by Bea Gonzalez
But for now, the old lady has already seen more than enough. She grabs her granddaughter roughly by the arm, pulls her away from Diego, announcing curtly that it is time for them to make their way home. “You will excuse us, of course, young man,” she says to Diego, and before he or Sofia can utter another word, Doña Laura has already steered her granddaughter north, away from her beloved and towards the safety of a closed door.
SCENE TWO
At the Virgen de Guadalupe Ball
It is true that we can be tom apart by competing emotions, attempting to balance what nature simply will not. Sofia is wary, yes, fearful of what lies ahead, yet she cannot, once at the ball, be but swept away by the sheer excess—the jewellery, the carriages, the dresses embroidered with diamonds and gold, the men in perfectly pressed black suits, the servants in impeccable uniforms. Stunning Venetian lanterns are given to the ladies as party favours by gondoliers to light your loved one’s heart they are told; silver hearts trimmed with roses are given to the men so the women can comply.
Outside, yes, there is hunger, there is despair among the masses who subsist on meagre rations of beans and maize. But inside it is all warmth and succulent smells, chicken in bougainvillea sauce, beef filet in tequila sauce, salmon in chaya sauce and, to tempt a man’s soul, the more exotic fare—walnut-mayonnaise sandwiches, lobster à la Newburg, oyster à la poulette, sweet fruit and sherry compote.
Just outside, the slaves on the Blanco Torres estate toil from dawn until dusk, thousands of them—no one can hope to know their numbers anymore, not when they die so fast and so young; but take no heed, they will be replaced inmediatamente. After all, the henequen must be processed, the henequen must be sold.
We close our eyes; we cover our ears. Eyes that do not see do not suffer. Ears that do not hear do not despair. Besides, without excess there is no chance for a revolution, and the winds of a revolution are blowing in Mexico City already. It will not take long for them to arrive here, where they will coalesce into a storm.
Inside the ballroom, after hair has been carefully arranged, dresses brushed and the appropriate look stamped upon the face—the women of the Duarte house appear, eyes enlarged by the spectacle and the utter grandness of the affair. “Have you ever seen such a thing?” Aunt Marta asks Doña Laura, who has to concede she has never been a witness to grandeur such as this: the marble stairs, the Persian carpets, the fine art on the walls, gold and silver everywhere, the fine crystal clinking from every corner of the room.
The women head towards the receiving line, a still despondent Don Roberto trailing behind, burdened not only by the thought of his debt but a fish out of water in an event of this kind. Don Roberto is meant to be scanning the sky for birds or browsing a book on more esoteric affairs, is meant to be discussing things of cosmic significance and not standing here in a ballroom cursing the shiny black boots that torture his feet. Ah, but the torture will be momentary at least—dinner at eight, dancing to begin at ten, the affair officially done by three.
In the receiving line, standing in her privileged place as hostess and matriarch of the Blanco Torres clan (and one who rules her family with an implacable hand, it is rumoured, Gabriela quickly and discreetly informs Aunt Marta) is Doña Alicia Torres de Blanco herself, resplendent in silk and diamonds, with what looks like a tiara sitting atop the tight curls that frame her face.
“So kind of you to come,” she says to one person and then the next. “So good to see you,” she utters perfunctorily just to vary the theme, the phrases escaping languorously from her throat as if she is attempting to avoid exerting herself unduly with her own words.
Then the Duarte women are before her, Don Roberto still lingering at the back, and the good lady—who seemed until now not to be paying attention to those she has been greeting—suddenly stops in her tracks. She does not know these people, looks at her husband and her sons who are standing behind her, raises her eyebrows to indicate that she is in need of their help.
Carlos Blanco Torres steps forward. He introduces his mother and then his father to Don Roberto Duarte and waits for Don Roberto to present the ladies in his group to them. Sofia, who has been demurely eyeing the floor until then, looks up and encounters the eyes of the young man she has been avoiding for so long now, the young man who has invited them to the affair. There is no longer any use in hiding from him; her hands are tied. She has finally run out of luck.
“Enchanted,” Carlos says, lifting up her hand and bringing it to his lips.
“Señor,” she hears herself say, smiling briefly and then moving along as fast as decorum will permit.
“I hope you will save me a dance, Señorita Sofia,” Carlos calls after her, but the girl has already walked quickly ahead and is spared having to respond by the pressure of the receiving line which is moving everyone inexorably forth.
Gabriela, in the meantime, is all effusiveness. She has focused on only one thing. The eldest Blanco Torres son has fixed an eye on Sofia, has asked her daughter to dance. “It is the dress,” she tells the other women her face bulging with joy. “I knew it would be the perfect dress.” Aunt Marta nods, equally enthused. She too has gleaned some promise from the momentary exchange. Only Doña Laura is unwilling to concede the appropriate choice of attire had been made. While it is true the young Blanco Torres has been kind to Sofia, it is just as easy to thank the stars as a golden and, in her view, badly stitched dress.
The dancing is to begin shortly after ten o’clock. No sooner has dinner ended and the orchestra begun when Carlos Blanco Torres is standing before Sofia requesting the pleasure of dancing the very first quadrille with her.
The older women are beside themselves now. A Blanco Torres asking Sofia for the very first dance! Oh, they can hardly believe it. Fans are produced and waved vigorously as the happiness suffuses their faces with heat—even Doña Laura is prepared now to concede that the opportunity has not been squelched with an inappropriate dress.
But then … no, it cannot be. Have they heard Sofia demur, have they heard her say she cannot dance, that she does not know the steps? Doña Laura is instantly at the helm. “Now, now,” she says to Sofia, turgid words emerging from tight lips, “anyone can walk gracefully and easily through a quadrille, Sofia. Follow el Señor Carlos, he will guide you through the moves.”
And before she knows it, Sofia is out on the floor, Carlos Blanco Torres confirming with the way he looks at her now what she has feared from the start, that inside the store those eyes had indeed been dancing for her while she hid behind a book at the back.
The young man tries to make conversation. He speaks of the things he thinks will warm her heart: questions about Schiller, Pérez Galdós and Lord Byron, and when his words elicit no more than a nod from Sofia (who, it is true, has plenty of opinions about all of these things but suppresses the desire to speak for fear of encouraging further talk), Carlos turns desperately to the subject of her beloved birds.
But then, thankfully, the dance is over without as much as two words being strung together by the girl who now walks quickly to join the older women, unaware that they have watched every move she has made, have witnessed, with each step, the young man’s enthusiasm wane, have stared in horror as Sofia kept her eyes glued steadfastly to the floor. She arrives to three scowls. It is her grandmother who, predictably, begins to chastise her, reproaching her for the disgrace she has brought upon them all, only to be interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Nelson and his two assistants—Diego handsome in his formal dark suit, Very Useful attired more soberly than usual in muted yellows and browns.
“Ah, Mr. Nelson,” Sofia breathes in relief. She offers her hand to the older man and then greets Diego and Very Useful.
“I did not see you during dinner,” she tells the men. “I was beginning to despair you would not arrive at all.”
“Not arrive? Why, of course we would arrive, my girl. Come now, you owe me a dance, as I recall.” Mr. Nelson offers her his arm and they step out onto the dance floor, where t
he young lady giggles and talks her way through a waltz.
“Harrumph!” Doña Laura snorts to the other women who stand beside her, watching wide-eyed as Sofia comes alive in Mr. Nelson’s arms.
“Notice how the girl is all giggles now. All coquetry. All talk. Could she have spared a smile or two for the Blanco Torres boy? Ah, that of course she could not.”
“Bueno, Doña Laura,” Aunt Marta responds. “Mr. Nelson is like a father to Sofia; it is only natural she should feel so comfortable in his arms. Carlos Blanco Torres, on the other hand, is no more than a stranger to the girl. It is no wonder she felt so shy and tongue-tied.”
“Tongue-tied? My granddaughter? You are a fool, Marta, an innocent of the worst kind.” And she is about to launch into a full-fledged attack, is about to reveal the suspicions she has nurtured all afternoon, that Diego and Sofia share more than an interest in birds, but the waltz has ended and her granddaughter and the American are standing before them once again.
No matter, the old lady thinks, biting her lip; there will be time later for her fury to be properly unleashed.
In the meantime, off to one side, Very Useful and Diego are having a whispered conversation that is growing more heated with every beat.
“Ask her now!” Very Useful urges Diego. “This is your one and only opportunity, compadre. Take it, come on!” He is pushing Diego forwards but the young man has dug in his heels, will not take the formidable step of moving forward to the spot where Sofia is standing with their patrón.
“Stop it!” Diego whispers hotly. “You know I am here for a much more important matter than a dance. I simply cannot let Mr. Nelson down. Now take your hands off my back, you crazed man.”
“All matters of importance can wait for one dance, Diego. Venga, do not hide your cowardice behind a pledge of duty. You forget who I am, a mind reader, a seer of great truths, the one person on this earth who can see your weaknesses right through to that unbecoming hole in your sock. One dance, Diego, just one dance, my boy. An opportunity to reveal your feelings to your one and true love.”
But Diego will not budge. He is all nerves and adrenaline, feels torn between a desire to act and a frantic desire to flee. Amid the exchange of words with Very Useful, his mind is alternating between two very different concerns. Parlour, study, kitchen, billiards room, dining hall; forward, side, close; back, side, close. Concentrate, Diego, he tells himself, think!
Things have gone smoothly so far. The men have missed the dinner and skipped the receiving line. The most important thing now is to avoid being noticed, to avoid being caught. Even one moment on the dance floor might make Diego conspicuous and he knows that will make his task more difficult, impossible perhaps.
“I am going, Very Useful,” he says, his voice hardened, his determination incorruptible now. And before Very Useful can argue, he has turned on his heels, is moving slowly through the room, trying to make himself as invisible as possible in the throng.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sofia has observed the argument that was taking place between the two men, has watched Diego look around nervously and quickly take his leave. Where is he going? she asks herself, nodding vacantly now at Mr. Nelson’s words.
She excuses herself abruptly and starts to follow Diego, anxious not to lose him in the crowd. Thankfully, he is quite tall and can be seen moving about easily even in this unruly horde.
She walks well behind him as he makes his way through servant-filled corridors—men in starched shirts pass by him carrying crystal flutes of French champagne on silver trays; women in white dresses follow, carrying freshly cut tropical fruit artfully arranged on gold-rimmed plates. He walks through a courtyard lit by hundreds of candles, where groups of people mill in the shadows, talking, laughing, whispering things to each other in the privacy of a half-lit night. He walks at a leisurely pace, bows to a group here and there, smiles as if he is merely in search of a spot of fresh air, walks and walks until casually, without drawing suspicion, he reaches the back of the house. He conjures up the map Mr. Nelson had made for him in the dirt and heads east, thinks fleetingly of Isidore of Seville and the path he had once travelled to a house in the city of his birth, the humiliation he had felt, the slap that still lingers on his face.
Along the path a figure now appears before him in the dark, golden, shimmering, more spirit than flesh.
“Who is there?” Diego cries out, fear rising sharply and then dissipating as the ghostlike figure comes into the light.
“Sofia!” Diego exclaims.
The girl runs up to him, takes his hand into hers. “Take me with you, Diego,” she says and in the confusion of the dark, in the sudden surge of feeling that has coursed through his body like the electrical current that once lit up a ball in Mérida’s Plaza de Armas—with that beloved hand in his and time on the clock beating on, Diego pushes forward, quickly blocks any misgivings that arise from his mind. Perhaps, he tells himself hopefully, his patrón has informed Sofia of his monumental task. It seems improbable, he knows, but now is not the time to consider the reasons for her being here, now is the time to move forward towards his goal.
Nearby they hear the rustling of wings. Toucans, manikins, hummingbirds, owls and two rare pigeons await in a cage. The aviary is poorly lit. Only a waning gibbous moon outside helps to reveal the birds’ splendid colours to the sight.
And what a sight! Sofia cannot believe her eyes, has never seen such a splendid collection together in the wild. She tries to identify the birds she knows, only to be distracted by those she has never seen before.
“Come here,” Diego whispers to her, moving ahead. “The best part of all is inside this cage.”
Sofia joins Diego, stares at the two pigeons with the scarlet eyes, the slate-blue heads and rumps, the grey backs and the wine-red breasts.
“A bird that once passed overhead like a thought,” Diego says quietly, quoting the incomparable Audubon. “A bird that is now on the verge of disappearing from the earth.”
“No!” Sofia exclaims, crouching down to look at the pigeons up close. “But what is the bird’s name?”
Another voice now answers in the dark.
“Those, Señorita Sofia, are a pair of Ectopistes migratorius.”
Diego and Sofia turn around in shocked surprise. Standing before them is Carlos Blanco Torres, a thin cigar in his hand, a cane in the other, observing them intently from across the dimly lit room.
In the face of their silence, the young man speaks again. “Well, in fact, that is their scientific name, what men such as your father, Señorita Sofia, would call them, at any rate. To us more simple folk, they are merely pigeons, Passenger Pigeons to be exact.”
Sofia is the first to recover, the first to stammer out a response.
“Señor Carlos, I do hope you are not displeased with our being here. We simply could not resist. Señor Diego and I are helping Mr. Nelson with his guide and we could not leave without taking a look at your beautiful birds.”
Young Carlos merely nods, mumbles a dismissive Of course not. He looks over at Diego now, “I do not believe that you and I have been introduced.”
“No, no, indeed we have not. I am Diego Clemente, assistant to Mr. Edward Nelson of the Biological Survey. I too apologize for our indiscretion, Don Carlos. I am an obsessed bird artist and that is the only way I can possibly explain myself.”
The young man merely waves the apology away with the back of a hand. “Do not concern yourself, Don Diego, the grounds are open to all of our guests on this night. Though I would have been quite happy to have shown you the birds myself.”
He calls for a servant now, has him light up the area so that they can better admire what is inside. Diego and Sofia follow Carlos through the aviary in silence, hearts beating in equal time, unable to enjoy the birds in the face of this sudden turn of events.
Diego is mulling over just one thought. I have failed Mr. Nelson, I have failed my patrón, for it will be impossible for him to leave now with those precious b
irds in his hand. He has been spotted, has been registered by none other than the son of Don Victor Blanco himself. He chastises himself for not having been more careful, chastises himself for having been foolish enough to be followed by not one but two people outside. His face falls, his heart sinks. No bird, no matter how rare, can now possibly hope to light up his eyes.
By Diego’s side, Sofia is cursing Carlos Blanco with every step that she takes. Of course he would follow me here, she thinks. Of course the dandy had arrived just in time to ruin a budding duet. She is careful to keep smiling, is careful to give nothing more away to this young man, but inside she is seething, her mood worsened by the fact that she has noticed the distance that has opened suddenly between Diego and her. A chasm, she thinks, a wound that may not be so easily healed.
Once the tour is done, the three walk together back along the same path Diego had travelled before. In a well-lit corner of the courtyard, they come upon Don Victor, standing there surrounded by a group of his friends. He spots his son, and what is he doing here? he asks himself, unnerved to see him with these two unknowns, while inside his mother has assembled a collection of the most distinguished young ladies in the land. Will he never learn? What a disappointment! How difficult it is to be burdened with such a son.
Don Victor calls the three to his side and asks to be introduced to his son’s companions in a voice that is tighter than tree bark.
“Over here, Papá, la Señorita Sofia Duarte, daughter of Don Roberto Duarte.”
“Ah, yes,” old man Blanco says, issuing the barest of nods.
