The Vineyard Page 6

  Few mining projects were being registered in those days, and so the place was deserted. They encountered only the two clerks they had expected to find, immersed in their work, protected from ink spots and blotting powder by muslin sleeves, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass cabinets. Crammed into these were thousands of mostly yellowing folders, documents, and deeds, which offered to anyone with the patience to read them a detailed description of the lengthy history of Mexican mining from colonial times to the present day. The two visitors could see at a glance that the cabinets were securely locked.

  They greeted the two clerks with the grudging familiarity that characterized their customary visits to the mining office at least twice a year. Although they didn’t usually have actual dealings with the clerks, but rather with Ovidio Calleja, who treated them with an exaggerated courtesy that betrayed his open distaste.

  The two clerks stood up to greet them.

  “The superintendent isn’t here.”

  Larrea and his agent made a show of being put out.

  “Perhaps we can be of some assistance, gentlemen . . .”

  “I suppose so: clearly, Don Ovidio places his utmost trust in you, and I’m sure you know this office as well, if not better, than he does.”

  Andrade cast the first hook, using flattery as bait, while Larrea reeled them in.

  “We need to consult a document regarding a mining claim. It’s in my name, Mauro Larrea. I have a receipt here with the archive number, if that makes it easier to find.”

  The taller of the two clerks, the one with tinted spectacles, cleared his throat. The other, the small, skinny one, clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his gaze.

  A few awkward seconds elapsed, during which only the pendulum of the clock above the absent superintendent’s desk could be heard.

  The first clerk cleared his throat once more, then uttered the words they were by now expecting to hear.

  “With the utmost regret, gentlemen, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  The two others feigned surprise, Andrade arching an eyebrow, Larrea knitting his brow.

  “How can that be, Don Mónico?”

  The taller employee shrugged with an air of powerlessness.

  “The superintendent’s orders.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Andrade retorted pompously.

  The skinny man spoke up in defense of his colleague:

  “Orders we have no choice but to obey, gentlemen. Why, we don’t even have any keys at our disposal.”

  Not so much as a quill pen could be moved in that office without Ovidio Calleja’s express authorization, and his minions weren’t prepared to budge from that practice, not even at gunpoint.

  What do we do now? the two men wondered silently. They had no other plan, and so their only option was to make a humiliating retreat. Empty-handed. Good Lord, at times events took such a complicated turn that anyone might think an emissary of the devil himself was manipulating them at his whim.

  They were still debating whether to insist or to accept defeat, when they heard a door creak at the far end of the room. Grateful for a momentary break in the tension, all four pairs of eyes moved toward it as though drawn by a magnet. No sooner had it started to open than three cats slipped into the office as rapidly as a gust of wind. Then the hem of a mustard-colored skirt appeared, until finally the door swung open and a woman of indeterminate age entered. Neither young nor old; neither pretty nor ugly.

  Andrade took a step forward, his face contorting into a fox-like grin that concealed his enormous relief at having found an unexpected excuse to delay their departure.

  “What a pleasure it is to see you, Señorita Calleja.”

  For his part, Mauro Larrea stifled the urge to remark sarcastically to his friend: You have done your homework well, sonofabitch. Not only had Andrade discovered the names of Calleja’s subordinates, he had also found out there was a daughter.

  It was clear from the puzzled expression on the newcomer’s face that she hadn’t expected to find anyone else there at that hour. Doubtless she had popped in for a moment from the apartments the superintendent and his family occupied in the same building. Her hair had been left unpinned, and she was not dressed to go out.

  In spite of this she had no choice but to return the courtesy, and she greeted them somewhat sheepishly.

  Andrade took another two steps forward.

  “Don Mónico and Don Severino were just informing us of your esteemed father’s absence.”

  She had a round face and wore her hair pulled back in a bun. She was well into her thirties, and possessed a rather ungainly body, encased in a frumpy day dress with a pale stiff collar. A woman like hundreds of others, who make little impression when a man’s eye alights on them in the street, but who arouse neither dislike or disgust. This was what they saw when they looked at Fausta Calleja: a plain woman.

  “Yes, my father’s away on a trip,” she replied. “Although we’re expecting him back soon. Indeed, I came to ask whether he has sent word confirming this.”

  “We still haven’t heard anything, Señorita Fausta,” replied the clerk with the tinted glasses. “No word has arrived.”

  Apart from the steps Andrade had taken toward the superintendent’s daughter, all of them stood motionless, as though nailed to the wooden floor, while the cats moved freely between the legs of the furniture as well as those of the two clerks. One, a flame-red ginger tom, leapt up onto one of the desks, casually treading over papers and documents.

  Once again, it was Andrade who picked up the thread of conversation.

  “And your esteemed mother, how is her health these days?”

  Had it not been for the enormity of the situation he faced, Mauro Larrea would have burst into a peal of laughter. Where did you get this sudden interest in the family of a man who’d rather cut off his ear than lend us a hand, you old devil?

  Naturally, the daughter was oblivious to the deceitful nature of his question.

  “She’s a lot better, thank you, Señor . . .”

  “Andrade, Elias Andrade, at your disposal. I am a devoted friend of your father, as is this other gentleman, Don Mauro Larrea, a prominent mine owner, and widower, whom I am privileged to introduce to you. A man whose honor, kindness, and decency I would stake my life on.”

  Have you lost your mind, brother? What are you trying to achieve with this prose worthy of a romantic novel? Why are you misleading this poor woman as to our relations with her father, revealing details of my private life, and lavishing me with ridiculous praise?

  No sooner had his eyes met those of Fausta Calleja than he realized what his friend was up to. He could read it in her gaze, the intense scrutiny she gave to his figure, his clothes, his face, his demeanor. Crafty sonofabitch. So you discovered that Calleja’s daughter was a spinster, and all at once it occurred to you to offer me up on a platter as a potential suitor in a desperate bid to improve matters.

  “We are truly pleased to hear that your mother is feeling better, Señorita. What was ailing her, if I might be so bold as to ask?”

  Employing the same pompous rhetoric, Andrade resumed the absurd conversation where he had left off. Fausta quickly averted her eyes from Larrea like someone caught in the act.

  “A bad cold, from which she is now fully recovered, thank heavens.”

  “Let’s hope to God it does not return.”

  “Indeed, Señor.”

  “And . . . er . . . is she well enough to receive visitors?”

  “Indeed; why, only this morning some of her women friends came by.”

  “And . . . er . . . do you think she might also agree to receive a visit from your humble servant? Accompanied by Señor Larrea, of course.”

  It was Larrea who now seized the initiative. Oh, well, he told himself. There’s too much at stake for any scruples. Of the f
our accursed months he’d been allotted to revive his fortunes, he had already wasted two days. If the two clerks refused to be cajoled into handing over the document, it was possible the wife or daughter could come to their aid.

  Unabashed, he mustered all his poise and directed a forceful, lingering gaze to the superintendent’s daughter.

  Startled, she lowered her eyes. The flame-red tomcat was rubbing itself affectionately against the folds of her skirt, and she stooped to pick him up. Cradling him in her arms, she petted his nose as she muttered something to him under her breath.

  As they awaited her reply, the two friends’ courteous restraint belied the ceaseless workings of their brains as voices hammered inside their heads: Come on, come on, for God’s sake, woman, say yes!

  At last she stooped to put down the cat. As she straightened up, her cheeks faintly flushed, she uttered the words they were so desperate to hear.

  “Gentlemen, you are welcome to visit our humble abode at your convenience.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mother and daughter were halfway through their lunchtime meal of beef stew when they received the sumptuous visiting card. Señores Larrea and Andrade announced their arrival that very evening at six o’clock.

  Two hours later, her finest ornaments dotted about the living room, the superintendent’s wife clasped the envelope to her ample bosom for the umpteenth time. Could it possibly be true . . . ?

  “You wouldn’t believe the way he looked at me, Mama. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  Her daughter’s words when she came back in a daze from the office were still resounding in Doña Hilaria’s ears.

  “Moreover, he’s a widower. And so good-looking.”

  “And he has money, my girl. Money.”

  But cautiousness obliged her to rein in her hopes. Since her husband had taken up his present position, scarcely a week went by without some proposal or other arriving at their door: invitations to luncheons and dinners, a huge tray of pastries, or a small bag of gold coins. Only a few months ago, to her surprise (pleasant, she had to admit), they were presented with a carriage. All in exchange for her husband, among the dozens of papers that passed through his hands daily, simply stamping or erasing the odd date, mislaying a document, or turning a blind eye when he should have been paying attention.

  That was why his wife’s initial response was to be skeptical.

  “But are you really certain, daughter, that he looked at you in that way?”

  “As sure as I am that night follows day, Mama. At my eyes first. And then . . .”

  She entwined her fingers, modestly.

  “And then he looked at me the way . . . the way a real man looks at a woman.”

  Doña Hilaria remained unconvinced. He’s up to something, she pondered. Why else would a man like Mauro Larrea give Fausta a second look? According to her husband, the man was a force to be reckoned with. He and his faithful friend Andrade had been together for years, and drooled like wolves when they smelled an opportunity. She also knew that he moved with ease in the most distinguished circles, among the sophisticated upper classes to which, alas, the Calleja family did not belong. Doubtless there were plenty of candidates among those circles willing to rescue him from widowerhood. No, if Mauro Larrea was making eyes at her daughter, she was sure he must be after something. Something only her husband could provide him with. That Spanish bastard, her Ovidio would say whenever his name came up. Like a hungry predator, he could smell a good deal a mile off. And nothing escaped him when he went in for the kill.

  But . . . what if . . . She felt giddy with doubt as she rummaged in the wooden chest for the most suitable tablecloth. The Scottish linen one with the cross-stitch edging? Or the one with the cutwork embroidery? What did it matter if his only aim was to further his own interests? she reflected. What were a few favors in exchange for her daughter to have lifelong security and a virile body in her humdrum life and her frigid bed? A husband, for heaven’s sake! At this late stage! She would find a way to persuade her Ovidio to forget his clashes with Larrea. Which weren’t negligible, she recalled as she polished a silver spoon. Indeed, the poor man had developed terrible ulcers and even coughed up blood during those tense disputes over mines, or shipments of quicksilver, or whatever it was. In any event, that was all in the past, she mumbled to herself as she lifted the lid off the sugar bowl they used on special occasions. They had to seize the opportunity while Ovidio was away. It would be easier to convince him if the affair prospered. What was done was done.

  While Doña Hilaria was going over all this in her mind, Fausta, a mixture of almond paste and barley water smeared on her face to bleach her skin, gave instructions to the kitchen maids on how to iron the muslin on her finest dress. A few blocks farther south in the city, oblivious to the preparations taking place in his honor, Mauro Larrea was shut away in his study wearing neither frock coat nor tie. Sunk in an armchair, cigar clasped between his fingers, he had deliberately thrust aside all thoughts of the afternoon tea that awaited them and was mulling obsessively over the closing moments of his encounter with Mariano Asencio the previous day.

  His prevailing memory was of the man’s gestures, his booming voice, and the reek of chili and pork; he could almost feel once again the weight of the man’s paw falling on his arm. “If yours truly here had as much capital as you, do you know what I’d do?” That was the question posed by the colossus, who had supplied the answer himself: the name composed of four letters, which was still going around in Larrea’s head. The same possibility he had discussed with Andrade the night before. True, Asencio was an opportunist, capable of selling his own father for a plate of beans, but he knew how to fight for his own interests wherever he smelled a profit. What if Mariano is right? Larrea murmured to himself for the umpteenth time, puffing on his half-smoked cigar. What if my fate lies there?

  The sound of knuckles rapping on wood brought him back to reality. The door opened at once.

  By then he had made his decision.

  “Why are you still lounging in your shirtsleeves, smoking?” Andrade roared when he saw him.

  It was six o’clock on the dot when they stepped out of the carriage on Calle San Andrés, around the corner from the vast façade of the palace that housed the Mining Board.

  A servant was waiting for them at the main gate, which was open. He broke off his animated exchange with the doorman as he saw them approach, and steered them past the majestic staircase, across the central courtyard, to the west wing. Although the two men were accustomed to finding their way around the public corridors of the labyrinthine place, they had never ventured into its private apartments, and would have been lost without their guide. The young indigenous lad glided over the smooth floor, snakelike in his bare feet, while in their English ankle boots the two men’s swift, rhythmical steps echoed loudly on the gray flagstones.

  The building was practically deserted at that time of evening. The students, whose lectures on underground physics and the chemistry of minerals had finished by then, were doubtless flirting with young ladies in nearby Alameda Central Park. Their professors and other staff members would be getting on with their own lives, having finished their working day, and both Larrea and Andrade were relieved not to bump into the rector or vice-rector, either.

  “Don Florian could have helped us out if he were still here.”

  However, faced with the new secular airs circulating through Mexico, the chaplain, an amusingly duplicitous old curmudgeon they knew from their days at Real de Catorce, had long since hung up his cassock.

  “Perhaps we should have brought the girl a gift” was the next thing Mauro Larrea said between gritted teeth as they walked along an empty corridor.

  “Such as?”

  “How should I know, compadre?” There was a tone of exasperation in his voice, and more than a hint of indifference. “Camelias, or sweets, or a book of poetry.”

&n
bsp; “Poetry? You?” Andrade stifled a sarcastic laugh. “Too late,” he said in a hushed tone. “I think we’re almost there: be on your best behavior.”

  A small staircase led them up to a mezzanine floor, where they were confronted by a row of doors belonging to the staff apartments. The third one on the left was open a crack, and a young indigenous girl with shiny braids emerged to show them into the living room.

  “Good afternoon, dear friends.”

  In her role of convalescent, Señora Calleja did not get up from her capacious armchair. Dressed in black, with a modest string of pearls about her neck, she limited herself to extending a hand, which both men kissed ceremoniously. Two steps behind her stood Fausta, fingers clasped amid the folds of a plain-looking dress that was still warm from the smoothing iron.

  The greetings concluded, they sat down in strategic positions decided upon beforehand by Doña Hilaria.

  “Don Elias, you come over here, next to me,” she said, patting the arm of a nearby chair. “And, if you will, Señor Larrea, install yourself on the chaise longue.” Needless to say, Fausta followed suit, perching on its right-hand corner.

  A swift glance about them was enough for the two men to assess the scene: a discreetly furnished room that was neither spacious nor high-ceilinged but that, here and there, betrayed a hint of opulence: a pair of cut-glass cornucopias on a cedar-wood stand, a splendid alabaster vase ostentatiously placed. There was even a piano, shiny as a young bride. Both men could guess the source of these trappings. Tokens of gratitude in exchange for favors granted by Señor Calleja: turning a blind eye, acting as intermediary, passing on information that as superintendent he was entrusted not to divulge.

  As was to be expected, the conversation that ensued was of a trivial nature. Doña Hilaria provided a blow-by-blow account of her current state of health while the two men pretended to be interested, each casting sidelong glances at the wall clock. It was in citronella marquetry and undeniably splendid, doubtless another reward for favors granted. The clock went on chiming every quarter hour as the elaborate litany of symptoms and remedies floated interminably through the air, reminding them that time was passing and they were getting nowhere. After finishing the enumeration of her ailments, Doña Hilaria continued to monopolize the conversation by giving detailed accounts of the most sensational local news stories, including the unsolved crime at the Lagunilla Bridge and a recent spate of robberies in the Porta Coeli market.