Luengas.”
“And the Carazas,” interrupted Miss Elizabeth.
“Keep your opinions to yourself,” fulminated her mother. “Hold on to the names of those in the best society. If you forget them, they will
certainly forget you.” She looked compassionately at the two girls. “Poor things. Just watch what everyone else is doing. Imitate them, imitate them!”
Elizabeth responded with exaggerated condescension. “Enough, Mama! You’re suffocating me! I’m going to faint!”
San Cayetano was a coffee plantation, but it was the plantation house that everyone meant when they said “San Cayetano.” Here Spanish traditions had been forgotten and instead a petit château in the French style had arisen, in the 1860s, in a beech forest near a foaming waterfall and a noisy, narrow river. Its neoclassical facade was supported by columns whose capitals were covered with carved vines.
The main house had two stories, at its entrance an enormous fig tree and a silent fountain, then fifteen steps up to reach the carved door of the ground floor, which was—Leticia warned her daughter—where the bedrooms were. An elegant, wide stone staircase led to the second floor, where the receptions were held: salons, dining rooms, and especially—this was the most notable feature of the place—a grand balustraded terrace, equal in size to half the floor space within, roofed over by an upper terrace and wrapped around three sides of the house, open to the cool night breezes and, during the afternoon, a place for sun-drenched siestas in sleepy rocking chairs.
Here, couples could rest, leaning against the balustrade of the beautiful gallery, and chat, putting their glasses down when they decided to dance right here, on any of the three sides of the second-floor terrace. All her life, this place returned again and again in Laura’s memory as the site of youthful enchantment, the space where she felt the joy of knowing herself to be young.
There, awaiting her guests, was Doña Genoveva Deschamps de la Trinidad, legendary mistress of the hacienda and tutelary leader of provincial society. Laura expected to meet a tall and dominating, even haughty woman, and instead found a small, erect lady with a flashing smile, dimples in her rosy cheeks, and cordial eyes, gray, like the elegant monotone of her gown. Apparently, Mrs. Deschamps de la Trinidad also read La Vie Parisienne, for her gown was even more
modern than Laura’s: it eliminated every kind of false padding and followed, in a shine of gray silk, the lady’s natural shape. Doña Genoveva’s bare shoulders were wrapped in a veil of fine gauze, also gray, the entire ensemble harmonizing with her steely gaze and allowing her jewels, as transparent as water, to shine even more brightly.
Laura was thankful that her hostess was such an amiable woman, but she realized that Mrs. Deschamps, before and after cordially greeting each guest, fixed them with a strangely cold stare, even calculated, almost judicial. The stare of the rich and envied lady conveyed her seal of approbation or disapproval. People would know, at the next annual ball at the hacienda, who had received the placet and who had been damned. That cold gaze of censure or approval lasted no longer than the few seconds between one guest moving on and the next arriving, when the affable smile would glitter again.
“Tell your parents I’m very, very sorry not to see them here tonight,” said Doña Genoveva, lightly touching Laura’s hair, as if putting an unruly curl back in place. “Keep me abreast of Don Fernando’s health.”
Laura curtsied, a lesson learned from the Misses Ramos, and set about exploring the place so discussed and admired by Xalapa society. She felt rapture on seeing the pale green painted ceilings, the fleurons on the walls, the multicolored skylights, and, beyond, the heart of the party, on the terrace wrapped by balustrades adorned with urns, the orchestra whose musicians were all wearing dinner
“And the Carazas,” interrupted Miss Elizabeth.
“Keep your opinions to yourself,” fulminated her mother. “Hold on to the names of those in the best society. If you forget them, they will
certainly forget you.” She looked compassionately at the two girls. “Poor things. Just watch what everyone else is doing. Imitate them, imitate them!”
Elizabeth responded with exaggerated condescension. “Enough, Mama! You’re suffocating me! I’m going to faint!”
San Cayetano was a coffee plantation, but it was the plantation house that everyone meant when they said “San Cayetano.” Here Spanish traditions had been forgotten and instead a petit château in the French style had arisen, in the 1860s, in a beech forest near a foaming waterfall and a noisy, narrow river. Its neoclassical facade was supported by columns whose capitals were covered with carved vines.
The main house had two stories, at its entrance an enormous fig tree and a silent fountain, then fifteen steps up to reach the carved door of the ground floor, which was—Leticia warned her daughter—where the bedrooms were. An elegant, wide stone staircase led to the second floor, where the receptions were held: salons, dining rooms, and especially—this was the most notable feature of the place—a grand balustraded terrace, equal in size to half the floor space within, roofed over by an upper terrace and wrapped around three sides of the house, open to the cool night breezes and, during the afternoon, a place for sun-drenched siestas in sleepy rocking chairs.
Here, couples could rest, leaning against the balustrade of the beautiful gallery, and chat, putting their glasses down when they decided to dance right here, on any of the three sides of the second-floor terrace. All her life, this place returned again and again in Laura’s memory as the site of youthful enchantment, the space where she felt the joy of knowing herself to be young.
There, awaiting her guests, was Doña Genoveva Deschamps de la Trinidad, legendary mistress of the hacienda and tutelary leader of provincial society. Laura expected to meet a tall and dominating, even haughty woman, and instead found a small, erect lady with a flashing smile, dimples in her rosy cheeks, and cordial eyes, gray, like the elegant monotone of her gown. Apparently, Mrs. Deschamps de la Trinidad also read La Vie Parisienne, for her gown was even more
modern than Laura’s: it eliminated every kind of false padding and followed, in a shine of gray silk, the lady’s natural shape. Doña Genoveva’s bare shoulders were wrapped in a veil of fine gauze, also gray, the entire ensemble harmonizing with her steely gaze and allowing her jewels, as transparent as water, to shine even more brightly.
Laura was thankful that her hostess was such an amiable woman, but she realized that Mrs. Deschamps, before and after cordially greeting each guest, fixed them with a strangely cold stare, even calculated, almost judicial. The stare of the rich and envied lady conveyed her seal of approbation or disapproval. People would know, at the next annual ball at the hacienda, who had received the placet and who had been damned. That cold gaze of censure or approval lasted no longer than the few seconds between one guest moving on and the next arriving, when the affable smile would glitter again.
“Tell your parents I’m very, very sorry not to see them here tonight,” said Doña Genoveva, lightly touching Laura’s hair, as if putting an unruly curl back in place. “Keep me abreast of Don Fernando’s health.”
Laura curtsied, a lesson learned from the Misses Ramos, and set about exploring the place so discussed and admired by Xalapa society. She felt rapture on seeing the pale green painted ceilings, the fleurons on the walls, the multicolored skylights, and, beyond, the heart of the party, on the terrace wrapped by balustrades adorned with urns, the orchestra whose musicians were all wearing dinner
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