can.’
I wondered if he might underline the quip by jingling the loose change in his trouser pocket, but happily we were too close packed for him to make the barb quite so pointed as that.
We reached the Hacienda del Ortega a few minutes before darkness. It was an impressive place dating back to the heyday of the Spanish conquistadors and built round its own rectangular courtyard. It stood at the head of the green Ortegan valley, surrounded by vineyards and orange groves. Now the old fortified dwelling had been adapted as an hotel for rich tourists, and barbecue expeditions such as ours. Bougainvillea and golden roses grew over the entrance arch.
Branches trailed the roof of the taxi as we entered, and the driver turned us in to a modern car park, already half full of taxis and cars and motor coaches. Morag’s ticket-holders had already got out and begun walking round the hacienda. On either side were formal gardens laid out in a beautiful intricate design of elaborate-shaped lily ponds, narrow streams spanned by osier bridges, like those that still crossed many of the mountain gorges. And, of course, everywhere the little statues and fountains so beloved by the Charaguayans.
For the few minutes before the sun set, the five of us strolled slowly through the gardens—Morag and Mr. Ashford, Hester, Mr. Fitzgerald and I. The flowers and the newly mown grass seemed almost unbearably sweet. We all seemed to have run out of small talk. Then as darkness fell, we followed the rest of the party in through the wide main door of the hacienda.
It gave immediately on to the enormous but already crowded courtyard. A triple fountain played from among statuary again. Soft coloured lights were concealed in the wrought iron tracery of the balcony, or amongst clumps of flowers. At the far side, Indians in the various costumes of different villages were baking food on flat circular stones. Waiters in Spanish costume, with high heels, tight black trousers, cummerbunds and theatrical beards, circled amongst the crowd carrying high their silver trays with dishes of the hot spicy food, and then offering them with deep Don Ramon-like bows. They looked very handsome and tall against the smaller Indians, all like close relations of Don Ramón, with their proud Spanish carriage, and in the catlike grace with which they weaved in and out of the groups of people.
Momentarily I was alone. Morag and Mr. Ashford had gone round to see the proprietor about the danzas campestres that were to follow the barbecue. Hester and Mr. Fitzgerald had returned, I think to the fragrant darkness of the garden. Apart from the military Attaché's wife, standing a few groups away, I saw no familiar face.
‘Senorita ,’ at first I thought it was a familiar voice. But the English was so uncertain and halting. ‘May I humbly suggest ... a little of this so succulent dish . . .'
I looked up at the waiter resplendent in his Spanish costume, at the dark eyes regarding me smilingly above the theatrical beard and mustachios. There was a hint of shared conspiracy in their melting depths.
‘It looks very good,’ I said, cautiously forking a little of the savoury concoction on to the plate he handed me.
‘It is good. It is made from fish caught in the blue waters of Lake Titicaca. And it is called . . .'
‘Yes?'
‘Ah, I do not its English name know, senorita .'
‘But I know yours, do I not, Don Ramón?’
‘Perhaps, senorita .’ The waiter smiled behind the big black cotton-wool beard.
I wanted to ask Don Ramón if this was his desire to go about unrecognised and accepted for himself alone. But something told me it wasn’t. In any case, I could see Mr. Ashford pushing his way dutifully towards me, so I simply said smilingly, ‘It seems a lot of effort just to get a barbecue.’
Don Ramon surprised me by bending suddenly towards me and the vehemence with which he whispered in my ear, ‘But so little effort when it means that I see the woman I
I wondered if he might underline the quip by jingling the loose change in his trouser pocket, but happily we were too close packed for him to make the barb quite so pointed as that.
We reached the Hacienda del Ortega a few minutes before darkness. It was an impressive place dating back to the heyday of the Spanish conquistadors and built round its own rectangular courtyard. It stood at the head of the green Ortegan valley, surrounded by vineyards and orange groves. Now the old fortified dwelling had been adapted as an hotel for rich tourists, and barbecue expeditions such as ours. Bougainvillea and golden roses grew over the entrance arch.
Branches trailed the roof of the taxi as we entered, and the driver turned us in to a modern car park, already half full of taxis and cars and motor coaches. Morag’s ticket-holders had already got out and begun walking round the hacienda. On either side were formal gardens laid out in a beautiful intricate design of elaborate-shaped lily ponds, narrow streams spanned by osier bridges, like those that still crossed many of the mountain gorges. And, of course, everywhere the little statues and fountains so beloved by the Charaguayans.
For the few minutes before the sun set, the five of us strolled slowly through the gardens—Morag and Mr. Ashford, Hester, Mr. Fitzgerald and I. The flowers and the newly mown grass seemed almost unbearably sweet. We all seemed to have run out of small talk. Then as darkness fell, we followed the rest of the party in through the wide main door of the hacienda.
It gave immediately on to the enormous but already crowded courtyard. A triple fountain played from among statuary again. Soft coloured lights were concealed in the wrought iron tracery of the balcony, or amongst clumps of flowers. At the far side, Indians in the various costumes of different villages were baking food on flat circular stones. Waiters in Spanish costume, with high heels, tight black trousers, cummerbunds and theatrical beards, circled amongst the crowd carrying high their silver trays with dishes of the hot spicy food, and then offering them with deep Don Ramon-like bows. They looked very handsome and tall against the smaller Indians, all like close relations of Don Ramón, with their proud Spanish carriage, and in the catlike grace with which they weaved in and out of the groups of people.
Momentarily I was alone. Morag and Mr. Ashford had gone round to see the proprietor about the danzas campestres that were to follow the barbecue. Hester and Mr. Fitzgerald had returned, I think to the fragrant darkness of the garden. Apart from the military Attaché's wife, standing a few groups away, I saw no familiar face.
‘Senorita ,’ at first I thought it was a familiar voice. But the English was so uncertain and halting. ‘May I humbly suggest ... a little of this so succulent dish . . .'
I looked up at the waiter resplendent in his Spanish costume, at the dark eyes regarding me smilingly above the theatrical beard and mustachios. There was a hint of shared conspiracy in their melting depths.
‘It looks very good,’ I said, cautiously forking a little of the savoury concoction on to the plate he handed me.
‘It is good. It is made from fish caught in the blue waters of Lake Titicaca. And it is called . . .'
‘Yes?'
‘Ah, I do not its English name know, senorita .'
‘But I know yours, do I not, Don Ramón?’
‘Perhaps, senorita .’ The waiter smiled behind the big black cotton-wool beard.
I wanted to ask Don Ramón if this was his desire to go about unrecognised and accepted for himself alone. But something told me it wasn’t. In any case, I could see Mr. Ashford pushing his way dutifully towards me, so I simply said smilingly, ‘It seems a lot of effort just to get a barbecue.’
Don Ramon surprised me by bending suddenly towards me and the vehemence with which he whispered in my ear, ‘But so little effort when it means that I see the woman I
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