Keeping Secrets (35 page)

Between February and mid-April of 1915 was a long period, during which Edwin was called away several times to the East Coast, where German involvement was proving out in connection with the sudden and mysterious burning of ships in United States harbors, and the incitement of strikes among harbor workers. At the time I was given little detail, and assumed Edwin's trips had no direct relation with what I was doing.

During the lull, I took the opportunity of getting to know Keith better. I spent one afternoon with him in March, following a snowfall which left a white blanket one and a half inches thick all over the city. I'd been in real blizzards when we lived up north, so this little snow seemed a mere inconvenience to me. Keith had not seen much snow, however, and his excitement was infectious. He managed to get an old buggy with a poor hag of a horse connected to it from somewhere, and met me at the front door of the bank at lunchtime, red-nosed and red-cheeked underneath his blazing blue eyes.

Mr. Tetzel happened to walk out at the same time. Noticing I was being picked up in a buggy, he smiled broadly and said, “Children should have a good time. Take the whole afternoon off, Camille.”

Keith gave the horse a gleeful “giddyap,” and we thrust forward down the icy street toward Alamo Plaza. “Oh, he's so darned nice,” I said under my breath.

Keith looked surprised. “You don't sound too grateful.”

“Oh, I am, I am,” I told him.

Through ingratiating snorts by the swayback horse conveying us, we made our way to the plaza, where Keith insisted on starting a snowball fight. Suddenly he disappeared. I looked around and called his name several times. Nothing. Then, from behind a snow-laden bush off to the right came a whistle, followed by a whizzing white ball. I turned just in time to see Keith's arm shoot out, before catching the ball square in the face. “Come out of there, I'll fix you,” I cried, and started gathering ammunition.

Before I knew it he whammed one into my backside and darted across to another bush, giggling like a baseball player headed for third base. On his way I whacked him a good one, then threw another, missing him, and, now unarmed, took cover behind a frozen shrub. We sparred like youngsters long enough that I really began to laugh and enjoy myself, and to realize how serious I'd become of late. I'd almost lost my sense of fun completely.

After an hour of battle, we were thoroughly winded, with arms trembling from the motions and backsides aching from numerous slips to the cold ground. We helped each other off the field, arm in arm, and boarded the buggy for a ride through Brackenridge Park right down the old path referred to as lovers' lane. The route proved to be just as I remembered—overhung with tall skeletal trees and silent as a frozen brook.

We were at ease with each other, like school buddies. As we rode along I told him about outings with my family during the years we were all together, and he told me of summer picnics under the shade of the big trees in the park. He never made overfamiliar moves toward me. If he had, I'd have been more astonished than insulted or embarrassed, and probably would have burst out laughing. He'd been busy with exams after Christmas and we had not really spent very much time together, so we just enjoyed the laughter and the silences in between.

Around five o'clock, darkness gathering suddenly, he said, “You know what would be swell? Some Mexican food. I'm chilled to the bone.”

So off we went to his favorite Mexican-food cafe down on the river. The smell of hot spices met us at the door, increasing my appetite three times over. We sat at a table close by a crackling log fire, overlooking the strange sight of mist above the water.

“Almost spooky, like a moor in Scotland, isn't it? Wonder what causes that?” I said.

“When the warmer water of the river is touched by the cold drizzle coming down, it throws off a steam.”

“Like a veil. You could almost get lost in it, couldn't you.”

“I guess so. I never thought of it that way,” he said.

Just then the Mexican waiter appeared and Keith ordered food enough for a banquet without batting an eye. Soon there were hot platters before us with chili, tamales, enchiladas, frijoles, refried beans and rice threatening to overrun the edges. All of it was permeated with the smell of onions and cheese, and accompanied by crispy tortillas. Keith bragged as the waiter left. His family knew the owner, and he could testify to the quality of ingredients in the dishes. In one sitting I ate more than I'd eaten in the previous week, and I'm not sure who dug through the delicacies with more vigor, but Keith and I were a good match and afterward sat back groaning happily.

“That was the best Mexican food, not to mention the best meal I've eaten, since I moved out from Mother's place,” I said.

“I'm going to take you out more often. You can't survive on—”

“I know, I know. Save the lecture, please. Keith, I can't remember when I've had so much fun.”

“Gosh, me too,” he said. Then he paused and shifted in his chair. “Of course, you're awfully busy with other guys, I guess.”

“Who, me?”

“Well … you don't seem to stay at home very much.”

“Oh, have you come by to check on me?”

“A time or two.”

“I work late sometimes, and take odd jobs to make ends meet. It costs a lot to live alone.”

He studied me for a moment, then said, “I've never known anyone like you before. Most girls sit around wondering who's going to marry and support them. I admire you a lot.”

I told him thanks, and he quickly looked away. “Listen, I've got to return this buggy and get back to the store before closing time,” he said. “I'll take you home now, if it's all right.”

“Sure. You may have to carry me to the buggy, though. My feet might give out under my weight.”

He saw me up to my apartment, our spongy shoes depositing wet tracks all the way up the stairs to the fourth floor, and when I unlocked the door I said, “I was really sincere about today. Thanks again.”

He propped an arm up high on the door facing, and looked down at me. “You meant it, too, about not seeing a lot of other fellows?”

“Since I came to San Antonio I haven't had time to make many friends—boys or girls.”

He dug his hands deep into his pockets and smiled. “Well, good night. See you soon.”

I walked out onto the River Avenue balcony and looked down toward the store. The streetlights were like moons encircled with haze. The snow had already begun to melt and a couple of automobiles poked along the street carefully. I watched Keith's buggy go the length of the block then turn to the left, headed I supposed for the place where he'd picked up the contraption in the first place. Where, I wondered? He'd never said. About the time the horse started cautiously around the corner, an open car full of joy riders, laughing and singing, came barreling down the avenue. The driver blew the horn rudely and, taking the corner much too quickly, almost slid the auto right into Keith and his old buggy, then roared away to the other side of the street and off again. The old horse could have formerly served as an army draft horse for the little upset he showed, and in a moment Keith set him back in forward motion and disappeared around the block.

I stayed out on the balcony for a while, still wrapped in my overcoat, savoring the day. It was to be the last of its kind for a long time to come.

Huerta arrived in New York around April 13, just ten days behind von Rintelen, and soon the newspapers were bursting with stories of the ousted Mexican dictator's return, assuring the public that he was being watched by United States authorities. President Wilson was openly seething over this development, and quickly locked new restrictions on the vague neutrality laws. Huerta had only to make one false move and the authorities would have him in a noose.

I must say it was a time when I enjoyed being one who was “in the know,” as I read statements in the papers issued by Huerta himself, declaring that only a Mexican would save Mexico, and (so innocently!) that he did not know who it would be. He also defended himself in the death of the revolutionary martyr Madero, announcing to the press he had no part in it, but that he did know who was guilty and that it was a “professional secret.”

Many people who kept up with the news in Mexico had wondered about the parties to blame in the assassination of Madero in 1913. My only reason for keeping up with events down there was that one of my classes in high school was devoted almost entirely to current events and thus had followed the revolution of 1910, studying its basis, the reforms planned by Francisco Madero, and his aborted attempts at carrying them through. By the time Huerta had betrayed him I was far away from San Antonio and could find little in the local newspapers where we lived.

I asked Edwin if his guilt had ever been proven.

“Only by strong circumstantial evidence,” he said, “but personally I have no doubt Huerta did it.”

“I don't think the Mexicans do either. Even Pancho Villa and Carranza seem to concur on that. I can see how returning Huerta to power will be like pouring salt on an open sore.”

“Just what the Germans want.”

“Do you think von Rintelen will come here to meet with Tetzel?”

“More likely Tetzel will go there and sit in on the negotiations between Huerta and von Rintelen. However, there may be a rift because Tetzel's request for delay was shelved. We're bound to pick up something on the machine or find something in the mail. Be extra curious and try and get something on it. Tetzel's a dangling end in an otherwise tight operation. As soon as we get enough evidence, we can scuttle plans for Huerta, but the question remains about Tetzel and you're the only one who can get a clue.”

“I'll do my best.”

On the day following the news release of Huerta's arrival in New York I went into the bank early, eager to get a head start on the day. Soon Mr. Tetzel came in and dictated a batch of bank letters to me, and I went to work on them. He was quiet, but not out of sorts. I was a little nervous at first, and almost jumped out of my shoes when he brought his empty inkwell to me. “Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I know you don't like—”

“It's all right,” he assured me pleasantly, and went back to his desk.

After a while my nerves settled down and the day began to shape up into normal routine. I told myself it was silly to keep expecting something to happen. But then suddenly the door burst open and in came Emory Cabot, fuming mad.

“Where's Tetzel?” he demanded.

Apparently Tetzel overheard him. He was instantly outside his door, inviting Cabot in with an appeasing tone. When the door was shut, I leaped up and made for the storeroom. I knew something of great consequence was going to be said, and I was determined to have a recording of it. Once I set the wax cylinder revolving, I put the headset on. I couldn't hear anything. I figured it wasn't attached properly, and took it off. Then I put my ear to the wall behind the machine. Though the storeroom backed up to one end of Tetzel's office, I didn't expect to hear anything through the thick walls. Yet, to my surprise, I was able to hear most of the words. Doubtless the fact both men were in a state of excitement and talking louder as a result made a difference.

It was obvious Cabot was upset by Huerta's return. I heard Tetzel say, “I did everything I could to get them to hold on longer, but they can only afford to burn the candle from both ends for just so long. Keeping border trouble stirred up by financing Villa, and keeping any number of other fires ablaze while they await the moment of takeover by a party they can be sure to trust—”

“You mean, someone bought and paid for with German money.”

“Ah well, however you wish to express it—in any event, they're impatient in the Foreign Office. Our friend Barrista could perhaps be a bit more decisive.”

“I don't give a damn how impatient those son-of-a-bitches are, I want Huerta out, do you hear?”

“They are discussing terms just now, in New York.”

“I gathered that from the San Antonio
Express,”
Cabot said acidly.

“Believe me, my friend, no one has double-crossed you. The plans for returning Huerta had been discussed for months before you ever approached me about financing Barrista. Once the wheels are in motion, it is difficult to slow them down. However, I have some inside information that von Rintelen is quarreling with Boy-Ed and von Papen. It is just possible the whole Huerta plan will suffer failure as a result.”

“Well you can tell your friends if they want any more copper from Cabot Consolidated, they'd better deal straight.”

“I have told them already. Try and keep your boots on, and let this situation resolve itself. I believe it will. Now, where does Barrista stand?”

There was a pause, then the sound of pacing footsteps. Cabot said, “I've just spent a couple of months on a saddle instructing the family and close friends of the Plan de Pacifica Reforma. But Barrista's tired of the bloodshed. He wants to go in peacefully if he can.”

“Of course. Have you need of more money?”

“Not yet.”

“Just let me know. I'll be in touch with my friends in New York about our visit. It is to everyone's advantage if someone agreeable to all factions can take over. A Mexico at peace will serve us better in the end.”

After that I heard the door slam shut. I listened hard, thinking I might hear Tetzel make a phone call to New York. Yet I heard nothing, and I supposed either the sound was inaudible to me or he was communicating with New York by the mails and the telegraph alone in deference to a meddlesome switchboard operator. It was also possible he was leading Cabot on.…

I looked down at the cylinder, still rolling. There was so much contained in the conversation I decided to take it off and get it to Edwin immediately. My hands were so moist and shaky I was afraid I'd drop it on the floor and have nothing to turn over to the BNA but a collection of shattered pieces. When I had it safely off, I relaxed somewhat.