by Lucia Berlin
Pepe helped her to mount the fine mare, Electra. They went first to see the foal, then rode in the potrero by the stable. Pepe watched as she jumped logs, small hurdles. They both laughed out loud, because of the splendid day, the vibrant horses. Xavier and Don Andrés were cantering toward them.
“Let’s meet them. Can you take the fence?” But they were at the fence before she could answer.
“Not a bad jump,” Don Andrés said.
“Not bad? It was great. My first jump!”
“Do it again.”
Before she rode off Laura gave Xavier Teresa’s message.
“Que regio. She’s a bore to ride with. Let’s go to the river, Pepe!” The brothers cantered away, shouting to one another. Laura took the jump again, but badly.
“Once more,” he said and whipped Electra’s rump; the horse raced off. Startled, Laura pulled on the reins so sharply that the horse reared and she fell to the ground. Don Andrés didn’t dismount, laughed down at her.
“The two of you are well matched.”
“I’m not skittish.”
“Neither is she. But she doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to do.”
“I want to jump. I’ll do it. Don’t touch my horse.”
“Ándale.”
Nice soar of a jump. They raced then to catch up with Pepe and Xavier, galloping through aspen groves, over meadows, through furrowed fields. The four of them rode all morning, not talking except for an occasional shout to point out baby lambs, trillium, violets, masses of jonquils that gave the fundo its name. Deer drank from the same stream their horses did. They crossed the river that raged high with melted snow. Snorting horses, icy water. From the foothills they looked far down into the valley. It seemed to Laura exactly as it must have been when the Spaniards first came. Even in the Rocky Mountains of her childhood there had always been a reminder of civilization … a distant rattle of ore cars, a buzz saw, an airplane. On the way home they did see a huaso tending sheep, another was plowing a field, oxen tied to his plow.
The dining room that had been so dark the night before was bright with sunshine, looked out onto the lake and the white Andes. The riders were tired, sunburnt, hungry. Xavier had lost all affectation, Pepe and Laura all shyness. What a morning! Teresa was gay too, or pretended to be. Or maybe she doesn’t mind about Dolores and Xavier at all, Laura wondered. No, she must be jealous. She couldn’t show it though, or even let on that she knew. It would spoil her role, the innocent fiancée. Did Xavier really love her? Surely he was in love with Dolores. This was romance. Laura couldn’t wait to tell Quena and Conchi.
“I’m having a wonderful time!” Laura said.
“¡Yo también!” everyone else said. They ate trout and lentil soup, roast lamb, just-baked bread. After lunch Teresa and Xavier went rowing on the lake. Pepe went to take a nap.
There were eight different carriages. An ornate gilded coach, upholstered in pink brocade, with mirrors, gold flowerpots, elaborately carved stands for footmen. American stagecoaches, landaus, sulkies. Laura climbed into each one, chose a black two-seated Tilbury with gleaming mahogany, black leather.
Don Andrés harnessed his stallion, Lautaro, to the carriage. They rode past the lake and the yellow aromo. Wave to Teresa and Xavier. Spinning on and on then to the crisp clop clop of Lautaro’s hooves. It grew dark. Don Andrés lit the lanterns.
“Do you want to go back for tea?”
“No.”
“Good.”
They crossed a wooden bridge above the river, were sprayed by the high water, rode on in the darkness as he talked to her then of his childhood. Like hers, he said, because he was lonely, an only child, never a child. His mother had died when he was born; his father had been cold, autocratic. French and English boarding schools. Alone with books when he was at home. He had been educated at Harvard, Oxford, the Sorbonne, had met his wife in Paris. No, she was a Spaniard. She died, years ago.
It was time to go home. He turned the carriage around, gave Laura the reins. Wait. Don Andrés got down from the carriage. His hair silver against the yellow aromo trees. He returned with violets that he arranged in the neck of her cape.
* * *
Laura wished they weren’t reading First Love. She could feel her cheeks burning. “Pepe, you have a turn.” She handed him the book. When Don Andrés read she couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth, the white gleam of his teeth.
Later, in bed, she thought that she was in love. She went over every moment she had spent with him, every word he had said. What did she wish? Her dreams didn’t go beyond a kiss.
Dolores woke her with a breakfast tray. A fine day. Don Pepe wanted to ride with her. Xavier and Don Andrés had gone hunting. Teresa and Pilar were on the terrace, embroidering for her trousseau. Pillowslips. Dolores had packed a lunch for Pepe and Laura.
“Thank you. Do you ride, Dolores?”
“All the time. But not when the family is here.” Laura wanted to ask Dolores about her and Xavier, about love.
“How old are you?” was all she could ask.
“Fifteen.”
“Were you born here?”
“Yes, in the kitchen! My mother was always the cook here.”
“So you’ve known Xavier long?”
Dolores laughed. “Of course. Since I was born. He taught me to ride, and to shoot.”
Laura sighed, dressing. Dolores didn’t act like she was in love. She had looked it, though, when she opened the door to Xavier. Had Helen, Laura’s mother, ever been in love? There was no one she could talk to. Especially not Quena or Conchi, although love was all they ever talked about. The three of them practiced kissing by kissing the medicine cabinet. But when you kissed the cabinet your nose went to the side of the mirrored door. Where did noses go? That’s how much they knew about love. The desire Laura felt … she would not have been able to match the feeling with the word.
She and Pepe rode to a lower pasture to see the new lambs and kid goats, then rode to Gabriel’s house to visit his wife. The old woman was delighted to see Pepe. She put water on for tea, called the neighbor women over to greet him. Our Pepino to be a priest! They stood around him as he drank, in the smoky dirt-floored hut, smiling at him with deep affection. He knew all their names, their animals’ and their children’s names. No, it would be years before he could return. He’d think of them. Pray for them. The women embraced him, shook Laura’s hand as they left. Pepe was solemn as he and Laura ate their lunch under a huge aromo tree.
“Are you nervous about becoming a priest?”
“Scared. It’s a big step.”
“Why are you doing it? Do you have a calling?”
“No. I want to make … changes, gestures. I’m too cynical to be a revolutionary. Many reasons. To justify myself, to make a difference in the world, to get away from my father. My confessor says not to worry about reasons if my commitment is firm.”
“Seems like Xavier wants the same things.”
“Yes. I don’t know how he’ll find them.”
“He says the reforma is the only answer. To give the land to the people.”
“It will take so long. And it won’t be the leaders who will ruin it, but the people themselves. Their nature and their religion demand a patriarchy. They will turn their liberators into new patrones.”
“You sound like my grandpa, talking about how negroes were happier when they were slaves.”
They finished the bota of wine and ate the two pears. Aromo petals stuck to them as they leaned back in the yellow softness.
“I wonder if I’ll ever justify myself,” she said.
“That’s easy for women.”
“What do you mean … the lilies of the field?”
“No. You don’t have to do, to be true to who you are.”
“How will I learn who that is?” She sighed as they stood up, brushed off yellow blossoms. They mounted their horses.
“Race you home!”
From the stables they could see Don Andrés and Xavier at
the kitchen door. Pheasant feathers shone iridescent purple green in the sunlight. Dolores smiled; she held the dazzling birds. Xavier stroked her black hair. Behind them, Teresa came into the kitchen, stood transfixed in the darkened room. Her pearls glinted; the teapot was white on the waiting tray. Teresa smashed the pot on the brick floor and left the room. Xavier’s hand remained frozen on Dolores’s black hair.
Tea by the large fireplace. A new pot. Teresa wasn’t there.
“Where is your fiancée?” Don Andrés asked.
“She is no longer my fiancée.”
“Nonsense. Go reassure her, Xavier.”
“I broke the engagement. I’m not going to marry her.”
“Don’t be a fool. You can’t do that.”
“But I can, Papá. No, Laura, no sugar, thank you.”
Don Andrés was pale, furious. “Laura, let’s go for a ride.”
“It’s raining.”
“Very lightly.”
He rose to leave and Laura followed him. Xavier looked at his father’s back with hatred, triumph.
Lautaro flew over the rain-slick road. The lanterns flickered in the wind; pink blossoms, yellow aromo blurred past them in the dark. The sky began to clear, but the stars had not yet brightened the night. Laura and Don Andrés didn’t speak.
They heard the river before they saw it, and then the clatter of Lautaro’s hooves on the wooden bridge. His ghastly screech as the bridge gave way. They were both thrown from the Tilbury into the icy churning water. The lanterns went out, hissing. They flailed in the water, tearing off their capes, jackets. Don Andrés yelled at her to grab on to the carriage, to help unfasten the horse. Spinning spinning in the river. Lautaro neighed hysterically, kicking and biting at them as they worked on the harnesses. His hooves, rocks, the carriage banged into Laura and Don Andrés as they plunged downstream.
The horse was free, thrashing, bleating. He lunged again and again onto the bank until finally he clambered up and was gone. The Tilbury spun and tumbled down the river in the foam, silver now in starlight.
Trembling, panting under an aromo tree, Don Andrés tore his shirt up to bandage gashes in his leg, her arms. A fire, he said, but his gold lighter didn’t work.
“Gabriel will come looking for us when Lautaro gets back, but we’re miles downstream from where he’ll start. Pray that he doesn’t try to cross the bridge. We’d better start walking, get to the rise above the river. Take your clothes off and wring them out.”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t be foolish. Wring out your clothes.”
They were shuddering; their teeth were chattering.
Aromo stuck to their bare bodies like yellow fur. Laura was cold and afraid. She felt desire and didn’t know what to do, how to do what they were doing. She held his silver head as he kissed her breasts. Fringe of yellow aromo rocking against the sky. An astonishment of pain. “What have I done?” he whispered into her throat. Warm, his breath and body. Sperm glistened, steaming, on her legs as she dressed herself.
It was as bright as day, with shooting stars and the Andes neon-white. Blood soaked their bandages. They limped along, exhausted and sore.
“Lautaro wasn’t lame, was he?”
“No.”
What about me? she thought. Wounded, with blisters from her wet boots, her chest aching from walking so fast. He had not even glanced at her.
“What about me?” she said out loud. “Why are you angry with me?”
He turned to her, but still didn’t look at her. Pale gray eyes.
“I’m not angry with you, mi vida. I have ruined you and have nearly killed my best horse.”
He called out for Gabriel. His voice echoed into the vast valley and then there was silence. They walked on.
Ruined? Am I ruined? For such a quick confusing moment? Will everyone know, looking at me? Is Dolores ruined?
Laura’s blisters hurt so badly that she took off her boots. He told her not to but she ignored him, pretended not to feel the rocks and twigs beneath her feet.
And if so many women risk being ruined maybe there is something wrong with me, that I scarcely noticed what was going on.
She had to urinate. “Go on. I’ll catch up with you.” Her underpants glittered red, soaked with blood. She took off her wet wool pants, threw the underpants away so Dolores wouldn’t see them.
“Apúrate.”
“Go on. I said I’d catch up with you.”
She climbed the hill behind him, scattering rocks.
“If you’re angry because you think I’ll tell somebody, you needn’t worry.” There was no one to tell, to ask.
He stopped then and held her to him, kissed her hair, her forehead, her eyelids.
“No. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m trying to think about what I have done. What I can possibly do about it.”
“Please kiss me,” she said. “I’ve never been kissed before.”
He turned away from her but she caught his head and put her mouth on his. His tongue opened her lips then and they kissed until, dizzy, they sat down on the hill.
Galloping. They listened, called out. An answering cry. It was Gabriel on his horse, leading horses behind him. Ponchos and brandy. Cigarettes for Don Andrés. Home then, the two men far ahead of her, shouting to each other, cantering up and down the rolling hills in the fluorescent silver night.
Xavier was in the kitchen with Dolores. Two mauve spots on his cheekbones showed that he was drunk. Don Andrés and Laura drank brandy too while Dolores bandaged Don Andrés’s legs. Both he and Laura were scraped and bruised, from the carriage, the rocks, Lautaro’s hooves. Don Andrés described the accident as a glorious adventure, with Laura rescuing his prize Thoroughbred. Laura was stunned when she learned the value of the horse.
“There must have been a moment when you hated yourself for tying that stallion to a Tilbury,” Xavier said.
“More than a moment. It was utterly senseless of me.”
Xavier smiled. “Papá, that’s the first time you ever admitted a mistake.”
* * *
Laura undressed and climbed into the candlelit tub. Dolores gathered up her clothes. “Your pants are bloody. ¿Llegó la tía?” Did your “aunt,” your period, arrive? Laura shook her head. The eyes of the two girls met in the mirror.
Laura woke, frightened because she could barely move, but then she remembered and opened her eyes. It was almost noon, dark and raining outside. A fire burned in the grate. Dolores brought her breakfast. “You are to stay in bed. Don Andrés hopes that you don’t feel too bad.”
“Where is he?”
“He rode to Santa Bárbara early this morning. He won’t be back until tonight.”
“Where is everybody else?”
“Pilar is in bed, ill. Teresa is in bed, ill. Pepe is in his room, reading. Xavier’s in the dining room. Está tomado.” Drunken, taken. Laura noticed that Dolores was sitting on the foot of her bed. It’s because we are the same now, ruined, she thought. Dolores must have sensed the thought; she jumped up with an apology.
“Perdóname, Doña Laura. I’m very tired. The morning has been confusing.”
Laura was ashamed then, reached out to hold Dolores’s hand.
“Forgive me. It sure is a confusing morning. It’s afternoon for one thing. I’m so sore. Oh! Look at my face!” In the dark mirror one cheek was scraped raw, an eye was green and black. Laura burst into sobs of self-pity. Dolores too began to cry. The girls held each other, rocking, and then Dolores left the room.
The house was still. The one hunting dog that was allowed indoors paced the shining floors, his toenails clicking. A lonely sound, like a telephone ringing in an empty house.
Xavier was asleep in his father’s study. He woke when Laura walked past him to get the Turgenev book.
“It’s our noble savage! Atalanta, who plunged into the icy torrents to save the perishing beast!”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry, gringuita. You must feel rotten. Come sit by me.”
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Pepe appeared in the doorway. He had just shaved, was pale.
“Laura! ¡Pobrecita! What a frightening accident. Are you all right? And Xavier, what’s wrong? What is going on?”
“Come in, Pepito. You look as bad as we do. Are you scared? Changing your mind?” Xavier got up, poured three glasses of sherry, put a log on the fire.
“It must be time for sherry. What time is it?” On cue, a mozo came in to ask if they would care for lunch. “God, no.”
“I mean, we don’t want to eat, do we? Really, Pepe, are you all right?”
Pepe nodded. “Yes. I’m just saying good-bye. But it is as if I had already left.”
“That’s how I feel. But at least you know where you’re going. I’m just saying good-bye.”
“To what?”
“Everything. Teresa. Law. Papá. Everything up to now.”
“You’re not joking. What will you do?”
“I haven’t got that far yet. It is the last time I’ll ever come to Junquillos, that I know.”
“Ai, Xavier.” The brothers stood, embraced, and then the three sat silent. The fire. Rain against the windows. Blur of yellow aromo by the lake.
“¿Y tu, gringa? You’ll be back, most certainly,” Xavier said.
“No. I won’t be back.”
“Of course you will,” Pepe said. “Papá is so fond of you.”
Xavier laughed. “And Laura, what are you saying good-bye to? Your innocence?”
“Yes, Xavier, I am,” Laura said.
“Xavier, how rude!” Pepe was shocked. “You are drunk!”
Don Andrés arrived just before dinner, on Electra. Staccato of hooves on the cobblestones. Two men came then, by truck, and were shown into the living room. Don Andrés had gone to change.
At dinner Xavier was very drunk, splashing wine. Pepe was ashen, silent. Neither Laura nor Teresa pretended not to be miserable. Don Andrés talked about drainage, crops, timber. It was Pepe who first realized what was going on.
“Papá! You’re not selling Junquillos?”
“Everything but the house and stables.”
Tears shone in two thin lines down Pepe’s face. Teresa left the table, sobbing. If I were kind I would go to her, Laura thought, but she didn’t go. Xavier laughed bitterly.
