Carlos Fuentes - The Crystal Frontier

“Impertinent,” Miss Amy managed to mutter when the maid left with the tea tray.

The Mexican made a mistake — Miss Amy almost cackled with pleasure when she saw Archibald again — the idolater made a mistake. The day after the conversation about Christ and the wounded husband, Josefina brought the old lady her breakfast as usual, placed the bed tray over her lap, and instead of leaving as she usually did, rearranged the pillows for her and touched her head, stroking the old lady’s forehead.

“Don’t touch me!” shouted Miss Amy, hysterical. “Don’t you ever dare touch me!” she shouted again, upsetting the bed tray, spilling tea on the sheets, knocking the croissants and jam over the bedclothes.

“Don’t judge her harshly, Aunt Amy. Josefina has her sorrows, just as you do. It’s possible she wants to share them.”

“Sorrows, me?” Miss Amy raised her eyebrows all the way to where her hair, arranged that afternoon to give her a youthful, renewed look, began. A white inverted question mark adorned her forehead, like this:¿

“You know very well what I’m talking about. I could have been your son, Aunt Amy. It was an accident that instead I ended up being your nephew.”

“You have no right to say such things, Archibald.” Miss Amy’s voice was muffled, as if she were speaking through a handkerchief. “Don’t say that ever again, or I won’t allow you back in my house.”

“Josefina has her sorrows too. That’s why she stroked you yesterday morning.”

Did Archibald achieve his goal? Miss Amy divined her nephew’s Machiavellian plot, and she knew that Niccolò Machiavelli was the Devil himself. Wasn’t the Devil called Old Nick in English legend? This Miss Amy knew because as a teenager she’d had a part in Marlowe’s Jew of Malta, and the first person who speaks is Machiavelli, transformed into the Devil, Old Nick.

She sat with the window open to the park. Josefina came in with her tea, but Miss Amy didn’t turn to look at her. It was almost autumn, the most beautiful season on that lake, with its prolonged winters, daggerlike winds, brief springtimes, insolently coquettish, and summers when not a leaf stirred and the humidity hovered as high as the fiery red in the thermometers.

Miss Amy thought that her garden, however familiar to her, was a forgotten garden. An avenue of cedars led to its entrance and to the view of the lake, which was beginning to turn rough. This was the beauty of autumn, always nostalgically mixed, in Miss Dunbar’s eyes, with the punctual appearance of the maple buds in spring. Nevertheless, her garden was now a lost garden, and this afternoon — without consciously planning to, almost without realizing what she was saying, convinced she always talked that way to herself but enunciating the words clearly, not for her maid, who just happened to be standing behind her holding a tea tray, but as if she were saying something she had said before or would have said in any case — she remarked that in New Orleans her mother would appear on the balcony on special occasions wearing all her jewels so everyone could admire her as they walked by.

“It’s the same in Juchitán.”

“Hoochy what?”

“Juchitán is the name of our village, in Tehuantepec. My mother would go out to show off her jewelry on feast days.”

“Jewelry? Your mother?” said Miss Amy, more and more confused. What was this maid talking about? Who did she think she was? Did she have delusions of grandeur?

“That’s right. It goes from mother to daughter, ma’am, and no one dares sell them. The stones come from far away. They’re sacred.”

“Are you telling me that you could live like a grand lady in your hoochy town and instead you’re here cleaning my bathrooms?” said Miss Amy with renewed ferocity.

“No, I would use them to pay lawyers. But as I was saying, in Juchitec families jewels are sacred, for fiesta days, and pass from mother to daughter. It’s very beautiful.”

“So they must wear them all the time, because by all accounts it’s a perpetual feast day all year round — this saint, that martyr … Why are there so many saints in Mexico?”

“Why are there so many millionaires in the United States? God has his own plan for distributing things, ma’am.”

“Did you say you have to pay lawyers? Don’t tell me my idiot nephew is helping you!”

“Mr. Archibaldo is very generous.”

“Generous? With my money? He’s got nothing beyond what he’ll inherit from me. Charity may begin at home, but his home isn’t mine.”

“No, he doesn’t give us money, ma’am. Not at all. He’s teaching my husband law so he can become a lawyer and defend himself and his friends.”

“Where is your husband? What does he have to defend himself against?”

“He’s in jail, ma’am. He was unjustly accused—”

“That’s what they all say,” said Miss Amy, grimacing sarcastically.

“No, it’s true. In jail, the prisoners can learn things. My husband decided to study law to defend himself and his friends. He doesn’t want Don Archibaldo to defend him. He wants to defend himself. That’s his pride, ma’am. All Don Archibaldo does is give him classes.”

“Free?” The old woman made a fierce, unconscious grimace.

“No. That’s why I’m working here. I pay with my salary.”

“Which is to say, I pay. That’s a good one.”

“Don’t get mad, ma’am, please. Don’t get upset. I’m not very clever, I don’t know how to conceal things. I’m not lying to you. Excuse me.”

She walked away, and Miss Amy sat there wondering how her maid Josefina’s sorrow could in any way resemble her own — evoked with such lack of delicacy by her nephew a few days before. What did a criminal case involving Mexican immigrants have to do with a case of lost love, a missed opportunity?

“How is Josefina working out?” Archibald asked the next time they saw each other.

“At least she’s punctual.”

“See? Not all stereotypes are accurate.”

“Is her room a mess with all those idols and saints?”

“No, it’s neat as a pin.”

When Josefina served tea that afternoon, Miss Amy smiled at her and said that soon autumn would really begin and then the cold. Didn’t Josefina want to take advantage of the last days of summer to give a party?

“Just to show you my heart’s in the right place, Josefina. You told me a few days ago that there are lots of parties— fiestas — in your country. Isn’t there something coming up you’d like to celebrate?”

“The only thing I want to celebrate is my husband’s being declared innocent.”

“But that might take a while. No, I’m offering you a chance to throw a party for your friends in the back part of the garden, by the grape arbor.”

“If you think it’s a good idea …”

“Yes, Josefina, I’ve already said this house smells shutup. I know you all are very spirited people. Invite a small group. I’ll come out to say hello, of course.”

On the day of the party, Miss Amy first spied from the dressing room on the second floor. Josefina, with her mistress’s permission, had set up a long table under the arbor. The house filled with unusual smells, and now Miss Amy watched a parade of clay platters piled with mysterious foods all mixed together and drowned in thick sauces, little baskets of tortillas, pitchers holding magenta- and amber-colored liquids.

As the guests began to arrive, she watched them closely from her hiding place. Some were dressed in everyday clothes — that was clear — but others, especially the women, had put on their best outfits for this special occasion. There were short jackets and T-shirts, but coats and ties as well. Some women wore pants while others wore satin dresses. There were children. Lots of people.