information.’ The conclave was sitting again after the siesta. ‘Fortunately I have my own. I know now what these preliminaries were; and they’re not settled. Doña Concepción was tired and talked. I don’t think she will again.’
‘That’s OK Juan’s a lot better. That Fraulein Sauer has been to see him. The poor bastard is sitting up eating frijoles and jabbering about escape from death. But say, that kraut is no witch. I asked her, and she gave me this lecture on like curing like, and diseases making their own remedies like something out of the Reader’s Digest. Otavio wanted to send her home in the boat, but she said what did he think her two good German feets were for. German boots, more like.’
That night, I cooked again. The atmosphere in the kitchen was one of great reserve. Guadalupe and Soledad’s mother exchanged polite conversation for my ear. Jesús’ wife sat on a stool shedding tears. No one addressed her. The drawing-room, on the contrary was animated. The conclave had risen early. Don Otavio came out of it looking impenetrable and sleek. There was bridge and rummy, and later on sweet champagne.
‘What will happen to Jesús?’ said I.
‘He will hide in the hill
s for a little while,’ said Don Otavio. ‘He must be so ashamed. Then he will drink for a bit, and when he has recovered from that he will come home. Then he and his wife will have to make it up. That will take a few more days.’
‘And meanwhile we are without a gardener,’ said Doña Victoria.
‘It will not be so long this time. They will want to it be all regulár before the Sixteenth. They want to enjoy that.’
‘Is that a comfort?’ said I. ‘What will they all be doing on the Sixteenth?’
‘Yes, it is a trying holiday,’ said Don Otavio.
‘Before the Revolutions we used to go abroad to avoid it,’ said Doña Victoria.
‘Holy Week is worse,’ said her husband.
‘And the Fifth of May,’ said Don Jaime.
‘Holy Week lasts longer,’ said Doña Victoria.
‘We have Fifty-two Sundays and Seventy-nine Holidays,’ said Don Jaime.
‘All observed?’ said I.
‘All observed. Of course some of them only for one day.’
‘Which are the most important?’
‘La Purisima,’ said Doña Victoria.
‘Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe,’ said Don Otavio.
‘Viernes Santo,’ said Doña Concepción.
‘Corpus Domini,’ said Don Luís.
‘The Government insists more on the Military Holidays,’ said Don Enriquez; ‘the Battle of Puebla, the Taking of Mexico from the French, the Investiture of Querétaro.’
‘The Indios like the Days of National Mourning,’ said Don Jaime.
‘What are those?’ said I.
‘The Anniversaries of the Murder of Francisco Madero in February, the Execution of Hidalgo in July, the Execution of Morelos in December, the Death of Juarez in July …’
‘Is the Execution of the Emperor Maximilian a holiday?’ said E.
‘He is not persona grata at present,’ said Don Enriquez.
‘Was he ever that?’ said I.
‘He was a disappointment,’ said Don Enriquez.
‘The greatest holiday is the Day of the Dead,’ said Don Luís.
A Visit to Don Otavio Page 17
