The Glory Game (42 page)

“Yes,” Raul answered.

No description of this fan-shaped prairie that spread out from Buenos Aires for three or four hundred miles had prepared Luz for this awesome sight. It was so immense, like the ocean without a shore in sight, just an unending flatness—no hills, no streams, all level ground. She breathed in deeply, her lungs
filling with air, then she couldn't seem to release it, so awed was she by the bigness of the land.

Suddenly, in the far distance, she could see a long row of trees standing like a column of lonely sentinels. As they drew closer, she could make out the peaked rooflines of buildings beyond another stand of trees planted as a windbreak. The sight was alien to the surroundings, like a treed island alone in the middle of an ocean.

“What are those buildings ahead of us?” she asked Raul.

“An
estancia.”

When they drove by it, Luz saw that the double row of trees flanked the road leading to a large chateau with barns and other outbuildings. Through the clipped shrubbery, she had a glimpse of a vast lawn, but it was the nearly eight-foot-tall stand of pampas grass that caught her eye. In late summer the high clumps of long-bladed leaves would be topped by towering ivory plumes.

“You recognize the pampas grass, no?” Raul said.

“Yes.” It was a plant landscapers frequently used in many of the Southern states, including Florida.

“More than a hundred years ago, all of the Pampa was covered by this tall grass.”

It was a thought that staggered the imagination. The minute the
estancia
was passed, they were once again enveloped by the high, wide sky and the flat, flat land. No matter how many times they passed small farms or large
estancias
, Luz never lost that feeling of isolation—nor her fascination for this enormous Argentine prairie, its level expanse not marred by even a gully.

At a halfway point in their trip, they stopped at one of several small towns on their route to have lunch and stretch their legs. There was a sameness about these country villages, Luz discovered. The Spanish influence was evident in the pattern of a main square in the center of town, flanked by a church and a town hall housing the local authority. In addition to a movie house and cafes, there was always a railroad station. In the larger villages, there was also a statue in the square of General San Martin on horseback.

At the small café where they ate lunch, Luz was stunned by the quantity of food on her plate. “Argentina is known as the land of the stretched belt,” Raul reminded her. “Like your
country, we are accustomed to having plenty, which is why we are reluctant to tighten our belt even when the economy is poor.”

After traveling for roughly another hour and a half, they turned off the main road onto a lane lined with towering eucalyptus trees. Their blond trunks had shed much of their stringy bark to stand like pale columns while their branches interlaced to form a living arch over the road. Until the driveway curved in front of it, all Luz could see of the
estancia's
main house through the trees was a mass of gray stone. She stared at the two-story monolith with its double row of square windows. The photograph in the brochure seemed cheerful compared to the stark, cold dwelling before her. Nothing relieved the severity of its straight lines.

When Raul stopped the car, Luz hesitated before climbing out. She carefully refrained from making any comment about the house, but she suspected her host had sensed her dislike of it as he escorted the three of them inside. Her eyes had barely adjusted to the gloom of the large entry hall when she heard the strike of crutches on the hardwood floor. Turning, Luz saw a crippled gray-haired man wearing leg braces approach them.

“Welcome to Le Buen Viento,” he greeted them with a wide friendly smile.

“May I present Hector Guerrero.” Raul made the necessary introductions, then said, “Hector will show you to your rooms. If you will excuse me.” He dipped his head politely.

“Of course,” Luz murmured, although she knew he wasn't asking her permission.

A moment later, there was the sound of the door closing, then Hector Guerrero claimed her attention. “If you will follow me, I will take you to your rooms. The house, she is big and old, but it is easy to find your way in it.”

Using one crutch for a pivot, he turned and headed toward a massive wooden staircase leading to the second floor. Luz had a brief glimpse at some of the other ground-floor rooms. All seemed austere with their bare walls and ponderous furniture. She had little hope their rooms would be better. And they weren't.

“G
ood morning, Hector.” Luz paused as she entered the large dining room. The wizened, mustached man was the only person seated at the long table. “It seems that I'm the last one down.”

“Buenos días, señora”
The man's cracked and lined face resembled a saddle exposed too long to the elements, but a smile broke across it when he saw her. “You slept well, yes?”

“Yes.” She saw him slip his arms into the metal bands of his crutches and heard the dragging scrape of his leg braces. “Please don't get up, Hector,” she insisted and crossed to the coffee urn sitting atop the long bureau. A depleted stack of cups and saucers and the accompanying cream and sugar servers sat beside it.

But the old man didn't listen to her and hauled himself upright, putting most of his weight on the crutches instead of his paralyzed legs. He reached down and locked the braces that permitted him some mobility.

“You will want some breakfast,” he said when he straightened. His iron-gray hair was thick and curly, salted with white like the thick brush of his mustache. “I will get Anna to bring a plate for you.”

“No, Hector,” Luz said quickly to halt that rocking swing of each hip to propel a braced leg forward while he maintained his balance with the crutches. He managed to move agilely, but it looked awkward to her. “Coffee is all I want this morning.” Slightly uncomfortable with his handicap, she faced the coffee urn and placed a cup under the spigot.

“Señora, it is no trouble,” he replied as if guessing part of the reason for her refusal.

“Honestly, I'm still full from dinner last night,” she assured him while letting her cup fill with coffee. “The food was very good.”

“Gracias, señora
. Ramon, the cook, will be most pleased.” He altered his course and maneuvered toward her in his waddling walk. “Sunday, we fix
asado
, a big feast for when the others come. You have had this, no?”

“No, I haven't.” Luz picked up her cup and added cream to the strong brew, aware that Hector was referring to the impending arrival of the other polo students. She understood there were to be ten in all, counting Rob. Some were spending only two weeks and a few were remaining a month. Considering the fees for the program, it represented a respectable income.

“Asado
is a roasted meat cooked over an open fire.” He touched his fingers to his lips, kissing them, in a gesture that seemed more Italian than Spanish. “You will like it.”

“It sounds delicious.” Luz sipped at the steaming coffee, still hot despite the addition of rich cream.

She wasn't exactly sure of Hector Guerrero's position at the
estancia
. When she was first introduced to the crippled man the day before, she had thought he was probably a charity case, someone Raul had felt sorry for and invented a job for to make him feel useful. But from what she had observed since, that impression was wrong. Hector appeared to be something of a general factotum, the majordomo of the house as well as stable manager—or at least he was extremely familiar with the operations of both.

After Hector had shown them to their rooms, he pointed out the location of things, informed them about the household routine—mealtimes, the maid's cleaning hours, and so on—and saw that their luggage was taken to their rooms by one of the stablehands. Last night he had dined with them and talked at length to Rob about individual horses in the stable. Not that Raul showed ignorance about any of these things. He hadn't. The impression was they were not his responsibility.

Obviously, when Raul was gone, someone had to run the place. Luz was simply surprised by his choice, although her opinion of Hector was being revised. He was friendly and talkative and had a good command of English. His age was impossible to guess, but she suspected it was ten years on either side of sixty.

“Where has everyone gone?” she asked. Breakfast had been scheduled between seven and eight, and it was only a few minutes before the latter.

“Señor Rob, he was anxious to see the horses.” With a swing of his crutches, he turned toward the table and forced his legs to follow. He stopped next to a chair and supported himself on one crutch to pull it out for her.
“Se
ñ
ora, por favor.”

“Gracias.”
It was one of the few Spanish words she knew.

“They have gone to the stables,” Hector explained as he hopped backward two steps after she was seated. “I will take the senora there when you have finished, if you wish.”

“Yes, I would like to see the horses, too.” She wished Rob hadn't been so impatient. They had all planned to go together this morning, which was why she had dressed in her riding pants and boots and worn a thick pullover sweater against the morning coolness. She listened to the sequences of thumps and drags as Hector walked to the coffee urn. “I presume Rob went with Raul … I mean, Señor Buchanan.”

“Raul is easier, no?” Carrying the coffee cup made his return trip to the table much slower. Luz resisted the impulse to carry it for him. As she'd witnessed on several occasions last night, Hector preferred doing things himself regardless of how awkwardly he did them. “He is Raul. I am Hector. We are all friends.”

“Then I am Luz,” she said, responding to his friendly overture.

He set his cup down on the table, then paused with his hand on a chair back to glance curiously at her. “Luz, this is a Spanish name.”

“It is? Actually, my name is Leslie. When I was born, my older brother couldn't say it correctly. He kept calling me
Luz
lie, and it stuck,” she explained.

“Ah,” he said with a slow nod of his head. “In Spanish, it means ‘light.' María de la Luz, that is how my aunt was called. It translates to Mary of the Light.”

“I have never heard the name,” Luz admitted.

“You are not Argentine. You are
yanqui.”
He grinned, a row of snowy white teeth showing beneath the curving salt-and-pepper mustache. He pulled out the chair, then maneuvered sideways to sit down.

“Did my daughter go to the stables with them?” She hadn't
checked to see whether Trisha was in her room before coming down.

“Sí, la señorita
, she goes, too.” Hector sipped noisily at the scalding hot coffee, cooling its temperature as he sucked it in. “The coffee is good.”

“It is.” Luz took another drink from her cup.

“But it is better when someone else is at the table in the mornings. When Raul is gone, I don't drink so many cups.”

“How long have you known Raul?”

“Many years. Before this.” He slapped his hand against a lifeless thigh to indicate his paralysis.

“What happened?” Luz immediately regretted the impulsive question. “You don't have to answer that if you'd rather not talk about it.”

“No importa.”
With a wave of his hand, he assured her he didn't mind. “This man, he wants me to break this young horse to ride. He is crazy, this horse. When I get on, he throws himself back.” Hector mimed the action of a rearing horse falling over backward, then shrugged with an open-handed gesture. “I jump the wrong way. He falls on my legs, and they die.”

“It must have been very difficult for you.” Self-consciously she clasped her hands around the cup, not knowing what to say without it sounding like pity.

“Sí
.”

“I can't imagine what it would be like not to ride, let alone walk unaided,” she admitted.

“I can still ride, señora … Luz,” he corrected himself with another wide smile. “I must strap these useless legs to the saddle, but I can ride a horse. I can no longer train them to play polo, but it is enough to be in the saddle.”

“You trained horses? Then you must have played polo with Raul. Is that where you two met?”

“I have played with Raul when there was no one else. I was a good
entrenador
—trainer—but not a good player. Training a green horse is a talent of its own. A good polo player may not be able to teach a horse how to be a good pony, but he knows how to ride one.
Comprende?”

“Yes. Teaching requires a patience that an expert will not necessarily have.” Luz smiled, never having considered that aspect before. “Then how did you two meet?”

Hector studied her for several seconds, the dark glint in his eyes assessing something. “We worked for the same man. I trained his horses. Raul was a groom in his stables. It was a long time ago.”

“Before he started playing polo,” she realized.

“Sí
Then later, when he was rated in high goals and people paid him money to play on their team, he bought his own horses to ride and I trained them. Many times, I traveled to Norte America and England with him to look after the horses. Then Raul wants to buy land so he can keep horses and raise them. When we look, we find this place. We want to buy only the land, not this big, gray elephant.” The wave of his hand indicated the massive dwelling they were in, and Luz smiled at the appropriate description of the hulking manor. “The man would not sell only the land, so Raul buys this, too. He had been giving polo lessons to players at clubs, so we started this school.”

“That's quite a story, but there must be more. You've only given me the highlights.” Luz doubted that it had been as easy as he made it sound.