Carlos Fuentes - Distant Relations

And with those words he withdrew his hand from mine, which he had held throughout this portion of his story. He clasped his own hands in that typical, gracious gesture that served in circumstances like these to dissipate any hint of solemnity and to return things to a properly rational level not without humor.

“Bah,” he repeated. “The things one must do. I screamed, terrified by that vision and by the sensation of my impending death, I admit it. But as I screamed I turned melodrama into comedy. As I struggled against ‘Heredia,’ the hinges of the door of the suffocating, whitewashed gallery burst open under the weight of Florencio’s shoulder. José rushed in on the heels of his husky companion with the visage of a Basque jai-alai player, and both rushed to free me from ‘Heredia,’ subduing him. I sank to the floor, out of breath, exhausted. In the struggle, ‘Heredia’ was roundly drubbed by Florencio: he staggered, and fell headlong down the shaft of the dumbwaiter. The two servants exchanged rapid comments in Spanish, peering down into empty space.

“Here now, we’d better go down to the cellar.”

“But, Florencio, look at all the dead leaves rising up the shaft.”

“I told them, my throat aflame, not to waste time. We had to leave immediately. Where was the taxi they had spoken of? Come, quickly. I would send Etienne to pick up the Citroën later, another day.”

“The Citroën, M. le Comte? But Etién came to pick it up day before yesterday, as soon as he got out of the hospital and learned about your accident,” Florencio exclaimed as they helped Branly to his feet.

“He said he was going to take it to be repaired. But he never came back.”

“You remember, Florencio, Señor Heredia told us he thought the accident was his fault, because of the young gentleman, and he told Etién he should be careful driving with one hand, and if he wanted, he would go with him to pick up the Citroën and see you at the same time, M. le Comte, and young Victor as well.”

“But you know how stubborn a hardheaded Frenchman can be, with all due respect to yourself, M. le Comte: no Spaniard could tell him anything, and do you think he would want to be indebted to some foreigner, heaven forbid! And that was that. It wasn’t as if he were going by way of Tetuán to bring home monkeys, there being so many around here…”

“And that was that. He took his own car and drove off forever.”

“What do you mean, Florencio?”

“Nothing, except I think Etién must have had an accident in his 2CV when he came here to pick up the Citroën for repair,” said Florencio, as the servants gently led Branly toward the stairway.

“And I think Florencio is right. I think he was killed. Maybe. Anyway, he never came back.”

“And Heredia? Hugo Heredia? What does he say?”

“Your guest left for Mexico this morning, M. le Comte.”

“I must thank you, at least, for staying with me.”

“M. le Comte is very generous to us, and treats us like human beings,” said José, as the three reached the foot of the stairs.

“You should just see, M. le Comte, how the Spanish treat their servants. It’s ‘do this’ and ‘do that.’ ‘You peasant bastard!’—begging your pardon, M. le Comte. ‘You idiot anyone can see your mother let you fall out of your cradle, you blithering simpleton, you thickheaded fool…’ And on and on and on!”

“And the young gentlemen are the worst. They like to humiliate you, to run you in circles. ‘Pick that up, Pepe. Now leave it where you found it, Pepe. Don’t you hear me? Pick it up again, Pepe.’”

“Well, a pot of beans is a pot of beans no matter where you cook it, because that young Mexican was no better than the young Spanish gentlemen. Look, M. le Comte, what he did to Pepe the minute he arrived. So of course we came running with his suitcases when he called.”

“And we asked his father, and he said why not, we should bring everything here…”

“And I laughed and told Pepe, Let’s get out here quick or he’ll be beating you again with his belt. What a one he is! A real little devil.”

Branly, assisted by Florencio and José, stepped onto the terrace of the lions. He found it difficult to grasp what they were saying, or rather, to reconcile the inconsistencies in their words. He felt dizzy. His servants were playing up to him; they were contradicting one another; they had been there that very morning with suitcases in their hands; they had given them to young Victor in the Citroën. They, like he, had experienced physical fear when they stepped on the dead leaves. They had, finally, rescued him from the satanic fury of “Heredia,” the confused scion of many places rather than any time, this man who, because he had no dates, no origins, carried the burden of unfinished stories: how could he be the son of Francisco Luis and the Mamasel, who had met in La Guaira in 1812 and been parted forever in 1864 in a brothel in Cuernavaca? how, even if he were the son of Francisco Luis and his second wife, the fat, dull, gluttonous girl from Limousin, could he have been Branly’s contemporary in the opening years of this century, when my friend played in the Pare Monceau? How old was “Heredia”? How old was Francisco Luis when he died?

These reflections on the utter irrationality of their ages, so inconsistent with Branly’s rational chronology, faded from his mind the moment he saw from the terrace of the manor the perfect symmetry of the French garden, the clear and intelligent space where nature was tamed by the geometric exactitude of shrubs, greensward, pansies, artichokes, and stone urns. In vain, he looked for a sign of the grayish scar in the grass.

The birch grove, the rosebushes, the beech and willow trees, seemed to exult in their own serenity, as if in homage to the vanished summer, and along the avenue of chestnuts and oaks, autumn had not yet passed, spreading its basket of spoils. The fresh, cool ground was swept clean; there were no dead leaves, only the enchanting play of light and shadow among green branches.

The Citroën was parked on the gravel drive where the avenue ended and the garden began. When Etienne saw them emerge from the house onto the terrace, he left off dusting the ornamental klaxon with his feather duster, touched one hand to the visor of his cap, and climbed into the car. The sturdy chauffeur circled the garden and came to a stop before the entrance stairway; he got out to open the rear door so that Branly, assisted by his servants, might enter. The surprise in the voices of José and Florencio rang hollow, less than convincing. Of this, at least, my friend has a clear recollection.

“Imagine. And to think we’d given him up for dead.”

“Jesus! Sweet gypsy Jesus! The dead has risen!”

“You two get in with M. le Comte, go on, now, take good care of him. I’m going for his things.”

Branly says he sank against the soft, beige, spotlessly clean upholstery and refused to converse with the servants, even to look at them, to concede that he was aware of their disconcerted but conspiratorial glances, their shrugged shoulders, the upturned palms mutely inviting explanations.

It would have been very easy to say to them: Hugo Heredia bought him just as he bought you, except that his price was higher. One Breton peasant is tougher than two Andalusian peasants. It takes a little more effort to make Etienne stop remembering. For you, forgetfulness comes easy. A little more time, a little more money, that was the only difference. No one remembers anything. Nothing happened.

Etienne emerged from the house with a suitcase containing, Branly supposed, the clothing my friend had been wearing the night of the accident. He climbed into the car and started it.

“How is your hand, Etienne?” Branly inquired.