Parlor Games (35 page)

I let myself in and closed and leaned against the door. “What’s this I hear about you and Frank going on an outing next week?”

Gene undid the top button of his shirt and circled a finger around the collar to loosen it. “I’m thinking of staying on a little longer.”

“And why haven’t you mentioned this to me?”

“Frank’s my friend, too.”

“You’ve got work to do in Arkansas.”

“Another week or two won’t matter,” said Gene, sitting down on his bed and crossing one leg over the other.

“We need to finish the remodeling. Rudolph expects me home as soon as possible.”

“It’s practically done. William’s got it all in hand.”

“Still, I’d prefer that you return with me. We have matters to wrap up.”

“Such as?”

“The installation of those lamps for the lobby, and the last of the bills for the workers and materials.”

“William can handle all that.”

“And the general management? I don’t expect the property to sell tomorrow.”

“All right, all right. If you let me have one more week of vacation, I’ll work every day until it’s sold.”

I returned to Arkansas by myself and spent the next three weeks overseeing the completion of the remodeling in anticipation of putting the hotel up for sale. Thank goodness, William proved to be a competent assistant, for Gene’s stay in Pittsburgh stretched on and on—to a full month. But I could hardly be annoyed with him when he wrote to tell me he’d asked Frank to marry him and she’d accepted. In fact, I was overjoyed: I heartily congratulated him and told Frank it pleased me in the utmost to welcome her to the family. Perhaps their marriage would provide the security Gene—and the whole family—so sorely needed.

FOR RUDOLPH’S FAMILY
NEW YORK TO MEXICO—OCTOBER-NOVEMBER 1902

I
t had been over a year since I’d absented myself from my husband’s side, so I wasn’t surprised when Rudolph insisted I return to Holland by Christmas. I left Arkansas in October and relegated oversight of the hotel sale to Gene. For safe measure, I asked Frank to review any documents related to sale offers. She was altogether amenable: “You can count on me; it’s all in the family now,” to which I’d responded, “I can hardly believe we’ll soon be sisters-in-law.”

Before sailing for Liverpool, I decided to stop a few days at the home of Rudolph’s uncle and his wife, who lived in New York City. I’d had occasion to get acquainted with Philip and Saskia during their visits to Dalfsen in the early years of my marriage. Six years ago, they had relocated to New York and taken a home on West Fifty-eighth Street.

Philip and Saskia had decorated their brownstone in the latest style, Art Nouveau, with elegant swan-neck lamps gracing side tables and finely crafted furniture of curvaceous design in every room. My first evening in New York, we dined in their cozy dining room and afterward retreated to the parlor for Cognac. As I relaxed in an armchair with legs as arced and branching as deer antlers, I asked, “Are you settling permanently in New York?”

Saskia, a large-proportioned woman with the grace of a ballerina, smiled at this. “We rather enjoy the city’s offerings. Especially the Metropolitan Opera. It’s surprisingly good.”

“I’ve never been.” Knowing that Saskia had performed some mezzo opera roles in Holland, I said, “But your appraisal makes me want to go.”

Saskia’s wide-set green eyes brightened. “Really? I could get orchestra seats for us. Why don’t you stay on for a while?”

“I shouldn’t. I’ve finally put the hotel up for sale, and Rudolph is expecting me.”

But within two days I had relented. The truth is, I’d fallen a little in love with the couple: with Saskia’s flair for Art Nouveau décor, infectious love of opera, and generous, unpretentious manner; as well as with Philip’s sad-looking face, unfailing chivalry, and charming habit of chastely kissing Saskia’s cheek at the slightest excuse.

Then, the day I planned to secure my ticket for the crossing, Saskia insisted we have a serious chat and asked the maid to prepare tea service for the three of us.

We sat in our customary places in the parlor. The usually suave Philip cleared his throat, as if to summon courage. He set his high brow and narrow jaw into solemn thoughtfulness. “There’s something we’d like to discuss with you, May. A rather sensitive matter.”

“We’re family,” I said, inching to the edge of my seat and perching there. “You can speak openly with me.”

“I’ve bid on an iron-mining interest in Mexico. A very large contract.”

“Has the bidding closed?”

“It should have, but I’ve learned the time’s been extended. We don’t really know how these things work over here.”

“You’re worried about how it’s being handled?”

“Yes. I submitted a rather handsome bid, thinking that would settle the matter.”

“And the contract is obviously important to you.”

He clamped his hands together. “My business may not survive without it.”

I knew Philip’s business manufactured cast metal items—cooking vessels mostly. “Your business is struggling?”

“It’s hard to compete with all the new U.S. companies.”

“I see.” I eased my cup and saucer onto the side table. All this time, Saskia had held herself statue-still, shifting her gaze only enough to track the measured volley of our exchange.

Philip gripped the arm of the settee, leaned to the side, and crossed one leg over the other. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I
need this contract to sell in the American market. And I know you’ve managed business deals in Japan and the U.S.”

They needed—and trusted—me. How could I not help such darlings? Turning to Philip, I said, “If there’s anything at all I can do, I will be glad to help.”

The next morning, Philip arranged our travel to Mexico City and wrote Rudolph a long letter explaining the circumstances. I spent the day bustling about: purchasing clothes suitable for the conduct of business, as well as books on Mexico and the Spanish language; requesting that Frank submit a bid to the Mexican government on behalf of Iron Mountain Mining (a company I invented to serve the purpose of the trip); and unpacking my steamer trunk and packing two suitcases for what could be a stay of a few weeks in Mexico. Still, I managed to dash a cablegram off to Rudolph:
DARLING MUST ASSIST PHILIP ON BUSINESS IN MEXICO STOP MORE TO FOLLOW FROM HIM STOP LOVE MAY STOP
.

One of Philip’s business associates had wisely cultivated a contact in the Mexican government. During the train journey, Philip briefed me on his findings: the names of parties submitting competitive bids; transaction dates; and offices and entities involved. I made a record of the information for future reference and secreted it away in the bottom compartment of my traveling case. Philip wired for a reservation for himself and Saskia at the Gran Hotel Ciudad de México, a luxurious establishment near the National Palace. I later made my own reservation at the same hotel.

When our train arrived in Mexico City, we took separate carriages to the hotel. As much as I enjoyed their company, I had a job to do, and it required the utmost discretion. I used my rudimentary Spanish to request transport to the Gran Hotel, and my driver embarked on a winding journey through a maze of streets: past a mix of buildings, some in smooth adobe, others with Spanish-style towers and arches; among donkeys and the occasional horse, their heads dipping and rising as they pulled their carts and wagons; and along a broad avenue with a line of electric cars. Mexico City was unlike any other city I’d ever visited: set in a bowl-shaped valley and surrounded
by mountains; its streets teeming with men in broad-brimmed hats and women in bright-colored dresses; the air thin and dusty; but everywhere people, great hordes of people, as if they’d decided en masse to throng the late-afternoon streets.

When I walked into the lobby of the Gran Hotel, wonder tinged with disappointment washed over me. If only I could have shared the moment with Philip and Saskia. Standing in the middle of the Art Nouveau lobby, I hardly knew where to look first: at the canopy of turquoise, yellow, and red-orange stained glass arching high above; at the open-cage elevator of coal-dark metal flourished with golden knobs; or at the curving layers of wrought-iron rails lining the upper floors opening onto the lobby. Perhaps later, once we had managed the business deal, the three of us could enjoy it together. But for now our communications would be restricted to behind-closed-door meetings in our hotel rooms.

The next morning, I set out on my mission. I ordered a carriage and asked to be driven to the Palacio Nacional. The ride took me only three blocks from the hotel. If I had known the way well enough, I would have simply strolled the distance. November’s weather, crisp but dry and sunny, certainly presented no impediment. Henceforth, I resolved, I would walk and enjoy the avenue’s tall, open-branched trees and gardens of exotic plants, some with leaves as large as fans and others with thick, pointed shoots.

The National Palace’s fortress-strong front stretched the length of a New York City block. Atop the tower at the building’s midpoint, the Mexican flag’s green, white, and red bands sagged in uneven parallels. In order to open the palace’s bulky doors of carved concentric geometries, I had to grip the handle firmly and shift the whole of my weight backward. Along the first level’s wide corridor, people stood in lines before service counters staffed by men in olive-green shirts. I walked to the end of this corridor and found another of the same length, this one with closed doors that probably housed workaday administrators.

The palace’s air smelled of grimy chalk, as if its surfaces had absorbed the oils and perspiration of thousands. On the walls, rich-colored paintings depicted Mexican history: warriors of an ancient civilization gathering beneath a stone temple; a landscape of the fledgling Mexico City against a background of misty mountain peaks;
a military battle against Spaniards in the city streets; and Mayans harvesting corn and honoring the sun. I strolled the whole rectangle of the building, acclimating myself to the business-like clip of men in light-colored suits, their furtive glances, and the droop of their swarthy mustaches.

The high-level officials, I reasoned, must occupy the second floor. Mounting the stairs, I reached a hallway of inlaid marble floors with high ceilings supported by arched buttresses. Reddish-brown wood doors separated broad expanses of the halls, suggesting that large or multichambered offices lay behind them. At the end of one of the corridors, four guards stood at attention in front of an unmarked door, perhaps that of President Porfirio Díaz himself. I surveyed the complete rectangle of this floor. Fewer persons walked these halls, and those I did pass studied me with open curiosity. I saw not a single woman on this level. Maybe that would work in my favor—if I could convey the authoritative tone of one who grasped government business dealings, as well as the diplomacy and tact they required.

I closed the loop of my walk before the door labeled “Secretaría de Recursos José Elvira Pérez.” Spreading my shoulders square and high, I opened the door. A young man in a suit too wide for his sloping shoulders looked up at me, raising his caterpillar-thick eyebrows. The nameplate on his desk read “César López Álvarez.” He leaned forward in his seat, his left hand spread over a document, his right hand gripping a pen. Open wood boxes on the side of his desk brimmed with papers. I assumed the closed door at the rear of the twenty-by-thirty-foot waiting area led to the inner sanctum of the Secretary of Resources.