Agatha climbed into the front seat of her canvas-top Ford, leaving the young boy to load the luggage in the boot before scrambling into the back. ‘Only an hour to Jesús Maria, we’re not far from there,’ she said, squeezing his leg enthusiastically. ‘Now tell me, how is Rita and when will she be joining us?’
‘She’s not coming out, Aunt Agatha. It wasn’t appropriate. After all, we’re not married.’
‘Oh, pooh to that.’
‘I’m too young to settle down.’
‘Jose Antonio was your age when we married. I’m a little older than him. He’s always liked the older woman.’
George began to take interest. ‘How much older are you?’
‘Five years, I think. He still looks like a boy, whereas I look like an old hag. That’s what the Argentine sun does to a woman’s skin. No good at all. Not that I’m bothered. Faye was always the pretty one. I’m strong on personality.’ He looked across at her forceful profile and silently agreed with her. She might have been small in stature but she was built like a Panzer tank, with thick wrists and ankles and a generous girth. ‘So you’ve left that poor girl in England pining after you. You brute!’ She gave a deep, throaty laugh.
‘I asked her to come. She didn’t want to. She loves Frognal Point. I can’t imagine her ever leaving it. I’ll return in a year or so and marry her.’
Agatha snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, George. You won’t marry Rita. It’s all about timing, you see. Perhaps if you were a little older I’d say it had a chance. But you’re young. You’ll fall in love out here. The Argentine girls are famous for their beauty and femininity. Don’t know why Jose Antonio chose me when he could have had any of them. Don’t think we’re out in the sticks here,’ she continued. ‘I travel down to BA every now and then, and friends visit us up here. Some stay for months. Jesús Maria is very sociable. Nice people. You have to learn Spanish, you know. I’ll get someone in the town to come and give you lessons. You simply won’t survive without it. Jose Antonio will take you around the farm this evening, show you how things work. You ride, I presume?’ He nodded. ‘Good. We go everywhere on horseback. Tracks not good enough for cars. It’s the rain, you see. Rains a lot here in summertime, that’s why it’s so green. They say the climate is like Spain. I’ve never been to Spain so I wouldn’t know. The children will love you. You’ll be a hero to them, flying planes in the war. Told them all about it.’
George listened with half an ear to her ramblings. She told him about her children, the education in Jesús Maria, how they were contemplating sending them to school in Buenos Aires. His mind wandered to Rita, out of guilt; he felt duty-bound to remember her. He would post his letter and gift to her as soon as possible, and felt a stab of pain when he envisaged her pining for him on those cliff tops, the wind whipping through her wild curls.
Finally the car left the highway and rattled along a dirt track for what seemed miles and miles. It was bumpy and dusty and the sun burned through the glass windows causing him to sweat. Unlike the pampa, Córdoba was thick with trees and vegetation and undulating with hills. He felt his stomach rumble in protest for he hadn’t eaten breakfast. At last they turned into a driveway lined with leafy trees.
‘Home sweet home,’ said Agatha. ‘Welcome to Las Dos Vizcachas, The Two Hares.’
George sat up and paid attention. Agatha drove slowly down the shady drive in order to give her nephew a good look at her beautiful home. She was immensely proud of Las Dos Vizcachas and ran it with military efficiency. Of course George would never appreciate the work she had done for he hadn’t seen it when she arrived.
At the end of the drive the house stood as squat and sturdy as its mistress. Built around a courtyard, it was painted white with a roof of green tiles, rising into two towers at either end. The windows peeped out from behind green iron bars to deter intruders, and the shutters were closed from within to keep it cool. At the back a wide veranda shaded a tiled terrace that faced an ornamental lake and then beyond, across those seemingly interminable plains. Borders spilled over with flowers and large bushes of gardenia and bougainvillea dazzled in the sunshine. Eucalyptus trees rustled in the breeze and filled the air with the smell of camphor, reminding George of Malta. Carlos carried his bag inside, receiving a scolding on the way from a woman with a shrieking voice. She ejected her words like bullets, raising her hands in the air and waving them madly.
‘That’s Dolores,’ said Agatha. ‘As you can see, she is quite unable to control her temper. She was here when I arrived and there was no way I could get rid of her. One tolerates her as one tolerates an aged relative.’
‘What does she do?’ he asked, following his aunt into the house.
‘She’s the maid. She cooks, but she’s far too superior to clean. Agustina sees to that. She’s a younger woman, more agile and, thank the Lord, as docile as a cow.’
The house, although very colonial, betrayed Agatha’s English upbringing by the paintings that hung on the walls and most notably the two large dogs who lay on the cool tiles in the hall. They barely lifted their eyes when George walked over them, so he gathered they were not there to guard. ‘They’re meant to be Great Danes, but didn’t quite make it. They answer to Bertie and Wooster,’ said Agatha. At the sound of their names their long tails thumped happily. He followed his aunt down a dark corridor and into a bedroom at the end. ‘I thought you’d like this room, it looks over the park,’ she said. ‘It’s also the other end of the house from us, so you’ll have some privacy.’
George was delighted with his room. It was large and cool with dark wooden floorboards, white walls and a queen-size iron bed imported from England. The light fell in through a tall open window, its shutters ajar and the linen curtains pulled back. George stood in front of it admiring the view and feeling rejuvenated by the fresh, sugar-scented air and the peaceful song of birds.
‘When you’re ready I’ll be outside on the terrace. You’ll need a drink I should imagine.’ Before she left the room, George unzipped his bag.
‘I have a letter to post,’ he said, pulling out the small package in brown paper and the letter. ‘It’s for Rita.’ Agatha raised a knowing eyebrow.
‘I’ll see to that for you,’ she said with an air of efficiency. Nothing was ever too much for Agatha. ‘Any washing put in the basket. Agustina will do it and return it to you in the morning.’
George unpacked, bathed, shaved, and dressed in light trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. He splashed his face and neck with cologne then walked through the house to the terrace. Agatha was standing beneath the veranda talking to one of the gardeners. She had her hands on her hips and her feet akimbo, like those old portraits of Henry VIII. George was sure she could be just as terrifying if she so wanted. The gardener held his hat deferentially and listened to everything she said with a bowed head. When she saw George she dismissed the man without so much as a thank you and turned her back on him. He shuffled away, wiping the sweat from his brow with a filthy handkerchief.
‘That’s Gonzalo. As strong as an ox and just as stupid,’ she said, pulling out a chair and sitting at the round table. ‘Lemonade?’ She poured him a glass, which he drank gratefully, then continued boisterously, articulating her words in that old-fashioned aristocratic way, barely opening her mouth as she did so. George thought she would have made a very formidable colonel in the army. ‘When I arrived here I barely spoke a word of Spanish and this place was a wreck. Jose Antonio grew up here. His grandfather built it and at one time he lived here with his parents, grandparents and two sisters. The grandparents died, then the father, and his two sisters buggered off. One married a Mexican, the other lives down south.’
‘What happened to his mother?’ George asked, though he wasn’t really very interested in Jose Antonio’s family history.
‘She lives in Buenos Aires. Mad as a hatter, though. Never comes up, the journey’s too much for her. I can’t say I’m sorry. She always was rather hard work.’
‘You’ve made this in
to a paradise,’ he said. Agatha was pleased.
‘It wasn’t easy. Coming here, not speaking the language. It wasn’t Jose Antonio’s money, either. They lost it all, the fools. I had a bit, enough to get the place up and running. Didn’t know much about farming. Had to learn all that as I went along. We’re comfortable and labour is cheap. We live off the land. You’ll see. There’s plenty of meat and vegetables. We’re self-sufficient. Come, I’ll show you around. Bring your glass with you.’
They walked to the lake, where birds nested in the reeds and wild duck swam on the water. Beyond, across a park of carefully planted trees, was the puesto. Here the gauchos looked after the horses. A couple of brown ponies rested in the shade of an ombu. A dark-skinned youth sat shirtless, scrubbing down a saddle and bridle, and another, much older man, leaned back against the fence, sipping mate, the traditional herb tea, out of a gourd through an ornate silver straw. A number of skeletal dogs sniffed the ground beside the logs where a barbecue had been the night before. They looked wild and mangy and no one took any notice of them. When the gauchos saw their mistress approach they stood to attention and bowed their heads. George wondered what Jose Antonio was like and whether Aunt Agatha was the one wearing the trousers in the marriage. She certainly took all the credit for everything at Las Dos Vizcachas.
‘Jose Antonio will take you off this afternoon. He’ll want to show you the farm. I suggest you relax for a couple of days, settle in, then get to work after the weekend. Jose Antonio could certainly use an extra pair of hands.’
With Aunt Agatha George barely had a moment to think of Susan, or Rita for that matter. She talked without pause, often finishing her sentences with ‘isn’t it?’ or ‘don’t you think?’ so there was no way he could let his mind wander. Perhaps it was better that he forgot them both for the time being and concentrated on getting settled into this new country.
They sat once again at the table on the veranda, now laid for lunch. The smell of cooking meat wafted out from the kitchen. George’s stomach rumbled continuously and he longed to grab one of the bread rolls that lay enticingly in a basket in the centre. Finally, just when George was beginning to feel nauseous with hunger the low, gravelly voice of Jose Antonio bellowed through the hall. ‘Gorda! I smell food. Let’s eat!’
Chapter 11
Jose Antonio was a giant of a man: over six feet tall, with a broad frame, a wineskin stomach and thick curly black hair. When he saw George his face widened into a beaming smile. ‘George! Welcome to Las Dos Vizcachas.’ His English was good, though he retained a strong Argentine accent. Instead of extending his hand he slapped George firmly on the back and gave a loud belly laugh. ‘I’m sure Agatha has shown you around the estancia. She is very proud of her home.’
‘Yes, it’s a beautiful place,’ George replied, overwhelmed by the magnetism of the man.
‘I’m glad you like it. It will be your home for some time, I hope.’ He shifted his deep brown eyes to his wife. ‘Let us eat!’
Agatha tinkled a little silver bell that was placed next to her on the table and Agustina came scampering out with a large oval plate of meat, potatoes and salad. A high-pitched shrieking resounded from the kitchen. Jose Antonio chuckled as he poured himself a large glass of wine. ‘I see Dolores is at war again,’ he said, raising his glass to George. ‘And you thought the war was over.’
‘She’s in a particularly filthy mood today. Though I have to say in all the years I’ve been here I’ve only ever seen her smile once,’ said Agatha, serving herself some lunch.
George filled his plate as much as he could without appearing greedy and took a generous mouthful. It tasted as good as it looked.
‘You know they say people become their names. Dolores means “pain”,’ said Jose Antonio.
‘She’s not in pain!’ Agatha exclaimed.
‘No, Gorda, she gives pain to everyone else!’ He roared with laughter.
‘If what you say is true about names I’ve certainly become mine,’ she said with a smile. Then turning to George she added, ‘Jose Antonio’s nickname for me is Gorda, which means fat.’
George wanted to reassure her that she wasn’t fat but felt he could not do so without looking foolish, so instead he said, ‘You’re a fine figure of a woman, Aunt Agatha.’
‘I have to be to run this place; Jose Antonio lives like a king.’
It was true. Jose Antonio was waited on hand and foot by his wife and even Dolores, who had known him since he was a boy. George was surprised to see that with her husband Agatha seemed to suppress her personality. She didn’t talk so much and she laughed at all his jokes, however lame they were. She was quite clearly cleverer than he was and so capable that he had no idea how much work it took to run their home. Everything was just as he liked it. The meals were served on time, the food was always fresh and delicious, the horses were always ready, the puesto was organized and efficient, and the small band of helpers toiled away quietly so that Jose Antonio was aware only of the perfection of the stage and not of the sweating behind the scenes. Guests came and went, and the bedrooms were always clean with linen sheets, cut flowers and new bars of soap. Jose Antonio received them warmly but never thought to thank his wife for all her hard work. Only Dolores screeched and wailed, totally out of anyone’s control. But he tolerated her for she was part of the place. She had screeched all the way through his childhood so he had grown used to it.
After lunch Jose Antonio slept a siesta. Sometimes he would ride into town and visit his mistress, Molina. He’d roll around with her for a while, then fall asleep on her large, foamy breasts. Unlike Agatha, she was young and slim with skin the colour of burnt sugar. Best of all he liked her bottom, soft and round like a peach. Today, however, he was tired. Showing off in front of their new guest had required more wine and the wine had made him drowsy, so he fell onto his bed and snored for two hours, dreaming of Molina’s firm buttocks. George dozed off in a hammock that belonged to the children. It was hot and he had barely slept the night before. Fortunately, Jose Antonio’s room was up in one of the towers on the other side of the house, so George was able to rest undisturbed by his uncle’s snoring and the churning sound of his digestion.
In the afternoon George accompanied Jose Antonio on horseback to survey the farm. The sun still burned, but it was less intense. In spite of his uncle’s coarse nature George found his company enjoyable. They rode across the plains where wheat and maize grew in fields of gold and sunflowers turned their faces to the light. Brown cows roamed among wild grasses and flowers in vast herds, their coats thick and shining with health. Jose Antonio had an army of labourers who seemed to do most of their work on horseback. They were dressed in the traditional gaucho attire: baggy trousers tucked into leather boots, and woven sashes tied around their waists, upon which rested elaborate belts decorated with silver coins. They looked flamboyant with their wide-rimmed hats, hide chaps, glittering spurs and the all-important knife, tucked into their belts. But Jose Antonio was much more interested in talking about George.
‘La Gorda tells me you have a woman in England,’ he began. But before George could reply he added, ‘What good is a woman you cannot make love to, eh?’ He laughed boisterously. ‘If you want a whore I know a good, clean place in town. A man has to fuck like he has to eat and shit, no?’ George was speechless, not that Jose Antonio would have noticed. ‘A wife is for children,’ he continued. ‘She organizes your life and takes care of you. A whore is for pleasure. If I had wanted to spend the rest of my life making love to my wife I would have married Molina. But Molina is only good for that. Every man should have a woman for love and a woman for lust, no?’ George had been quite happy to engage in bawdy talk in the mess, but it seemed inappropriate to discuss such things with his aunt’s husband. Jose Antonio fixed him with his mahogany eyes and said with a smirk, ‘I see you are in love.’
‘I’m going to marry Rita,’ said George, feeling gauche. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
‘Then what you ne
ed is a woman to keep you occupied,’ Jose Antonio suggested, obviously an authority on the subject. ‘A year is a very long time and you are young. When I was young I made love whenever I could because, as you get older, you no longer have the energy or the time to indulge so often. You will see that I am right.’ When George said nothing, Jose Antonio added thoughtfully, ‘Rita must be a very beautiful woman.’
‘She is,’ George replied, envisaging her face, wondering what she would make of Jose Antonio. He rather looked forward to telling her in his next letter.
‘I have always liked women. Young girls lack the experience. They are like green fruit on a tree. They get better once they have been exposed a little to the elements. They need to ripen.’
George thought of Susan and felt a wave of regret. He should have asked for her address at the very least. The knowledge that he might never see her again made her all the more enigmatic and intriguing.
‘There is something very attractive about a woman who has seen a bit of the world,’ George agreed.
‘And who has tasted the forbidden fruit. Young girls are naïve, trusting, adoring. They lack personality. I was attracted to La Gorda because she knew her own mind. She is a strong and capable woman. It does not matter that she speaks Spanish like a tourist.’
‘I must say, Jose Antonio, your English is admirable,’ said George truthfully, wondering how on earth he was ever going to learn Spanish.
‘I had an English nanny who left when I was twenty. No, no,’ he was quick to add, once again roaring with laughter, ‘I was potty trained by then, I assure you.’
When they returned to the puesto two brown children sat on the fence waiting for them. Seeing them approach they jumped down and ran up to the ponies. Pia was eight, Jose Antonio, nicknamed Tonito to avoid confusion, was ten. Their father leapt to the ground and gathered both children into his arms. They giggled excitedly and Pia placed her small hands on his rough face and kissed him. ‘Come and meet your cousin George.’
The Swallow and the Hummingbird Page 13
