Transcript

V Part 2 · Conquistador

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Section six of conquist de d'Or. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox
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recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
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visit LibriVox dot org. Conquistador by Catherine Fullerton Gerald five, Part two.
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Dounia Flora, who affected rage at the notion of being ordered to dance,
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was secretly delighted. Twenty four hours of Santa Eulalia had reduced her to literal
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tears and a certain amount of foot stamping. She was somewhat appeased, to
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be sure, by Dick's choosing to stay at home to wander through the wide
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arcades with her instead of riding a field with his rich but taciturn friend.
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Don Ricardo said the hassendato was Americano, too, but that was absurd.
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He was a creole of the creoles, not, however, at the kind
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she was in the habit of seeing in the theaters and cafes of Mexico.
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He had been barely civil to her, the old fashioned sort. Yes,
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she would dance, especially as there was to be champagne. That was the
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wine for a woman of the world. Dounia Flora could indeed shake a mean
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leg. The whole household did its best to crowd in behind Pablo and Dick,
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who constituted the official audience. Naturally, there was not room, As
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Vicenti's orders and smart slaps told them. Some scores of them squatted in the
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patio, hoping for an occasional glimpse of twinkling feet as the mass inside stirred
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and shifted and applauded. Donia Flora, back at her metier, felt happier.
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If she could charm the young bloods of the town. She could have
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her way with the vocos and peons. Dark faces beyond the torchlight reminded her
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of her own beginnings down in an Waxaca village. She suddenly decided to eschew
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the ballet steps and renew her childhood. So imperiously she removed the guitar from
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the hands of one adoring youth and summoned him to dance with her. He
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leaped to his feet and swung don Ya Flora of the Teatro Espagnon into the
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crude and passionate measures. Pableu chin in hand, his cigarette forgotten, watched
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them intently. Yes, this was life, as these souls he mastered knew
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it. No wonder they thought him cold, him Don Pablo Gutierrez, who
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always left the fiesta when the bull fight was over, the drinking but half
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done, and the dancing just begun. Riding home alone in the moonlight.
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This was what they understood, the subtle yet shameless dance of mating. No
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wonder that even at Santa Eulalia, Don Miguel and the sacraments could barely keep
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abreast of the tide of sexual encounters. The pushing crowd did not encroach upon
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him and his guest, but he felt the accelerated breath, the illumined eyes
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all about him in the dark. He turned and looked curiously at Rivers.
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Strange to think that Rivers was more used to this than he Rivers in his
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white flannels, with his American tow head and the Bostonian accent in his slang.
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But Rivers was not used to this. Two Mexican peasants enacting the primitive
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emotions without footlights. This was very far from the Teatro Espanol, and he
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saw Flora through a mist of strangeness. An ancient male reaction stirred in him.
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Of course, one didn't make a scene, but Flora was reverting too
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far for him to follow. It must stop. He rose and snapped his
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fingers, more for the physical relief of the gesture than as a warning or
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an order. But Dounia Flora heard it, and with one last beautiful spring
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of her leathed body, clung for one mere breath to her partner, kissed
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him, and dropped away. The dance was over, and swinging her hips
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and smiling, she nestled at roos feet and asked for champagne. Don Pablo
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gave it to her with his own hands and a rich compliment as well.
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Vicente cleared the great room, Flora's willem partner lounged out to boast of his
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prowess and his kiss. The patio hummed ever more faintly as folk drifted off
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to their corners and their huts. The moon rode high and undisturbed. Don
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Pablo, bowing low to Donia Flora, wished her all manner of fine dreams.
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He clapped his hands, and a few sleepy Indian girls sprang from nowhere
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to fetch screened candles and light the Signora across the great patio to her room.
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She yawned with great sweetness, murmured, I am very tired and left
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them. Rivers lighted another cigarette. I am tired too, if you'll believe
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it, another minute and I should have knocked that boy down. Jealous as
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hell, Think what it would be like to be married to a woman who
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gave you moments like that. But one isn't, said Pablo quietly. I
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know one isn't. And even so it's rotten, rotten enough for even a
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casual chap like me. I'll be going home next month. He flicked his
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ash off and stared at the moon. Presently, he turned and put an
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arm about his host's embroidered shoulder. I've been doping it out to day,
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and I see most of it. I see all this grandeur is a kind
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of manifest destiny. But what's worrying me, Cameron, is just one thing.
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Whom the devil Are you going to marry? I don't know. Pablo
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shifted his weight slightly that Dick's arm might rest more firmly on his shoulder.
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Because you can't live forever like this. You've got women a plenty round here,
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I suppose, he hesitated. All there are, Pablo replied simply,
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But I have never taken any one of them. Well exactly, I might
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have known it. You always were like that, a cross between Galahad and
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Captain Kidd. But marriage is a thing you can't avoid forever. Property always
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necessitates a succession. It's all very well for me, who have neither a
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state nor profession, and just about enough money to amble around on. But
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you're tied to your Mexican paradise. I've got Flora as it were you.
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It must be damn lonesome sometimes, Cameron, since my uncle died, it
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is. Rivers removed his arm and lighted another cigarette. The lights went out
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in Dounia Flora's apartment across the patio. Pablo noted it idly as he struck
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a match. The two started then to walk up and down the deep arcade.
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And it isn't as if you weren't human, old man. You may
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look like a portrait of yourself by Velasquez, but you can't fool me.
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I used even to think you were fairly susceptible when we were all in college.
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I have always been susceptible, as you call it, Don Pablo returned,
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very only not promiscuously so unfortunately meaning me. I suppose Rivers grinned.
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Oh well, I play fair, and they always laugh what I say good
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bye. I'm just a vacation from the real business of life, and in
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point of fact, I prefer it that way. I was angry enough to
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kill Flora tonight. But in six months I shall probably remember the scene with
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laughter. We'll hope so at least. But you, old boy, No,
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I don't see it at all, and it rather worries me. None
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of my business, of course, very much your business, as long as
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I let you discuss it. Speaking of my susceptibility, he stopped, but
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Rivers finished for him. What has become of Dory Maine? You are certainly
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susceptible in that direction at one time, hanged, if I can think of
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another. At the moment, well has become of her? The words came
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sharply, like an order, don't catch me up. So I'm not one
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of your serfs. By the way, don Pablo, if you ever come
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back to the States, you'll have to forget you're a Hussan, datto or
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whatever. We don't have them up there with us. A man is apt
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to express his wishes in the conditional mood. Dorry may, She's much as
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usual. I fancy older. Of course, like the rest of us not
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married, there was incredulity in the tone. Not so far as I know,
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that is very extraordinary. I should have thought she would have married long
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ago. Several men wanted her. I seem to remember. How could she
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have escaped it? Girls escape whatever they want to escape at home. Perhaps
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you have forgotten, perhaps I had. If you're really asking me about Dory
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Main, i'd say for pure guests, not knowing the lady intimately that Wharton
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Cameron went off to build a measly little railroad and never came back. No,
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the vehemence of his tongue startled Rivers. Well, I only guessed.
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Then you have been guessing wrong. She never cared a straw for the young
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man you call Wharton Cameron. Of course I don't pretend to know, but
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I'm not alone in my opinion. As you say, she was popular,
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and everybody has to find some answer to a riddle like why doesn't she marry?
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We were boy and girl. I shouldn't have dared ask her to marry
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me, even if I could have afforded to. Certainly I never did I
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feel sure she would have refused me if I had. Probably she would,
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Rivers said, soothingly. Certainly she would if she could see you in this
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place, in those clothes, with your hand on that knife, and here
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you spit out Spanish to your slaves. You've got even Flora cowed, and
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she has probably seen your kind before. He yawned, good night. Pablo
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never thought I should twist my tongue round that, but it comes quite easily.
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There's mighty little Cameron left good night. They parted. Pablo Guirtierrez,
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dismissing Vicente and inspecting the keys with a nod, went to his own stone
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floored chamber. It had been made more comfortable in many ways, and was
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now, for all its primitive quality, the handsomest apartment in the hacienda.
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Personal possessions and certain luxuries surrounded him there, though the barred windows still were
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unglazed. He undressed quickly among the many candles, then looked for a book,
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yet finely chose none. Instead, he went to the great wardrobe and
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took out the clothes that Wharton Cameron had worn when the fair Cariille de Arbasio
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is Santrorossa had been abandoned. Quickly he donned the whole costume, even to
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the shoes and the spiral putties. Everything was speculs. His faded stetson hat.
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He sat on the table, his pistol near it. From a drawer,
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he took his old briar pipe, which nowadays he never smoked. Then
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his khaki shirt flung open at the neck. He sank back in a huge
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chair, pulled at his pipe, and gazed at his crossed and qutid legs.
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For the first time in three years, he tried deliberately to think and
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feel himself back into Wharton Cameron's skin, into Wharton Cameron's soul. Since the
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day when Ernando Luca had sped him on his tortuous way to the hacienda,
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he had been steadily forsaking Wharton Cameron. Now he would see how far he
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had gone upon that path. Cortes had had his notchi triste, different from
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this, but no less decisive. Dorry Mayne, was he Pablo Gutierrez Hassandaro
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or was he Wharton Cameron. Engineer Don Fernando had forsaken him too early another
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year, and Don Fernando could perhaps have molded him wholly. But even Don
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Fernando realized that he could not promise about a woman. What had he promised
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Don Fernando on that sad and difficult night to confess to Don Miguel and come
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back to the sacraments. Well, that he had done Don Miguel, as
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his uncle had prophesied, made him no difficulties. A Cavallero believes in God.
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That was all. The form does not matter. The Camerons had let
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that pass. But he had promised something else for Santa Hulaoia's sake, to
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get a son. He had taken no steps towards fulfilling that duty. His
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lips twisted grimly. Could he go through the motions of creole courtship? He
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looked down at his khaki sleeve, at the hand holding the worn briar.
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Never, that was not what he meant by a wife. A wife,
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the friend of your spirit, not a giggling beauty half glimpsed between a duenna
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and agriua. If Don Fernando had lasted, he might perhaps have swayed his
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son, as it was, his son was Pablo Gutiera's for all else,
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But dwart In Cameron still for a bride, the woman of the hacienda.
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That even would have been different, But never should any priest marry him,
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except to a girl he loved, as the Camerons loved their wives. How
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from the depths of Chihuahua, ringed about with the miles of his estate to
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reach her, that possible wife. Dick Rivers might come and go, but
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he was Pablo Gutiera's. The light sweat beated his forehead as he thought intensely
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and forced himself to think in English, a son for Santa Eulalia, Yes,
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there must be a son. Even Rivers saw that a wife, well,
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he wanted one, God knew, But Dorrimayin came between him and every
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vision of a bride. He clenched his hands on the chair arms and bit
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hard on his pipe. That foolishness of Dick's steps on the stair, and
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a knock on the door. Enter he said, startled, I have come,
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don Pablo. It was a woman's voice. Donia Flora sidled into the
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room. Her eyes encountered the young American engineer in the chair. Her lips
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parted. She went whiter than her own powder. Very slowly, Pablo Gutiras
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rose. He realized how the look of him had shocked her, and laughed,
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you desired something. Senora, the girl struggled with her own terror.
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For terror no less was what the strange figure had caused her. Americano,
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she gasped, Yes, Americano, did not our friend Rivers tell you.
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I seldom wear these clothes, but they fit me, Senora, they are
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mine. Dounia. Flora, however, was fast regaining her self control and
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her native impudence. There was a real Americano asleep downstairs, and she had
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been quite able to deal with him. She caught up a cloak that lay
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across a chair. Permit me to conceal that shirt, which does not become
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you, signor. She flung the cloak about his shoulders. Then she laughed,
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and the pipe don Pablo. She took it from his hand and laid
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it on the table. From her own girdle, she produced a cigarette,
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lighted it at a candle, and handed it to him. That is better.
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You are not a Mariicano. You are a creole, so am I.
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She walked across and leaped lightly to perch upon the bed, twisting her
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slim, uncorseted body gracefully in her scanty brilliant dress. The Hassandato did not
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remove the cloak. He played with its tassels and smoked his cigarette. A
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creole. You pardon me, Donia Flora, but that is one thing you
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are not. No woman without Indian blood can dance as you dance to night.
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I have seen too many machachas at the fiestas, she blazed at him.
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Do you think then that I am one of your peon women with an
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ankle like that? She pushed it toward him. That Spanish men have fought
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each other to kiss castiza, perhaps, he answered coolly, But it does
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not matter. Did Don Ricardo send you here to ask me to kiss your
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ankle? Because I am quite willing if that is what he wants. Only
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after that I must really bid you good night. It is very late.
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I am sure that Don Ricardo did not ask you to entertain me longer,
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Don Ricardo, she laughed, not unmusically. Listen, Don Pablo. Flora
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left the bed and came over to him with a movement difficult to forestall.
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She curled herself upon his knee. I am Flora Calderen. They will tell
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you all about me in Mexico City. Don Ricardo is a joke. He
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is nothing to me, but you I understand a man. Don Ricardo is
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no joke to me. He is my friend, my guest, and your
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lover. When you untangle all that, Donia Flora, you will see that
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I am no man for you, but I love you, poor Dios.
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All the rest is nothing. Her hand felt under the cloak for his heart.
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It is enough compliment for him that I traveled under his escort to you.
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See your heart is beating, and here is Flora. She dropped her
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head on his shoulder. A guardina in her hair assailed another sense. Pablo
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knew that this must end quickly, if it was to end as he would
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have it. Putting forth his strength, he rose with Flora in his arms
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and set her on her feet, then drew back. All that means something
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to Agutia's She stretched out her arms and consented to plead. Her voice was
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both wild and soft. You hour a man, I am a woman.
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What does anything mean but love? He could not help the flush that burned
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his face and neck, but he threw back his head and stared at the
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dim rafters, not at her. You are a very charming person, no
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doubt, Donia Flora. My friend finds you so Unfortunately I do not feel
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your charm. You don't tempt me. Under the supreme brutality of his speech,
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she flinched, then grew very white. She fumbled blindly in her girdle,
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not for a cigarette this time. When she drew forth her hand and
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looked up wildly, she saw before her a grim, uncloaked figure in khaki
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and a pistol pointed not two feet from her arm. Don Pablo knew better
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than of old the meaning of fumbling hands. You would kill me, she
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murmured in fear. No, but I do not intend to be stabbed because
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a dancer from Mexico is peaked. The knife clattered to the floor. He
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picked it up and returned it to her, still covering her with the pistol.
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At the door, she turned in a flood of tears. Yet I
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did love you, Don Pablo. Her rage had dropped suddenly. She was
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like a hurt baby. I am sorry, Dounia Flora. His lips barely
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moved to emit the level tones. He must not touch her. He knew,
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even with his finger tips that would be the end. But he shot
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his pistol into the holster at his belt and stood before her, defenseless,
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shrugging his shoulders. It is simply one of those things that might not be
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Tomorrow you will realize. I am deeply flattered, but I should be no
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caballero if I permitted myself to dwell upon your charms. Good Night, caboero,
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you Americano, and trash. At that, she hissed her way out
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into the corridor. She did not hear his racked whisper that followed, I
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am sorry, I am sorry, Nor could she see the Americano huddled in
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his chair, torn and miserable. After the bolt had been shot behind her.
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He had wanted passionately to choke, to torture her for her cheapness,
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her treachery. But he had wanted no less passionately to lift her and carry
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her yonder into the shadows, to bury his face in her perfumed breast,
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and let her soft arms hold him fast. This Donia Flora was not to
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know. Pride and hatred sped her forth from the hacienda. The next day.
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She was bored, she was ill, she was miserable. She explained
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to Rivers. She was you to the great world, not these up country
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places with up country manners. Rivers accompanied her to Chihuahua in the big comfortless
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carriage with the martial escort the Hasandato stood by the carriage step to lift her
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in. Dounia Flora affected not to notice him, but his arm compelled her.
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He lifted his sombrero and looked deep into her eyes. Adios Donia Flora,
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he murmured. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly.
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Adios Senora, he repeated. He handed her in. I thought you'd
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be sorry to see her go, called Rivers in French. I shall be
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awfully miserable when I come back without her. It would be unkind to keep
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her here against her will, answered Pablo that Santa Juleelia would never attempt to
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do, but I owe her many thanks. In the bright sunlight, he
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could say it easily enough, and her last glance showed that she half forgave.
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She stretched out her hand just as the horses started, bent down and
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touched his hair with her fingers. Cabellero, she whispered, quickly, when
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you come to Mexico, signor we shall see if you are Caballero. Still
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presently, the carriage was a mere speck beyond the great gates. Don Pablo
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put on his sombrero and turned to the business of the day. She was
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a hussy, Yet in his heart of hearts, a man cannot be wholly
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ungrateful. He had held it his duty to insult her, but he hoped
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he had shown her that he, by no means loathed her. She must
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certainly understand that he would not give her away to Dick. Yet he thought
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her not worth the little finger nail of half the girls on the hacienda.
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Logic is somewhat obscured in these matters. He ordered his horse brought, then
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called to Vicente. You can send for Manuelita at the end of the week.
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Old Rosa will have to give her up. She is clever, and
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Luisa can use her in the dairy. Manuelita has always busied herself about the
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linen. Senor Don Pable shook his head. She is not to be about
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the house under my feet. I am much displeased with her. Senor Vicente
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hesitated, Well, ay, it is hard to say it, then do
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not try. Don Pablo strode away, and Old Vicente waggled his head like
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a turtle in the sun. And of Section six