The Turquoise Mask

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  I set the carving regretfully back on the shelf. I would have liked to own it for myself, but I didn’t trouble to look at the price label glued discreetly to the base. I knew what it must cost.

  “How lucky he is to do only the work he really cares about,” I said, thinking of my brochures, my drawing for advertising projects I often didn’t care about. “Sometimes I’ve wished—” but I stopped, remembering that Gavin Brand would not care what I wished.

  “You want to be a painter, don’t you?” he said.

  I was surprised that he would comment. “More than anything. But no matter what I might wish, I have to work at jobs that are often less than creative.”

  “And probably good for you. My Taxco friend is an exception. Ivory towers don’t work for most artists. Or for the rest of us, for that matter. Men need to be engaged in life. Otherwise our viewpoints become desiccated and narrow.”

  As Juan Cordova’s had? I wondered. Gavin was involved with more than the mere perfection of all this rich merchandise which the store presented. How much was he involved with Eleanor, and how much was Eleanor concerned with what lay outside herself?

  But again, this was none of my business.

  “Don’t let anything stop you. Be a painter,” he said, and moved on to the next display.

  I heard him in surprise. He had cut through to an understanding I hadn’t expected of him. He had not softened toward me particularly, but he respected what I must do.

  “You haven’t seen my work,” I said. “How do you know that I shouldn’t be discouraged from going ahead, that I shouldn’t be stopped?”

  “No one should be stopped. You can create for your own satisfaction, if for nothing else.”

  “That’s not good enough. That’s the ivory tower bit. I suppose I want to say something in my work that someone else can see and enjoy. If there’s no one to appreciate, you’re only looking in a mirror.”

  He smiled at me—for once without suspicion or disliking, so that his face lighted and lost its somber quality.

  “You’re right, of course. This is the thing Juan is forgetting. He has created CORDOVA, yet he’s becoming a miser about it. He wants it all for himself and his family—like that art collection of his. He’s forgotten what is fundamental—the sharing and appreciation of art by many. Will you show me some of your work sometime?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I said. I was suddenly both hopeful and oddly shy. Gavin had taste and perception. He would be honest, and if he didn’t like what I showed him, it would hurt me. It would matter.

  He didn’t press me, but allowed me the right of uncertainty, and I was unexpectedly grateful.

  “Here is something you must see,” he said, and we stopped before a glass counter in which fine silver and turquoise jewelry was displayed against a background of black velvet.

  “These are things from the Southwest,” he told me. “From some of our best Indian craftsmen. Your grandfather said you were to choose whatever piece you like. He wants you to have something in turquoise from CORDOVA.”

  I was touched and pleased, and I bent over the glass, searching. The girl behind the counter drew out a tray and set it before me so that I could finger the lovely gleaming rings and brooches and pendants. I did not want a ring or necklace; so I finally picked out a brooch, inlaid with turquoise, jet and coral, and outlined with the points of a silver sunburst.

  “This one, I think,” I said. I pinned it to the shoulder of my blue linen and the girl brought a mirror on a stand, so that I could see how it looked.

  “A good choice,” Gavin approved. “That’s Zuni work and of the finest.”

  I was turning away from the counter when a tall cabinet in the center of the floor caught my eye. I walked over to it at once to look at the swords and knives it displayed. Toledo Steel, the card in the case read. I could not imagine why my grandfather had wanted me to locate and remember this case, but I looked around to check it against other displays, so that I could find it again.

  Gavin seemed uninterested in such cutlery. “You’ve just about seen the store,” he said, turning distant again. “Have you had enough? Do you know all about CORDOVA now?”

  “As you very well know, I couldn’t learn all about it in months of study,” I assured him. “But I’m glad to make a beginning.”

  Apparently my choice of words was unfortunate. His face was expressionless, all feeling suppressed. “Yes—you’re expected to go on from here, I gather.”

  We were walking down an aisle and there was no one nearby to overhear. I spoke to him quickly, bluntly.

  “What is it my grandfather expects of me? What does he want?”

  He answered me with careful indifference, as though the words he spoke did not matter. “Perhaps an heiress. Perhaps only a weapon to threaten us with.” He might have been speaking of the weather.

  “But I don’t want to be either of those things!” I cried. “I don’t want anything from him, except perhaps an affection I’m not likely to find in his house.”

  He didn’t believe me. His silence was skeptical and I went on heatedly, even though I knew it was no use.

  “Certainly I don’t want to threaten anyone. Though someone seems to be threatening me.” I told him abruptly about the mole fetish which had been left in my room yesterday.

  He seemed unsurprised. “What can you expect? If you’re determined to stay here, you’re sure to stir up antagonisms. Juan will use you, as he tries to use everything he touches.”

  “Perhaps I won’t let him use me.”

  “Then there’s no point in staying, is there? Why do you want to stay?”

  “Why do you want me to go away?” I countered. “What are you afraid of? I don’t really know my grandfather yet. I want to know him for myself, not just through the eyes and prejudices of others.” There was still more to it. There was the matter of my mother, but I didn’t want to tell him how I felt about that, and have him laugh at me. “If my staying here is Cordova stubbornness, then let it be that way.”

  “The stubbornness of Spain or New England?” he said. “There’s not much to choose between, is there?”

  To my surprise he was not wholly mocking. He might dislike and disapprove of me, but I had the feeling that he had, strangely, begun to respect me. Nevertheless, I resented his calm assurance as he strode toward the stairs ahead of me, obviously relieved that his guide duty was over, taking it for granted I would follow. All that was contrary in me resisted, and I turned down an aisle I had not seen and came to a halt before an open display case.

  The key was in the lock of the door which stood ajar, as though someone must be working on the display, and the contents of the case took my startled attention.

  In the center was a crude, two-wheeled wooden cart with spikes protruding all around the upper edge. It was filled with large rocks upon which sat the figure which had startled me. It was made of carved wood—the skeleton of a woman with a wig of scrawny black locks, and a bow and arrow fixed in her bony hands. Her eyes were hollows and her teeth grinned eerily in her skull’s face.

  “Attractive, isn’t she?” said a voice behind me.

  I turned in surprise, to find Paul Stewart at my shoulder, holding up a vicious-looking three-pronged whip in one hand. When I stared at the whip, he gave the thongs a little flick with the fingers of his other hand.

  “This is a disciplina. Just part of my Penitente collection,” he said. “Of course you’ve heard of the Penitentes of the Southwest? I offered to loan my collection to Juan for the store, and he was pleased. So I’ve brought these things over and I’ve been arranging them. How do you like the lady in the cart?”

  His pale, chrysolite eyes turned from me for a moment to look down the aisle, and I saw that Gavin was standing a little way off, clearly waiting for me with some impatience. I stayed where I was.

  “What is she?” I asked Paul.

  He bent his big frame and carefully arranged the whip to best effect among the other articles in the c
ase.

  “She’s La Muerte. Or Doña Sebastiana, if you wish. That’s what they call her. You’d better pray to her for a long life. That arrow poised in the bow is intended for some nonbelieving bystander. She’s sitting in one of the death carts they pull in their processions. The stones that fill the cart make it heavy, so that those who pull it punish themselves.”

  “You’ve written about all this, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. I found it fascinating. I’ve been into Penitente country a good many times and managed to get myself trusted enough so they’d talk to me. That whip is one they use for self-flagellation. The wooden clackers are matracas and they can make a hideous noise. The flints down in the corner there—the pedernales—are used to inflict surface wounds, and you’ll see there’s a candle lantern and a crucifix. The sect is dying out to some extent, but Los Hermanos, The Brothers, still exist back in the hills. They’re Hispanic in descent and Catholic, of a sort, though the Church has denounced their practices.”

  Near the center of the case Paul Stewart had taken care to display several copies of the book he had written and I read its title, Trail of the Whip. Doña Sebastiana herself graced the jacket, and Paul’s name was in black letters across the bottom.

  “I’ll loan you a copy, if you like,” he said.

  I shivered slightly. “I still have Emanuella to read, and I think she’ll be more to my taste.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Paul said. “You may find out too much about the Cordovas in those pages.”

  “The Cordovas are what I want to know about,” I said lightly, and turned to walk toward Gavin.

  Gavin stood near the stairs, and he made no comment as I joined him. I sensed that Paul Stewart’s presence in the store was not something he liked, and if the choice had been his, he might have dispensed with the Penitente display. I sensed, too, disapproval of me because I had stopped to talk to Paul. But Gavin was not my keeper and I would do as I pleased.

  We went down to the lower floor and out to the side street, where he had left his car. On the way to the house I tried to unbend my resentment enough to thank him.

  “I’m sure no one else could have told me as much about the store as you have,” I said. “I appreciate your taking the time.”

  He gave me a casual nod without speaking, and his very silence dismissed me. He had simply been doing what Juan Cordova had ordered him to do. I had arrived nowhere with my foolish hope that we might become better friends during my tour of the store. In fact, part of the time I wasn’t sure I wanted him for a friend anyway.

  He let me out at the turquoise gate and said he was returning to work. When I crossed the narrow yard to the unlocked front door, there was no one about, and inside the house I climbed the steps to my grandfather’s rooms, knocking on the door. He called to me to come in. I entered, to find him lying stretched out on a long leather couch, a cushion propped beneath his head, and his eyes closed.

  “I’ve seen the store,” I told him. “You asked me to come back afterwards.”

  He gestured toward the chair beside his couch, his eyes still closed. “Come then and sit down. Tell me about it.”

  I tried haltingly to obey, but my impressions were too recent, too many, and I hadn’t begun to digest them. I found myself quoting Gavin, speaking about the store’s use in helping so many skilled craftsmen to keep working.

  He shrugged this aside. “We are not a charitable institution. Fine work is well paid for. Tell me what you liked best.”

  I told him about the wood carving from Taxco and he opened his eyes to look at me approvingly. “Ah, yes—the Tarascan woman. Beautiful. I wanted to bring her home and keep her in my study, but Gavin would not permit me.”

  “Permit you?” I echoed in surprise.

  He smiled at me slyly. “These days Gavin must be my eyes, my hands, my will. It doesn’t do to oppose him too much. Did you find something in turquoise for yourself?”

  I touched the pin on my blouse. “Yes. Thank you, Grandfather.”

  “Come closer,” he said, and reached out to touch the pin, sensing the inlay with his fingers. “Zuni. A good choice. Did Gavin help you?”

  “I chose it myself,” I told him, and couldn’t help the slight tartness that crept into my tone. I was not leaning upon Gavin.

  “And did you see the case of Toledo steel?”

  “Yes. I know where it is. Why did you want me to see it?”

  “Later, later,” he said testily. “Tell me what you think of Gavin?”

  This was not a question I wanted to answer and it took me by surprise. I formed my words cautiously.

  “He seems to know everything about the store. He made a very good guide.”

  “I know all that. What do you think of him?”

  Since he would allow no evasion, I tried to answer honestly.

  “He seems to understand the man behind the craft. He believes that art should be a living thing—something with meaning for the living. And in the case of craftwork, a living for the creator.”

  “He has been lecturing you, I see. But you’re still talking about the field in which he’s an expert. What do you think of him—of Gavin himself?”

  Again, I tried to be honest, though this was not a subject I wanted to discuss. “I think I would like him if he permitted me to. But he doesn’t like me. He believes that I mean the Cordovas some harm.”

  There was a wicked glee in the old man’s laughter. “They are all sure of that. I have poured poison in the ant heap and they are scurrying to save themselves.”

  “I don’t like to be regarded as a household poison.”

  His glee included me. “They don’t know what I am going to do about you, and I’ve frightened them badly.”

  “I didn’t come here to frighten anyone. I don’t like this role you’ve thrust upon me.”

  “Why did you come then?”

  It was the old question, and he had not understood my reasons. The attraction of a family for someone who had no family was beyond his comprehension.

  “I came because of my mother,” I said. “I know now that there’s something I need to remember. Grandmother Katy left me a small ring box containing a key. She gave it to Sylvia to keep in case I ever came here, and she left me a message too. She said I was to go to the rancho.”

  He flung back the light covering and sat up on the couch to stare at me in astonishment. “What does this mean? Sylvia has been like a daughter, yet she has never told me of this. Why?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her.”

  He sat there pondering. “Before she died, Katy tried to tell me some wild thing of which I could make nothing.”

  “Then she knew something!” I cried. “She really did know something. What if Paul Stewart is right and some memory of mine might be used to exonerate my mother?”

  “It is all so long ago.” He shook his head in unhappy memory. “It is not an experience I want to go through again.”

  “But you loved Doroteo.”

  “That too was long ago. Now I am an old man, beyond loving or being loved.”

  “Then I’m sorry for you,” I said.

  He rose from the couch, and his height gave him dominance over me. His height and his arrogance.

  “I want pity from no one. Mine is an enviable state. I have all that I want, and there is no one who can inflict pain upon me.”

  “And no one who can bring you joy?” I said.

  “You speak your mind like a Cordova. What do you intend to do with this key and ring box?”

  “I’ll get someone to take me out to the rancho. Perhaps something there will help me to remember.”

  He moved to the chair behind his desk, pulling the maroon silk of his robe more tightly across his chest.

  “If there is a real need for you to remember, perhaps I can help you. But not if you mean to talk about these things to Paul Stewart.”

  “How can you help me?”

  “I will think about this and we will speak of it ag
ain. If there should be a way to change our beliefs about what happened with Doroteo and Kirk Landers, that is something I would like to explore. Doroteo was my beloved daughter, and Kirk was more like a son than Rafael. Perhaps he loved me more than my own son did, and he loved Spain. He should have been born to me.”

  This was a new view of Kirk, and I listened in mild surprise.

  “Never mind,” he went on. “I have little faith that the past can be changed. And now there are more urgent matters pressing upon me. You have made a beginning with the store, Amanda. We will go on from there.”

  I didn’t care for the sound of that, but he reached for papers on his desk and nodded a cool dismissal. He wanted nothing more of me now. On my way down to the living room, I realized that he still hadn’t told me why he’d sent me to look at the cabinet that held swords from Toledo.

  No one was about, and I stood upon a Navajo rug and looked around thoughtfully. Nothing spoke to me with a clear voice. The room with its cool gloom seemed strange to my eyes—all white walls and brown vigas and Indian ornaments. Yet something hovered just beyond the edge of vision—something that waited to pounce. I remembered the mole fetish and Eleanor’s hinting that I was the hunter’s prey. But I wouldn’t accept that. I would not play mouse for Juan Cordova or prey for a hunter. I would stay here only long enough to find out what I wanted to know about my mother, and then I would turn my back upon adobe walls and encroaching mesa, get away from here forever.

  As I walked toward the stairs to my room, I wondered why this decision filled me with no relief. Was there, after all, a spell exerted by mountains and desert, and adobe-colored towns? Something seemed to draw me, hold me here, yet whatever it was pulsed faintly with a sense of danger at the same time. What if Doroteo had not, after all, pulled the trigger of that gun which had killed Kirk Landers? What if she had not killed herself? Was there someone still living—someone who knew the truth and would be on guard against me if I meddled with matters that were thought settled and long buried?