Keeping Secrets (6 page)

Undeniably, I took advantage of the fact he was an old man, hungry for someone to talk to and therefore eager to accept my friendship. Yet it was not simply that: I was truly fascinated by him and enjoyed the hours we spent together. Woody seldom got out past the boundaries of the neighborhood, except to visit a special art exhibit or attend some other cultural event, and he detested riding in automobiles, so I couldn't repay him by offering Nathan's services as driver now and then.

His digestive tract, which he termed, “brittle and frail with age,” kept him on a fairly restricted diet, so I could hardly present him with a fresh fruit cobbler to show my gratitude.

I was searching for some way to reciprocate his kindness to me when I discovered he liked fresh fruit and vegetables, as I did, but was not up to a walk all the way to Haymarket Plaza anymore. So, after that I brought him fresh produce from my frequent trips to the open-air market—first strawberries, which were just coming into season, and later cantaloupes, which were especially good that year.

I was just returning from his home one day following such an errand when I saw Nathan in the yard, waving a telegram. “It's from Cabot—he's in Galveston and will be home early tomorrow,” he called.

Forgetting all semblance of propriety, I picked up my skirt hem and ran all the way home.

6

Even then there were subtle changes in Emory.

He returned in better physical condition than I'd expected—no weight loss, as explained by his having stayed for the most part at Barrista's hacienda, where the food stock was ample in spite of the privations in other places—yet he was, if not tired, a little more temperamental, more impetuous, and short with Nathan. In my presence he was making a more obvious effort at control. I sat in the bedroom while he bathed, talking to him through the open bathroom door.

Without him more than a month—surely the slowest period I could ever recall—all I wanted was to hold and love him, and live for a while that idyllic life we had so enjoyed at the Menger. Yet my dream was soon shattered. We were to have a house guest within a week. Barrista had been invited to participate in the Mexican peace talks—what we had come to refer to as the ABC Conference, so named for the Latin American mediators of Argentina, Brazil, and Chile. He would be stopping through on his way to Ontario, where the meeting was under way.

“He was invited by one of the Latin American countries as a special authority on agrarian reform, one of Mexico's biggest problem areas. Barrista is not just anybody, you know. He's one of the country's foremost historiographers, well known in academic circles all over the continent,” Emory said.

“No, you didn't mention it to me,” I said, wondering immediately why he would be staying at our house, when he surely must have friends far up on the San Antonio social ladder.

My train of thought must have shown in my face, for Emory added, “The Barrista family has never had close personal ties here, because they have never needed them. Fernando takes the liberty of choosing his friends according to how much he enjoys their companionship. He doesn't regard himself as a diplomat when he travels up here.”

“I think we can make him comfortable … how long will he be staying?”

“Just a couple of days. He has to be in Ontario by the middle of the month.”

“Pardon my changing the subject, but having worried over you for all this time, I do wonder just what is going on down there.”

“Huerta's about ready to give up—he's nearly bankrupt. Villa is gaining strength all the time; he has about twenty-five thousand men behind him now. And it's beginning to look like I was right about Carranza and Villa—they're quarreling.”

I shook my head. “It seems endless.”

“I know it, but one purpose of this conference is to find a neutral—someone without ties to any faction—to serve as Provisional President until free elections can be held.”

“But will Carranza and Villa go along with that?”

“Villa has indicated he will; Carranza can either co-operate or go hang. If he can't get foreign recognition, he can't hold on to Mexico, and if he doesn't play according to ABC rules, he won't get recognized.”

I thought about that for a while, then suddenly something dawned on me and I looked up. “Are you hoping to get Barrista in as Provisional President?”

“Exactly.”

Just then he walked into the bedroom, his shirt off, beard trimmed, looking like a pirate who'd won a sword fight and sent the loser down the plank. “I've been thinking about shaving my beard. Facial hair is going out of style, and it's going to be hot this summer. What do you think?”

“I think if you do, you will find yourself short one wife.”

I was unbuttoning my blouse with one hand and pulling the pins from my hair with the other. He stood back and watched me, one eyebrow raised. “How quickly you move,” he remarked.

“How long you have made me wait,” I reminded him.

Barrista proved to be everything Emory claimed and more. By the time he arrived I knew quite a bit about his background—he was educated both here and in Europe, and had married a native of Greece. He was devoted to his country and wouldn't live anywhere else. Now fifty years old, he was a widower with one daughter. His family, including four brothers, stretched to all corners of Mexico, and many of his kinsmen had counted among public office holders and high military officials over the years. “At the same time, they've all managed to keep their noses clean,” Emory pointed out.

Because of his enormous land holdings Barrista moved easily within the circles of wealthy Mexicans, but he was also the common man's friend. He helped educate the workers on his plantations and ranch, sponsoring more than his share of foreign exchange students over here, and he also maintained private hospital facilities for his laborers.

“He's a whole lot like Francisco Madero, the leader of 1910, but he's also practical and shrewd—that's what I like about him. He's fed up with war and revolution, and thinks maybe through this conference he can take hold of the government reins peacefully.”

Through Emory's description, I had begun to visualize the tall, distinguished man with his flawless command of the English language and all the markings of the citizen of the world; yet he had one characteristic that Emory didn't put into words: there was an immense power in his presence.

As soon as he walked into our house, everything around him seemed to fade in contrast. I got through the hand-kissing introduction as gracefully as possible, though I was almost afraid to speak at the risk of stepping on my tongue. I thought as we walked into the parlor, now I know what it is like to meet a statesman. He had stern, Indian laws and questing eyes beneath strong dark brows so unruly that here and there the hairs shot up into bristly rings. Barrista looked as if he had once possessed a violent nature, which had mellowed with age and experience into forceful diplomacy. The longer we talked that evening, the more I was convinced this was true.

After dinner, Nathan, servantlike, silently lit cigars for him and for Emory, and at my urgings Barrista began to speak of matters in Mexico. For the first time I began to get a clear picture of why solutions to the problems were so difficult to find.

He spoke at length of the horrible inequities in distribution of property and wealth, begun in the days of Spanish colonialism and compounded down through the ages by first one self-interested government then another. “Even the short and isolated periods of reform have done little to help the common people in Mexico. They have no land, and because they are largely illiterate, would not know how to cultivate it if they did.

“As a result, they will follow any revolutionary leader until another offers them a little something better. Madero disappointed them in 1910 because he lacked the strength and wisdom to hold the government together while he put his reform ideas into action. So, the people are disheartened once again.”

“If you were chosen as Provisional President, what would you do?” I asked him.

“At first I could do little more than educate the people about my ideas of reform. But if my official recognition as head of the government were to follow I would begin to carve up the huge land holdings and set limitations on the number of acres per family in one state—including my own properties and those of my brothers.

“Immediately, I would increase land taxes, and use the revenues for building free schools, and housing and hospitals on part of the land taken from the big estates. Some land would be held aside for five to ten years, while the literacy level is upgraded.”

He then explained in detail his ideas of compulsory education for Mexican young people, and broad-scoped foreign-exchange programs both for teachers and medical students.

“For those who chose not to enter the professions, there would be industrial and technical schools,” he added, with a nod toward Emory. “Your husband suggested the need for this sort of program.”

Emory's face was suffused with pride as he remarked, “They'd be in a devil of a fix with every Mexican walking around with a diploma ten years from now, while no one was able to wire a building for electricity or put in a plumbing system.”

It occurred to me for the first time that Emory and Barrista had conducted discussions in Mexico about subjects more far-reaching than I'd known.

Barrista was continuing, “In ten years, the land set aside would be available for sale to the masses able to pass a literacy test and prove they could maintain and cultivate it.”

Aside from agrarian reform measures, the Mexican notable had definite ideas regarding compulsory military service with fair pay and benefits, and, finally, a sure-fire way to avoid any future dictatorships in his country. “I would work with the legislature on a new constitution stating there would be one presidential term of eight years, with no re-election rights for the incumbent. Nor could any member of his cabinet, staff, or family run until one full eight-year term followed.”

As he ended with a long draw on his cigar, I could see why Barrista commanded so much respect.

In the next few weeks, conditions worsened in Mexico as peace talks continued far away at the Clifton Hotel in Niagara Falls. In the meantime, the rift between Pancho Villa and Carranza stretched at last to the breaking point.

No place in the daily news did I see Barrista's name mentioned, though I looked for it carefully. Near the end of the month the mediators, about to throw up their hands at trying to deal with the obdurate Mexican leaders, finally managed to persuade Carranza and Huerta to agree to send agents to a separate treaty table in Washington. Men from each side could have a copy of the peace plan drawn up in Ontario, and look over it together.

Barrista sent a letter to Emory informing him of this, adding that the Ontario conference would adjourn until a Washington treaty meeting could be held. He would be coming to San Antonio to stay until such time as he had to return to Ontario, or could go home to Mexico. He asked Emory to reserve a suite at the St. Anthony's for him and his daughter Aegina, who would be joining him there.

“It'll be nice to meet her,” I said.

“Aegina won't get here for another week or so. I doubt we'll see her,” he said.

I thought no more of it at the time.

Barrista returned looking tired and somewhat dispirited, and more out of kindness to him than for any other motive, I opened up the dinner-table conversation by asking if his daughter Aegina had arrived in San Antonio. Barrista glanced quickly at Emory, then at me, shifting nervously as he answered, “Why, no, not yet. I expect her within the week.” Something in his manner made me uncomfortable, but I couldn't tell what. The moment passed.

When he turned to the subject uppermost in our minds, his voice was far less animated than when he had visited us before, and Emory listened to the unfolding of muddled events with a frown of concern, puffing on his cigar.

“Time after time my name was mentioned as a possibility for the provisional government, and each time overlooked. I did not realize how blinded the ambassadors could be. I have been in the forest, yet I can better see the outlines of the trees than they can.”

“They're all stupid,” Emory said abruptly. “I never thought it would work, and I told you so.”

Barrista leaned back and drummed his fingers on the table. “It is going to get worse down there. I need to get back to look after my own affairs. Yet I'm afraid I would be a fool to be absent if the meeting takes up again.”

He lacked the decisiveness he'd shown before, and throughout that evening I was able to see where Emory's traits fell into place to allow for his shortcomings. It occurred to me that if Barrista were king, Emory would be the power behind the throne, the “trusted advisor” you often read of as being in accompaniment with heads of state. Then I remembered something Emory said just before he left for Mexico in May about talking over things with Barrista that might prove advantageous. That, put together with Emory's dinner-table remarks and Barrista's answers, evoked a frightening prospect.

I interrupted their conversation. “You men have discussed the possibility of staging a new revolution in Mexico, haven't you?”

They both looked at me thoughtfully. “Hopefully one far less costly in human lives than ever before,” Barrista added.

7

I lay awake for many hours that night, still in awe of what had been said. It began to dawn on me how deeply involved Emory was. Every time I felt I'd come to grips with one aspect possibly facing us, another would come to mind. Emory would surely be away a lot. All right, I suppose I could learn to endure that, if it did not go on forever. He would be facing dangers thus far unfamiliar. Well, he had already proven he could look after himself, and certainly knew the territory well enough after all the traipsing north and south between his copper mines and his ranch. Some Mexican might try to pick him off, though, just because he is American. But then, surely he'd be somewhat protected by his friendship with Barrista. Or would he? How safe would Barrista be, after the revolution was under way?