Daughter of Fortune (23 page)

Maria wanted to slam the door after him, to let him
know that she did not care for his words. Instead, she turned back
to the
batea
and thumped more flour in, coughing as the
white dust rose in her face. She stopped, staring at the flour. “By
the saints, what am I doing?” she said and began shoveling the
unneeded flour back into the sack.

While she measured the liquid ingredients into the
batea,
Cristóbal’s words were clear in her mind. She did not
belong at Las Invernadas. But did she belong anywhere? She knew she
should have died in the cholera epidemic. Failing that, she should
have perished in the Indian raid on the supply caravan, or in Diego
Masferrer’s cornfield. And now here she was, by some curious twist
of God’s grace. But did she belong?

Cristóbal’s words had brought her back to her
senses. If she had ever thought of Diego as husband instead of
master, she would not do so again. Princes married poor girls only
in the stories she had told Luz and Catarina.

“Foolish Maria,” she murmured out loud, dumping the
bread dough onto the table. “Silly girl.”

Cristóbal sought her out more than ever. If Maria
had thought he was courting, she would have discouraged him, but
how could these harmless walks with the children or simple
conversations between friends be called courting? Even if Diego,
whose scowling eyes sometimes followed them, thought it was
courting, Maria knew it was not. She and Cristóbal were two
foreigners at Las Invernadas, two half-members of the Masferrer
clan, dependent on Diego’s generosity—and sufferance.

Maria often walked with Luz and Catarina around the
cornfield after the evening meal, while the sky was still light.
She loved to watch impetuous Catarina test the limits of her
surveillance, while Luz followed shyly. The children liked to play
hide-and-seek among the corn rows, grown tall enough now to shelter
them from each other’s eyes. Diego would not allow them beyond the
walls alone, so Maria was content to lead them out and sit by
herself as they darted in and out of the rows, chasing each other
and shrieking with laughter.

And Cristóbal joined her there often, to sit
cross-legged, saying nothing. One night, after considerable
soul-searching, she turned to look at him. As usual, he was
watching her, observing her face with the same leisurely air that
characterized most of his actions. He had none of the driven nature
of Diego. He did not appear to hurry from task to task, as did his
half brother. He had the time to sit in silence and observe Maria.
How different the brothers were. Maria smiled to herself.

Cristóbal leaned back and propped himself up on one
elbow, his eyes still on Maria’s face. “Why do you smile?”

She shook her head, still smiling. “I was just
thinking about you and Diego. You appear to be standing still, even
when you are busy. ”

He laughed, and the laughter pleased her. It helped
banish a different Cristóbal—Cristóbal the savage in thrall to
Popeh. “You compare me to Diego Masferrer, who always looks busy,
even when he is standing still!”

She joined his laughter. “Why is that?”

Cristóbal looked away then, his mood changing, his
face suddenly serious. “Because all this is his, and he knows there
are not enough hours in a day to get everything done.” His mood
changed again, like a cloud passing over the sun, and he smiled.
“You should have known him when he was younger, before our father
died. He was different then.”

Cristóbal paused. “I should qualify that. Don’t I
sound like Diego? He and I were both busy, even from the time of
our early youth. You see how it is around here. But when the
inheritance fell to him—and the burden—he went from being my
brother to being my master.”

He said no more, and she did not press him. She was
becoming used to his Indian silences. They sat together and watched
the Masferrer sisters until the bell sounded for prayers.'

Cristóbal got up, reaching down his hand for Maria,
and tugged her to her feet. “That bell,” he said, “that bell. It
follows me everywhere.”

“It’s only prayers,” she said, motioning to the
girls.

Again he was silent, leading the way down to the
acequia
and across the bridge, moving with the wonderful
grace that made him part of his surroundings. Maria thought again
how much she would like to paint Cristóbal Masferrer.

He met her often at the cornfield and she found a
certain peace in his silence, a security in his quiet that made her
think of him often during the day. But she learned the
impenetrability of that silence when she tried once to talk to him
about Tesuque and Popeh.

They had been sitting as they usually sat, at the
edge of the cornfield, Maria with her legs drawn up close to her
body and chin on her knees, Cristóbal lying beside her, just at the
edge of her vision.

“Cristóbal, tell me about Popeh.”

She had said it suddenly, quickly, and the words
hung on the cooling air. She did not turn to look at Cristóbal, but
sat staring straight ahead into the cornfield. When several minutes
of silence passed, she turned her head slightly to look at
Cristóbal. He was gone. He had risen silently and left her.

It was several days before he joined her again at
the cornfield, and then he spoke of other things. Maria never asked
him about Popeh again, even though she longed to know more, to
understand the feelings of fear that came to her when she
remembered Popeh and his eyes full of hate. But Cristóbal would not
speak of what went on at Tesuque.

And then something happened, and he never came to
sit with her again.

Maria remembered the date, July 15. She knew that
she would never forget it, that each July 15 to come, some corner
of her heart would go out to Cristóbal Masferrer. And she knew that
she was not the only one who would remember.

The day began as all others. The rhythm of life at
Las Invernadas had worked itself into Maria’s senses. She rose now
by instinct, dressed, spent a moment in prayer before the room’s
altar, then hurried to the kitchen, tying on her apron or smoothing
her hair back with impatient fingers.

But this morning she did not enter the kitchen. The
brothers were inside as usual, and they were quarreling. It was a
loud, shouting argument. She knew she should not listen, knew she
should go back down the hall to her room and wait there until there
was silence again, but she heard her name spoken.

It was Cristóbal, his voice strained with tension,
filled with a desperation that both surprised and saddened her.
“You are sure you know what Maria wants! Do you ever ask her, eh?
Do you ever slow down long enough to think about people?”

“You know I do, Cristóbal,” replied Diego, his voice
low.

“I do not! We are not people to you. You pat us on
the back as you fondle your dogs, a pat here, a kind word there,
and then you presume to run our lives!”

The bench scraped back and tipped over as Diego
leaped to his feet, all patience gone. “What would you have me to
do, brother?” he roared. “Do you think it was my idea to take over
Las Invernadas so young? Do you think I like working so hard that I
fall asleep at the dinner table? Somebody has to run this
place!”

Cristóbal too was on his feet. “But must you run our
lives as well? I do not ask your advice or permission this time. I
love Maria,” he said, the bare pleading in his voice going to
Maria’s heart. “You told me once to think about it. Well, I have!
All I want to do is ask her. She will say yes.”

“I do not think she will,” said Diego. “But you are
not going to ask her anything. I will not allow it, not while she
has committed herself into my care.”

Maria flinched at the sound of broken glass,
followed by a resounding slap.

“Don’t you ever strike me again, Diego,” said
Cristóbal, his voice heavy with menace. “If you want her for your
own, just say so, my brother. Let her choose for herself. Who
knows? Maybe she prefers someone who is too tired to love her.” His
voice rose then, “But she does not come with cattle or nails or
land or fence posts, so I think you are just playing the same game
you have always played, you and all of you Spaniards. If you cannot
have it, then nobody else will, either! We have had a bellyful of
your games!”

Someone sat down heavily on the table. “Then I have
failed you, Cristóbal,” said Diego quietly.

“You were bound to someday,” Cristóbal shouted.

“So be it then,” snapped Diego, the spark leaping
into flame once more. “But Maria is not for you.”

“Not for your bastard Indian brother, eh? I know her
better than you ever will, Diego
mio
.” Cristóbal’s voice was
low, scarcely audible.

“No, you do not, Cristóbal, for all the time you
have spent with her. And you never will, because you are Indian and
we are not. It has finally come down to that.”

Then the brothers were silent, drained by the
passion of their argument. Cristóbal spoke at last. “You will
regret this morning’s work, my brother.”

The outside door slammed. In the silence that
followed, she heard Diego weeping, his sobs heavy, dragged out of
his body with great pain. Her own heart heavy, she turned and fled
to her room.

Diego said nothing to Maria of the incident with
Cristóbal, nothing to anyone. He was silent and withdrawn, in the
evenings moving restlessly from room to room or sitting by himself
in the unused
sala
. On the mornings when she was at work in
the kitchen before him, Diego would enter quickly, looking around
for Cristóbal. When he did not see his brother, he would eat in
silence, ignoring her presence. Often at night she would hear him
walking back and forth in the hall.

Cristóbal did not return to Las Invernadas until
late July, and then one morning he was sitting in the kitchen
beside Diego, the two of them dipping yesterday’s bread in last
night’s chocolate, together as in earlier days. Maria entered the
kitchen to begin her day’s work, too shy to look at either brother,
excited by the presence of both of them.

“Dios bendiga
, Maria,” said Diego as
usual.

“And to you, Señor,” she answered as usual.

Cristóbal rose, wiping his hands on his shirt. “I
will be with the cattle today, my brother,” he said. “Several have
strayed beyond the Gutierrez place.”

“I am sure they have, my brother.”

“What? You do not know, down to the last horn and
hide, where they are?” said Cristóbal. His words were teasing, his
tone harsh.

“Don’t, Cristóbal,” whispered Diego, pushing back
his cup and looking up at his brother.

“Very well, master,” said Cristóbal with a sweeping
bow.

Maria watched the anger rising in Diego’s eyes, but
still he said nothing. With a laugh, Cristóbal waved to her and
left, closing the door gently behind him.

Maria bent over the
batea,
kneading the
bread. Diego poured himself another cup of chocolate and sat there,
watching it grow cold.

“Why did he come back, Maria?”

She shook her head, unwilling to look at him. She
was crying into the bread dough, unable to control her sobs. She
wanted to wipe her face, but her arms were sticky to the elbow with
flour and water.

Diego got up, pulling out his handkerchief. He
tipped her head back and covered her nose with it. “Blow.”

She blew, then he wiped her eyes with a corner of
the handkerchief.

“Don’t cry, Maria. I cannot bear it. It isn’t your
trouble.”

She looked up suddenly, her eyes full of anger. “Oh,
yes it is!”

His voice rose. “It cannot be helped!”

“Not now. The thing has gone too far. I am to blame,
and I know it.”

“You are not to blame,” Diego said, pocketing his
handkerchief and sitting on the edge of the table. “I stare at my
own sins when I look at Cristóbal.” He paused, looking away
carefully. “So what should we do?”

“I should leave here, Diego.”

He smiled. She had never called him by name before.
“And where would you go, Maria
chiquita
?” he asked softly,
his eyes kind again. “You belong here.”

“I do not. Cristóbal belongs here.”

He made no reply. She wiped her hands on her apron
and stood with them folded in front of her, torn by gratitude and
guilt, love and despair. “I wonder why I did not die in that Indian
massacre.”

He leaned toward her and touched her arm. “I have
wondered that, too, Maria. From the little, the very little, you
have told me, I wonder, too. It is one of God’s mysteries, and it
does us no credit to question it.”

She sighed and returned to the bread. After watching
her a moment, Diego went out into the garden. He stood on the path,
looked around him at the morning, stretched, rubbed his back and
walked toward the footbridge. Maria finished the bread dough while
the Indian servant girl swept the dirt floor. Usually Maria enjoyed
the homey sound of the broom on the dirt, but today the whispering
sound filled her with sadness. I will go to Margarita, she thought,
although in her heart she knew that wasn’t the answer.

Maria was interrupted by Erlinda, who came into the
kitchen with her sisters. “Here, Maria,” she said, “let us put
these worthless ones to work.”

Luz and Catarina grinned at her. Erlinda held them
close so they could not dart away. “Come, you scamps,” she said.
“We shall help Maria gather the dirty linen. If we can get the
washing done today, then it will not be staring at us when we
return from Santa Fe.”

Her words were magic. Luz and Catarina scattered to
collect the laundry. Erlinda and Maria pulled the wooden
bateas
from the storeroom and into the kitchen yard, where
they started a fire in the large copper kettle.

“I suppose you do not think Santa Fe is much,
Maria,” Erlinda said, “but to us, it is all we know of towns and
cities.”