Devon sat on a cement bench that looked inward upon the town square. The church bells at the other end of the plaza had just tolled two o’clock, and the townsfolk were beginning to stir. Mass was long over, and the people had had a chance to eat and take a siesta. As Federico the waiter had explained it, Sunday afternoon was the time of paseo, when everyone went out for a stroll. Some went to visit family members, while others walked around the park. It was the day to relax, and the only people who worked were those who, like Federico, had to.
When Devon had come out to sit for a while, during the second mass, he had seen only one person on the street, a dark, thin woman dressed all in black and twisted with age, walking from the center of town to some street several blocks south, where she disappeared. Now people were showing up. A short, round woman with a hand cart was setting up to sell flowers. A man with two burros laden with clay water jugs was unfolding a table. A couple of gray-haired, wrinkled men sat in silence on benches facing one another, and a heavy, middle-aged man sat on a low stone wall and smoked a cigarette.
The first girls had arrived and stood in a group of half a dozen at the far end of the park, and a young man in a white shirt and red bandana turned his horse down the street in their direction, passing on Devon’s right.
A few minutes later, a young couple with a toddling little boy and a baby in the father’s arms walked by. The boy ran ahead with his arms open, and two pigeons started up from the pathway.
Now came Juanito, with his hair clean and his face shaven. With his right hand he carried his instrument upright by the neck, and with his left he snapped his fingers every couple of steps. He was wearing clean clothes, and a straw hat hung at his back from a string around his neck. After he took a seat on a bench about ten yards from Devon, he pulled the hat free and set it on the ground in front of his feet. Then he began to pluck the strings and tune the mandolin.
A man with a short-brimmed straw hat and a clipped mustache came along with a pair of crossed sticks in each hand. A wooden marionette monkey dangled on each side of him. Smiling, the man turned to Devon and had the monkeys do a jig; then he went on his way, pausing every ten or twelve steps to let the monkeys bob and clatter.
Past the lady with the flowers and the man with the liquid refreshments, a woman with brown hair and a light complexion set out a small table and stacked it with creamy tan bars of candy, the kind called jamoncillo.
A couple of young men rode along together, again in white shirts and red bandanas. One of them had jingle-bobs on his bridle chains as well as on his spurs. The other had a pair of rich brown leather gloves tucked into the back waistband of his trousers. Both of them had gleaming, clean faces and the soft, dark beginnings of mustaches.
A vendor walked by with a mound of peanuts on a tray suspended by straps that crossed between his shoulder blades. Two boys aged eleven or twelve stopped him long enough to wheedle a handful of peanuts, and then they sat on the curb.
Another knot of girls had formed at the far end—young girls, from the looks of them, anywhere from thirteen to eighteen, all of them with full-length dresses and long, dark hair.
A wizened old man with a cane turned a milky eye toward Devon and then shuffled by. He sat at the other end of the bench from a man who had dozed off.
Now a couple of women appeared, older women who looked as if they might cook or clean. They wore shawls and ample dresses, and they took heavy steps in flat-soled shoes. They stopped at the table where the woman sold jamoncillos.
Juanito strummed the mandolin sharp and loud as he began to sing a song. It was a sprightly air about the swallows in springtime, building their nests in the eaves of the barn. Like young-hearted lovers with no thoughts of danger, each year they returned and went through it again. For the old men with sticks and the young boys with stones could not change the nature of birds wild and free. So come, my little pretty one, so dark-winged and lovely, oh come, my little pretty one, and fly, fly with me. Oh, come, my little pretty one, and fly, fly with me.
A few more couples with small children had shown up, appearing as if out of nowhere. The man with the marionette monkeys now had an audience of half a dozen children who let out little squeals and laughs. Voices floated on the air, as did the call of the man with the peanuts. In the background of these sounds came the slow clop of horse hooves when a rider passed. The park was beginning to hum, with Juanito’s music a sharper and clearer element in the blend of sounds.
Suspended in the warm afternoon, as Devon relaxed his gaze and did not focus on any particular object, the park swam in a slow, flowing motion, like a theater audience as viewed from the wings before the curtain went up.
The smell of cooked meatwafted on the air, causing Devon to turn in his seat. Aman and a woman stood behind a cart that had wisps of smoke rising from a grill. A large side of ribs—lamb or mutton from the looks of them—lay raw-side-up on the grate.
A group of three girls, walking abreast with their arms joined, came into view on his right. They were young and pleasant-looking, and they kept their gaze straight ahead. A few minutes later, they came into view again as they walked back the other way. Not long after that, another group came by. They did not turn around and go back but rather disappeared behind him and came into view again on his left as they continued all the way around the plaza. With the appearance of another pair of girls on his right, again coming from the other end of the park, he realized the promenade was under way.
In groups of two or three the girls strolled along, sometimes coming down one side of the plaza and sometimes down the other, sometimes turning around and going back and sometimes walking all the way around. Always, however, they stayed on the pathway along the edge, not far from the street. The young men rode up and down the street in similar patterns and variations, while their rivals on foot loitered here and there, leaning against a tree or perched on the back of a park bench. All of the young women were clean and neat, dressed for the paseo, and they all let on as if they were unaware it was going on. The girls chattered and laughed in their little groups, with only furtive, flickering glances to the side. The young men acted likewise, as if they had come by obligation to exercise their horses or to lend their presence to the shade.
Meanwhile the man with the peanuts and the woman with the jamoncillos called out their wares, the man with the marionettes made the children giggle, pigeons fluttered, Juanito sang songs of love and treachery, and the smell of roasting lamb fat carried on the air. From appearances, no one took notice of the paseo—not the woman with the flowers, not the couples with little children, not the old and slow and heavy people who wove in and out of the path of the señoritas on promenade. Later, Devon supposed, when the shadows lengthened and dusk drew in, some of the young women would break off from their groups and some of the young men would come within speaking distance, but in the height of the afternoon it was all a free-flowing paseo for everybody.
He awoke and blinked his eyes, trying to clear his head after having dozed off. The sun had not moved and the sounds had not changed, but he sensed something different. It was the tone of some of the voices.
A man holding a burro with a rope halter stood in the street and spoke in an energetic voice to the man roasting the ribs. Two other men, clean in their casual Sunday clothes, stood at the edge of the street and listened. Devon thought he heard the words for night, pasture, and dead, but he could not be sure. When the conversation came to a rest, there was a slow shaking of heads and a muttering of “Ay. Dios ¡Qué cosa!” Oh. My God. What a thing.
For the next little while the news rippled from one party to another, two or three people at a time. Meanwhile the promenade went on, with the young men and women passing in random patterns and keeping a lookout for glances. Devon still could not catch the drift of the gossip, so finally he went to the liquid refreshment stand and ordered a glass of lemonade.
“Excuse me,” he said as he paid the man. “It seems as if something has happened.”
The man, who was about Devon’s age and had the look of a responsible townsman, said, “Oh, yes. Something very grievous has occurred.”
Devon nodded as an invitation to go on.
“You are the artist who visits Rancho Agua Prieta, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Perhaps you know the young lady of the rancho, then.”
Devon narrowed his gaze as he felt his upper body tighten. “Yes, I know her.”
“Well, she has recently attracted the attention of another landholder’s son, one Ricardo Vega. Perhaps you have heard.”
“Only a little.”
“It is said that he went to the rancho to ask for her hand, but Don Felipe turned him away with a threat against his life. You may have heard that also.”
“Again, just a little, nothing more.”
“The story is told that he planned to take her away at night, in spite of the stepfather’s threats. Last night he left his own house, not telling anyone precisely where he was going. But it was supposed that he went to Rancho Agua Prieta.”
Devon tipped his head in half a nod.
“At dawn this morning he had still not come home, but his horse did, with blood on the saddle, so they went to look for him. They found him dead on the pastureland out on his father’s ranch.”
Devon felt a stronger tenseness in his midsection.
“Dead?”
“Yes. With bullet holes.”
“That is indeed very grievous.”
The man shook his head in a slow motion. “It is a terrible thing for his family.”
“I’m sure.”
“A young man, strong and brave and full of life.”
Though he had never met the young man, Devon could picture him—dark-haired in a clean hat and jacket, headstrong and impetuous. “It is a pity,” he said. “A very sad loss.”
“His family wants a complete investigation.”
“With reason.” Devon tried to pick his next words with care. “But are there different thoughts about who might have done it?”
The man raised his eyebrows and looked around, as if he did not want to be heard saying something indiscreet. “Of course, the person who issued the threat has to be considered, though it is hard to believe he would actually do it. He would expose himself to immediate punishment, and after all, he did not have much of a reason.”
Perhaps in the public view, Devon thought. But he said, “Who could have a stronger one?”
The man widened his eyes again. “A jealous man. His rival.”
“The cousin of the young woman?”
“The same.”
Devon frowned. “He is not very probable.”
“Maybe not. But he was heard declaring, not long before, that Ricardo would not live to make Petra his.”
“Oh. I thought he said Ricardo would not be able to take her away.”
“I was not there.”
“Neither was I.”
“But his boast, however he put it in words, leaves him under suspicion, at least as much as the stepfather’s threat does to himself.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Oh, yes. But the youngman’s family has a right to demand a full inquiry. And he has many brothers as well as his father. They will not let it go unanswered.”
“Nor should they.” Devon took a sip of the lemonade, which was tepid and sweet. In order to leave the glass, he drank the rest of it down. “Thank you for the drink,” he said. “And for the information.”
“You’re welcome. May things go well for you.”
Devon went back to his bench and sat down to absorb the import of what he had heard. He could not believe that Carlos had committed the crime; it just did not seem to fit. On the other hand, he was stunned that Don Felipe could have followed through with it, if indeed he had. Meanwhile Ricardo’s family had the grief of losing a young man who had just begun to grab life by the horns, and as they mourned their loss, the rest of life went on in commerce, conversation, song, and wordless promenade.
Devon tried the door of the cantina and found it closed. Dusk was falling and the park was almost empty of people, so he went to sit again on a bench. Left to his own thoughts, he pondered the sensation of sitting here alone and in quiet, in this place where a few hours earlier there had been a bustle of life and the rippling news of death.
A dusty-looking human form appeared on his left, and at first he did not recognize the person, partly because he did not expect to see him in this setting. But the details came together quickly enough—the slender build, the dark hair, the long narrow head like a dolichocephalic stone figure.
“Buenas tardes, jefe.”
“Buenas tardes, Cayetano.”
“Did you just come out?”
“No, I was out earlier, during the paseo. I came out again a little while ago, but it looks as if La Sombra is closed.”
“Oh, yes. For being Sunday.”
“So I thought.”
Cayetano stood in a slouch, shifted his weight from one foot to another, then broke the silence. “Maybe you have heard the news, then.”
“I have heard some.”
“Of the death of Ricardo Vega?”
“Yes, I heard that. It is too bad.”
“Oh, yes,” said Cayetano, with a solemn up-and-down motion of his head. “It is a very bad thing.”
“And it is not yet known who did it?”
“Still nothing. Of course, there are two who are the most suspected.”
“So I understand. Do you think, really, that Carlos could have done such a thing?”
Cayetano put his hands together in a pious, supplicant gesture and moved his head back and forth. “Oh, I am no one to judge something like that.”
The answer struck Devon as a mealy-mouthed way of saying that Cayetano would not mind believing, or having it believed, that Carlos might have done it. But Devon just said, “Huh. And others, what do they think?”
“I cannot say, not for others. But if Carlos had not said what he did at the rooster fight, there would be less suspicion on him at the present.”
“And the other, the master of the rancho?”
Cayetano looked down. “Oh, it is a very serious thing to accuse a man of that class.”
The obsequiousness irritated Devon. “Does his wealth, or his status, put him beyond suspicion? Or are people afraid of him?”
“Oh, no, it’s not that. But he is very proud. He would not go to someone else’s rancho, in the night, to do that. He would do it in open day, in a challenge.”
“What if the young man came in the night and died there? They could have carried the body back.”
Cayetano shrugged. “It is not for me to say.”
“What about the caporal?”
“Alfonso was in plain view at the rooster fight and then for the rest of the night in La Sombra.”
“Who knows if there is a third party, then. But I cannot imagine Carlos committing such an enormous act. Where is he, by the way?”
“He is closed up in his mother’s house. He does not go out today. They say he is afraid to show his face.”
“That’s too bad.” Devon thought for a second. “Where does he live?”
“Do you want to see him?”
The man’s eagerness was distasteful. “I don’t know,” said Devon.
“I’ll show you.”
“You can just tell me. This is an easy town to get around in.”
“I’ll show you.” Cayetano took a couple of sideways steps andmotioned with his hand. “Come on.”
Devon figured the man was angling for a tip, and it was either this way or some similar way to get rid of the nuisance, so he got up.
“It’s not very far.” The man shook his head in an expression of assurance.
Devon walked along beside his guide and made note of the corners and cross streets until they came to a wide adobe house set back from the street some thirty feet and facing north. The front patio was enclosed by a six-foot adobe wall with a wrought-iron gate in the middle.
Cayetano picked up a pebble from the street and used it to rap on the iron railing. After a moment of silence he rapped again.
The house door opened, and a middle-aged lady in a jacket and skirt appeared. “What do you want?” she called out.
“Good afternoon, with my best wishes, Doña Flora. Comes here a gentleman who would like to visit with your son Carlos.”
The lady raised her head. “For what reason? Who is it who wants him?”
“The American artist. A man to be trusted.”
“Just a minute. Let me see.” The lady turned and went into the house. A minute later she reappeared. “My son says he will see the American. Tell him to come through the back entrance.”
“Thank you, señora.”
Cayetano led the way to the corner and back around through the alleyway, which was lined with weeds and piles of rubble. The two men came to an adobe wall on the left, and there at an iron gateway stood Carlos.
Devon fished out a dime for his guide, who tarried just long enough to wish a good evening and to assure Devon he was at his service.
Carlos opened the gate, and as Devon stepped in and shook hands, he saw that Carlos was not faring well. The man was dressed in a clean brown cotton suit, about the same tone as the corduroy he had worn earlier, and he had on a clean white shirt. He was well groomed and clean-shaven. But his face, with its rough complexion and large, expressive brown eyes, had a haunted look to it.
“Come and sit in the patio,” he said, “where we won’t bother my mother.”
Devon followed him to a roofed area on the east side of the house, where the shadows lay heavy and the daylight was fading. Two chairs of wrought iron painted white sat next to a matching round table, and on the table sat a bottle and a glass.
“I’ll bring a lamp,” said Carlos. “And a glass, if you’d like one.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Within a few minutes, Carlos carried out the mo tions of a good host, and the two men sat, each with a glass of tequila in front of him.
“Very good of you to come by.”
“I didn’t really plan to, but Cayetano seemed to think he should show me, so I came.”
“Very well. I’m sure he likes to feel useful, though he doesn’t have much success squeezing money out of me.” Carlos gave a small cough, and as he reached for his drink, Devon saw that his hand was trembling.
“Are you not feeling well?”
“It has been a difficult day.”
“Yes, I was sorry to hear of the misfortune.”
Carlos looked up, and his eyes were brimming with moisture in the lamplight. “In spite of everything, I am sure my cousin Petra knows I would never have done any harm to Ricardo.”
“I guess that’s one of the reasons I came to visit you, to tell you that I, too, was convinced that you could not have done such a thing.”
“Thank you.”
Devon shrugged. “It is difficult for me to understand how anyone, in seriousness, could hold you in suspicion.”
Carlos, his eyes still moist, shook his head. “Yet they will. And it is all my fault.”
“How so?”
“For the foolish thing I said at the rooster fight, when I was provoked by Alfonso.”
“That was just talk, and the drink. I wasn’t there, but I know that much.”
“Yes, but I’m sure it has been exaggerated and distorted.”
“All the same, if you came home after that andwere here for the rest of the night, what can they say?”
Carlos heaved a sigh, and with a sad cast to his face he shook his head. “But there’s the detail. I did go out.”
“Really? I didn’t see you.”
“Not to the cantina. Iwent to RanchoAgua Prieta.”
It was Devon’s turn to exhale. “Is that right? For what purpose?”
Carlos shook his head again. “It sounds so stupid. But the moon was bright, as you will see it again in a few minutes, and I had a yearning to see the rancho. I did not hope to see my beautiful cousin, only to see the rancho and the light at the window, to know that she was there inside and to be that close to her.”
“So you went?”
“Yes.”
“Not on foot?”
“Oh, no. I took a horse from the stable where we keep them.”
“So a stableman saw you come and go?”
“Yes, though it would be nothing to lie about anyway. I rode out there, saw nothing except the ranch itself, and no one saw me. I achieved what I set out to do, which was to see the house beneath the moon with my beautiful Petra inside, and I came back.”
“How long were you gone?”
“Between two and three hours.”
“And you were back, let us say, by midnight?”
“I would say so.”
“Well, it may not look good, but like you say, it is nothing to lie about. And if you did, and someone found out, it would look much, much worse.”
Carlos had tears starting from his eyes. “But that is how stupid I am, my friend. I have already told them I was at home, and then when they said they knew different, I had to admit it.”
“Who is they?”
“Ricardo’s brothers. Two of them came in the afternoon.”
Devon shook his head. “Well, you just have to stick to the truth. This will all go to the law, won’t it?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure the sheriff will come to see me tomorrow.”
“You just have to tell the truth.”
Carlos’s face clouded even more than before. “I am sure it is just a matter of time before they take me to jail, and after that, it is in the hands of God.”
“Don’t give up so soon.”
“That’s easy for you to say. The truth is, I should have given up much sooner.”
Devon frowned. “Why? So what if you went to see her house in the moonlight? People in love are always…they always do things like this.”
Carlos took a good gulp of tequila and shook his head again. “Sooner, much sooner. I should never have hoped.”
“One must always hope. The only thing I can see is that she is your cousin. But everything else—”
“Oh, for that matter, being a cousin doesn’t have much to do with it. It would be difficult, here, to find someone acceptable who wasn’t related in some way.”
“Then why should you not have hoped?”
“Because the disillusionment is so strong.” Carlos lifted the bottle and tipped it toward his guest.
Devon held out his hand, flat, and moved it back and forth. “No, thanks.”
Carlos poured himself a couple of ounces. “Here it is. My brother went through the same thing. He was in love with a girl—a more distant cousin, actually—and he wanted to be her pretendiente. But her father said, no, not yet, the girl was too young. Then came another galán, with his parents, and they asked for permission for him to visit. The father conceded, and the young man had exclusive visiting privileges for a year, which of course he took advantage of, visiting every Sunday.”
“And during that time, no one else could see her?”
“Not at all. And after a year, he came with his parents again, and they asked for her hand, and that was it. Within another year, she was gone, living with him and his parents, washing clothes with her mother-in-law.”
“And your brother?”
Carlos gave a most mournful look. “May he rest in peace. He died of a broken heart.”
As Devon understood it, dying of a broken heart often meant a relentless siege of drinking. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“That’s the way things are. From his example I should have learned. But when I heard that Ricardo had declared himself and swore he would carry her away, and my cousin old enough to go, in spite of the pain it would cause her mother—”
“You reacted.”
“Yes, like a great fool. I made stupid remarks about Ricardo, and then I went to be close to her presence in the night.”
“You didn’t go to try to intercept him?”
“Oh, no. I wanted to see no one and for no one to see me. I hoped with all my heart he would not come that night, and I was glad he didn’t.”
“At least while you were there.”
“Well, yes. Beyond that, I know nothing, except that things look bad for me.”
Devon followed the streets in the moonlight, from the back gate of Carlos’s house to the front door of the dark house where he had gone a couple of nights earlier. He was sure of the way and did not need a guide.
He rapped on the door frame with his knuckles, and the woman with the reddish hair and wide face opened the door.
“Yes?” she said.
“Good evening. I came here the other night, and my friend Carlos introduced me.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And I was wondering if your place is…open.”
“It is Sunday. But if a girl would like to receive a guest, such as someone she knows, that is acceptable. Let me see.”
She backed away and closed the door, leaving Devon to stand by himself on the doorstep with no light other than that of the rising moon. After a couple of minutes, the door opened and the woman appeared again.
“It’s all right. Come in.”
As she moved aside, Devon stepped into the lamp-lit room, where Ramona sat on a divan. His eyes met hers for an instant, until he was distracted by the sound of the madam clicking the latch on the door and then the sight of her disappearing through a set of curtains that hung in a doorway. He brought his gaze around to meet Ramona’s again.
“Good evening,” she said. “Would you like to sit down?”
“Thank you.” He took a seat.
“And how goes your stay here in Tinaja?”
“Very well, I believe. I enjoyed sitting in the park this afternoon while everyone was doing the paseo.”
“Oh, yes. It is very nice.”
“Do you ever go?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I do not know many of the people from here.”
“I see.” From her comment he derived that she did not go out much in public and that she was not from this area. As for the latter point, it made sense that a local girl might find it difficult to be in this line of work if half the men who knocked on the door were relatives. To the extent that it mattered, he liked her being an outsider. “Do you come from very far?” he asked.
“From the Republic.”
He took that to mean Mexico proper, as opposed to this northern frontier, as the people seemed to regard it. “Do you expect to go back?”
She smiled. “Maybe some day. I need to save my money to buy a business, like a restaurant or a store.”
“I hope it goes well for you and that you may be successful in your country.”
“Thank you. Have you ever been there?”
“No. I’ve seen pictures, nothing more.”
“It is very nice. If you like to go to far places and see the sights, there are many things there.”
“A good idea.”
She brushed her leg against his and met him with her soft, dark eyes. “And tonight?”
He felt his boldness rising. “The same as before? What do you think?”
“As you say, a good idea. If that’s what you have in mind.”
“The same way?”
“Yes, if you liked it.”
“I was enchanted. For that reason my feet brought me back here.”
She laughed as she rose fromthe couch and took his hand. “You are very nice. And you have smart feet.”
In the room, she let him undress her as before. It was a little world unto itself where everything went well. He felt competent with his hands and the rest after that. When he lay beneath the cover a while later, admiring her loose dark hair on the pillow, he said, “It never occurred to me that my feet had any awareness, but you said they were smart.”
“If they brought you back here. We’ll see if they do it again.”
“I hope so.”
On his way to the inn, he savored the afterglow of his brief time with her. His senses were a swirl of bronze skin, tender touch, dark hair and eyes, and soft, flowing motion.
An image intruded of Carlos in his anguish, then another of young Ricardo Vega laid out in his best suit with his hands folded across his chest. Devon wondered if Ricardo had ever been to the parlor he had just left, or to some place like it. Probably so. It was too bad he would never know the pleasures of the world again, but life went on. As the old proverb said, not a plow stops when a man dies.
There would be time to think about that tomorrow. Devon brushed away the thoughts of sad young men and recalled again the warm interlude with Ramona. That was his good fortune for the moment, and he was going to enjoy it. If he got to do so again, so much the better.