The Vineyard Read online

  “Good evening, dear Fausta. What a pleasure it is to see you again.”

  She gave a startled smile, and yet still he saw no sparkle in her eyes.

  “I brought you a gift. A modest token; I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Shortly before dinner, while the servants were seeing to the final preparations and scurrying through the rooms and corridors of this mansion with jugs of iced water and bouquets of flowers, he had entered Mariana’s bedroom for the first time since she had left home. It still contained many of her belongings: china dolls, an embroidery hoop, her desk with its many drawers. Doing his best not to give in to feelings of sadness, he went over to the cabinet containing dozens of small trinkets. The glass doors tinkled as he jerked them open. How about the bead purse he had brought back from Morelia for her years before? Or the tiny mirror with a turquoise frame—a gift on her sixteenth birthday? Without giving it much thought, he seized a carved horn fan, which he stuffed in his pocket.

  Fausta’s hand trembled as she took it from him.

  “Why, Don Mauro, it’s beautiful,” she murmured.

  Once again he felt troubled by his emotions but, having no time for pity, he pressed on.

  “Have you thought of somewhere we can go?”

  They hadn’t moved from the landing, and were speaking in whispers.

  “I was thinking we could go to a study hall on the first floor. It overlooks an inside courtyard, so no one will be able see the light.”

  “That’s an excellent idea.”

  She gave a shy look.

  “Although it occurs to me we might consider somewhere more discreet, more private,” he suggested artfully. “Less accessible. I say this more than anything because I’m thinking of your reputation.”

  The girl pursed her lips, pensive.

  “The archive, for example,” he blurted out hastily.

  “The archive . . . ?” she echoed, in surprise.

  “Exactly. It’s a long way from the apartments and the students’ quarters. No one will hear us.”

  She reflected cautiously for what seemed like ages. Then at last she murmured:

  “That’s not such a bad idea.”

  He felt a quiver of excitement course through him. It was all he could do to avoid saying: Get a move on, then, my lovely. What are we waiting for?

  “Having said that, I’m sure your papa performs his duties to the letter and has a lock on the door.”

  “Two locks, to be precise.”

  Always makes sure to protect himself, the bastard, he muttered under his breath, recalling the superintendent.

  “I see . . .” He gave a slight cough. “And would you . . . would you be able to obtain the keys?”

  She hesitated, calculating the risk.

  “I only ask because I’d like us to feel more at ease. More relaxed.” He paused for a few seconds. “The two of us. Together.”

  “It won’t be possible tonight; he keeps the keys in a drawer in his bedroom chest. My mother is sleeping there now.”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  She pursed her lips again, unconvinced.

  “Possibly.”

  He raised his hand slowly to her pale cheek. Eyes half-closed, she smiled, abandoning herself to his caress.

  Stop right there, you scoundrel, his conscience cried out once more. There’s no need. But Tadeo Carrús’s four accursed months minus three days were steadily ticking away.

  “Then I’ll come back tomorrow,” he whispered in her ear.

  His words brought Fausta abruptly back to reality.

  “Are you leaving already?” Her mouth was half open in surprise.

  “I’m afraid so, my dear.” Larrea reached inside his waistcoat pocket for his fob watch, remembering that he would probably have to sell that, too. “It’s almost three in the morning, and I have a difficult day ahead of me when I wake up.”

  “I understand, Don Mauro, I understand.”

  He stroked her cheek once more.

  “You needn’t keep calling me Don Mauro. Or talk to me so formally.”

  She pressed her lips together again, and with a slight quiver of her chin seemed to say yes. At that, he started back down the stairs, sure-footedly now, eager to breathe in the cool, early morning air.

  Just before he reached the street, he heard her call after him. He halted and wheeled around. Fausta began descending the gloomy staircase, almost at a trot. What the devil do you want now, woman?

  “Sleep well, dear Mauro, and have no fear, I’ll make sure I get the keys for you,” she said breathlessly.

  Then, seizing one of his hands crushed by the mines and by life, she gently pressed his open palm to her chest. Yet he felt no throbbing, no quickened pulse, only a sagging breast, bereft of any firmness it might once have possessed.

  Suddenly she raised herself on tiptoes and drew close to his ear.

  “I wonder what you will do for me in return.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I bid you good morning, my dear,” said the countess. “I trust I didn’t wake you with my summons.”

  “Far from it, dear Countess. I’m usually an early riser.”

  He had barely slept two hours. After he got back, he had lain awake until daybreak, head resting on his bare arms folded on the pillow, staring into space, his mind spinning with memories and sensations: dogs barking at dawn; chocolate melting on the floor; Nico, ever unpredictable; Fausta Calleja’s graceless features; the outline of an island in the Antilles; an unborn child.

  As a result, he had remained sleeping until Santos Huesos entered his room shortly before eight.

  “Señorita Mariana’s mother-in-law has sent word saying she wishes to see you, patrón. At her house in Calle Capuchinas, as quick as you can.”

  Larrea arrived at about nine, when the servants were hurriedly emptying the chamber pots and the chime of bells from the nearby church filled the air.

  Tall and thin to the point of being emaciated, her thick white hair immaculately brushed, Úrsula Hernández de Soto y Villalobos received him in her private chamber, wearing a black lace dress with a cameo at the neck and teardrop pearl earrings. Over her bony chest hung a monocle on a gold chain.

  “Have you breakfasted, my dear? I’ve just finished my chocolate, but I shall ask them to bring more at once.”

  He refused the offer, mentioning a delicious breakfast that in fact he hadn’t touched. The knot in his stomach had barely allowed him to sip his coffee.

  “At my age, one sleeps less and less,” the countess went on, “which is useful in many ways. At this hour when young women are still in the arms of Morpheus, I have attended Mass, settled my accounts, and summoned you here. I imagine you must be wondering why.”

  “Indeed, especially since we took leave of each other only a few hours ago.”

  He always addressed the countess with exquisite politeness and a friendly manner, without ever permitting her to look down on him. He had never been daunted by the character and lineage of the illustrious Bruno de la Garza y Roel’s widow, legitimate heir to the title conferred on her grandfather a century before by King Charles III of Spain in exchange for several thousand silver coins. A title she stubbornly insisted on using, despite the fact that it was rendered invalid when, after the country gained independence, the fledgling Mexican republic abolished with the stroke of a pen all titles granted during the viceroyalty.

  “And so here I am,” he added, ensconcing himself in an armchair, “ready to listen to what you have to say.”

  As if she wished to impart a touch of solemnity to her words, the old lady cleared her throat before speaking, even as she made sure that her cameo was straight with twig-like fingers. Behind her, an enormous Flemish tapestry depicted a confused battlefield scene, full of clashing weapons, bearded, powerful soldiers, and a great number of headless
Moors. The other walls were lined with portraits of her ancestors: imposing military men bedecked with medals, and elegant ladies whose noble lineages had long since vanished.

  “You know I’m fond of you, Mauro,” she said at last. “Despite our differences, I am fond of you. And I respect you, too. You belong to that tradition of great mining men from New Spain, who helped boost this nation’s economy in colonial times. Their vast wealth stimulated our industry and commerce, put food in the mouths of thousands of families, built palaces and towns, almshouses, hospitals, and numerous charitable institutions.”

  Where is this leading? Why the long speech, you old witch? he thought to himself. But he allowed the countess to continue with her evocations of the past.

  “You’re a clever fellow like your predecessors, although less given to acts of charity, and you barely show your face in church.”

  “The only thing I believe in is myself, dear Úrsula, and even that is starting to wane. Had I been a God-fearing man, I’d never have gone into this business of mine.”

  “You also share their grit and ambition,” she went on, ignoring his blasphemous remarks. “I knew it the moment I met you. Which is why I understand, and applaud, your decision to leave. However, I suspect you weren’t being entirely truthful with us last night.”

  He responded to the provocation with feigned nonchalance. His splendid suit of Manchester wool may have matched his proud demeanor, but his stomach clenched in a knot. She knew. His daughter’s mother-in-law had found out that he was ruined. Somehow, somewhere, someone had given the game away. A servant, or perhaps one of Andrade’s contacts, had been eavesdropping and blabbed. The accursed sons of bitches.

  “I know you aren’t leaving Mexico because of internal tensions in this crazy country, or because the silver mining business is going through a bad moment. It has been very profitable for you until now, and mines don’t dry up overnight—even I know that. No, you’re leaving Mexico for a very different reason.”

  Mariana would be subjected to people’s impertinent stares every time she left the house; Nico would continue his wild ways and become a laughingstock when his engagement was broken off; the collapse of the family fortunes would become a subject of scandalous gossip in all the best houses, social gatherings, and cafés. Even the fierce warriors in the Flemish tapestry seemed to have halted their battle with their enemies to turn their gaze upon him, swords poised in the air, eyes oozing contempt. So, you’re ruined, you Spaniard, they seemed to be saying.

  From somewhere deep inside, he mustered a vestige of aplomb.

  “I’ve no idea what reason you are referring to, dear countess.”

  “Your own daughter put me on the track.”

  Larrea knitted his brow, at once incredulous and puzzled. Impossible. Out of the question. Mariana would never reveal to the countess what he was struggling so hard to conceal. She would never betray him in that way. Nor was she careless enough to have let slip something that serious by accident.

  “Last night, on our way home in my carriage—and your agent can testify to this—she made a remark that set me thinking. She reminded me that although all these years you have resided on this side of the ocean, you are still one hundred percent a Spanish subject.”

  This was true. Despite living there for so long, Larrea had never applied for Mexican citizenship. There was no particular reason for this: he was neither proud nor ashamed of his roots. Whatever his passport might be, everyone knew that he had been born in Spain, and he had no qualms about admitting it, even though he was aware that nothing tied him to his distant country of origin.

  “And you really believe that has something to do with my plans?”

  There was a surprisingly aggressive note to his voice, but the old lady was unruffled.

  “Indeed. A great deal. You know as well as I do that President Juárez has suspended all foreign debt repayments, and that affects Spain, France, and England. But above all Spain.”

  “The foreign debt has nothing whatsoever to do with me, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “No, not the debt itself, I agree. But perhaps the consequences of its remaining unpaid. I’ve heard rumors that Spain might go as far as to take measures against Juárez’s decision: that there could be reprisals, that the mother country might even be considering invading her old viceroyalty. Reconquering it.”

  He interrupted her brusquely:

  “For heaven’s sake, Úrsula, how can you believe such arrant nonsense?”

  “And, as a consequence,” the countess persisted, raising her hand to demand his patient attention, “these wicked Liberals we have in government could take revenge on you, the Spanish subjects residing here. It wouldn’t be the first time. There have been at least three expulsion orders against the Spaniards, who within four days found themselves on the other side of the border. I saw with my own eyes entire families broken up, fortunes lost . . .”

  “That was over thirty years ago, before Spain finally accepted Mexico’s independence. Certainly long before I arrived.”

  Indeed, that was how it had been: a bloody war of independence followed by years of denial until the Spanish crown finally recognized the emerging Mexican nation; from Father Hidalgo’s Cry of Dolores to the Treaty of Peace and Friendship in 1836. After that, a policy of reconciliation was pursued between Spain and the young republic, in an attempt to overcome the old mutual mistrust between the Creole settlers and the peninsular Spaniards from the days of the colony. For centuries the Creoles viewed the Spaniards as a band of greedy thugs, proud and tyrannical, who came to plunder their land and riches. For their part, the Spaniards viewed the Creoles as inferior merely for being born in the Americas, fickle and prone to idleness, wastrels with an exaggerated penchant for leisure and self-indulgence. And yet, when all was said and done, they were siblings, and as time went by they became neighbors, fell in love, intermarried endlessly, produced thousands of offspring together, grieved over one another’s passing, and inevitably infused each other’s lives with traces of their own identity.

  “Everything can always go back to the way it was, Mauro,” she insisted brusquely. “It can. If only it would. If only the old order could be reinstated, we could go back to being a viceroyalty.”

  At last the tension in his muscles relaxed, and he let out a guffaw of pure relief.

  “Úrsula, you wallow in nostalgia.”

  Each time the old countess dusted off her memories of bygone colonial days, those around her cringed—partly because of her stubborn opinions, her closed-mindedness, but also because she was quite capable of spending hours delving into a past that for most Mexicans had ceased to exist half a century before. On this occasion, she could have gone on praising the imperial dream until she was blue in the face: all that mattered to Larrea was that he was safe. Untarnished. She had no inkling of his financial ruin but was under the false impression that the reason for his hasty departure was to remain one step ahead of a hypothetical political edict that would doubtless never come to pass.

  “You’re mistaken, Mauro.”

  With her bony hand she reached for her jewel-encrusted gold cigarette case while he held up a lighted match.

  “I’m not nostalgic in the least,” she went on, blowing the smoke out of the corner of her mouth, “although I will confess that I belong to a different era, and that I detest the one we are currently obliged to endure. However, I’m nothing if not pragmatic, above all in matters of finance. As you know, I’ve been running the family’s pulque business in Tlalpan and Xochimilco since my husband passed away thirty-two years ago.”

  Of course Larrea knew this. He would never have given his blessing so readily to Mariana’s union with her son, Alonso, had he not known of the healthy state of the countess’s finances, that her maguey plantations in the countryside and pulquerías in the capital were thriving. And the countess knew that he knew. Both were fully aware th
at this marriage had brought mutual benefits.

  “That’s why,” she went on, “I’ve decided to ask a favor of you.”

  “I’ll do everything I can, as always . . .”

  “I want you to take some of my capital with you to Cuba. To invest over there.”

  His response was unequivocal.

  “That’s out of the question.”

  She pretended not to hear him.

  “To invest alongside your own money,” she repeated vehemently. “I believe in you.”

  Just as he was about to reiterate his refusal in the strongest terms, Mariana entered the room, her protruding belly encased in a muslin shift, her hair tied back loosely, giving her a casual air that accentuated her natural beauty. She looked drowsy.

  “I woke up to learn that you two have been talking since early this morning. Good day to you both. God bless you.”

  “I’ve just told him the news,” the countess cut in.

  Mariana planted a fleeting kiss on her father’s cheek.

  “A splendid idea, isn’t it? Our two families united in a common venture.”

  With this, she stretched out languidly on a velvet chaise longue while her father gazed at her uneasily.

  “You’ll enjoy special privileges in Cuba,” the countess continued. “The island still belongs to the Spanish crown, and as a native Spaniard many doors will be open to you.”

  “It isn’t a good idea for me to take your money, Úrsula,” Larrea insisted. “I appreciate your trust, but the responsibility is too great. Perhaps when I’ve established something more solid.”

  The old lady hoisted herself up, arms braced against the chair. Deaf to his protests, she walked over to the balsawood table she used for all her business affairs. On the desk, watched over by a magnificent ivory cross, were piles of documents and ledgers, proof that the countess devoted her time to other things besides charitable works and dusty reminiscences. She rummaged among them, continuing to talk without looking up.