A Visit to Don Otavio (18 page)

‘Rooms are rather essential.’

‘How many?’

‘It depends. If you are thinking of San Pedro, I should say there were just the right number for its size. About twenty bedrooms, are there?’

‘Eight would
not
do?’

‘It seems hardly worth starting an hotel on eight.’

‘That is what Tavio and Luís keep saying. My husband got very angry with Luís. He says it has nothing to do with him as he lives at Mexico, it is we and the Enriquez’ who come out here from Saturday to Monday. Enriquez says he must have nine rooms reserved for himself and his family. My husband thinks we ought to make sacrifices, after all we need not take the governess each time, but even so five rooms are hardly enough for us. Victoria says Tavio ought to let them have the first floor of the Villa to themselves, and put us up on the second. Tavio did not like that. He said an hotel was one thing but it was not suitable to give up his home too. Victoria said it was ridiculous for a bachelor to live in a house that size and she had much better manage the servants. Enriquez said the Hacienda was
his
home and it was natural to want to keep a few bedrooms. Luís said it was absurd to want to make money and at the same time live like cardinals and Enriquez said he never grudged a man his comforts and told Luís to mind his business. It was all very dreadful and difficult. What will they all do? I left. I do not think they noticed.’

At luncheon everybody was a shade more polite to us than yesterday. Don Enriquez was himself, Don Otavio was quiet and Don Luís thinking. Only Don Jaime showed strain and Doña Victoria annoyance. It was during this luncheon that Jesús stabbed Juan.

There was a wild shriek from the kitchen quarters, and had we not heard Jesús utter another one and seen him rush past the loggia with out-flung arms, we should never have known what had happened. None of the people present ever told.

When we reached the kitchen Juan lay on the floor, his eyes closed, in quite a deal of blood. Angelita, Guadalupe, Soledad, Soledad’s mother, Pedro and Domingo stood about with averted eyes and sullen blank faces. Carmelita, Jesús’ wife and Andreas had slipped out as we came in.

We bent over Juan.

‘Is he badly hurt?’ said Don Otavio. He was dead white and shaking from head to foot.

‘What’s going on here?’ said Don Enriquez.

There was silence.

Fortunately Juan moaned, and moaned dramatically.

Don Enriquez shrugged, and he and Don Jaime walked out.

‘Give me some water, quick,
niños
,’ said Don Otavio.

‘And some scissors,’ said Doña Concepción.

‘Run and get the box with the medicines from my bathroom,’ said Don Otavio.

No one stirred.

Anthony ran. Don Otavio, Doña Concepción and I did what was necessary. It became obvious at once that it was a deep flesh wound and nothing at all. The knife had gone in at the back, and come out again at the side without entering the rib-case. We spoke reassuring words to Juan. He kept his eyes shut and lay quite still.

‘No, no,’ I said to Anthony who had produced a rather surprising store of his own, ‘we’re not going to monkey with streptomycin. This is clearly a case for iodine, clean gauze and a couple of days in bed.’

‘You’re
not
going to have a doctor?’ said Anthony.

‘You can see it is nothing,’ said I.

‘The doctor lives twelve miles from here,’ said Don Otavio.

‘And drinks this time of the month,’ said Don Luís.

‘Juanito, would you like the kind witch from Ajijíc?’ said Don Otavio.

Juan gave a faint nod.

‘We will send for her at once. Which one do you want? Consuela or the lady from Germany?’

‘The lady from overseas,’ said Juan and, struck by his powers of speech, opened his eyes.

‘You see,
niños
, Juan is not dead. He will get well. All like before. Pedro, Juan is your friend, is he not? Come and help us now.’

There was no response.

‘Pick up that knife and put it out of the way,’ said Don Luís.

The knife was lying on the floor. A long knife with a wooden handle,
more like a good butcher’s knife than a weapon.

‘Pick up that knife, I tell you,’ said Don Luís. ‘Can’t you hear me?’

They made no sign.

‘Aw, what’s the odds,’ said Anthony, and picked up the knife.

‘They are afraid,’ said Don Otavio.

‘They are all like that,’ said Don Luís. ‘Our law arrests the witnesses of an accident, or anyone who has anything to do with it afterwards. And as these kind of things are never brought to trial, they usually stay in gaol for years. It’s an old old law. Of course it only goes for public incidents, there’s no need for them to behave like that here. But it’s no use, I don’t suppose they’ve even heard of the law, they’re just terrified. It’s become an Indio habit. Unreasonable as cattle.’

As Juan was still convinced that he could not move, and the others refused to take the slightest notice of him, Don Luís, Anthony and Don Otavio had to carry him to bed.

‘Where does he sleep?’ said Anthony.

‘Across my door,’ said Don Otavio.

‘Hardly the place to receive the lady witch from Germany,’ said I.

‘We can put his blanket in the room where Domingo and Andreas sleep.’

‘Well Anthony,’ I said later in the afternoon, ‘this puts the lid on
your
source of information.’ The conclave was sitting again after the siesta. ‘Fortunately I have my own. I know now what these preliminaries were; and they’re not settled. Doña Concepción was tired and talked. I don’t think she will again.’

‘That’s OK Juan’s a lot better. That Fraulein Sauer has been to see him. The poor bastard is sitting up eating
frijoles
and jabbering about escape from death. But say, that kraut is no witch. I asked her, and she gave me this lecture on like curing like, and diseases making their own remedies like something out of the
Reader’s Digest
. Otavio wanted to send her home in the boat, but she said what did he think her two good German feets were for. German boots, more like.’

That night, I cooked again. The atmosphere in the kitchen was one of
great reserve. Guadalupe and Soledad’s mother exchanged polite conversation for my ear. Jesús’ wife sat on a stool shedding tears. No one addressed her. The drawing-room, on the contrary was animated. The conclave had risen early. Don Otavio came out of it looking impenetrable and sleek. There was bridge and rummy, and later on sweet champagne.

‘What will happen to Jesús?’ said I.

‘He will hide in the hills for a little while,’ said Don Otavio. ‘He must be so ashamed. Then he will drink for a bit, and when he has recovered from that he will come home. Then he and his wife will have to make it up. That will take a few more days.’

‘And meanwhile we are without a gardener,’ said Doña Victoria.

‘It will not be so long this time. They will want to it be all
regulár
before the Sixteenth. They want to enjoy that.’

‘Is that a comfort?’ said I. ‘What will they all be doing
on
the Sixteenth?’

‘Yes, it is a trying holiday,’ said Don Otavio.

‘Before the Revolutions we used to go abroad to avoid it,’ said Doña Victoria.

‘Holy Week is worse,’ said her husband.

‘And the Fifth of May,’ said Don Jaime.

‘Holy Week lasts longer,’ said Doña Victoria.

‘We have Fifty-two Sundays and Seventy-nine Holidays,’ said Don Jaime.

‘All observed?’ said I.

‘All observed. Of course some of them only for one day.’

‘Which are the most important?’

‘La Purisima,
’ said Doña Victoria.

‘Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe,
’ said Don Otavio.

‘Viernes Santo,
’ said Doña Concepción.

‘Corpus Domini,’
said Don Luís.

‘The Government insists more on the Military Holidays,’ said Don Enriquez; ‘the Battle of Puebla, the Taking of Mexico from the French, the Investiture of Querétaro.’

‘The Indios like the Days of National Mourning,’ said Don Jaime.

‘What are those?’ said I.

‘The Anniversaries of the Murder of Francisco Madero in February, the Execution of Hidalgo in July, the Execution of Morelos in December, the Death of Juarez in July …’

‘Is the Execution of the Emperor Maximilian a holiday?’ said E.

‘He is not persona grata at present,’ said Don Enriquez.

‘Was he ever that?’ said I.

‘He
was
a disappointment,’ said Don Enriquez.

‘The
greatest
holiday is the Day of the Dead,’ said Don Luís.

‘El Día de los Muertes,
of course,’ said Doña Victoria.

‘Of course,’ said Don Enriquez.

‘What would have happened if Jesús had killed Juan?’ said I.

‘The same. He would have to stay away a little longer.’

‘There would not be the usual formalities attending murder?’ said E.

‘A knifing,’ said Don Enriquez. ‘Our police isn’t very interested in that kind of thing.’

‘We should have half the population sitting in gaol twiddling their thumbs,’ said Don Jaime.

‘Servants are hard enough to get as it is,’ said Doña Victoria.

Later that night, Anthony came to my room and reported. ‘It’s all been fixed,’ he said. It appears that Don Enriquez and his wife are going to have three rooms set aside for them at the Hacienda, and floor space for their boatmen, the valet and the maid, which still leaves a possible number of bedrooms to the hotel. Their sons and daughter, and the Jaimes and their children will be put up by Don Otavio at the Villa whenever they choose to come. They will be his guests, and he’ll have the running of his house. Don Jaime will receive the profit from the rooms he foregoes to occupy at the Hacienda. They all seem pleased by the arrangement: everybody thinks he has got what he wanted. Don Otavio loves to have Doña Concepción and his house full of nieces and nephews, and Don Jaime does not come very often.

‘It’s really quite brilliant,’ said I. ‘I wonder who thought of it.’

‘I did,’ said Anthony.

‘You?’

‘Yes. So much nicer for Joaquím and Orazio, too. Doña Victoria keeps such an eye on them when she gets the chance. I doped it all out and told Juan, and Juan told Otavio, and Otavio made Luís propose it as a disinterested party.’

‘A rare role. What about Don Jaime’s extras?’

‘Me again.’

‘Anthony, you
should
live in Mexico.’

‘Oh S,’ said E, ‘I’ve been talking to such an interesting German woman this afternoon. A bit of a rough diamond, but most instructive about Doctor Adenauer. Who is she? The doctor?’

‘The witch. Anthony thinks she’s a fake.’

‘S, we have been much mistaken about the aims of Western Germany,’ said E.

M
R MIDDLETON stood on his verandah, watch drawn. ‘Three and twenty minutes to five,’ he said. ‘Hear you had quite a rumpus yesterday. Gardener killed his wife and two of the
mozos
, and wounded some of the housemaids. If I were Otavio, I’d make it an excuse to sack the man. Shocking gardener. Fellow hadn’t even heard of a mulch.’

‘Hello,’ said Blanche Middleton, ‘hello. I didn’t sleep a wink last night thinking of you.’

‘Only one
mozo
was wounded – the merest gash; and no one, I am grateful to say, was killed,’ said E.

‘Natives exaggerate so,’ said Mr Middleton. ‘No way of getting accurate information about anything. Great nuisance. Usually make a point of finding out myself. They didn’t have the sense at San Pedro to send for me.’

‘They sent for a German from Ajijíc,’ said Anthony.

‘Oh, the homeopathic quack. The woman’s a fool, but the natives are impressed. My crocuses are out. Come and look at them.’

‘Richard, tea’s ready. You said it was seven minutes past your tea time.’

‘Twelve now. Well pour it out, Blanche, pour it out. So you’re having all the Xs down at the Hacienda? What do you make of them? Enriquez, I dare say is behaving like God Almighty. Fellow can’t even keep his wife in order. Be quiet, Blanche, it’s been all over the clubs for years about Doña Victoria and Doña Concepción’s brother. Nobody seems to mind. They’re a rotten lot, the bunch of them. Doña Concepción has had her romances too, but she’s more discreet. Felipe, the other chap, is always
hanging round. I wonder he hasn’t come down with them this time. Oh of course, they’re thrashing out that hotel deal.’

‘E calls it the Conclave,’ said Anthony.

‘How is it going?’

‘We wouldn’t know,’ said Anthony, with his sweet smile.

‘Well, I’ve been to Guadalajara and
I
can tell you a thing or two. Enriquez was going to put up the capital and
he
was going to pocket the profits. If there are any. I’m going to give them a piece or two of advice, hope they have sense enough to take it. The others were supposed to get just something in proportion with their share in the place. Nobody seems to know what Otavio’s is. Some say it’s less because he’s got the Villa, some believe it’s more because he was supposed to have had it all. Any rate, he was to get something extra as he’s supposed to run the hotel. Not really run it; he’ll have a manager and a fellow to cook the books and whatnot, these people never think of raising a finger themselves if they can help it. But he’ll keep an eye on things and play host. Otavio’ll be worth his keep with the trippers, I dare say. Now it seems that Enriquez hasn’t produced the capital he said he would – you wouldn’t know how hard it is to lay hands on a bit of cash in this country – and there is this RC aunt of theirs suddenly chipping in with a good round sum, in Otavio’s name if you please. Otavio is to go full shares with Enriquez, and get a director’s salary as well. That makes Otavio topdog of the show. It was sprung on them all last week. Enriquez doesn’t really care two pins – after the first shock – the more capital the better and he can always get his way with Otavio. A fly could walk over that fellow. But the other two must be feeling rather in the cold now. Enriquez alone was one thing. They’ve smelt money and they’ll have to be squared. After all, they must own about half the place between them. It’s more tricky than that because there are all sorts of mortgages and family loans, and they say Luís sold his share sub rosa to Enriquez years ago. I dare say it isn’t true or Enriquez hasn’t paid. Fact is, nobody quite knows where he stands. Jaime may. He’s supposed to have it all at his fingertips. He’s got the brains, Enriquez’s got the guts in that family. Slippery customer Jaime. You can’t tell what he’s after. Sometimes it’s money, and then again it’s not. His eldest girl could have married the
government wallah who cornered all the oil. Jaime wouldn’t hear of it. I wonder what he’ll do now. So far he’s always stood in with Enriquez in a family bust-up. Luís doesn’t count. He’s been thinking crooked for so long, he wouldn’t know a straight deal if he saw one. So now you know what it’s all about.’

‘Thank you,’ said Anthony, his face grave.

‘Mr Middleton,’ said E, ‘you left us such a peculiar message yesterday. At least in the unreliable native version.’

‘Quite,’ said Mr Middleton. ‘I was going to ask you whether you had ordered your coffins? I dare say you haven’t. Well, I advise you to do so at once. There’s quite a handy little man just out of Jocotepec, cheap too, who doesn’t take all week either, with a bit of prodding.’

‘May I ask you,’ said E, ‘what causes you to take so gloomy a view of our life expectancies? Poor Anthony here is barely twenty, you know.’

‘I always make a point of telling newcomers to have their coffins made. The other day we had two men from the Botanical Institute at Bombay to tea. Interesting chaps. One of them wrote a book on mimosa, all theory I dare say. I had to tell
them
too. Nobody seems to take in that by Mexican law they have to be buried within twenty-four hours, coffin or no coffin. Well, you’d be hard put to get one made in that time, native workmen being what they are. This is one of the few laws out here you can’t get round. I have mine of course, and one for my wife; and I insisted on having a suitable coffin made for our servant. Naturally the coffin remains my property if he leaves.’

‘All those great big coffins Richard keeps in the cellar,’ said Blanche; ‘they give me the creeps.’

‘You have to air them now and again,’ said her husband; ‘the wood warps so. People never think of anything. When that American chap died of flu last spring – DTs if you ask me – his wife came running round asking for mine. As if I hadn’t told them. Blanche bamboozled me into letting them have it – for the last time, Blanche – and would you believe it, it took me five weeks to get that woman to replace
my
coffin. Of course she drinks too. So don’t say you haven’t been warned, and don’t come asking for mine.’

‘Then has everybody out here got their coffin, Sir?’ said Anthony.

‘Well, Waldheim has two. One here, and one at Mexico. I told him. Sensible chap, Waldheim. One can always count on the Germans. Reliable people. Pity the old girl is so down on him. Won’t let his boys go to the German school at Guadalajara. Took them out at the beginning of the war, and stuck them into the American school instead. Sloppy kind of place. After the Fall of France, Waldheim, who is a bit of a wet rag, pulled himself together and put the boys back into the German school. After the Battle of Britain, Mrs Rawlston took them out again; after Tobruk, Waldheim put them back; Mrs Rawlston pulled them out for Lend-Lease and Waldheim put them back for Singapore. Boys changed schools twelve times before D-Day. After that Mrs Rawlston just kept them at the American school. Now she doesn’t like their manners. Well, she can’t expect to have it all her way, as I keep telling her.’

‘I never heard you say
that
to Mrs Rawlston, Richard,’ said Blanche Middleton.

‘The cottage was to have been the thin wedge for the coffin,’ said Anthony in the boat.

‘Mr Middleton is what my mother called an impertinent man,’ said E.

‘I am grateful,’ said Anthony. ‘Think how bad Juan is at figures. What a hash he would have made of those mortgages.’

It was obvious at once that something had gone wrong. Don Enriquez was pacing the lawn by himself, and the brow of Jupiter was clouded.

We sought Don Otavio, and learned that he had left for Guadalajara half an hour ago in his brother’s motor boat. And for the present we learnt nothing else. Doña Victoria was closeted with Don Jaime. Doña Concepción had gone to lie down. Don Luís was walking alone with a light tread.

Presently a message came for him to see Doña Victoria, and he started like a guilty schoolboy.

‘Money
has
come up,’ said Anthony.

We were told that Don Otavio was spending the night at his aunt’s house and would not be back until some time next afternoon.

Later Doña Victoria came out on to the terrace, looking like Phèdre.
Dinner was strained, and the house not the same without Don Otavio. The courses were shuffled the wrong order; afterwards Doña Victoria and Don Jaime played bézique.

Don Enriquez sat alone over his cigar. ‘Where
did
he get it from?’ he said once in a loud voice, addressing no one in particular.

‘No soap,’ said Anthony later on that night. ‘Juan says Otavio left in such a hurry, he didn’t say goodbye to him. He says Pedro heard his master say that Don Luís had put a bombshell on the table. Juan is very puzzled.’

Next morning there was no conclave. People stayed apart, drifted into groups and came apart again, and nothing seemed to happen. As the day wore on, it became clear that everyone was waiting, more or less openly, for Don Otavio’s return.

‘I told the little one to take my car to Chapala,’ said Don Enriquez; ‘that should make him faster.’

After breakfast Doña Victoria spoke to me. She was extremely nervous, one might almost have said frightened, but her words were her own. ‘I am afraid we must have seemed most inhospitable last night,’ she said. ‘My husband has made such efforts to keep up San Pedro, and now we found out that his plans have been crossed in the most unscrupulous manner. My husband has worked so hard and he is the head of the family. It is most incorrect and treacherous.’

Doña Concepción sought Anthony on the lawn. ‘Don Antonio, will you do me a very great favour? Will you take this letter in for me and post it? I know it is unusual, but it is quite all right. See it is addressed to my brother. Will you take it yourself? The servants are so unreliable. Will you see that the postmistress puts on the mark before your eyes? You must always do that or they will steal the stamps and throw away the letters. This is an express letter and has expensive stamps. Even so it will take days, Santísima María. But I don’t think we should telegraph. And Don Antonio, will you not tell anyone?’

Doña Concepción went at once to where Doña Victoria was sitting; she looked up and followed Anthony with her eyes.

‘Do you think they know about Mr Middleton and the Jocotepec
telegrams?’ said Anthony to E. ‘Oughtn’t I take this letter to him first? We Anglo-Saxons are a small colony out here and must do all we can for each other.’

At noon, Don Luís brought a gin fizz to E. ‘Rum lot, my family,’ he said, ‘you’d think you’d be doing them a favour by helping them out a bit and they treat you like a criminal. No real sense of business in our country.’

Dressing for luncheon, Don Enriquez exploded in front of his valet, and consequently Juan was found to be more enlightened, though still puzzled, as to the nature of Don Luís’ bombshell. What Don Luís had put on the table were
centavos
, Juan told Anthony.

‘Shouldn’t have called it
centavos
, either,’ said Anthony.
‘Twenty-five thousand
pesos the bastard produced in hard cash. I should have liked to see their faces. Now what’s eating them? There isn’t that much reason to be put out? Of course it was cheek of Luís.’

‘One begins to see the point of primogeniture,’ said E.

‘This lets Don Luís in on the profits,’ said I. ‘The place couldn’t carry so many shareholders, and they particularly did not want Luís. I suppose if they refused his money, he could refuse permission to have the hotel.’

‘Yeah,’ said Anthony. ‘But twenty-five thousand pesos ain’t hay.’

‘Where did he get them from?’ said E.

At tea-time Don Jaime unburdened himself, obliquely to E, ‘If you were about to launch an enterprise,’ he said, ‘and someone you
knew
had nothing insisted on investing a substantial sum, what would be your conclusion?’

‘That there was someone else behind your man,’ said E.

‘Yes. I am afraid so. And what would be the motive?’

‘To get in on your venture, of course.’

‘That, or revenge,’ said Don Jaime. ‘Where did he get it from?’

It was nearly dusk and there was still no sign of Don Otavio. Doña Victoria was standing on the waterfront, now almost haggard with anxiety. Then there was the sound of a motor. The boat came in sight, landed; Don Otavio stepped out with Doña Victoria clutching at him.
The two came up the garden, Don Otavio grave, Doña Victoria a woman changed by relief. Don Enriquez walked rapidly down to meet them. The rest of us stood on the terrace, watching. Doña Concepción crossed herself. She turned to me. ‘You know we are in trouble,’ she said. ‘Luís has a large sum of money and it is a great worry. Tavio is bringing Aunt Isabella-María’s advice. Oh,
where
did he get it from?’

Down in the garden, Don Enriquez suddenly rocked with laughter: he slapped his thighs and thumped at Don Otavio. He looked up to us. ‘From our pious aunt!’ he shouted.