The Swallow and the Hummingbird (17 page)

They walked to the lake, where birds nested in the reeds and wild duck swam on the water. Beyond, across a park of carefully planted trees, was the
puesto
. Here the gauchos looked after the horses. A couple of brown ponies rested in the shade of an ombu. A dark-skinned youth sat shirtless, scrubbing down a saddle and bridle, and another, much older man, leaned back against the fence, sipping
mate
, the traditional herb tea, out of a gourd through an ornate silver straw. A number of skeletal dogs sniffed the ground beside the logs where a barbecue had been the night before. They looked wild and mangy and no one took any notice of them. When the gauchos saw their mistress approach they stood to attention and bowed their heads. George wondered what Jose Antonio was like and whether Aunt Agatha was the one wearing the trousers in the marriage. She certainly took all the credit for everything at
Las Dos Vizcachas
.

‘Jose Antonio will take you off this afternoon. He’ll want to show you the farm. I suggest you relax for a couple of days, settle in, then get to work after the weekend. Jose Antonio could certainly use an extra pair of hands.’

With Aunt Agatha George barely had a moment to think of Susan, or Rita for that matter. She talked without pause, often finishing her sentences with ‘isn’t it?’ or ‘don’t you think?’ so there was no way he could let his mind wander. Perhaps it was better that he forgot them both for the time being and concentrated on getting settled into this new country.

They sat once again at the table on the veranda, now laid for lunch. The smell of cooking meat wafted out from the kitchen. George’s stomach rumbled continuously and he longed to grab one of the bread rolls that lay enticingly in a basket in the centre. Finally, just when George was beginning to feel nauseous with hunger the low, gravelly voice of Jose Antonio bellowed through the hall. ‘Gorda! I smell food. Let’s eat!’

Chapter 11

Jose Antonio was a giant of a man: over six feet tall, with a broad frame, a wineskin stomach and thick curly black hair. When he saw George his face widened into a beaming smile. ‘George! Welcome to
Las Dos Vizcachas
.’ His English was good, though he retained a strong Argentine accent. Instead of extending his hand he slapped George firmly on the back and gave a loud belly laugh. ‘I’m sure Agatha has shown you around the
estancia
. She is very proud of her home.’

‘Yes, it’s a beautiful place,’ George replied, overwhelmed by the magnetism of the man.

‘I’m glad you like it. It will be your home for some time, I hope.’ He shifted his deep brown eyes to his wife. ‘Let us eat!’

Agatha tinkled a little silver bell that was placed next to her on the table and Agustina came scampering out with a large oval plate of meat, potatoes and salad. A high-pitched shrieking resounded from the kitchen. Jose Antonio chuckled as he poured himself a large glass of wine. ‘I see Dolores is at war again,’ he said, raising his glass to George. ‘And you thought the war was over.’

‘She’s in a particularly filthy mood today. Though I have to say in all the years I’ve been here I’ve only ever seen her smile once,’ said Agatha, serving herself some lunch.

George filled his plate as much as he could without appearing greedy and took a generous mouthful. It tasted as good as it looked.

‘You know they say people become their names. Dolores means “pain”,’ said Jose Antonio.

‘She’s not in pain!’ Agatha exclaimed.

‘No, Gorda, she gives pain to everyone else!’ He roared with laughter.

‘If what you say is true about names I’ve certainly become mine,’ she said with a smile. Then turning to George she added, ‘Jose Antonio’s nickname for me is Gorda, which means fat.’

George wanted to reassure her that she wasn’t fat but felt he could not do so without looking foolish, so instead he said, ‘You’re a fine figure of a woman, Aunt Agatha.’

‘I have to be to run this place; Jose Antonio lives like a king.’

It was true. Jose Antonio was waited on hand and foot by his wife and even Dolores, who had known him since he was a boy. George was surprised to see that with her husband Agatha seemed to suppress her personality. She didn’t talk so much and she laughed at all his jokes, however lame they were. She was quite clearly cleverer than he was and so capable that he had no idea how much work it took to run their home. Everything was just as he liked it. The meals were served on time, the food was always fresh and delicious, the horses were always ready, the
puesto
was organized and efficient, and the small band of helpers toiled away quietly so that Jose Antonio was aware only of the perfection of the stage and not of the sweating behind the scenes. Guests came and went, and the bedrooms were always clean with linen sheets, cut flowers and new bars of soap. Jose Antonio received them warmly but never thought to thank his wife for all her hard work. Only Dolores screeched and wailed, totally out of anyone’s control. But he tolerated her for she was part of the place. She had screeched all the way through his childhood so he had grown used to it.

After lunch Jose Antonio slept a siesta. Sometimes he would ride into town and visit his mistress, Molina. He’d roll around with her for a while, then fall asleep on her large, foamy breasts. Unlike Agatha, she was young and slim with skin the colour of burnt sugar. Best of all he liked her bottom, soft and round like a peach. Today, however, he was tired. Showing off in front of their new guest had required more wine and the wine had made him drowsy, so he fell onto his bed and snored for two hours, dreaming of Molina’s firm buttocks. George dozed off in a hammock that belonged to the children. It was hot and he had barely slept the night before. Fortunately, Jose Antonio’s room was up in one of the towers on the other side of the house, so George was able to rest undisturbed by his uncle’s snoring and the churning sound of his digestion.

In the afternoon George accompanied Jose Antonio on horseback to survey the farm. The sun still burned, but it was less intense. In spite of his uncle’s coarse nature George found his company enjoyable. They rode across the plains where wheat and maize grew in fields of gold and sunflowers turned their faces to the light. Brown cows roamed among wild grasses and flowers in vast herds, their coats thick and shining with health. Jose Antonio had an army of labourers who seemed to do most of their work on horseback. They were dressed in the traditional gaucho attire: baggy trousers tucked into leather boots, and woven sashes tied around their waists, upon which rested elaborate belts decorated with silver coins. They looked flamboyant with their wide-rimmed hats, hide chaps, glittering spurs and the all-important knife, tucked into their belts. But Jose Antonio was much more interested in talking about George.

‘La Gorda tells me you have a woman in England,’ he began. But before George could reply he added, ‘What good is a woman you cannot make love to, eh?’ He laughed boisterously. ‘If you want a whore I know a good, clean place in town. A man has to fuck like he has to eat and shit, no?’ George was speechless, not that Jose Antonio would have noticed. ‘A wife is for children,’ he continued. ‘She organizes your life and takes care of you. A whore is for pleasure. If I had wanted to spend the rest of my life making love to my wife I would have married Molina. But Molina is only good for that. Every man should have a woman for love and a woman for lust, no?’ George had been quite happy to engage in bawdy talk in the mess, but it seemed inappropriate to discuss such things with his aunt’s husband. Jose Antonio fixed him with his mahogany eyes and said with a smirk, ‘I see you are in love.’

‘I’m going to marry Rita,’ said George, feeling gauche. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

‘Then what you need is a woman to keep you occupied,’ Jose Antonio suggested, obviously an authority on the subject. ‘A year is a very long time and you are young. When I was young I made love whenever I could because, as you get older, you no longer have the energy or the time to indulge so often. You will see that I am right.’ When George said nothing, Jose Antonio added thoughtfully, ‘Rita must be a very beautiful woman.’

‘She is,’ George replied, envisaging her face, wondering what she would make of Jose Antonio. He rather looked forward to telling her in his next letter.

‘I have always liked women. Young girls lack the experience. They are like green fruit on a tree. They get better once they have been exposed a little to the elements. They need to ripen.’

George thought of Susan and felt a wave of regret. He should have asked for her address at the very least. The knowledge that he might never see her again made her all the more enigmatic and intriguing.

‘There is something very attractive about a woman who has seen a bit of the world,’ George agreed.

‘And who has tasted the forbidden fruit. Young girls are naïve, trusting, adoring. They lack personality. I was attracted to La Gorda because she knew her own mind. She is a strong and capable woman. It does not matter that she speaks Spanish like a tourist.’

‘I must say, Jose Antonio, your English is admirable,’ said George truthfully, wondering how on earth he was ever going to learn Spanish.

‘I had an English nanny who left when I was twenty. No, no,’ he was quick to add, once again roaring with laughter, ‘I was potty trained by then, I assure you.’

When they returned to the
puesto
two brown children sat on the fence waiting for them. Seeing them approach they jumped down and ran up to the ponies. Pia was eight, Jose Antonio, nicknamed Tonito to avoid confusion, was ten. Their father leapt to the ground and gathered both children into his arms. They giggled excitedly and Pia placed her small hands on his rough face and kissed him. ‘Come and meet your cousin George.’

They clung to him shyly, watching George with the same dark eyes as their father’s. Neither resembled their mother. Pia was destined to be a beauty and Tonito a giant. They belonged to the Argentine as the ombu belongs to the pampa. George was surprised to discover that neither spoke good English for their parents talked to them in their native tongue, more out of laziness than intention.

‘
Vamos a casa a tomar el té
,’ said Tonito. He turned to George and translated in pidgin English. ‘Teatime.’

Tea was laid out on the veranda, the silver and china neatly placed on a clean white tablecloth. The children drank their milk and told their parents what they had done at school. Jose Antonio was indulgent, Agatha mindful of their manners and deportment.

‘Children, we must all speak English now we have an English guest,’ said Jose Antonio, running a large hand over his son’s hair. ‘Show us what you have learned in school.’

‘Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,’ said Tonito with a giggle.

‘Surely you know more than that?’ Agatha exclaimed, unimpressed.

‘I don’t want,’ Pia complained, looking up at her father beneath thick black lashes. She had already mastered the art of flirting.

‘George flies aeroplanes,’ said their mother, attempting to engage them. ‘He fought in a war.’

‘Like a bird,’ said Pia, pointing to the sky.

‘Just like a bird,’ George agreed, smiling at her. ‘But once I crashed. Fell to the ground. Not like a bird!’ The children giggled, clearly understanding more than they let on.

‘Good God, George. Did you?’ Agatha’s eyes widened.

‘Damned nearly killed me,’ he said, then added softly, ‘Saved by the grace of God.’

Suddenly the sound of breaking china, scraping chairs and Dolores’ inimitable screech alerted them to trouble in the kitchen. They all stiffened and strained their ears, looking at one another in bewilderment. Pia giggled nervously into her hand. Jose Antonio got to his feet, still chewing on a piece of cheese and
membrillo
, and walked unhurriedly across the terrace. He entered the kitchen to find the old woman standing in the middle of the room wielding a knife at an invisible aggressor. Like an angry crow she was dressed in her usual black gown and sensible black shoes, her hair pulled up into a severe bun. ‘Out! Out!’ she shouted, rigid with fury. When she saw her boss she turned on him too. ‘Señor, if you have come to take me away I ask God in advance to forgive me my actions.’

‘Dolores, why would I want to take you away? No one cooks
empanadas
like you do!’ His voice was calm but forceful.

‘I have a melon growing in my stomach. For that they have come to take me away.’ Jose Antonio looked at her quizzically. He towered over her and it wouldn’t have been difficult to wrest the knife from her, but her eyes shone with terror more than rage.

‘Who has come to take you away?’ he asked patiently. ‘I see no one there.’ She stuck out her jaw and nodded to the wall.

‘Spirits. They come when your time is up, to take you on to the next world. But I tell them I’m not ready yet.
Váyanse,
váyanse!
’

Jose Antonio’s face darkened and he frowned. This wasn’t the ranting of a crazed woman for he knew of spirits and had seen them himself. ‘Who is there, Dolores?’ he asked. His voice was barely a whisper.

‘Mama and Ernesto.’

‘Put down the knife. You cannot harm spirits with knives.’ He walked a few paces towards her. She raised her eyes, now bloodshot and moist, bit her thin lip and placed the knife in his hand. ‘By all means tell them to go, but politely,’ he said, placing the knife back on the table. This she did. He watched her wave her hand as if to dismiss a tiresome dog. Then she turned, patted her grey hair and nodded at him gravely.

‘My time is near, señor,’ she croaked.

Jose Antonio put his hands on his hips and sighed ponderously. ‘A knife and a few obscenities cannot delay your meeting with God, Dolores. No, they come with a warning. I will call la señora.’

When he returned to the table Agatha was busy telling George all the famous Dolores stories. The time she was nearly killed by a wild pig, the fight she had had with a whore in Jesús Maria, and the discovery that her husband, Ernesto, had been leading a double life with another family in La Cumbre. ‘Of course he died shortly after,’ Agatha was saying. ‘She made life impossible for him as you can imagine.’ When she saw her husband approach her voice trailed off and she raised her eyebrows enquiringly.