his grave majestic voice. ‘It is not a matter of charity, of course. They are people of substance in their way; my uncle has a stall in the market.’
Mrs Sheridan knew that Pantaleón’s wages were adequate and suppressed the thought that perhaps they were too generous.
‘It was Rosario I really wanted to see, and your new son,’ she said.
‘My wife is out shopping,’ Pantaleón replied.
‘At the mercado, carrying a heavy basket! It’s only ten days since the baby was born,’ protested Mrs Sheridan.
‘She is not at the mercado – she is at the supermercado and my brother-in-law’s niece is accompanying her to push the wire basket.’
‘And baby?’
‘The baby is indoors with my little cousin – the great niece of the señor uncle who is shaving me.’
Mrs Sheridan was used to the impact of the living room which, with its gleaming chromium bed, Virgin of Guadalupe framed in plastic lace, tall earthenware pitcher of water, sewing machine and worn stone grinder showed the Indian genius for accepting from an overriding culture only what suited it best. In the rocker, with its cushion of embroidered electric-blue silk, sat a girl of perhaps eight years old holding in her arms a baby wrapped in a shawl.
The Victorian novelists were right to make such children die; symbolically they were right since beauty of that kind is impossible in human beings beyond nine or ten. The girl’s face had a golden waxy pallor and the modelling was so slight that there were hardly any shadows on it – even the lower eyelids made almost none. The round head was set with doll-like precision on the tiny neck that seemed ready to snap and as it turned towards Mrs Sheridan the pale and golden lights changed on the perfectly circular cheek. The child’s golden stud earrings flashed and the very long eyelashes, which had a dusty or mealy look, opened slowly to contemplate the visitor.
‘What is your name?’ asked Mrs Sheridan.
‘Esperanza, señora.’
‘And you’re Pantaleón’s cousin? You’re a relation of his?’
The child stood absolutely transfixed, turning on her a dark bright stare from the huge eyes of the undernourished. It was not an Indian stare – not blank, not withdrawn. Mrs Sheridan, who had lived thirty-six yearsin San Tomás and was not a fool, recognised that she was treading on delicate ground, that of legitimacy.
‘And where do you live?’
‘In the mercado.’
‘But where do you sleep?’
‘Under the stall: my great-uncle is from Chiapas – from the mountains: he doesn’t like houses.’
Esperanza traced something on the floor with her slender dirty foot – whitish, not blackish, with the eternal white dust of the mesa.
‘But we are going to live here now, with cousin Pantaleón. He is paying to have mattresses made for us; they are being sewn now by his sister-in-law’s great-aunt.’
Mrs Sheridan again felt surprised, and ashamed of her surprise.
‘Will you like living here?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I shall like living with the baby. His life is my life.’
She lifted a corner of the shawl and Mrs Sheridan looked at the red-brown miniature face, still as an idol’s. Now she was closer to the exquisite little girl she noticed too an odour of fish and guessed what stall it was the great-uncle kept. The baby winked suddenly and blew a solitary shining bubble which broke without a sound.
‘I do hope he’s strong and healthy,’ said Mrs Sheridan.
The little girl carefully replaced the shawl.
‘ Venimos prestados ,’ she said, ‘Our lives are only lent to us.’
Colonel Terence Kvoa lived at the Quinta Maria de los Desamparados, way above the town in its thick shelter of vines, choyotes, climbing pink geranium and organ-pipe cactus. The road out to it was a stony and featureless thirty kilometres and many of Mrs Clancy’s friends had said to her that it reminded them of the Holy Land, but once you were out there the Quinta, with its sounds of deeply moving foliage and
Mrs Sheridan knew that Pantaleón’s wages were adequate and suppressed the thought that perhaps they were too generous.
‘It was Rosario I really wanted to see, and your new son,’ she said.
‘My wife is out shopping,’ Pantaleón replied.
‘At the mercado, carrying a heavy basket! It’s only ten days since the baby was born,’ protested Mrs Sheridan.
‘She is not at the mercado – she is at the supermercado and my brother-in-law’s niece is accompanying her to push the wire basket.’
‘And baby?’
‘The baby is indoors with my little cousin – the great niece of the señor uncle who is shaving me.’
Mrs Sheridan was used to the impact of the living room which, with its gleaming chromium bed, Virgin of Guadalupe framed in plastic lace, tall earthenware pitcher of water, sewing machine and worn stone grinder showed the Indian genius for accepting from an overriding culture only what suited it best. In the rocker, with its cushion of embroidered electric-blue silk, sat a girl of perhaps eight years old holding in her arms a baby wrapped in a shawl.
The Victorian novelists were right to make such children die; symbolically they were right since beauty of that kind is impossible in human beings beyond nine or ten. The girl’s face had a golden waxy pallor and the modelling was so slight that there were hardly any shadows on it – even the lower eyelids made almost none. The round head was set with doll-like precision on the tiny neck that seemed ready to snap and as it turned towards Mrs Sheridan the pale and golden lights changed on the perfectly circular cheek. The child’s golden stud earrings flashed and the very long eyelashes, which had a dusty or mealy look, opened slowly to contemplate the visitor.
‘What is your name?’ asked Mrs Sheridan.
‘Esperanza, señora.’
‘And you’re Pantaleón’s cousin? You’re a relation of his?’
The child stood absolutely transfixed, turning on her a dark bright stare from the huge eyes of the undernourished. It was not an Indian stare – not blank, not withdrawn. Mrs Sheridan, who had lived thirty-six yearsin San Tomás and was not a fool, recognised that she was treading on delicate ground, that of legitimacy.
‘And where do you live?’
‘In the mercado.’
‘But where do you sleep?’
‘Under the stall: my great-uncle is from Chiapas – from the mountains: he doesn’t like houses.’
Esperanza traced something on the floor with her slender dirty foot – whitish, not blackish, with the eternal white dust of the mesa.
‘But we are going to live here now, with cousin Pantaleón. He is paying to have mattresses made for us; they are being sewn now by his sister-in-law’s great-aunt.’
Mrs Sheridan again felt surprised, and ashamed of her surprise.
‘Will you like living here?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I shall like living with the baby. His life is my life.’
She lifted a corner of the shawl and Mrs Sheridan looked at the red-brown miniature face, still as an idol’s. Now she was closer to the exquisite little girl she noticed too an odour of fish and guessed what stall it was the great-uncle kept. The baby winked suddenly and blew a solitary shining bubble which broke without a sound.
‘I do hope he’s strong and healthy,’ said Mrs Sheridan.
The little girl carefully replaced the shawl.
‘ Venimos prestados ,’ she said, ‘Our lives are only lent to us.’
Colonel Terence Kvoa lived at the Quinta Maria de los Desamparados, way above the town in its thick shelter of vines, choyotes, climbing pink geranium and organ-pipe cactus. The road out to it was a stony and featureless thirty kilometres and many of Mrs Clancy’s friends had said to her that it reminded them of the Holy Land, but once you were out there the Quinta, with its sounds of deeply moving foliage and
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