by James Blake
The light at the window paled as she laved his face with a damp cloth and told how she’d sent Beto as fast as he could hobble to fetch Nurse Beckett and Chief Mendoza and Charles Patterson. She put John Samuel in the care of a maid who took him to her room to sleep, and with the help of Josefina—who had witnessed the fight from the little window of her quarters—she stanched the bleeding from John Roger’s arm. She was alarmed by his head wound but Josefina assured her it was not really very bad, that scalp cuts always bled profusely and often looked worse than they were. Then Nurse Beckett arrived with a surgeon she’d roused and the doctor applied a tourniquet to the wounded arm and the four of them carried John Roger to his bed. The surgeon was still suturing his wounds with Josefina’s assistance when Captain Mendoza arrived at the courtyard gate with two subordinates, and as Elizabeth Anne went out to speak with him, Patterson showed up. Their immediate concern was John Roger’s condition and they were relieved when she told them the surgeon’s optimistic prognosis. Both police captain and consul seemed less troubled by the fact of the dead Montenegros than impressed by the state of them. When she explained that she’d shot one of them from the balcony, they gave her odd looks, as if suddenly unsure who she was—and then both men smiled and Mendoza told her she had done very well.
Mendoza deemed both killings clear cases of self-defense and then searched the dead men and laughed at his good luck in finding just enough money on them to cover the cost of his investigation. He sent for some men who came with a burro cart and he had them help Beto wash the blood from the patio stones before they bore away the bodies. Patterson offered to assign one of his best clerks to the Trade Wind office to take care of business during John Roger’s recuperation, and Elizabeth Anne gratefully accepted. “I hope you approve,” she said to John Roger. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did . . . very well.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, then shut his eyes and was asleep again.
During the next three days he grew feverish and the wounded arm became so darkly and malodorously swollen that the surgeon saw no alternative but to amputate just below the shoulder.
It was an exemplary surgery. There was but minor infection and the fever soon gave way. In a week he was up and about the house, though yet in much pain, and began to learn the ways of a one-armed man.
In the first few days he tended to lean slightly sideways to offset a real or imagined sense of imbalance. He was mystified by the itching in a limb no longer extant. When the bandage came off his head, he fretted that the hair might not grow back where the surgeon had sewn the wound, but the doctor assured him the hair around the scar would grow out and cover it. Elizabeth Anne sewed the left arms of all his shirts and coats in a high fold. Dressing himself was not so hard, though she had to fasten his cuff button and knot his ties. When she first cut his meat for him at the table he made a joke about his need of John Samuel’s former highchair. He would permit such assistance from her only when they ate by themselves at home. In days to come when they dined in public or among friends, he would eat nothing other than what he could manage with spoon or fork. It vexed him that he would no longer be able to do such things as load a gun or handle a rifle, saddle his own horse or properly pack his calabash. But he could still shoot a pistol and could mount up and ride and could light his own cigars. He could still shave himself but not as closely. He could still do most of the things he’d always enjoyed, albeit many of them required modification of technique, from the way he held a book or a dance partner to the way he rode a horse to the way he and Elizabeth Anne made love. Some of the standard positions were lost to them, some were not, and their experimentation with new configurations was nothing less than joy.
He was still in convalescence when Guillermo Demarco came calling. Elizabeth Anne led the broker into the drawing room, where John Roger greeted him with no more than a silent nod. They sat on facing armchairs and Demarco placed a valise on the low table between them and got directly to the point. He had made a careful review of his records and found that John Roger—whom he addressed throughout this meeting as Don Juan—had been right. There had been bookkeeping errors in his invoices to the Trade Wind Company. The mistakes of an incompetent clerk in his employ, who Don Juan could be sure had been both excoriated and dismissed. Demarco opened the valise and withdrew a small cloth sack and untied it and emptied a chittering rush of gold coins onto the table. He said there were five other such sacks in the valise for a total worth equal to the amount of the Trade Wind’s bill of restitution plus five percent annual interest on that amount for six years. He hoped Don Juan found it satisfactory. John Roger said it seemed fair enough to him.
Yes, very well, yes, the broker said. But made no move to go. He wanted something more but did not know how to say it. John Roger guessed what it was. Proof of having settled the matter. Don’t forget to have me sign a receipt, Mr Demarco, he said. You and I know a receipt is unnecessary between men of honor, but business has its rules, after all. Records are important.
Demarco’s relief was evident. Yes, yes, he said, thank you for reminding me. A mere formality, of course, but, as you say. . . . His gesture bespoke the bothersome nature of such mundane detail. He withdrew the prepared paper from his coat and spread it on the table. John Roger signed it and Demarco put it back in his coat and then consulted his fob watch and expressed surprise at the hour. He apologized for his rudeness in departing in such haste, but he was late for an appointment and he anyway knew Don Juan was a busy man. Please don’t get up, he said—though John Roger had made no move to rise—I can make my way out. And then was gone. In the entirety of the visit, he had met John Roger’s eyes only in the briefest glances and had not once looked at his empty sleeve.
At dinner that evening, as she cut his beefsteak, Elizabeth Anne asked, “What did that oily little man want with you?”
“To clear up an overdue account.”
She gave him an arch look. “I believe you have acquired a rather formidable reputation, Mr Wolfe. He was terrified of you.”
He returned her look in kind. “How do you know it was I he was terrified of, Mrs Wolfe? I’m sure I’m not the only one in this house who has acquired something of a formidable reputation.”
She blushed through her smile and stoppered his chuckle with a piece of beef on the end of her fork.
He wrote to Richard Davison to tell him what happened and assure him the office was in good hands, and concluded with the news of Demarco’s reimbursement. The sum was sizable and he asked Richard if he wanted him to send it to New Orleans via the consulate’s courier service. In his answering letter, Richard wrote, “Dont think about getting back to work till youre all healed up good. Are you getting proper doctoring? They say theres American doctors to be found in Mexico City. Im truly heartsore about your arm Johnny but my hats off to you for making the son of a bitch pay the full freight. And sounds to me like you mightve scared Demarco enough to make him partly honest. Keep the money he gave you son, youve earned it.”
He had agreed with Elizabeth Anne that to tell her family the truth about his arm would only stoke their perpetual fear for her safety in Mexico. She hated to lie but hated even more to increase her family’s worry. So she had written that John Roger had lost an arm in a carriage accident but was adjusting well and in good spirits. Mrs Bartlett wrote back—it was always she who wrote the letters, never Sebastian, never Jimmy—that they were all of them dismayed to learn of John Roger’s severe mishap and wished him a sound recovery. But she could not refrain from adding that she had never known anyone to lose an arm in a carriage accident in New England.
He returned to work in early January. The clerk Patterson had assigned to the office was a stocky twenty-year-old Charlestonian named Amos Bentley, moon-faced and sandy-haired, who had been grateful for the chance to do something other than sit around the consulate in wait of new files to shuffle. He welcomed John Roger back and complimented him on his scrupulous recordkeeping, which had made
a simple task of serving as his surrogate. They reviewed the deliveries and shipments that had taken place in John Roger’s absence, then the correspondence received and sent. John Roger commended Bentley’s precise bookkeeping and the cogency of his prose. His dulcet Carolina accent imbued even his perfect Spanish, as John Roger heard when the young man read to him some key sections of the correspondence. Amos had greatly enjoyed dealing with the transport agents and the shipping officers, most of them earthier types than he was used to. He found the import-export trade enticing, in a way even adventurous, and was sorry to be going back to the dull duty of a consular assistant.
John Roger had been back to work only a few days and was attending to paperwork in the office when Patterson showed up unexpected and accompanied by a woman dressed in black and carrying a small portfolio. A large, rough-looking man in an ill-fitting suit started to come in with them but the woman gestured to him and he nodded and went back out into the hall and closed the door behind him.
In formal Spanish Patterson apologized to John Roger for the unannounced intrusion but said the concern was most important. John Roger had stood up when the woman entered, and he somehow knew who she was even before Patterson presented her as “la señora Consuelo Albéniz de Montenegro.”
“Encantado, señora,” John Roger said. And at once felt witless for conveying gladness to meet a woman he’d made a widow. He invited them to be seated and Patterson held a chair for her in front of the desk, then sat himself at a small remove and told John Roger that Mrs Albéniz, as she preferred to be called, had come to him at the consulate seeking to know where she might find Mr Wolfe. She explained to me her purpose in wishing to meet with you, Patterson said, and has asked that I be present during the proceedings, if you have no objection. I am to serve as, ah—he looked at Mrs Albéniz—an official witness?
“Solamente con el permiso del Señor Wolfe,” Mrs Albéniz said.
“Como no,” John Roger said. Whatever madam wishes.
Thank you, the woman said. Her gaze direct but difficult to read. She was visibly much younger than the man to whom she’d been married and clearly not the mother of Enrique. And pretty, irrespective of the small pink scar on her chin and a pale one of older vintage under her left eye.
She gestured at John Roger’s coat sleeve, folded double and pinned up, and said, I wish you to know that am very sorry for your terrible injury.
And I am very sorry for . . . about your husband, John Roger said. Please believe me, madam, it was not my preference to fight. He gave me no choice.
I do believe you, Mr Wolfe. My husband had no interest in anyone’s preferences but his own. And please believe me when I say you have caused me no grief. The black dress is but a necessary convention. My marriage to Hernán Montenegro was arranged by my father when I was fourteen, in settlement of some bargain between them. Our family’s social standing was superior to that of the Montenegros, but my father and my husband were men of the same character and I had no love for either of them. Nor did my husband love me, I assure you. He had been wed twice before and fathered God knows how many children, but neither wife survived, and by some bad joke of God the only male child who did was Enrique, who was as stupid as he was cruel. Hernán married me solely in hope of siring a worthier heir. I hope I do not offend you with my frankness.
You have no cause to make apology, madam, John Roger said. Please speak as frankly as you wish.
You are kind, she said. I have a daughter, Esmeralda, soon to be seven years old. She is the sole happiness of my marriage. I gave birth twice more, a son each time, but neither one lived even two months. May God forgive me, and you will think I am heartless, but I did not mourn their deaths. I feared they would have become their father. Or mine. I must again risk offending you, Mr Wolfe, in view of your severe suffering, but I am glad you had no choice except to fight, because the outcome of that fight has liberated me from Hernán Montenegro. And from his equal brute of a son. One reason I am here is to thank you.
I appreciate your sentiments, madam, John Roger said, but please understand that it gave me no pleasure to . . . I mean, I had no intention to, ah. . . .
I understand, she said. Although, if I have been correctly told, it is Mrs Wolfe who rid the world of Enrique.
Well, yes, that’s true. But, ah. . . .
I am told she also had no choice.
No. She didn’t.
She must be an exceptional woman.
She is, yes.
The fact remains, I have been liberated by your hand and hers. Partially liberated, I should say, because my emancipation is incomplete. That is the other reason I am here.
John Roger cut a look at Patterson, who smiled tightly and lifted a finger to indicate that he should simply listen.
There are no Montenegro men left alive, Mr Wolfe, Mrs Albéniz said, and I have inherited a hacienda on which I have no wish to live. The only family left to me is a widowed sister in Cuernavaca. I have decided to sell La Sombra Verde and buy a house in Cuernavaca large enough for her and my daughter and myself.
The sale of the estate should certainly make you financially comfortable, John Roger said. I am pleased for you.
Thank you, she said. But though I have my faults, greed is not one of them. I need only enough money to purchase a house and to maintain us in comfort. I have asked appraisals from three different advisors and they are in close agreement as to the worth of La Sombra Verde. I believe Mr Patterson is also not without knowledge about these things. She turned to Patterson and stated a sum. To John Roger’s ears an immense sum.
I’m no assayer, Patterson said, but that sounds right.
The accountants with whom I consulted, Mrs Albéniz continued, have assured me that twenty percent of that amount would be more than adequate to provide for me and my sister for the rest of our lives. For my daughter, as well, if she should choose never to marry. The accountants believe I intend to invest the difference, and I did not disabuse them. The point, Mr Wolfe, is that I have thought about this quite carefully, and as I have no other means to repay you for the severe mutilation inflicted on you by my husband, I wish to offer you La Sombra Verde for twenty percent of its worth. You could then, if you so wish, sell it in turn and gain a very large profit. I know of course that no amount of money can make amends for—
Forgive me, madam, John Roger said. You are under no obligation to recompense me for anything.
I am not here to argue the point, Mr Wolfe. Mr Patterson told me you might be reluctant to accept my offer for fear of taking advantage, but I shall be very offended if you should turn it down. Besides, my motives are not entirely benevolent. While I certainly believe you should be compensated by Hernán Montenegro’s estate, I have another reason for selling it to you for less than its full worth. Can you guess that reason?
They held stares for a moment, and then he said, Your husband would not like it.
She smiled. You understand everything. Nothing would enrage the man more. It pleases me to believe that even in hell he will learn of it and it will add to his misery.
Forgive my intrusion, madam, Patterson said, and turned to John Roger and said in English, “No offense, Johnny, but if it’s a question of money, I can see to it that in less than an hour you have a loan of as much as—”
I have the money, John Roger said.
“Que bueno,” the woman said. She leaned forward and placed the portfolio on the desk and opened it to reveal a small sheaf of legal documents. My attorneys have seen to the necessary paperwork, she said. It has all been certified and requires only our own signatures and that of Mr Patterson as witness before it is registered and becomes official.
John Roger looked at Patterson. “It’s not right, Charley. She’s giving it away.”
“Como?” said Mrs Albéniz.
Maybe you want to talk it over with Lizzie, Patterson said.
“Leezee?” the woman said.
My wife.
You wish to ask for the opinion of your wife
?
No. I don’t have to.
I did not think so. It is the same with the men of this country.
That was not my meaning, John Roger said. My wife’s opinion is of importance to me. I simply meant that I know what she will say. Because we have discussed our, ah, aspirations for the future, you see.
How extraordinary, the woman said. So tell me. What will she say?
John Roger cut a look at Patterson, looked back at the woman, cleared his throat. Yes. She will say yes.
Mrs Albéniz smiled. So we are agreed?
For thirty percent of the property’s worth, John Rodger said.
The woman looked quizzical. Your wife will say for thirty percent?
No, I’m saying for thirty percent.
You are saying. . .? Mr Wolfe, I do not know very much about business, but I know it is contrary to basic principle for a buyer to offer more than a seller asks.
Thirty percent. Agreed?
No, she said. She looked at Patterson and made a small gesture of perplexity.
I would be stealing it at thirty percent, John Roger said to her.
For the love of God, she said, you are stealing nothing. It is my price.”
Thirty percent is—
“Ay, pero que terco!” Twenty-five percent, Mr Wolfe, and that is all. Not one penny more. Now please, sir, let us end this silliness.
He studied her face. She raised her brow in question. He smiled.
She smiled back. “Ah pues, estamos de acuerdo, no? We have, ah . . . como se dice? . . . make the busyness?”
Yes.
He dispatched the news to Richard, who congratulated him for his good fortune but opposed his resignation from the company. He persuaded John Roger to stay on in the Trade Wind’s employ as head bookkeeper, a duty he could fulfill from the hacienda. Twice a month Richard would send him the company’s most recent paperwork for final accounting. The records would be relayed by Amos Bentley, whom, on John Roger’s recommendation, Richard hired to manage the company’s Mexican office.
