Country of the Bad Wolfes (21 page)

He had agreed with Elizabeth Anne that to tell her family the truth about his arm would only stoke their perpetual fear for her safety in Mexico. She hated to lie but hated even more to increase her family's worry. So she had written that John Roger had lost an arm in a carriage accident but was adjusting well and in good spirits. Mrs Bartlett wrote back—it was always she who wrote the letters, never Sebastian, never Jimmy—that they were all of them dismayed to learn of John Roger's severe mishap and wished him a sound recovery. But she could not refrain from adding that she had never known anyone to lose an arm in a carriage accident in New England.

He returned to work in early January. The clerk Patterson had assigned to the office was a stocky twenty-year-old Charlestonian named Amos Bentley, moon-faced and sandy-haired, who had been grateful for the chance to do something other than sit around the consulate in wait of new files to shuffle. He welcomed John Roger back and complimented him on his scrupulous recordkeeping, which had made a simple task of serving as his surrogate. They reviewed the deliveries and shipments that had taken place in John Roger's absence, then the correspondence received and sent. John Roger commended Bentley's precise bookkeeping and the cogency of his prose. His dulcet Carolina accent imbued even his perfect Spanish, as John Roger heard when the young man read to him some key sections of the correspondence. Amos had greatly enjoyed dealing with the transport agents and the shipping officers, most of them earthier types than he was used to. He found the import-export trade enticing, in a way even adventurous, and was sorry to be going back to the dull duty of a consular assistant.

John Roger had been back to work only a few days and was attending to paperwork in the office when Patterson showed up unexpected and accompanied by a woman dressed in black and carrying a small portfolio. A large, rough-looking man in an ill-fitting suit started to come in with them but the woman gestured to him and he nodded and went back out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

In formal Spanish Patterson apologized to John Roger for the unannounced
intrusion but said the concern was most important. John Roger had stood up when the woman entered, and he somehow knew who she was even before Patterson presented her as “la señora Consuelo Albéniz de Montenegro.”

“Encantado, señora,” John Roger said. And at once felt witless for conveying gladness to meet a woman he'd made a widow. He invited them to be seated and Patterson held a chair for her in front of the desk, then sat himself at a small remove and told John Roger that Mrs Albéniz, as she preferred to be called, had come to him at the consulate seeking to know where she might find Mr Wolfe. She explained to me her purpose in wishing to meet with you, Patterson said, and has asked that I be present during the proceedings, if you have no objection. I am to serve as, ah—he looked at Mrs Albéniz—an official witness?

“Solamente con el permiso del Señor Wolfe,” Mrs Albéniz said.

“Como no,” John Roger said. Whatever madam wishes.

Thank you, the woman said. Her gaze direct but difficult to read. She was visibly much younger than the man to whom she'd been married and clearly not the mother of Enrique. And pretty, irrespective of the small pink scar on her chin and a pale one of older vintage under her left eye.

She gestured at John Roger's coat sleeve, folded double and pinned up, and said, I wish you to know that am very sorry for your terrible injury.

And I am very sorry for . . . about your husband, John Roger said. Please believe me, madam, it was not my preference to fight. He gave me no choice.

I do believe you, Mr Wolfe. My husband had no interest in anyone's preferences but his own. And please believe me when I say you have caused me no grief. The black dress is but a necessary convention. My marriage to Hernán Montenegro was arranged by my father when I was fourteen, in settlement of some bargain between them. Our family's social standing was superior to that of the Montenegros, but my father and my husband were men of the same character and I had no love for either of them. Nor did my husband love me, I assure you. He had been wed twice before and fathered God knows how many children, but neither wife survived, and by some bad joke of God the only male child who did was Enrique, who was as stupid as he was cruel. Hernán married me solely in hope of siring a worthier heir. I hope I do not offend you with my frankness.

You have no cause to make apology, madam, John Roger said. Please speak as frankly as you wish.

You are kind, she said. I have a daughter, Esmeralda, soon to be seven years old. She is the sole happiness of my marriage. I gave birth twice more, a son each time, but neither one lived even two months. May God forgive me, and you will think I am heartless, but I did not mourn their deaths. I feared they would have become their father. Or mine. I must again risk offending you, Mr Wolfe, in view of your severe suffering, but I am glad you had no choice except to fight, because the outcome of that fight has liberated me from Hernán Montenegro. And from his
equal brute of a son. One reason I am here is to thank you.

I appreciate your sentiments, madam, John Roger said, but please understand that it gave me no pleasure to . . . I mean, I had no intention to, ah. . . .

I understand, she said. Although, if I have been correctly told, it is Mrs Wolfe who rid the world of Enrique.

Well, yes, that's true. But, ah. . . .

I am told she also had no choice.

No. She didn't.

She must be an exceptional woman.

She is, yes.

The fact remains, I have been liberated by your hand and hers. Partially liberated, I should say, because my emancipation is incomplete. That is the other reason I am here.

John Roger cut a look at Patterson, who smiled tightly and lifted a finger to indicate that he should simply listen.

There are no Montenegro men left alive, Mr Wolfe, Mrs Albéniz said, and I have inherited a hacienda on which I have no wish to live. The only family left to me is a widowed sister in Cuernavaca. I have decided to sell La Sombra Verde and buy a house in Cuernavaca large enough for her and my daughter and myself.

The sale of the estate should certainly make you financially comfortable, John Roger said. I am pleased for you.

Thank you, she said. But though I have my faults, greed is not one of them. I need only enough money to purchase a house and to maintain us in comfort. I have asked appraisals from three different advisors and they are in close agreement as to the worth of La Sombra Verde. I believe Mr Patterson is also not without knowledge about these things. She turned to Patterson and stated a sum. To John Roger's ears an immense sum.

I'm no assayer, Patterson said, but that sounds right.

The accountants with whom I consulted, Mrs Albéniz continued, have assured me that twenty percent of that amount would be more than adequate to provide for me and my sister for the rest of our lives. For my daughter, as well, if she should choose never to marry. The accountants believe I intend to invest the difference, and I did not disabuse them. The point, Mr Wolfe, is that I have thought about this quite carefully, and as I have no other means to repay you for the severe mutilation inflicted on you by my husband, I wish to offer you La Sombra Verde for twenty percent of its worth. You could then, if you so wish, sell it in turn and gain a very large profit. I know of course that no amount of money can make amends for—

Forgive me, madam, John Roger said. You are under no obligation to recompense me for anything.

I am not here to argue the point, Mr Wolfe. Mr Patterson told me you might be reluctant to accept my offer for fear of taking advantage, but I shall be very offended
if you should turn it down. Besides, my motives are not entirely benevolent. While I certainly believe you should be compensated by Hernán Montenegro's estate, I have another reason for selling it to you for less than its full worth. Can you guess that reason?

They held stares for a moment, and then he said, Your husband would not like it.

She smiled. You understand everything. Nothing would enrage the man more. It pleases me to believe that even in hell he will learn of it and it will add to his misery.

Forgive my intrusion, madam, Patterson said, and turned to John Roger and said in English, “No offense, Johnny, but if it's a question of money, I can see to it that in less than an hour you have a loan of as much as—”

I have the money, John Roger said.

“Que bueno,” the woman said. She leaned forward and placed the portfolio on the desk and opened it to reveal a small sheaf of legal documents. My attorneys have seen to the necessary paperwork, she said. It has all been certified and requires only our own signatures and that of Mr Patterson as witness before it is registered and becomes official.

John Roger looked at Patterson. “It's not right, Charley. She's giving it away.”

“Como?” said Mrs Albéniz.

Maybe you want to talk it over with Lizzie, Patterson said.

“Leezee?” the woman said.

My wife.

You wish to ask for the opinion of your
wife
?

No. I don't have to.

I did not think so. It is the same with the men of this country.

That was not my meaning, John Roger said. My wife's opinion is of importance to me. I simply meant that I know what she will say. Because we have discussed our, ah, aspirations for the future, you see.

How extraordinary, the woman said. So tell me. What will she say?

John Roger cut a look at Patterson, looked back at the woman, cleared his throat. Yes. She will say yes.

Mrs Albéniz smiled. So we are agreed?

For thirty percent of the property's worth, John Rodger said.

The woman looked quizzical. Your wife will say for thirty percent?

No, I'm saying for thirty percent.

You
are saying. . .? Mr Wolfe, I do not know very much about business, but I know it is contrary to basic principle for a buyer to offer more than a seller asks.

Thirty percent. Agreed?

No, she said. She looked at Patterson and made a small gesture of perplexity.

I would be stealing it at thirty percent, John Roger said to her.

For the love of God, she said, you are stealing nothing. It is
my
price.”

Thirty percent is—

“Ay, pero que terco!” Twenty-
five
percent, Mr Wolfe, and that is all. Not one penny more. Now please, sir, let us end this silliness.

He studied her face. She raised her brow in question. He smiled.

She smiled back. “Ah pues, estamos de acuerdo, no? We have, ah . . . como se dice? . . . make the busyness?”

Yes.

He dispatched the news to Richard, who congratulated him for his good fortune but opposed his resignation from the company. He persuaded John Roger to stay on in the Trade Wind's employ as head bookkeeper, a duty he could fulfill from the hacienda. Twice a month Richard would send him the company's most recent paperwork for final accounting. The records would be relayed by Amos Bentley, whom, on John Roger's recommendation, Richard hired to manage the company's Mexican office.