approach and greet my mother, and to ask after Tía's health—though he could have asked Tía herself just as easily, since he saw my aunt every week in church.
Don Miguel had inherited his father's job of managing the vineyards and olive groves owned by his patron, the Duke of Oviedo. As Don Miguel gained power and prestige, we saw him more around town. Even in scorching summer, he wore a vest and double-breasted suit jacket, bunched over his paunchy middle. Wandering away from Campo Seco's twisting streets toward its cracking, yellow-soiled fields, he looked like a crow, black coattails flapping in the heat.
Despite his increasing wealth, Don Miguel was struck by the same tragedy that befell so many of the villagers, when his thin, meek wife, Doña Clara, died giving birth to their long-awaited first child. He grieved intensely for one month, and then let it be known, with the frankness of a man shopping for a particular breed of horse, that he intended to marry again, as soon as possible. This time, he would seek out a stronger, sturdier woman. Women of unproven fertility need not apply.
If many widows expressed interest in Don Miguel's matrimonial quest, our family didn't hear about it. We had our own death to mourn. One month shy of his ninth birthday, my brother Carlito contracted diphtheria. What seemed at first like little more than a sore throat advanced to swollen lymph nodes and painful breathing. The inside of Carlito's throat darkened from inflamed red to a leathery gray. Within a few days, several more local children had caught the disease, and there was talk of quarantining Carlito and the others. A doctor from Barcelona was hailed, but before the man arrived, Carlito passed away.
Don Miguel was among the first to visit our house that week in 1905, when others were still deterred by the worry that fatal spores lurked in our hallways. He arrived flanked by two quieter men, who removed their hats while Don Miguel kept his own head covered. Tía brought them all glasses of sherry. Despite what they had in common—not least, the recent death of loved ones—my mother couldn't seem to find any words to share with her guest. She paced silently the entire time he sat drinking, his eyes hidden under the shadow of his hat brim as Tía refilled his glass again and again.
Finally Don Miguel explained why he'd come: not only to pay respects, but to offer to help carry Carlito's coffin. Mamá insisted that the task was well within the abilities of our two neighbors, Percival, and a visiting uncle. Then she resumed pacing between the table and the doorway, willing her guest and his silent cohorts to leave.
But Don Miguel wasn't to be so easily dismissed. He returned with a freshly plucked chicken and said that he hadn't had a good meal since his wife had died. Mamá had no choice but to invite him to stay and dine with us. Once again, the hat and jacket stayed on. The chicken was stringy and tough. It was the quickest midday meal we ever ate; ten minutes after she'd set the plates in front of us, Mamá swept them away, impervious to Don Miguel's quizzical expression and Tía's disapproving stare.
A few weeks later, Don Miguel delivered a letter informing us that Enrique had been accepted at the military academy in Toledo, near Madrid. Enrique had sat for the examinations several months earlier, and had been waiting in anguish to hear. We couldn't understand how Don Miguel had received the news first. "Perhaps it helped that I put in a good word when I visited the capital," he told my mother, but later, she took pains to tell Luisa and me that she was certain Enrique had passed the exams all by himself.
Don Miguel remained eager to impress, and a couple of months later he returned to our house with another scheme. He'd heard I was still pining to play music. Why not let me use my father's old teaching piano, which remained in the room between the church and the school?
"I understand it's a little far for the boy to
Don Miguel had inherited his father's job of managing the vineyards and olive groves owned by his patron, the Duke of Oviedo. As Don Miguel gained power and prestige, we saw him more around town. Even in scorching summer, he wore a vest and double-breasted suit jacket, bunched over his paunchy middle. Wandering away from Campo Seco's twisting streets toward its cracking, yellow-soiled fields, he looked like a crow, black coattails flapping in the heat.
Despite his increasing wealth, Don Miguel was struck by the same tragedy that befell so many of the villagers, when his thin, meek wife, Doña Clara, died giving birth to their long-awaited first child. He grieved intensely for one month, and then let it be known, with the frankness of a man shopping for a particular breed of horse, that he intended to marry again, as soon as possible. This time, he would seek out a stronger, sturdier woman. Women of unproven fertility need not apply.
If many widows expressed interest in Don Miguel's matrimonial quest, our family didn't hear about it. We had our own death to mourn. One month shy of his ninth birthday, my brother Carlito contracted diphtheria. What seemed at first like little more than a sore throat advanced to swollen lymph nodes and painful breathing. The inside of Carlito's throat darkened from inflamed red to a leathery gray. Within a few days, several more local children had caught the disease, and there was talk of quarantining Carlito and the others. A doctor from Barcelona was hailed, but before the man arrived, Carlito passed away.
Don Miguel was among the first to visit our house that week in 1905, when others were still deterred by the worry that fatal spores lurked in our hallways. He arrived flanked by two quieter men, who removed their hats while Don Miguel kept his own head covered. Tía brought them all glasses of sherry. Despite what they had in common—not least, the recent death of loved ones—my mother couldn't seem to find any words to share with her guest. She paced silently the entire time he sat drinking, his eyes hidden under the shadow of his hat brim as Tía refilled his glass again and again.
Finally Don Miguel explained why he'd come: not only to pay respects, but to offer to help carry Carlito's coffin. Mamá insisted that the task was well within the abilities of our two neighbors, Percival, and a visiting uncle. Then she resumed pacing between the table and the doorway, willing her guest and his silent cohorts to leave.
But Don Miguel wasn't to be so easily dismissed. He returned with a freshly plucked chicken and said that he hadn't had a good meal since his wife had died. Mamá had no choice but to invite him to stay and dine with us. Once again, the hat and jacket stayed on. The chicken was stringy and tough. It was the quickest midday meal we ever ate; ten minutes after she'd set the plates in front of us, Mamá swept them away, impervious to Don Miguel's quizzical expression and Tía's disapproving stare.
A few weeks later, Don Miguel delivered a letter informing us that Enrique had been accepted at the military academy in Toledo, near Madrid. Enrique had sat for the examinations several months earlier, and had been waiting in anguish to hear. We couldn't understand how Don Miguel had received the news first. "Perhaps it helped that I put in a good word when I visited the capital," he told my mother, but later, she took pains to tell Luisa and me that she was certain Enrique had passed the exams all by himself.
Don Miguel remained eager to impress, and a couple of months later he returned to our house with another scheme. He'd heard I was still pining to play music. Why not let me use my father's old teaching piano, which remained in the room between the church and the school?
"I understand it's a little far for the boy to
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