A Savage Beauty

by Anne Mather

Carlos reverted to Spanish and asked the children where their parents were. Emma, gradually gathering the meanings of certain words and phrases, was able to understand this.

  A small garden hedged about with a shrubbery surrounded the Diaz house, and Emma preceded Carlos up the garden path to the door which stood wide to the air. Stretching ahead of them was a cool, tiled passage, and from this passage all the ground floor rooms of the house opened. A wooden staircase at the end of the hall led to the upper storey and Emma saw how meticulously clean everything was, the polished wood gleaming, the tiles bright and shining.

  The children had gone ahead of them and as Emma and Carlos reached the door a man appeared in the hall. ‘Don Carlos!’ he exclaimed, in surprise, his gaze flickering towards Emma. ‘Que sorpresa!'

  ‘Buenos dias, Alfaro!’ said Carlos, urging Emma before him into the house. ‘Esta bien?'

  ‘Si, si—’ Alfaro was clearly not prepared for this intrusion, and Emma was beginning to wish she had not agreed to come.

  Then beyond the man, a woman appeared. She was tall and slender, with serene, madonna-like features. When she saw Carlos, she smiled, and in lilting Spanish bade them come in.

  They entered the kitchen of the house, a large, well-lit room, which obviously served as dining-room too. A long scrubbed table was flanked by wooden forms and chairs, and the huge fireplace was hung about with gleaming pots and pans. The woman, who Emma guessed was Señora Diaz, chased several children out of another door which apparently led to the back of the house and then bade her guests sit down. She had looked at Emma several times, quick darting glances with nothing of hostility in them, and yet Emma sensed her unease. But why this woman should feel uneasy about her she could not imagine.

  Carlos drew Emma forward, his hands cool on her bare arms. Speaking in English, he said: ‘Maria—Alfaro; I'd like to introduce you to Emma—Emma Salvaje, Miguel's wife!'

  The stupefaction in their faces was ludicrous and Emma, uncertain as to how to respond to that introduction, stood nervously, waiting for someone else to make the first move. The steady ticking of a clock on the shelf above the wide fireplace seemed magnified in the sudden, still air, and the sounds of the children playing in the garden seemed distant and unreal. A cat which had been curled up on the hearth arched its back and stood upright before slinking away outside as though disturbed by the uncanny silence which had fallen. It was as though they were players on a stage who had all forgotten their lines.

  Maria Diaz was the first to move. Realizing that something was expected of her, she held out her hand and Emma took it. ‘I am most pleased to meet you,’ she said, in stilted English.

  Emma managed a smile, although the tensions in the room were almost tangible. Then Alfaro Diaz followed his wife's lead and taking her hand repeated what Maria had said, adding that Miguel was a lucky man.

  But it was all so stiff and uncomfortable, and Emma longed for Carlos to say that they could go. What was there about that announcement which could cause such unexpected strain between them? Had these people a daughter whom they had expected Miguel to marry? Did that account for the strange little smile playing about Carlos Salvaje's lips?

  There were a few more moments of awkward silence, and then Carlos took command. It was as though he had enjoyed their shocked incredulity long enough. Like a cat who becomes bored with the antics of its prey. ‘Are you not going to offer us some of your most excellent coffee, Maria?’ he asked, his eyes chiding her. ‘Believe me, it was just as much a—surprise to me as it was to you.'

  Emma sank down into a chair, and as she did so she intercepted a look Alfaro Diaz cast in Carlos's direction. His eyes conveyed a combination of dislike and frustration and then he flung himself towards the door.

  ‘Excuse me, señora,’ he said, speaking to Emma, ‘but I have work to do.’ And without speaking to Carlos he went out, the door banging behind him.

  Emma quivered. This was all too much for her to understand, and on impulse she got up and went towards the back door, stepping out into the sunlight with a sense of relief. Carlos and Maria were talking together, she could hear them, but their conversation was too swift, too staccato, for her to understand. But she sensed that Maria was remonstrating with him in some way.

  There were five children in the garden. Two older boys had joined the younger children, and they were kicking a football about energetically, laughing together. They stopped when they saw Emma and stared at her curiously. Wishing she knew more of the language, Emma pointed to the ball, gesticulating that they should allow her to join their game.

  There was a few moments’ hesitation, and then one of the older boys grinned and picking up the ball tossed it to her. Emma had to duck to avoid it hitting her, but taking her cue from them she tossed it back again and soon there was quite a lively interchange going on. She had shed her sombrero in the house, but now she began to wish she had it on as the sun beat down unmercifully.

  At last she had to seek the shade of the doorway, and as she backed into the kitchen, waving at the children, Carlos came behind her and said: ‘Come and have some coffee. I have been telling Maria of the romantic way in which you met my son.'

  Emma turned reluctantly, but there was a look of such entreaty on Maria Diaz’ face that she smiled and accepted a chair, and took a mug of the deliciously smelling beverage from her hand.

  Choosing her words carefully, Emma parried Maria's gentle probing, realizing that this woman must be very fond of Miguel. It was evident in the way she spoke of him, in the intense interest she showed in everything Emma said. Emma wondered if she disapproved of him marrying an English girl as much as Carlos did.

  And yet did he? she asked herself. She didn't really understand Carlos any more than she understood his son, This morning he had seemed so human somehow, so approachable, and only since they reached the Diaz house had there been any feeling of antagonism. And she couldn't altogether blame him for that.

  Studying Maria surreptitiously in a moment when she was answering something Carlos had said to her, Emma wondered how old she was. There was an agelessness about her features that could have put her age anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five, but Emma guessed it was somewhere in between. She must have been a beautiful girl, she thought, for she was still a beautiful woman, and while Alfaro Diaz might be of mixed blood, Maria surely could not. She had the pure, classic skin of a Spaniard, and even dressed in homespun cotton she had a definite air of breeding. It was puzzling, and Emma had not the courage or the impertinence to question her.

  At last Carlos said they could leave and Emma rose eagerly. During the past couple of hours she had succeeded in putting all thoughts of her own marriage to the back of her mind, but now they came flooding forward and she found herself impatient to get back to Lacustre Largo.

  Maria came out to wave them good-bye, her children gathered about her skirts. They shouted after them gaily, and Emma was glad she had had the opportunity of spending some time with them. Children were so uncomplicated somehow.

  The ride back to the house was accomplished almost in silence. Carlos seemed absorbed with his own thoughts, and like Miguel could cut himself off from those around him with the mental dropping of a shutter. Emma didn't particularly care. She had her own thoughts to occupy her, not least being the thought of confronting her husband after her stupidly adolescent behaviour of the night before.

  Lacustre Largo dreamed in the heat of the midday sun. There was a deceptively tranquil air about it. As they neared the house, Carlos suggested that Emma should dismount and he would see their horses into the stables, and she was glad to do so. The ride back had not been so comfortable for her, and her muscles were protesting at so much activity.

  She ran up the steps into the hall almost eagerly, but then halted abruptly when her husband came through one of the arched doorways that led off the hall and grasping her arm in a cruel grip, demanded: ‘Where the devil do you think you've been?'

  Emma struggled to free herself, but i
t was useless. ‘If you must know, I've been riding—with your father!’ she declared triumphantly.

  ‘Riding? With my father?’ Miguel glared at her furiously. ‘Where did you ride?'

  ‘I don't think that's any business of yours—'

  ‘Damn you! Where did he take you?’ Miguel's hold tightened and she could feel the blood draining out of her wrist.

  ‘Let go of me, and I'll tell you!’ she cried, trying to prise his fingers from her arm.

  ‘Tell me now!’ He was incensed, and she felt a trembling sense of fear invading her.

  ‘We—we rode to the village—'

  ‘What village?'

  ‘L—Largo. We went to see a man who works—'

  ‘Diaz!’ muttered Miguel violently. ‘Alfaro Diaz!'

  ‘Yes, that's right,’ said a mocking voice behind them, and glancing round Emma saw Carlos just entering the hall. ‘Your wife enjoyed the outing, I am sure.'

  Miguel was staring at his father now and there was concentrated hatred in his gaze. ‘Why, you—’ He bit off an epithet, and Carlos raised his dark eyebrows sardonically.

  ‘Miguel!’ he reproved. ‘Remember, we are not alone. Is that any way for a son to speak to his father?'

  Miguel let go of Emma's wrist so suddenly that she almost lost her balance, and stood rubbing it painfully, watching the two men as they faced one another.

  ‘You never give up, do you, padre!’ Miguel almost spat the words.

  ‘I don't know what you mean, Miguel,’ returned Carlos, in pained tones. ‘I can't think what I have done that should cause you so much annoyance. Surely after meeting your father, it was only right that Emma should meet your mother, was it not?'

  CHAPTER TEN

  THERE were five people for the light colacion which was served about two o'clock—Loren and Juan, Carmen and Carlos, and Emma. They ate in a small dining salon adjoining the lounge. Here the walls were plain and unadorned except for one or two exceptionally fine charcoal drawings which Juan explained had been done by a local artist. There was a main course of salad and minced pork, into which mashed avocado had been added, and fresh fruit and cheese to follow. Emma was unused to the variety of fresh fruits available such as apricots and pomegranates, and watched with distaste as Loren peeled the skin off the black flesh of a zapote.

  They ate with the plaintive sounds of one of Chopin's sonatas drifting in through the open doorway, and every now and then a discordant cacophony of sound erupted as the pianist touched a wrong note and lost his temper.

  Emma wondered if everyone else was as conscious of that music as she was. She ached with the desire to leave the table, to seek out the music room where Miguel was attempting to assuage his anguish, and show him in some way that what Carlos had done didn't matter in the least to her.

  But how could she? He would never invite her sympathy and without an invitation she had not the right to thrust herself upon him. Besides, judging by the contempt he had shown her when she had arrived back at the house a couple of hours ago, she was the last person he would want to see.

  She still felt a feeling of nausea when she recalled that scene in the hall. No wonder Carlos had seemed to behave so charmingly, no wonder Maria had been so shocked! He had smiled at their disbelief and taken sustenance from it.

  Emma felt cold. It had been such a cruel thing to do. Not just to her, and to Miguel, but to Maria. Even now, she had no real knowledge of the truth as it actually was. She could only assume that at some time Carlos had had an affair with Maria and when their son was born he had adopted him.

  But Carlos had also said that Miguel had been born in the bed where he himself had been born, and although his wife was dead now, where had she been at that time? Had she known of his affair with Maria? It seemed unnatural—uncivilized. She frowned and concentrated on the peach she was paring. That word kept cropping up, and yet these were civilized people.

  There was a loud crash of bass notes and she started, her eyes going automatically towards the open door. Miguel ought not to be trying to play at all. His fingers were not healed yet. He could be doing irreparable damage. Didn't he care? Didn't anyone care?

  She looked round the room despairingly and caught Carlos's eyes upon her. ‘Something is wrong, Emma?’ he queried silkily.

  She clenched her fists. ‘Someone should stop him,’ she said. ‘He shouldn't be touching the piano yet.'

  Carlos lay back in his chair. ‘And who do you suggest should tell him this? Me?’ He pointed to himself. ‘Or you?'

  Emma glanced round. ‘What about—Juan?'

  Carlos raised his eyebrows. ‘I think Juan knows better than that.'

  Emma looked entreatingly at Miguel's manager, but he sighed and shook his head. Carmen Silveiro laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound.

  ‘They are all scared of him, señora,’ she said mockingly. ‘When Miguel is angry it is best to stay out of his way.’ Her eyes were taunting. ‘You do not know him very well or you would not suggest interfering. Miguel is angry—and unhappy. He has offended his father, and he regrets—'

  ‘That will do, Carmen!’ Carlos's voice was clipped and instantly silenced his niece. ‘Now,’ he went on, more gently, ‘it is a glorious day. Let us enjoy it while we can. We will take our coffee out on to the terrace and perhaps drowse for a while, in the sun…'

  But Emma could stand no more of it. Excusing herself from them, she made her way back to her room, going inside and closing the door almost as if by doing so she was shutting out the rest of the world.

  But after a time, when she was sure the others would be firmly ensconced on the terrace, she left it again, and went in search of the music room.

  Miguel was still playing and the sound seemed to come from further along the corridor, beyond her room and beyond Miguel's bedroom which she knew was the next bedroom along.

  Smoothing her hair with her hands, she walked soundlessly down the passage until she stood before double doors from behind which the music was definitely emanating. She wondered whether to knock first or just walk in, but caution overcame all else and she rapped lightly on the panels. The melancholy strains of Brahms at his most appealing went on without cause and she realized he could not have heard her. Uncertainty gripped her. Her determination was ebbing with every minute that passed, and she dreaded the confrontation which might follow her intrusion.

  Then a discordant note shattered the fragile melody and there was a muffled curse before silence descended on the room and the passage where Emma was standing.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle of the door and pushing it open squeezed into the room. Pressing against the wall, as if to disguise herself as part of the exquisite murals that depicted scenes of Mexico's fight for independence, she looked round in amazement. All the rooms in this house had astounded her by their individuality, and this was not least of them. A magnificent grand piano, at which Miguel was slumped, wholly unaware of her presence, was reflected in the polished wood of the floor, but as the ceiling was made up of dozens of squares of glass that in their turn reflected the floor, and also provided the wonderful acoustics, the instrument and its exponent were reflected over and over and over again. The jade green curtains at the long windows were drawn, however, and all the lighting in the room was artificial. Miguel had shut out everything and everybody.

  The door clicked noisily as it closed and Emma froze. But he had heard it, and lifting his head he turned to stare at her almost uncomprehendingly. Then, as his brain cleared, he rose to his feet, tipping over the piano stool heavily on to the floor.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘I thought I made it plain that I did not want to be disturbed.'

  Emma straightened and moved away from the door. ‘Why have you drawn the curtains?’ she asked, playing for time. ‘It's such a beautiful day outside.'

  Miguel made an impatient gesture. ‘I asked why you came! Did—my father—send you?'

  Emma glanced at him, pretending an interest in the pil
e of manuscript on the piano. ‘No. Why should he?'

  Miguel sounded sceptical. ‘Why not? I should have thought it was perfectly logical. He knows better than to come himself.'

  Emma sighed. ‘I came because I was concerned about you. You must know you could be doing your fingers irreparable damage by attempting to play the piano—'

  ‘What business is that of yours?’ He was cold.

  ‘It's the business of anyone who appreciates your playing—only it's obvious that no one else here—'

  ‘I think you should leave now.'

  ‘No!’ Emma moved towards him. ‘Miguel, be sensible! Don't behave like a spoilt child—'

  ‘A spoilt child!’ He glared at her bitterly. ‘Is that what you think I am?'

  ‘No! That is—well—oh, Miguel, why are you doing this? Can't you see how foolish it is? You're only hurting yourself—'

  ‘Bien, that's something, isn't it? At least I don't interfere in other people's lives.'

  ‘Meaning your father does.'

  ‘You've noticed!’ He was sarcastic.

  ‘Oh, Miguel, if you mean what happened this morning—'

  ‘What happened this morning was merely a continuation of what has been happening all my life!'

  ‘It wasn't important—'

  ‘It was. To me!'

  ‘Miguel, if you think meeting your mother like that has shocked me—'

  ‘Hasn't it?'

  ‘No.’ Emma flushed.

  ‘I'm afraid I don't believe you. But it doesn't matter. What's done is done, and I can't make a better of it.'

  ‘Your father loves you—'

  ‘Oh, yes, yes.’ Miguel's lips twisted. ‘He does, doesn't he? Like the spider loves the fly—to destruction!'

  ‘That's not true. Your father's not like that!'

  ‘Isn't he?’ He was bitter. ‘Oh, I can see he's got a champion in you! How delighted he would be if he could hear you defending him—to me!'

  ‘I'm not defending him,’ she snapped hotly, hurt by his assumption that she was trying to take sides. ‘I'm simply trying to make you see that by—behaving like this you're only making things more difficult for—for everyone!'