move anything. He’s got a construction job on the Hill now that she’s closing the ranch, and Hannah claims she’s heartbroken. She dotes on him, but he won’t go to Los Angeles. I don’t know, maybe it suits them both. Hannah says he’s an Aztec god, but then she treats him like a servant. I can’t imagine what they talk about. Maybe they don’t. I’m fond of Hannah, but every time I see them together I have to laugh. They look like one of those adverts for sex clubs in Berlin.”
“The things you know,” Connolly said.
But in fact she was right—the odd pairing was almost comically sexual. Hannah turned out to be a slim, petite woman still wearing the short-cropped bangs of the 1920s, as if she had just stepped off Pabst’s set. Next to her, bending over a tub of mud, was a large Mexican, stripped to the waist, his back rippling as he stirred the wet earth with a paddle. When he stood up at the sound of the car and wiped his forehead, his frame seemed a wall of muscle. Ladders had been placed on the side of the house, and two Indian women, entirely covered in long skirts, were applying the wet mud to the walls, smoothing it over with their hands in long, regular strokes. They moved with a sure, unbroken rhythm, practiced for centuries. Against this background, Hector seemed even more a primitive figure, a builder of ancient cities.
“Emma!” the woman shouted happily, extending her arms. “You came!”
Her voice was German, deep and thickened by years of smoke but not at all heavy. It seemed to float instead with an ironic playfulness.
“Just in time for the last coat. You see my enjaradoras?” she said, pointing to the Indian women. “Hector found them at Acoma. Aren’t they wonderful? So smooth, look at the walk—like new.”
“Hello, Hannah,” Emma said, embracing her quickly. “I’ve brought a friend. Actually, he brought me. Michael Connolly, Hannah Beckman.”
Hannah held up her muddy hands and bowed in greeting. “Forgive me,” she said, smiling at him. “Today I’m a worker. I couldn’t resist—the feel of the earth on your hands is something wonderful. I wanted to build my own house, just like the three little pigs, yes?”
She wiped her hands on a cloth. Neither Hector nor the Indian women paid any attention. They continued plastering the wall, their faces grave and impassive. Hannah took a cigarette out of her jacket pocket.
“But I am so glad you came. I thought I would not see you before I left. How is Daniel—he’s well?”
“Busy.”
“Ah. That’s good, yes?”
“Well, it’s good for him.”
“Then it’s good for you, my darling. So,” she said, glancing at Emma’s pants, “you came to ride and I’ve sent all the horses away. Now you’ll be disappointed.”
“No, I came to see you. We can’t stay long. Isn’t it early to be plastering?”
“What could I do? Next month is better, but I have this week. Pray for me. Appease the gods.” She looked up. “No rain, please, so Hannah’s house can dry.”
But the day was hot and clear and she spoke as if she knew luck was running her way. The house was a large square adobe with a hacienda-style overhanging porch decorated with long ristras of dried chiles. In the bright sun, the old tan walls had faded to the color of buckskin, accented by the traditional sky-blue paint around the door frame and windows. The wet mud would dry smoothly, without a crack.
“But why go to the bother if you’re shutting up the house?” Emma said. “Can’t it wait till you come back?”
“And when is that? No, you see the cracks from the winter? If you protect the bricks, they last forever. If not—” She left the consequences to their imaginations. “It must be done before the storms come in July, so better now. While Hector will still come. You’re filling his pockets with gold up there. Maybe he’ll never come back.”
She spoke as if he were not there in front of them.
“Come. We’ll have some tea, but
“The things you know,” Connolly said.
But in fact she was right—the odd pairing was almost comically sexual. Hannah turned out to be a slim, petite woman still wearing the short-cropped bangs of the 1920s, as if she had just stepped off Pabst’s set. Next to her, bending over a tub of mud, was a large Mexican, stripped to the waist, his back rippling as he stirred the wet earth with a paddle. When he stood up at the sound of the car and wiped his forehead, his frame seemed a wall of muscle. Ladders had been placed on the side of the house, and two Indian women, entirely covered in long skirts, were applying the wet mud to the walls, smoothing it over with their hands in long, regular strokes. They moved with a sure, unbroken rhythm, practiced for centuries. Against this background, Hector seemed even more a primitive figure, a builder of ancient cities.
“Emma!” the woman shouted happily, extending her arms. “You came!”
Her voice was German, deep and thickened by years of smoke but not at all heavy. It seemed to float instead with an ironic playfulness.
“Just in time for the last coat. You see my enjaradoras?” she said, pointing to the Indian women. “Hector found them at Acoma. Aren’t they wonderful? So smooth, look at the walk—like new.”
“Hello, Hannah,” Emma said, embracing her quickly. “I’ve brought a friend. Actually, he brought me. Michael Connolly, Hannah Beckman.”
Hannah held up her muddy hands and bowed in greeting. “Forgive me,” she said, smiling at him. “Today I’m a worker. I couldn’t resist—the feel of the earth on your hands is something wonderful. I wanted to build my own house, just like the three little pigs, yes?”
She wiped her hands on a cloth. Neither Hector nor the Indian women paid any attention. They continued plastering the wall, their faces grave and impassive. Hannah took a cigarette out of her jacket pocket.
“But I am so glad you came. I thought I would not see you before I left. How is Daniel—he’s well?”
“Busy.”
“Ah. That’s good, yes?”
“Well, it’s good for him.”
“Then it’s good for you, my darling. So,” she said, glancing at Emma’s pants, “you came to ride and I’ve sent all the horses away. Now you’ll be disappointed.”
“No, I came to see you. We can’t stay long. Isn’t it early to be plastering?”
“What could I do? Next month is better, but I have this week. Pray for me. Appease the gods.” She looked up. “No rain, please, so Hannah’s house can dry.”
But the day was hot and clear and she spoke as if she knew luck was running her way. The house was a large square adobe with a hacienda-style overhanging porch decorated with long ristras of dried chiles. In the bright sun, the old tan walls had faded to the color of buckskin, accented by the traditional sky-blue paint around the door frame and windows. The wet mud would dry smoothly, without a crack.
“But why go to the bother if you’re shutting up the house?” Emma said. “Can’t it wait till you come back?”
“And when is that? No, you see the cracks from the winter? If you protect the bricks, they last forever. If not—” She left the consequences to their imaginations. “It must be done before the storms come in July, so better now. While Hector will still come. You’re filling his pockets with gold up there. Maybe he’ll never come back.”
She spoke as if he were not there in front of them.
“Come. We’ll have some tea, but
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