Four

‘Why?’ Magdalena’s face was twisted with anger as she swung round, flourishing the pistol in her fist. Slattery had been back from La Escotadura for no more than a week when she had appeared in his hotel like an avenging angel.

What had happened at La Escotadura, the attack by the Orozquistas and the rout of Urbina’s men, was common knowledge now. Enjoying her moment in the limelight, Consuela had not hesitated to recount her adventure to anyone who would listen, and everyone knew what had occurred, how Loyce Lidgett had died, how Consuela had spent the night with a man in a Mexican bed. She had mentioned no names but it hadn’t taken people long to put two and two together. Villa had winked at Slattery and the Holy Trinity had eyed him with something akin to envy because Consuela, petite and fair, was the sort of woman Mexican men liked. Since she at last had something to pass on to Gordonsboro that concerned a Gordonsboro man, she had even sent home a romanticised version of the event, in which Lidgett had died fighting off the Orozquistas to save his wife, and when the paper had syndicated it, it had so caught the American fancy it was in half the journals that crossed the border. For the first time in her life, Consuela was important.

‘Why?’ Magdalena demanded, no longer Mexican or German but pure outraged American in her anger.

Her fury was spectacular enough to turn heads and for a long time they stood staring at each other, Magdalena’s face pink, her eyes like a blue explosion.

Slattery suspected she was instinctively extracting the full histrionic value from the occasion and, watched with interest by the desk clerk, without a word he took her arm and began to lead her to his room. Her eyes raging, she tried to snatch her arm away, but he refused to let go and she found herself almost running alongside him, still clutching the pistol.

‘Madre de Dios, where’s your whip?’ The words were bitten off short by fury.

He ignored her and, pushing open the door, almost threw her into a chair. In her rage, she looked younger than she was, with a loveliness that made his heart thump. For a while, as she watched him light a cigarette, her face angry and wretched, he said nothing.

‘Why?’ she demanded yet again. ‘Du liebe Gott, why?’

But already the fury was fading from her face and, seeing the glisten of tears on her eyelashes, he decided the best explanation was the simplest one. What had happened between him and Consuela had seemed as natural as breathing. She had put her arms round him, calling his name with a weak desperation that was a mixture of horror, fear and a total rejection of Loyce Lidgett.

‘Because,’ he said, ‘she’d just discovered her husband was a shit. But she’d also just seen him and a lot of other men and boys butchered and a dozen women raped, and she was exhausted and terrified. The Orozquistas did it. Orozquistas led by Germans. If she’d been a man she’d have wanted to cut out somebody’s tripes. As it was, the only thing she knew to do was what she did.’

She was silent for a long time, digesting what he had said. When she spoke again, she seemed shaken.

‘Where is she now?’

‘God knows. She disappeared. Probably gone home to weep on someone’s chest. Mine just happened to be handy at the time.’

‘She doesn’t belong in Mexico!’

‘She never did.’

She gestured with the pistol then managed a twisted smile that was wretched in its lack of happiness. ‘She’s not for you, Slattery.’

‘I know that as well as you.’

Because he refused to lose his temper, her own anger faded. It was always a transient thing, exploding and dying just as quickly. And, delivered with all of Magdalena’s splendid vocal powers and gesture, it was nothing else but stage technique. Beautiful, statuesque, commanding, her brilliant eyes dramatically enraged. He had a suspicion that once again she had been playing a part she had felt needed playing.

But indignation had vanished from her eyes now and an infinite pity and distress flooded into them. ‘Poor soul,’ she said, her voice full of compassion.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘Why did you come?’

She answered wearily. ‘I was in El Paso. I’m going to sing in New York.’ She stared at him, still on the edge of nervous tears that forced her to gulp and swallow to control herself. ‘I came to tell you. I felt forgiving. I thought we might celebrate. It should have been so wonderful.’ The flush had gone from her cheeks now and her face was pale. ‘I heard that you were going home. That you had finished with Villa.’ Her expression set and she went on a little desperately. ‘I made a fool of myself. Are you going back to Villa?’

‘Yes. When the fighting stops, I’ll go home. I think I’ve finished with Mexico and everything in it.’

She gave him a hurt look, as though he had included her in his condemnation. ‘I thought you loved me,’ she said quietly. ‘It was in Mexico City I began to think so. In my house. But I was wrong. I was just a camp follower – Madam Butterfly, waiting for her man to turn up.’ She sighed. ‘There was too much imagination, too much romance, too much zarzuela.’

Slattery studied her. Was he in love with her, he wondered. It had begun to dawn on him that, in the atmosphere of Mexico’s troubles, with death cheap and love affairs so easily destroyed by a bullet, it had become time to stop running away from responsibility. Coming to Mexico had been running away. He had a feeling he hadn’t always been fair to her.

She sighed again, subdued now and weary. ‘This awful war,’ she said. ‘Will it never end?’

‘Revolutions are easy to start but they have a tendency to go on longer than expected.’

‘Why can’t they get round a table and work things out?’

‘Because that’s not how revolutions behave.’

As they talked Jesús appeared with clean clothing from the laundry women and smiled at her. But she didn’t notice him, as if she were in a daze, as if all she had hoped for had gone wrong, as if her mind kept sliding off at a tangent into a haze of disbelief.

Slattery laid his hand on hers, and she took it gratefully and squeezed it, fighting to hold back the tears that threatened to overflow down her cheeks.

‘I’d better go,’ she said abruptly, collecting her belongings. She stuffed the pistol into her bag and gave him a sad, sheepish look. ‘I would never have used it,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it’s best. I’ll go to New York. I thought I might not. But I will now. I’ll play out my contracts first – Mexico City, then Córdoba. After that–’ she shrugged. ‘There are no definite dates. They say it will lead to Italy and London. I’ve never been to Europe and I’d like to go.’

‘Why not come with me?’

She shook her head. ‘Our backgrounds, our professions are too far apart. I realise now. It would be a kind of warfare. Theatrical people are notoriously bad companions. Perhaps I should cry a little. Quiet ladylike tears–’

‘Magdalena, stop acting!’

She responded angrily, her eyes hot. ‘It wouldn’t work! You’re English!’

‘Irish.’

‘Irish then. I’m German.’

‘American.’

‘Oh, Dios! American then!’

He looked at her with a faint smile on his face. In ten minutes she had run the whole gamut of outraged American, stiff German and tempestuous Mexican.

‘It’s a pity you can’t make up your mind,’ he said. ‘It’s 1914 and people are pretty broadminded these days. People even manage to marry foreigners these days without being struck by a thunderbolt. Even Germans. Your father did. For God’s sake, does Germany mean that much to you any more?’

She drew a deep breath and pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over her nose. At the door she turned and as she spoke there was a wealth of sadness in her voice. ‘To Germans, it does,’ she said. ‘Especially these days. Especially to me. There are thousands of years of Germany in my blood, and only twenty of America.’