(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale (29 page)

"What happened to him?" With great courtesy the doctor added, "I don't want to intrude on your privacy, señor and señora, but I must know something, in order to treat him."

"You are very good, sir," Juana replied with equal courtesy. "The affair relates to politics—so, for your own sake, the less you know the better. But the boy, who is the son of a man well known in Madrid, was abducted and then poisoned."

"Poisoned with what—an herb, a tincture?"

"We do not know, señor, except that it was smeared on the pages of a book, and that the same poison killed the boy's sister. First she ran mad, then she died."

Pilar, who of necessity was with us, began to whimper dolefully. I picked her up to quiet her.

"And how long ago was this?"

The doctor asked other questions, then proceeded to take various measures, drenching Nico with drafts containing, I supposed, different antidotes, warming him, rubbing him, forcing him to vomit. While these remedies were being applied, since the doctor, a sensible man, seemed to know his business well, 'I murmured to Juana that I would withdraw and occupy myself with some business in the town.

"I'll come too," said Pilar instantly.

Juana nodded, and we left.

On my way to the doctor's house I had noticed what I thought was an encampment of
esquiladores
in a meadow not far distant, and going to the place, I found I was right; there were men in velveteen breeches and bright cotton handkerchiefs, their faces obscured by black bushy whiskers; there were Arabian-looking women with flowing black hair, huge earrings as long as my hand, and flounced, brightly colored dresses; there were boys in colored shirts and loose linen trousers. Merry, half-naked children frolicked about (who looked sharply at Pilar and she at them); already the men were hard at work, shearing horses and mules that stood in patient rows, waiting for their attentions.

I asked to speak to the leader, and was introduced to a grizzle-bearded man whose jacket was buttoned with silver coins. To him I said in a low voice that I believed some friends of his had helped some friends of mine who came to them from
under the earth.

He nodded at once, with shrewd intelligence, and asked me what I wished. I told him: to get rid of the tartana; would he and his people, in exchange for the clothes which it contained, all of good quality, undertake to return it to the place from which it came, a village called Anso? And he could have two of the mules, also at a very low price, if he could put me in the way of buying two others and some smaller, faster vehicle, to take me on to Bilbao.

The gypsy came to inspect the tartana and its contents, nodded gravely, laid his finger alongside his nose, and murmured, "Tragala, tragala, tragala." Some money changed hands, and the deal was concluded.

Then Pilar and I went up into the town, where we discovered stone-arched grottoes in the hillside, guarded by old dames in felt slippers, where, for a few reales, you could have a wash in natural hot water that gushed out of the rock. At one of these I obliged Pilar to have a thorough cleanup, she protesting fiercely all the while.

"I want something to eat!"

"That comes after. First, a wash."

Attempting to tidy her a little, I found that she still had the leather necklace with the blue bead that I had made her; well, I thought, it had brought us considerable luck.

Next, with indescribable pleasure, I washed myself; then we bought some food and returned to the doctor's house.

There we found Nico sleeping: pale and damp as to the temples, but with a more natural and peaceful aspect than he had worn hitherto.

"He will very likely sleep for many hours," said Dr. Zagarra, "after all I have done to him. In my opinion the best thing you can do for him now is to carry him to the young lady's convent in Bilbao." I could see that Juana must have confided in him a good deal during my absence. "There he will receive excellent care. For it will be many days yet, I fear, before it can be certain whether he makes a full recovery."

Whatever Juana had told the doctor must have predisposed him in our favor, for when I offered pay, he waved his hand dismissively, and said, "
Nada, nada!
What I do, I do for love. And I hope the young man may grow up like his father." Glancing nervously about—although we were in his courtyard where there was no one to hear—he whispered, "
Viva la Constitution! Viva la Libertad!
" and ignoring our thanks, hurried back indoors to his cold chocolate.

Returning to the barn, we found that the gypsy, true to his word, had removed the tartana and left us with a four-wheeled open chariot, a kind of phaeton, which would be faster than the clumsy tartana. We laid Nico on one of its seats, covered with a couple of cloaks, which I had kept, and then applied ourselves to the rolls and fruit which I had brought, for we were all ravenous.

That finished, we climbed into our new equipage and started off at speed. The gypsy had further done excellently in procuring a pair of
machoes,
fine spirited mules who bolted along at an extra-fast trot, covering the miles at a fine pace.

We thought it best not to stop at any of the inns where we had put up on the outward journey, and so bought food at markets along the way and spent a night in the woods north of Vitoria—no hardship for me or Juana, who had spent many nights in woods on our former travels together. The doctor had supplied us with various drafts and tinctures for Nico, which he swallowed biddably enough and then returned to what, we hoped, was a restorative sleep.

During the journey we talked. What did we talk about? I hardly remember. Nothing very momentous. We both, I believe, felt the need for a space of gentleness and tranquility, a rest, after the violent and disturbing events of the preceding day. Also, the fidgety presence of Pilar on the box between us prevented the discussion of many topics that were in the forefront of our minds. For myself, I did not object to this quiet interlude; I was very content to ride by Juana in friendship among the green fields, without impatiently demanding: What next? What is going to happen to us? And God rewarded me for this patience by Juana's sudden demand, on the second day, "Have we any paper, Felix? Any writing materials?"

I told her, yes; in Tiermas, a well-provided little place, I had bought ink and a writing tablet. She retired with these to the floor of the carriage and curled up there chewing her quill, with that look of utter concentration that I well remembered from our previous association when she was occupied in the process of writing a poem.

It must, I thought, have been a strange and painful hardship for Juana to be debarred from writing her poems; how could a thing so natural to her be considered sinful, or insulting to God? It was like forbidding her to breathe.

"What is Cousin Juana doing?" demanded Pilar.

"Writing."

"Why?"

"
You
like to climb.
She
likes to write."

"Oh..."

The memory of climbing perhaps led Pilars thoughts back to the castillo and the death that had taken place there. She began to sob quietly, and after a while brought out, in a small, piteous, aggrieved voice, "I don't
want
Weeza to be dead," looking up at me, her face all shiny with tears.

"I know," I agreed sadly. "It is very bad. But there is just nothing we can do about it."

I wiped her face with a corner of my cloak and let her hold the reins, which cheered her a little.

"Will Nico die too?" she said by and by.

"We hope not. You will have to help look after him. He may be sick for some time."

Her lip trembled again, so I stopped the mules and picked her some rushes from a stream bank and showed her how to plait them into a whip.

Presently Juana came out of her trance and told Pilar about the poem she had been writing, which was an argument between an owl and a nightingale.

"Which of them won?" demanded Pilar.

"Neither of them. Listen and I will tell you—"

So we passed the journey.

***

O
N THE
evening of the second day, late, we reached Bilbao, and I saw, without any pleasure at all, its roofs, smoking in rain, huddled down in their narrow valley. I could have wished that this part of the journey would never come to an end, for Juana and I, though we had talked so little, had seemed so much in harmony. Still I had no idea what she had in mind for the future; that she felt she must at present return to the convent I understood, for there she had unfinished business, and arrangements must be made for the children. But what then?

I did not dare say, "
Juana! Marry me!" (or
she was, after all, a professed nun, and that would be outrageous; but I hoped, I believed, that she knew what was in my mind.

We reached the convent gate, in its high wall, and knocked for admission.

How similar this moment seemed to that one, not so very long ago, when I had first stood there knocking, with my heart frozen in fright. How many things, and some of them terrible, had happened since then. The portress opened, and gave a cry of recognition at sight of Juana.

"Sister Felicita! Come in, come in! But where is Sister Belen?"

"She—she will be coming later. But here we have a very sick boy. Can he be carried at once to the infirmary?"

"Of course—" and the portress summoned help.

Juana was suddenly swamped by nuns, in their black robes; they took charge, clucking and exclaiming, took charge of Nico, took charge of Pilar, who threw me a frantic glance as she was swept off, helpless, in a storm of black bombazine.

"Reverend Mother wishes to see you as soon as possible," said the portress to Juana. Would she wish to see me too? I wondered, but then the portress, glancing in my direction, said, "
Ay,
the young señor! Wait, just a moment, my friend, I have an urgent message for you." I recalled the nun—what was her name, Sister Milagros?—who had wanted to see me last time and had then been prevented. "Is it Sister Milagros?" I asked, but the portress, shaking her head', went back into her cubicle and returned with a letter which she handed me. It was in the hand of Rodrigo, my grandfather's steward.

My heart fell, horribly.

My dear Don Felix,

I think you should try to conclude your present business and return home
without delay.
[These words had been underlined a great many times.] Your grandfather His Excellency the Conde had a letter from the Land Commissioners in Madrid that distressed him so deeply that he suffered from a spasm, and lay for a day, unable to speak. Now he is just a little better, but asking for you. Please come as soon as may be.

Rodrigo Pujal

Oh, God. Please, dear God, don't let Grandfather die.

Juana was coming to say something to me. She looked distracted. I muttered, "I have had bad news concerning Grandfather. They—he asks me to return at once. He is ill—" and Juana's eyes went wide with concern and pity.

"Felix, I am so very sorry—shall I give your respects to the Reverend Mother?"

"Yes—if you please—and tell her—tell her—"

"I will tell her all that is proper," said Juana with a faint smile.

"
Please,
Juana—let us not lose touch—I will return as soon as I can—"

It felt as if we were being carried away, in different directions, by different currents. Half a dozen of the sisters were clustered around Juana, looking with some surprise at her sturdy, mud-splashed blue garments and sun-tanned, windswept appearance.

Doing my best to ignore them, I gently raised her hand, then kissed it.

"
Hasta luego,
" I said huskily, and she, "
Vaya con Dios.
"

Then I left the convent, and had to restrain from driving down the hill at a breakneck speed to the nearest posada where I could arrange to leave the chariot and hire myself a horse.

The journey back to Villaverde was speedy but sorrowful. I rode with a terribly heavy heart. Pedro's ghost seemed to travel by my side. As I drew closer to home, each turn of the road brought back memories of our outward, hopeful journey: Pedro asking me questions about Bilbao and the Basque ladies; and my own anxious, fervent, shimmering expectations of what might be waiting at our journeys end. How different reality had proved! And yet Juana herself was no different; the memory of her, herself, was like a glowing golden core, a certainty and warmth at the center of my being.

Whatever decision she came to, about her life and the future of the children, would be the right decision, I knew.

I had pressed on, traveling both day and night, making the journey in four days which previously had taken seven, and came to Villaverde late one evening. White moonlight bathed the uplands so that, although the month was June, a spectral winter seemed to lie over die rugged countryside. Villaverde's great pale wall rose up like the barriers set to keep sinners from the Holy City.

Please, please, dear God, let Grandfather be alive, I prayed unceasingly as I rode up the long, gradual ascent; and help me, in whatever troubles may be coming to me now, to behave like a man.

I was praying in Spanish—as I generally do; the word
hombre—hombre—hombre
echoed hollowly in time with the beat of my horses hooves; but God said nothing.

As soon as I reached the house, though, all was light and turmoil. Rodrigo wrung my hands, Prudencia wept, the old ladies fluttered about like disturbed bats, crossing themselves, lamenting, hobbling in and out of the oratory with their veils, beads, and crucifixes.

"Grandfather—?" I said to Rodrigo.

"Still with us—praise to the Holy Mother—hoping for you every minute—"

"I will go to him directly."

So Rodrigo led me away, cleaving a path through the choppy mass of the old ladies, who parted, like a bow wave, on either side of us.

My grandfather, for years past, had slept in a chamber on the ground floor, because of his infirmity and the wheelchair to which he was confined. But I had never been to his room, not once. When I was a child, we had not been fond of one another; I kept strictly to my own quarters in a distant wing. And by the time I was grown, his habits of dignity and privacy were so fixed that no one save Paco, his personal servant, would have dreamed of intruding on him. Now, it was with a sense of shock and awe that I saw for the first time the bleak spareness of his own space: a tiny slip of a room, a low, narrow pallet, one hard chair, a prie-dieu, and a small window looking out over the sierra. It was like a monastic cell.