– the war in Vietnam; Hurricane Flora, which was threatening Cuba; the Profumo Affair rumbling on in England; Martin Luther King’s Washington speech; the local presidential elections. The Hausmanns had a particular interest in the latter. The incumbent president was at the end of his term and there’d been talk of Uncle Jorge assuming leadership of the party. As always, opinions were sharply divided.
As the tenor of the talk around her rose and fell, Embeth laid her knife and fork to one side to indicate she’d finished, leaving half of her food untouched. Her mother glanced over approvingly. A lady
never
finished what was on her plate. She leaned back in her chair, only just managing to stifle a yawn. It wasn’t that she was bored – on the contrary. She found the men’s talk fascinating, but joining in was out of the question. Like the other women present, her job was decorative. She was wearing white, a splendid contrast to Miriám’s burgundy silk. Earlier that evening, just before descending the staircase to join the others, Miriám had threaded a beautiful ivory silk rose through her dark hair. ‘There, that’s better.’ She surveyed her daughter critically. ‘I
still
don’t understand why you cut it,’ she murmured, smoothing her own luxuriously long tresses in an unconscious gesture of protection.
Embeth sighed. It was a conversation they’d had practically every single day since her return. ‘I like it short,’ she said, careful not to let the irritation she felt slip through.
‘So unbecoming,’ Miriám murmured. ‘Anyhow, it’ll grow back. You look beautiful, my darling. Are you ready?’
‘About as ready as I’m ever likely to be.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Embeth! A little graciousness wouldn’t go amiss.’ Miriám didn’t wait for a reply but swept out of the room, her silk evening dress fanning out splendidly and fluidly behind her. Embeth had no option but to follow. Mother and daughter descended the staircase to the slow, appreciative applause of the men gathered below.
‘Mercedes!’ Miriám hissed at the now-elderly maid. Miriám couldn’t bear seeing half-empty plates strewn across the snowy white table. ‘Mercedes,’ Miriám whispered again, louder this time. She signalled urgently but discreetly across the table.
Fill up the empty wine glasses! Clear away those plates!
The penny dropped. Mercedes nodded and hurried out. Within seconds, the offending plates were gone and empty glasses were topped up. No one except Embeth noticed a thing. That was the way her mother ran the household, Embeth thought to herself, watching her, smooth, silent performance. Even the candles in the chandelier above the table lasted the exact length of the meal, no more.
She looked down the length of the table to the living room beyond, and beyond that, framed by the gently billowing white muslin curtains, to the veranda where they sometimes held cocktail parties overlooking the emerald pool. The night air was quiet and still. After the wintry silence of upstate New York, the soft buzz of the tropics, a mixture of warm, humid air and the barely audible hum of insects, was a welcome return. She could see their reflections in the huge gilt mirror at one end of the dining room. Maria-Luísa Gomez de Santander, the wife of the finance minister, was on her left, murmuring something inconsequential to her mother. Her perfume was thick and heavy, clinging to her skin like fog. She’d detected the faintest wrinkle in her mother’s nose as she was ushered into the hallway. Miriám disliked excesses of any kind.
Embeth stifled another yawn. She’d been back for almost six months and in that time, had done little else than attend dinner parties, the ballet, and opera . . . just as Betty had predicted. There was little else to do. The highlight of every dinner party held at home was gossiping afterwards in the kitchens with Sophia and Mercedes.
‘Did you
see
that one?’ An hour later, the men
As the tenor of the talk around her rose and fell, Embeth laid her knife and fork to one side to indicate she’d finished, leaving half of her food untouched. Her mother glanced over approvingly. A lady
never
finished what was on her plate. She leaned back in her chair, only just managing to stifle a yawn. It wasn’t that she was bored – on the contrary. She found the men’s talk fascinating, but joining in was out of the question. Like the other women present, her job was decorative. She was wearing white, a splendid contrast to Miriám’s burgundy silk. Earlier that evening, just before descending the staircase to join the others, Miriám had threaded a beautiful ivory silk rose through her dark hair. ‘There, that’s better.’ She surveyed her daughter critically. ‘I
still
don’t understand why you cut it,’ she murmured, smoothing her own luxuriously long tresses in an unconscious gesture of protection.
Embeth sighed. It was a conversation they’d had practically every single day since her return. ‘I like it short,’ she said, careful not to let the irritation she felt slip through.
‘So unbecoming,’ Miriám murmured. ‘Anyhow, it’ll grow back. You look beautiful, my darling. Are you ready?’
‘About as ready as I’m ever likely to be.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Embeth! A little graciousness wouldn’t go amiss.’ Miriám didn’t wait for a reply but swept out of the room, her silk evening dress fanning out splendidly and fluidly behind her. Embeth had no option but to follow. Mother and daughter descended the staircase to the slow, appreciative applause of the men gathered below.
‘Mercedes!’ Miriám hissed at the now-elderly maid. Miriám couldn’t bear seeing half-empty plates strewn across the snowy white table. ‘Mercedes,’ Miriám whispered again, louder this time. She signalled urgently but discreetly across the table.
Fill up the empty wine glasses! Clear away those plates!
The penny dropped. Mercedes nodded and hurried out. Within seconds, the offending plates were gone and empty glasses were topped up. No one except Embeth noticed a thing. That was the way her mother ran the household, Embeth thought to herself, watching her, smooth, silent performance. Even the candles in the chandelier above the table lasted the exact length of the meal, no more.
She looked down the length of the table to the living room beyond, and beyond that, framed by the gently billowing white muslin curtains, to the veranda where they sometimes held cocktail parties overlooking the emerald pool. The night air was quiet and still. After the wintry silence of upstate New York, the soft buzz of the tropics, a mixture of warm, humid air and the barely audible hum of insects, was a welcome return. She could see their reflections in the huge gilt mirror at one end of the dining room. Maria-Luísa Gomez de Santander, the wife of the finance minister, was on her left, murmuring something inconsequential to her mother. Her perfume was thick and heavy, clinging to her skin like fog. She’d detected the faintest wrinkle in her mother’s nose as she was ushered into the hallway. Miriám disliked excesses of any kind.
Embeth stifled another yawn. She’d been back for almost six months and in that time, had done little else than attend dinner parties, the ballet, and opera . . . just as Betty had predicted. There was little else to do. The highlight of every dinner party held at home was gossiping afterwards in the kitchens with Sophia and Mercedes.
‘Did you
see
that one?’ An hour later, the men
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