Why had her father, rougher, with little interest in fashions and soirées, picked a lady from the city for a wife? And why in turn had a girl who liked the scent of perfumes more than the fresh country air accepted the proposal of a young farmer? Alba liked to think it had been love at first sight, and yet the thought of two people who were so wildly different made her frown. She wished to marry someone who shared her interests, who was sensitive and idealistic, not her complete opposite. This was why she was hesitant with Valentín. He was nice, but he was like all the men in Paraje de Abedules, one more farmer who wanted to discuss animal husbandry, not couplets.
Arturo carefully wiped his mouth with a napkin and set aside the mancerina. “No need to apologize, Tadeo. However, I’m afraid I’m exhausted. Riding on that rickety wagon is torture. I’ve said it before: it’s a shame you don’t have a proper carriage.”
“Why should we have a carriage?” Tadeo asked. “It would go to waste. Besides, if the wagon bothers you, you could have availed yourself of a horse at the station. One of the townspeople would have lent it to you and you’d have arrived sooner.”
“I hate horses more than I hate wagons. And they hate me inturn. Anyway, I should nap. It’s no small feat to make it to this little farm in one piece.”
“My boy, we are so careless to keep you here when you must be falling asleep,” Luisa said, rising with Arturo. “Come, I’ll walk you to your room, and if anything is amiss, you can tell me and I’ll have it fixed.”
Luisa and Arturo walked out of the room. Tadeo immediately cut himself a large slice of almond cake and grabbed one of the porcelain cups.
“Will you put that down? I didn’t bake it for you.”
Her brother twirled a fork in the air. “What? You want it to go stale? The man is sleeping, I might as well eat your silly cake.”
“He’s retreated upstairs because you’re rude.”
“I don’t think it’s rude to speak the truth. He looks like he’s packed to go on a trip around the entire state of Hidalgo. Aunt Julia says he’s a spendthrift and she doesn’t want him living with her anymore. Now he suddenly shows up with all his shirts and neckties when he couldn’t bother to come for Father’s funeral? He’s come to live here. But I don’t give free room and board.”
“You’re shameless, Tadeo Quiroga,” she said, and crossed her arms. “This is our uncle we’re talking about.”
“Our uncle who spends his days at the Jockey Club and has a lover.”
“How do you know that?” Alba asked, incensed, clasping her hands together.
“The Jockey Club? Why, it’s where all the rich young men go, and Uncle Arturo may not be rich, but he likes to live richly.”
“I meant the other part.”
“That’s what Aunt Julia wrote to Mother. That he is either spending all his money at the racetrack or keeping a lover. Otherwise, she can’t figure out what he’s done with his bank account. I’m telling you, he’s not coming here to live off us. I have a hard enough time handling Piedras Quebradas right now to have to handlehim,too.”
“When did Aunt Julia write such a thing? I didn’t see the letter.”
“She wrote to us, and Mother wouldn’t let me show you the letter because of those things she said about Uncle Arturo. She doesn’t think a young lady should hear such tales.”
“She’s correct. They’re filthy lies,” Alba said primly, though she felt furious at this gossip, and if she’d had her darning needle handy she would have poked her brother with it.
“Well, I’m telling you because right after she wrote, Uncle Arturo also wrote to say maybe Mother should accept Mr. Molina’s offer. I think that’s why he’s here, because he wants her to sell the farm.”
Alba understood her brother’s animosity; he loved the land. But she didn’t feel the same love for Piedras Quebradas. She didn’t mind helping her mother with the garden where they grew vegetables and herbs. But she hated when they castrated the pigs or cut off a chicken’s neck with a sharp axe. She felt like screaming every time her mother killed a chicken and the corpse twisted and shook, seeming almost to dance.
“When you’re married and keep your own house, you’ll have to do as much, even if you have the help of your maids,” her mother had told her on one occasion, when she practically fainted at the sight of the bird’s carcass.
“I can’t. I’m no good at it,” Alba said, and stared at the blood spatters left by the poor chicken. She wanted to paint pretty watercolors, like the one she had gifted Tadeo for his fifteenth birthday, or raise gentle doves, not chop the necks of birds.
“I didn’t know how to kill a chicken when I came to Piedras Quebradas, but I learned.”
But Alba had never wanted to learn. She wanted to be a lady, soft and poised, like her mother had been in the city before she married, like the women in the society pages.
“I’m headed upstairs, too,” Alba told her brother. “You must be nicer tomorrow.”
Once Alba reached her room, she locked the door and closed her eyes. She knew that in a few minutes she’d be needed, either to tend to the children or to help with a chore.
She opened her eyes and sighed. She could understand why Uncle Arturo wanted to visit the Jockey Club and spend his days in merriment. Who’d prefer to clean out the hogpen? Perhaps Tadeo, but he was a silly boy, even if the servants called him “Mr. Quiroga.”
Alba walked around the room, her hands gliding along the white curtains that encircled her bed then resting on a book she’d abandoned upon her pillow, a slim volume of Greek myths, stories of Cupid and Psyche, Hades and Persephone, Helen’s love affair with Paris. She wondered whether her uncle had a lover, as they said. If he did, she’d be a seductive woman with a sharp tongue. She’d be lovely and would dress in beautiful gowns.
No doubt the lover rubbed nice creams, like the one Adelina Patti advertised in magazines, against her skin and pressed rice powder on her cheeks. She wore lace of Alençon and owned a hat with an ostrich feather.
