A Visit to Don Otavio (16 page)

M
RS RAWLSTON lived in a large, dark, ugly, dishevelled house, full of raffia and pots of jam in the hall, desolate and at the same time cozy.

‘Come on in, Mrs B,’ she said, ‘we’re all
waiting
for our bridge game on the porch.’

I had been rushed through luncheon by Don Otavio and packed off on mule back, forty-five minutes of it through the sub-tropical afternoon.

I found two English people on the verandah, necessarily sprung from somewhere.

‘How do you do,’ they said.

‘How do you do,’ said I.

We settled round a wobbly card table. Mrs Rawlston waved me to the seat opposite her own. ‘You a good player, Mrs B?’

‘A very bad one, I’m afraid.’

‘Better cut for partners,’ said Mrs Rawlston. We did, and she drew me.

‘Blackwood, Peter?’ said the Englishwoman.

‘Blackwood,’ said the Englishman.

Mrs Rawlston picked up her pack and dealt.

‘I believe it is my deal, Mrs Rawlston,’ said the Englishwoman.

‘What’s that?’

‘I believe it is
my
deal,’ said the Englishwoman in a clear voice.

‘Never mind, let’s get on with it,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘It all comes to the same in the end.’

‘By,’ said Mrs Rawlston.

‘Pass,’ said the Englishwoman.

‘Pass.’

‘Pass.’

‘Two no trumps,’ said Mrs Rawlston.

‘Pass,’ said the Englishwoman.

I hesitated.

‘I said two no trumps,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Two, mind you.’

‘Now, now, Mrs Rawlston,’ said the Englishman, ‘we can’t have that.’

‘You must forget you heard,’ said the Englishwoman.

‘I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, anyway,’ said I.

‘Remember I passed first round,’ said Mrs Rawlston.

‘Now really, Mrs Rawlston …’

‘Three spades,’ said I.

‘Spades?’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Got any?’

We made the first rubber in two hands. There seemed to be a feeling that it was not deserved. I moved to the seat opposite the Englishwoman.

‘Blackwood, partner?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘it seems to get one up so awfully high. I never dare bid fives and sixes. I suppose if one wants to go for slam … What
do
you think?’

There was silence.

‘Mrs Rawlston can see your cards,’ said the Englishman.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said I.

‘Shove a bit of paper under that leg, Peter,’ said Mrs Rawlston; ‘floor’s uneven. That’s better.’

‘No clubs, partner?’ said the Englishwoman.

‘No. Oh I’m so sorry, yes,’ said I.

‘Revoke,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Three tricks for us. Put ’em down, Peter; my piece of paper’s blown off. That wind from Vera Cruz is up again.’

‘Surely, two, Mrs Rawlston.’

‘Three tricks for a revoke. Don’t get one often these days, people reading Culbertson and counting up their hands the way they do.’

‘I am most frightfully sorry,’ I said; ‘it is too bad of me.’

‘A diamond,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘No, let’s make it a heart. Two hearts;
Did’ye hear me, Peter? Where did you leave that mule, Mrs B?’

‘The San Pedro
mozo
took him home. They are going to send the boat for me.’

‘Well, I am going up to four hearts,’ said Mrs Rawlston; ‘I don’t see why not. Those friends you got with you at San Pedro are Yankees, ain’t they?’

‘Only Mrs A. Her cousin is from the South. Maryland.’

‘I call it a Border State,’ said Mrs Rawlston.

‘Mrs Rawlston, I just bid five clubs.’

‘You did, did you. Now what shall we do, Peter, risk it?’

‘Your
cards
!’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said I.

‘Six hearts,’ said Mrs Rawlston.

‘Double,’ said the Englishwoman.

‘That always sounds so brave,’ said I.

‘
Your
lead, partner,’ said the Englishwoman.

Wildly unnerved, I led a high heart.

‘Our opponent’s suit.’

‘I am sorry! What have I done? And you
doubled
. How can you forgive me. I’m really quite impossible.’

‘It does not matter at all.’

‘Game and rubber,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Let’s have some tea. Peter, how much would it cost us if Mrs B had led a club?’

‘She would have cashed her ace and king; made the impasse in spades, got rid of her singleton, drawn a trump and established her queen, led another round of spades and made her partner trump your diamond.’

‘No, no, no, I couldn’t possibly have done all that.’

‘Five down, doubled
and
vulnerable.’

‘Tea,’ said Mrs Rawlston, ‘I made you all some beaten biscuit.’

‘Not beaten biscuits! Mrs Rawlston,’ said the Englishwoman.

Tea was delicious. Georgian silver, lovely china, covered dishes full of baked creations with homely exotic names, spoon bread and batter bread, soda biscuits and popovers, as light as down, with the warmth of the oven upon them, melting in the mouth, before the fresh, cold sweet
butter.

‘Mrs Rawlston makes her own butter, too. Don’t you, Mrs Rawlston?’ said the Englishwoman.

‘Always beat me own butter,’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Milk’s the trouble in this country. No one knows the first thing about cows. When those San Pedro boys were kids, their father raised a Black Angus for them. A Black Angus for milking! Silly old man he was. Always rushing round after one thing or another, and all he ever got was money. Boys were scared to death of him, all but Enriquez. Couldn’t even keep his wife from her popish tricks. Drawing-room always full of cringing tutors; Jesuits more like. Mrs B is staying at San Pedro.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the Englishwoman.

‘Clever boy, Tavio. Always got his own way. Big brothers were sent off to school, little Tavio stayed home with mamma. When she died, Enriquez and Jaime and Luís and their families had to leave their home and earn their living, who stayed home again? Tavio. Then this aunt, the nun, said she’d leave him all she had to leave as long as he entered the Church. She’s still got plenty, if she can make those priests keep their paws off it. Tavio didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no. He just didn’t get married, in case. “Well, Tavio,” I tell him. “where’s your black coat? Ain’t you ordained yet, or whatever you Catholics do when you turn parson? Been a long time making up your mind, haven’t you? Twenty years, is it? And in no great hurry to support a wife either. Well, you got yourself fixed up real nice, Tavio – the run of the place, everything done for you, snug as a bug and not a thing on your mind. With your fine bachelor’s quarters at Mexico, too. Well, I’ll say this for you, you were a good son and you’ve got nice manners.” And I might add, he sets a good table and he gives to the poor.’

‘Thank you, I
will
have another of these delicious scones, Mrs Rawlston.’

‘What you do for your milk and butter, Peter?’

‘We send Josefina into Chapala twice a week.’

‘City stuff. Now, my son-in-law eats lard. Just what you’d expect, as I tell him.’ Mrs Rawlston turned to me, ‘My son-in-law is a German. Can’t
stand ’em.’

‘The prejudice is not unique.’

‘“Lard,” I said to him, “that’s all you used to have in your own country, ain’t it? Then why don’t you eat honest Christian butter on your bread when you have it? Ain’t that what you came here for? Don’t you know good stuff from bad? Ain’t that why you Germans always come running into other countries, because you don’t like it at home? And then you get so fat you have trouble getting yourselves out again. Don’t you know when you’re not wanted, you Germans?”’

‘Are you going to have your daughter and grand-children this summer, Mrs Rawlston?’ said the Englishwoman.

‘They’re all at Cordoba for
his
holiday. I don’t see why I should have my house full of Germans because my daughter was fool enough to marry one. I told them so. Now why did Diana have to marry that German for? Losing all their wars, too.’

‘Oh come on, Mrs Rawlston, you know that Diana is very happy with him.’

‘Maybe. I wasn’t when they all came and lived with me after Pearl Harbour because he was kicked out of his job. He had nowhere else to go, Diana said. “Why don’t you go and fight for your country, Karl?” I told him. Not he. Mope in my house, read my paper, month in month out – though I didn’t mind his reading it half so much the day after Stalingrad – until he got himself that big job at Mexico he’s got now. I said to him, “Job, Karl? Why don’t they lock you up? Don’t they know any better?”’

‘Oh now, Mrs Rawlston, Karl Waldheim was no Nazi, poor chap.’

‘He’s a German, ain’t he? Good enough for me. Now have you all quite finished? Drink up your tea, Peter. Come along, let’s get on with our bridge game.’

‘Mrs Rawlston, may we have another look round your lovely garden?’

‘Nothing new in it since lunchtime, dear; and Mrs B can come over in the morning and look at it if she wants to. Come along, it’ll be getting dark soon. I don’t get a bridge game every day these days.’

It was getting dark. An oil lamp was brought and fluttered fitfully in the wind from Vera Cruz that had sprung up good and proper, and so did the
cards. Every so often a whole deal would be lifted off the table by a gust.

‘Pick ’em up, pick ’em up. All comes to the same in the end,’ said Mrs Rawlston.

Birds shrieked in the rushes; settled for the night. Stars rose. The boat came from San Pedro. Frogs croaked. Mrs Rawlston had revoked three times.

‘Never mind, doesn’t count, lamp’s too low to tell spades from hearts.’

Our score sheets had long been blown away.

‘Wind bother you?’ said Mrs Rawlston. ‘Any of you want to go in? Light’s no better and for meself I see no sense in stuffing indoors on a fine summer night. Always sleep out-of-doors. Got kind of used to it in the Revolutions. Had to then. Or those Indio soldiers would have gone and stolen my fruit. When there was a moon they’d come, or in the small hours – they’re scared to death of the dark – and I’d pop out on them. “Now what d’you think you are doing,” I’d say to them, “going about the countryside robbing people’s gardens and murdering them in their sleep. Haven’t you got no homes of your own? That’s no way of making a revolution, that’s petty larceny. Ain’t you ashamed of yourselves, you great hulking men, how many are there of you? thirty – can’t ye count? – with your silly knives and your great clumsy guns, what you think you look like? And me an old woman all alone. What you want to go and kill me for, you louts? Don’t you have enough killing on your fiesta days?” That’d fix them. Never touched my fruit, poor devils. They’re not bad, those Indios. Revolutions went a bit to their heads, murder every day and no one to tell them their places. Early years weren’t much; some of Villa’s bands were tough. Later we got the
El Cristo Rey
gangs. They were much the worst. Kind of revivalists. Did everybody in who wasn’t for the Church. Out for blood
they
were and no nonsense. Thousands and thousands of them all over the country. They’d come streaking into the villages on horseback with those great big banners and that cry they had,
CHRIST IS KING
. My, people were scared. Came after me, too. “What you think I am?” I told them, “a heathen? I believe in Our Lord same as you do, and better, without your papist fripperies”. I had my own gun then, no use talking sense to the
Cristeros
. Had to use it too, and,
what’s more
, take cover. They
fired a round into the garden and left me for dead. Always in such a hurry they were. Well, so now I sleep out of doors, rain or shine. Kept my gun too. I guess it would be the death of me if I slept inside a house now. You don’t change your habits at eighty-nine. Yes, eighty-nine come November; and seventy-two of them in Mexico. Born in the year before the War between the States.’

‘Dummy? I? Again? Want some of my prunella any of you? Made it last fall. Diana says it ain’t half bad, never touch it myself. I like my drink from abroad.’

‘No thank you, Mrs Rawlston,’ said Peter.

‘No thank you,’ said I.

After the seventh rubber, the Englishwoman rose. ‘Mrs Rawlston, it has been a lovely evening. Thank you so much.’

‘Not going, are you? Won’t you stay to supper so we can have another hand or two afterwards?’

‘I’m afraid we have to go,’ said the Englishwoman, ‘the dogs are waiting for us.’

‘That’s too bad. Mrs B, you’ll stay another minute, I have something to give you for Tavio.’

Scores were reconstructed by memory. I had played four rubbers with Mrs Rawlston and it was found that I was seven pesos to the good. If ever money was supposed to burn in a pocket, this did.

‘Well, goodbye, dear Mrs Rawlston, and thank you again so much.’

‘Come again soon, Peter.’

‘
You
must come to San Antonio, Mrs Rawlston.’

‘Goodbye,’ said I.

‘Goodbye,’ said the Englishwoman.

‘Goodbye,’ said the Englishman.

‘Mr Middleton’s bite was worse than his bark,’ said E.

‘It was all laid on,’ said Anthony, ‘landlady on the doorstep, lease made up.’

‘Mr Middleton met us at his gate watch in hand,’ said E.

‘I had my share of barks, too,’ said I. ‘Muffled barks.’

‘Did you not enjoy the Saunders’?’ said Don Otavio.

‘They did not enjoy me.’

‘Oh you,’ said E ‘Stuffing beaten biscuit. I’d give anything for real beaten biscuit.’

‘I gave too much. Now tell me what happened. Are we safe?’

‘Don’t worry. No cottage for us. I settled it.’

‘My dear. And how did you put it?’

‘By evasion.’

‘E said we couldn’t decide anything without you,’ said Anthony.

‘So it is
not
all settled?’

‘And you would let him know tomorrow.’

‘Oh E. You didn’t?’

‘Well, you see, Mr Middleton’s bark was
not
muffled.’

‘Aw,’ said Anthony, ‘let’s write him a note and forget about it.’

D
ON OTAVIO is going into Guadalajara for the day. Don Otavio’s departures are worthy to be seen. The engine of his brother’s motor launch, brought in the night before from Chapala, has been revved thunderously since dawn. Early Mass is an hour earlier, and the Padre is rowed over from San Juan Cosalá. For his efforts the Padre is given breakfast at the Hacienda. While the Padre eats, the parrot is locked in the linen room as his language cannot be trusted and Don José is an old man. The barber also appears an hour earlier. Soledad and Carmelita are summoned to the El Dorado to assist at the toilet. People cross and recross the lawn with various items: the bulky entrails of the water filter to be repaired at Guadalajara, tins of petrol for Don Otavio’s car waiting at Chapala, crates of fruit and sheaves of flowers for Don Otavio’s relatives; provisions, cushions. These are stowed in the launch, taken out again, looked at, rearranged. At nine the garden fills with spectators, servants and petitioners. At ten, Don Otavio’s chauffeur appears on the lawn dressed in white ducks and a beach shirt, bearing a rug; at a quarter past, Don Otavio’s valet bearing in his arms Don Otavio’s female Maltese terrier, curled and decked out with a large satin bow. She is to spend the day with Don Otavio’s favourite sister-in-law. At half past ten, Don Otavio issues from the house, splendid like the moon, all in white silk, his silvery hair brushed upwards, a Charvet tie over his holy medals, bearing nothing. A volley of advice springs from his mouth. His progress to the waterfront is punctuated by miscellaneous requests: the cook would like a funnel, Carmelita a length of ribbon, Juan some scented oil. Don
Otavio grants them all. He steps into the launch. Two live chickens with bound legs are deposited at his feet. The engine gives a terrific roar, dies down, throbs again. Pietrá, the chauffeur’s wife, who at this instant decided to accompany her husband, is handed into the boat. Domingo comes running with a little girl in a revolting bandage that is to be changed by the nuns. Don Otavio draws her on to his lap. A
mozo
from Jocotepec who wants a lift leaps on to the prow. Thirty people break into
que Dios les proteja
, Don Otavio raises a hand in gracious salute, and the boat glides out.

The name of the girl who looks after us, who brings in the morning tea and closes the shutters, who whisks away the barely worn shirt and linen suit and lays them out again in the evening smelling of sun and meadows, is Soledad. She is the most exquisite of creatures. The texture of her skin – rosy café-au-lait, mat and aglow, the almond oval of her face, the mouth that looks as though it had opened only with this day, the delicate hands and wrists, the perfectly shaped feet, the grace and balance of her movements: everything about her is of finer clay. It is that flower-like exquisiteness compounded of fineness, innocence and youth, that is found in the more elusive animals, a hind, a fawn, more rarely in a human158 being and hardly ever in a member of the white race. Soledad’s expression is open, serene, inherently detached. She has a sweet smile, neither remote nor here; warmth not dependent for its kindling on surroundings; and uses a light singing voice all day. We look at her with awe. Such creatures seem hardly human; that they are, must be their tragedy. What can become of her among us? Mind does not touch her, nor vulgarity, but men will, and age. Twice mortal, her destiny should be the milk-white steed, translation in a cloud. She will be married to a village lout or by a rich man.

My own great-grandmother was Spanish, and though her beauty could hardly have been of the quality of Soledad’s, she was supposed to have been a very lovely girl indeed when she was married, taken to a northern country and received into an alien creed. I remember a very small, very wrinkled, old woman, indeed a little like Soledad’s own
mother, who never left the house in which the authority was her children’s, and whose sweetness of nature was judged to be harmless. She hobbled about passages tatting lace, carrying a plate of pudding to her upstairs drawing-room. In spite of my shrinking from age – I was five – she and I drank our chocolate and ate sweets together entirely in the manner of equals.

This morning Soledad has a message for me from Guadalupe. Guadalupe is the … y … y … brothers’ old wet nurse who now looks after the fowls. It has transpired, Domingo and Andreas have overheard at table, that I have been to Rome, and Guadalupe requests the favour of my company to converse upon the subject. Guadalupe, with whom so far relations have been of the most tenuous, regrets having been unaware of the presence under their roof of a person who has been to Rome. At the moment she is engaged with a lapful of goslings, but if I would accommodate myself to the fowl-patio?

I love Rome perhaps more than any other place in the world. The very name at this immense distance, falling so lightly, so unknowingly from Soledad’s unconscious lips, stirs memory and longing.

‘Buenos dias, Señora.’

‘Buenos dias, Guadalupe.’

‘You have been to Rome, Señora?’

‘Many times.’

‘Many times! It is very pious.’

My answer to this is suitable. I was aware that the Eternal City has always been all things to all men. Goethe lived within its walls for eighteen months and successfully avoided seeing a single monument of Christian art. A reverse course is taken by the pilgrims of today who, the dust of the Seventh Basilica hardly off their knees, crowd into the Forum. The Colosseum is claimed both by the followers of the Apostles and the followers of Gibbon; others regard a visit to the Cradle of Christianity and the Fount of Law as a baroque treasure hunt and will look at nothing before Bernini. I thought I guessed Guadalupe’s need.

‘And did you see the Virgin every time?’

I had not guessed it. ‘I saw the Pope,’ I said guardedly.

‘Yes, yes, the Pope. A very good man no doubt. He looks after the Virgin. Did you see Her?’

One spring and summer I had a flat there, facing and level with the ninety-foot cipolin column of the Immaculate Conception. From sunrise to starry midnight, the statue of Maria Imaculata and the huge winged bronze Bull of St Luke almost at arm’s reach had looked into my windows and my terrace. ‘There is much of the Virgin in Rome,’ I said.

‘Of course. There would be. Was She well? Has She all She wants? What did She wear?’

‘Rome is a large place,’ said I.

‘Very large and very splendid. For the Virgin. You
did
see the Virgin,
niña?’

‘I don’t think the Virgin is really visible in Rome. You are not thinking of Lourdes, Guadalupe, where people have seen her?’

‘Yes, the Virgin is seen at Lourdes also. But the Virgin lives in Rome, everybody knows that. In a palaçio called El Vatican. She has Her own railway now. It is very magnificent. You will tell me everything about it.’

‘Now Guadalupe,’ I said, feeling that prevarication would serve no further, ‘you know that the Virgin is in Paradise, not in Rome. Even Rome is not that. And the railway was built for the Pope. Don’t you know about the Assumption? You
know
the Virgin went to heaven.’

‘The Virgin left Rome? Just when She had the new railway? It was made all for Her. I gave two pesos to the Padre for the Virgin’s Railway. You are very confused,
niña
, with your talk of Lourdes and Paradise and the Pope taking the Virgin’s Railway for himself. As soon as these goslings are asleep, I shall say three rosaries for you. To clear your mind.’

All three of Don Otavio’s brothers and their wives are expected tomorrow and Don Otavio is all a-flutter with housekeeping. The cook has been drinking again and not yet herself. Jesús’ wife causes anxiety too, as she is said to have an eye on Don Otavio’s Juan. Juan is terrified as Jesús has already knived three youths from Ajijíc. The others show a tendency to lay down work and give themselves to watching the outcome of these events.

‘Do not let us have troubles,
niños
,’ Don Otavio implored them, ‘while my sisters-in-law are here.’

‘I’m surprised Jesús hasn’t had a go at Mr Middleton,’ said I, ‘the way Mr Middleton goes on about Jesús’ garden.’

‘It is not conceivable,’ said Don Otavio.

‘Troubles come when they wish to,’ said Domingo.

‘The horses have stolen the vegetables,’ said Andreas.

‘¡Niños!’
said Don Otavio.
‘¿Con su permiso?’

‘I’ve been over to the Villa,’ said Anthony, ‘you should see the liquor Otavio’s bringing out. Scotch; French brandy; cases of it. It’s all Don Enriquez’ really, he keeps it here. And a whole side of beef’s come from Chapala. I saw it.’

‘What a one you are for snooping.’

‘I gave the cook your Alka-Seltzer, E. They’re making ice-cream in the damnedest gadget you ever saw. Kind of bucket with a crank. But I do wish that Joaquím and Orazio were coming.’

‘Aren’t they?’

‘Hell no. No one young at all. This is serious. Didn’t you know? Don Enriquez is bringing out the agreement about this hotel proposition and they are going to pore over it. That’s why Luís is coming all the way out from Mex City.’

‘Anthony, you know too much.’

‘We ought to be at Jocotepec,’ said E.

‘Con permiso de Ustedes,’
said Juan. ‘Don Otavio wishes to know whether the Señores would be good enough to keep the parrot with them for a little while? Don Otavio is doing the flowers.’

‘We have our uses here,’ said I.

Don Otavio, followed by Soledad bearing linen and Jesús’ children bearing vases, crossed the loggia.

‘Always with a book,’ he said to E. ‘You must have so many.’

I looked up from mine and listened.

‘This one is always enjoyable,’ said E.

‘I am so glad,’ said Don Otavio.

‘You ought to have met Mr Collins, Don Otavio. He set such a standard of polite letter-writing.’

‘Who was the gentleman?’

‘A clergyman of the Church of England.’

Don Otavio covered a slight stiffening with a courteous smile.

‘And a personage of Jane Austen’s.’

‘Oh; he lived on the lady’s estates,’ said Don Otavio with the relief of full comprehension.
‘¿Con su permiso?’

They arrived in Don Enriquez’ motor launch an hour before luncheon. An awning had been put up and a table spread with refreshments. Don Otavio, freshly powdered, in a Charvet shirt and a plum-coloured sash with a tassel wound around his waist, E, Anthony and I were waiting on the lawn.

Don Enriquez, in a white silk suit and utterly in his prime, was a fine, massive, worldly figure – masculine, at ease, intimating power and craft. Don Jaime looked like an ecclesiastical shadow of his elder brother: tapering, emaciated, with an austere face and a haunted expression that might have been ascetic but was above all hungry. Don Luís looked quite louche, with more than a touch of the motor salesman about him. Don Jaime wore a dark lounge suit, and Don Luís a brighter one. All three brothers were heavily powdered.

Their wives were slight, elegant, and beauties. Doña Victoria had fine hard features, and Doña Concepción a ravishing face. They wore plain white piqué dresses, almost tennis dresses, in what used to be called simple good taste, but Doña Concepción wore ruby ear-rings and Doña Victoria wore diamonds. They wore no make-up, except on their eyes and mouths.

Don Luís’ wife had stayed at Mexico having another baby.

They brought a number of servants. Don Enriquez brought a string of snipe for Don Otavio, and Doña Concepción the last number of
Vogue
.

We stood about the lawn with drinks, chattering and making a good meal of
tacos
until it was time to go in to luncheon. Don Otavio looked
after everybody, but Doña Victoria appeared to be acting as hostess. Don Enriquez seemed too much at home to care.

Don Enriquez treats Don Otavio with affectionate condescension. Don Jaime treats him with almost concealed contempt, and Don Luís with open emulation. Doña Victoria is rather waspish to her brother-in-law, and Doña Concepción is charming.

Seeing Don Otavio among his family, we were suddenly struck by the utter anomaly of his position as an unmarried man.

He moved about his brothers with affection and respect. With perhaps most respect for Don Jaime and most affection and no less respect for Don Luís, and seemed to regard Doña Concepción as an equal companion and Doña Victoria with awe.

For some reason, both Don Enriquez and Doña Victoria are all over Anthony.

‘Tavio has not taken you to the Island yet?
Qué tal, chiquito,
what have you been thinking of?’

‘Querido,
no one has been to the Island since Papa died.’

‘Yes, and that is why Don Antonio would enjoy it. It is quite savage. We all used to love it when we were boys. The inhabitants never go to the mainland. They cannot have seen a white face since we’re grown up.’

‘Enriquez, Don Antonio is grown up,’ said Doña Victoria.

‘He has Joaquím’s age.’

‘At which you were married and had a son.’

‘And they have not,’ said Don Enriquez comfortably.

‘I wish Joaquím’s tastes lay still outside the
Circle des Jeux
,’ said Doña Victoria, ‘we ought to make
him
take Don Antonio to the Island.’

‘How are Joaquím and Orazio, Sir?’ said Anthony.

‘Very well and expensive,’ said their father.

‘Don Enriquez, as a lawyer,’ said E, ‘what do you think of the present form of government in Mexico?’

‘No worse than most forms.’

‘If it has one,’ said Don Jaime.

‘Oh the
politicos
have their line. Their purpose I should say.’

‘Their purposes,’
said Don Luís.

‘You will find the country still a land of opportunity,’ said Don Enriquez.

E returned to her plate.

‘Otavio,
must
we have the beef covered in tomato sauce, too,’ said Doña Victoria, ‘when the fish was already done
a la veracruzana?
Was it not fresh?’