THe Visitors

It was twilight when the elegant Berline coach arrived at the main gates of the de la Vega hacienda, its headlights flickering.  Except for the heavy coat of dust on the windows and polished lacquered doors, it might as well have rolled right off the cobblestone streets of London.  Benito and one other vaquero rode beside it, looking a little bit out of place in their felt sombreros and dusty leather work clothes.  As the driver reined in the two neatly matched dapple grey horses, the de la Vega stable hands took their bridles.  Then the man jumped down from the driver’s seat to open the door, and out stepped Don Urbino.

"Gracias, Silvio," he said, patting the servant congenially on the shoulder.

Silvio, a man of average build with dark skin, dark curly hair and clear green eyes, bowed politely and said, "Patrón."  Then he went to stand by the door of the coach again.

Stocky though not really fat, an elegant knee length cloak about his shoulders, cane in hand, a top hat framing the long carefully trimmed side burns, the buttons of his waistcoat pulled just a little too tight across his middle, Don Urbino gave the impression of a man who had grown quite accustomed to luxury. But he was probably not from old money.  Old money usually tended to ignore luxury, unless it was missing.  Such folk rarely even thought about their possessions, and, since they took quality and status for granted, they often felt insulted by compliments.

No, this man had the feel of someone who didn’t mind being congratulated.  He had made his fortune the hard way—though probably not by ranching.  He could have been taken for an opera singer or a banker or a successful merchant long before anyone would think him a hacendado.  Nor was he a young man; late thirties, probably.  As he bowed politely to Alejandro, he removed his top hat to reveal a head of dark but thinning hair above its rim.

"Señor Guzman," said Alejandro warmly.  "How delightful to see you again.  I trust that you had a pleasant journey?"

"The pleasure is mine, Señor," said Don Urbino congenially, "and yes, the trip has been most enjoyable.  This magnificent countryside has always seemed so beautiful."  As he spoke, a small woman with her hair done up carefully in braids atop her head slipped out of the coach and stood waiting by the door.  Dark complected but clearly not a native Indian, she had a thin nose and mouth, but her eyes seemed somewhat puffy beneath the dark brows that went straight across her forehead, nearly joining in the middle, giving her a rather pained, disapproving look.

Silvio positioned himself across from her on the other side of the door.  Then, in the doorway, the lace of a white petticoat and the hem of an elegant pale lavender gown appeared.  The woman who took the hand, first of Silvio, then of Don Urbino, wore a long hooded cloak that hid her face and hair, but her hands were pale.  She stood as tall as Urbino himself, but she seemed slender, and her walk was lithe and graceful.

"Señores," he said, stepping back from her yet continuing to hold her hand as if exhibiting a prize race horse, "may I present to you la Señorita Oreana María Venancio y Antigua, who has made me the most fortunate man who ever lived by graciously consenting to become my wife."

Alejandro stepped forward to accept her hand from Don Urbino and, bowing deeply, brought her fingers to his lips. "Señorita," he said, "you honor our humble home."  Then, rising, he turned.  "Please allow me to present my son Diego."  Diego bowed politely to Don Urbino.

"Señor," he said, "a distinct pleasure."  Then he took the woman’s hand lightly in his own, and as she stepped forward, something almost like a spark of recognition made him look up directly into her eyes.  As wide and as blue as the ocean, they caught and held his gaze as though she were hastily searching for something.  When Diego brought her fingers to his lips, he didn’t look away.  "It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Señorita," he said, though his voice sounded oddly distant, even to himself.

"Oh, but please, come inside."  Alejandro gestured expansively as he led them through the main gate and into the courtyard.  "Crescencia," he turned to the housekeeper, "show these men where to take the luggage."

Crescencia hurried over to the gate where the men were unloading several large trunks from the rack atop the coach, then led them upstairs onto the veranda overlooking the courtyard, opening first one door, then another.  Meanwhile, Alejandro motioned toward the sala.  "You must be weary from your journey."

Urbino nodded.  "Traveling can be most tiring, he said.  It has proven to be especially so for my poor Oreana.  When she set out to make this journey with me, I do not think she realized just how large California really was."  He laughed, waving his arms as if to demonstrate.  "She has not traveled this far since she returned a year ago from Spain.  You really should lie down, Mi Reina, " he said.  "I am certain these gentlemen will understand if you wish to retire for the evening.  Teresa, help her upstairs, will you please?"

The small dark haired woman came to her side. "Sí, Patrón," she said.

"Oh, but surely the señorita would do better to stay and have something to eat," Diego said, not at all ready to see her go. "Without food, it is difficult to avoid fatigue.  Besides, I think the cook has prepared something special in honor of your arrival, isn’t that right, Father?"

Alejandro nodded.  "Why, I believe so," he said, clearly hoping it was, but also sharing his son’s concerns.  "Would you not consider sitting up with us a while?" he said, turning to Oreana herself.  "I am certain you will feel better for some nourishment, my dear."

She hesitated, looking from Urbino to the dark woman, but then, in a soft yet resonant voice, she said, "How could one refuse so gracious a request?"

"Very well, then," said Alejandro.  "Crescencia, tell the cook that we will be ready to eat right away."  He waved them in through the doors to the sala.  Then he said, "Diego, please, would you not help the señorita with her cloak?"

Diego nodded—"With pleasure"—and moved to her side as she undid the fastenings at the neck, then let the garment slip away from her face and shoulders.  As it fell into his hands, he nearly dropped it.  Then he handed it absently to—someone, he wasn’t sure who—and backed away, motioning for her to sit down.  Please.

"You are very kind," she said, not meeting his eyes this time, but smiling shyly.  As she sat down, he realized he wasn’t the only one staring at her.  Finally, his father signaled Crescencia to take her cloak from Bernardo, who glanced at Diego with a look that assured him that, yes, her beauty was indeed startling—and the most obvious reason had to be her long golden hair.  Most of it had been caught up in a ribbon at the crown of her head, yet much of it still trailed down her back in soft loose curls.  Fine wisps fell loose around her face.

Diego remembered how once, long ago, in a church in Toledo he had seen a statue of the Virgin dressed in fine clothing and jewels gazing serenely down at a glass coffin that contained an incredibly realistic representation of a naked corpse with a bloodless greenish cast to its flesh, torn knees and hands, and an ugly gaping wound in its side.  But for some reason, it was the woman’s haunting face that had stuck in his mind.  Never had he seen features so angelic, so ethereal.  Nor had he ever been able to picture her smiling—until now.  Now he understood exactly why Don Urbino seemed a little nervous, and he told himself that, while they were here, he would try very hard not stare at, or even to pay too much attention to this girl.

And it would have been easy, too, he thought, except for that one fleeting moment when their eyes had met.  As the evening wore on, she sat quietly, saying little but "please" and "thank you" to the servants who offered her food, looking at no one, though, for their part, Teresa and Silvio both seemed very attentive, always calling her "Mi Reina," the way one might address a precocious child.  He was sure she had no more interest than he did in the discussion Urbino and his father were having over the relative merits of wine kegs made of French oak as opposed to those of native Californian.  But it was only when he sat down in a nearby chair and began idly fingering a tune on his guitar that she finally spoke to him again.

"That is quite lovely," she said.  "But challenging, the way you play it in B flat, when it would be so much easier to play in A."

"Gracias."  He looked up to find her carefully studying the movements of his left hand.  "But you know," he added, "certain progressions are actually easier to play that way—like this one."  With a nod, he slid his hand one fret up the neck of the instrument, then shifted his fingers deftly to add a grace note and a delicate vibrato to the melody his other hand was plucking.

"Oh, yes, that one," she nodded.  "Well, you do make it look easy.  Such a beautiful little piece.  Quite haunting, somehow.  Do you know who wrote it?"

"Well, actually"—he shrugged, trying not to smile.  "A rather obscure composer."

"Oh, how silly of me."  She looked away, rolling her eyes.  "I do not know why I should assume you hadn’t written it.  But that shift from F to—how do you spell it?—G flat?"

"As in, the relative minor of D flat."

"Of course, but the relative harmonic minor, sí?—not the melodic minor.  It just makes the whole thing sound so . . . so romantic.  This is the influence of the gypsies, no?  The señorita for whom this was written—she, too, must be very beautiful."

A bit surprised by the question, he nodded.  "She was."  Then, before he knew it, he heard the courtier in him add, "Once, I might have said incomparably."

"Ah—when she begins to speak of music," said Urbino, partly to Diego, partly to Alejandro, "she may as well be speaking in the Gypsy tongue.  No one can understand a word she says."

"Do not worry," Alejandro chuckled.  "My son sounds the same way."

Diego gave his father a polite but feeble smile.  Then, as the talk of wine kegs resumed, he turned back to the girl and said quietly, "You seem to know a great deal about music, Señorita. Surely you must play?"  Getting to his feet, he started to hand her the guitar.

"Not so well.  This isn’t really my instrument."  As she held up her hands in defense, this time he noticed that she kept her fingernails pared quite short, so that the tips of her fingers stuck out beyond them—the sign of a serious pianist.

"Ah, of course.  You play the piano," he said.  "Well, ours has not been tuned for a while, but perhaps it would not sound too horrible under the touch of the right musician."

She smiled but shook her head. "Oh, really I—"

"Señorita, I implore you," he said, walking to the piano, pulling out the bench and motioning for her to sit.  "I believe my father has grown quite tired of listening to me.  No doubt you know at least a few pieces that would be new to us.  Please."

She glanced nervously at Urbino, who looked perfectly noncommittal; then she said, "Forgive me, I really am not at my best."

"No, please, forgive me," he nodded.  "I should not have—"

Just then, a loud pounding noise outside brought Crescencia bursting in through the doors of the sala.  "Don Alejandro," she said, "there are soldiers at the gates."

Both Alejandro and Urbino got to their feet.  Diego shot Bernardo a meaningful glance.  "Well, let them in," said Alejandro.  Then as Sergeant Garcia appeared in the doorway, he said, "Sergeant, what is it the meaning of this?"

Garcia shifted nervously on his feet and wrung his hands.  "A thousand pardons for the intrusion, Don Alejandro," he said, "but you see, last night a very dangerous prisoner managed to escape from the jail with the aid of el Zorro, and we have been ordered to search every house in the area—from top to bottom."

"Surely, Sergeant, you do not mean to imply that you think we might be harboring such a fugitive?" said Alejandro evenly.

‘Oh, no, it is not that," Garcia assured him.  "It is merely for your own protection.  As I said, this criminal, he is very dangerous and, well, he could be hiding anywhere, even on your property, and you might not know it."

"I seriously doubt that anyone could get in or out of here without being seen by the servants, unless you think one of them is involved?"

"I do not think so, Don—"

"Well, then, you can take my word for it.  This house is quite secure."

"I do not doubt your word, Don Alejandro," said Garcia, wringing his hands again, "and I do wish that I could take it, but I have my orders.  And the commandante has said he would make an example of me if I did not carry them out to the letter.  Please, Don Alejandro."

Diego couldn’t help but smile.  Garcia disliked confrontation about as much as any man he had ever met, let alone any soldier.  Even Alejandro softened a little.

"Very well," he said finally with a heavy sigh.  "As long as you restrict your search only to those places where a man might hide—and stay out of everything else.  But rest assured that I will protest this to the commandante myself.  And see that you do your job quickly.  We have guests."

"Oh, sí, Don Alejandro."  Garcia looked quite relieved and immediately set about ordering his men to search every room, upstairs and down, as well as the stables and all the other outlying buildings.  Crescencia and the cook and the kitchen maid Marbella went with them through the house, anxiously following along as they looked behind every chair, in every wardrobe, under every bed.  Alejandro stood outside in the courtyard, surveying the operation, while Don Urbino tried to reassure him that, with the state the world was in today, such things could easily happen to anyone and that it was better to be safe.

Diego watched them through the window, knowing that he had been the cause of all this commotion, wishing there were something he could have done to spare his father this embarrassment.  Teresa hovered protectively around Oreana who sat staring down at the floor, her hands now folded just a little too tightly in her lap.

"Señorita," he said finally, "it is unfortunate that your introduction to our part of the country should have been marred by such disturbances.  I do hope that these first impressions will not be lasting, and that you have not been too distressed.  I can assure you that Sergeant Garcia is, for the most part, quite harmless."

"I believe that I would prefer to take your word for that," she said, looking up with a faint smile, but still avoiding his eyes.  "Although I realize that startling first impressions can sometimes do more to arouse than to dissuade the curious mind."

"That is true," he nodded, realizing that her remark itself could easily be taken for the verbal equivalent of eye contact.

"But what of this outlaw el Zorro?" she went on.

"Well . . . ." Diego shrugged.  "I do not think one could call him harmless, exactly.  But he does seem to appear only when there is some kind of injustice.  And I have never heard of him accosting beautiful young women."  He noticed that, like a dutiful chaperone, Teresa was watching them both very closely now, and he immediately regretted having been so bold.  But surely this girl was used to hearing such remarks—unless she had been brought up in a convent.  And surely Urbino was going to have to get used to hearing them, too, if at his age he really did intend to marry her.  A jealous man could easily get himself killed over one such as this.

She seemed not even to notice the praise.  "But is it not frightening," she said, "to think that this criminal might be out there somewhere in the night, even as we speak?"

For an instant, he thought he heard more hope than fear in her voice.  "Well, with all these soldiers," he said, "wouldn’t you think a bandit would be foolish to be lurking around here?"

"Perhaps.  But such men have been known for their temerity."

He smiled.  "Better to lose by a card too many than a card too few, eh?"  But his smile quickly faded when he realized that that remark had somehow startled her enough to make her finally look up at him again—just at the precise instant when his father and Urbino came back in through the door of the sala.

"Well, I think this occasion calls for brandy," Alejandro was saying, his voice still a little bit shaky.  "Diego, will you join us?"

"The soldiers have gone?"

His father nodded.  "Finally."

Diego let a slow yawn overtake him.  "Well, then, actually, father, if you can possibly do without me, I really am quite tired from all this excitement.  Con permisso."

Alejandro nodded, but before he could give any more of an answer, Oreana stood up and walked toward Urbino saying, "Sí, I too am most fatigued, Corazón.  Please, I know you will miss my company, but—"

"Of course, of course, my dear," Urbino beamed at her, "run along now to bed, for tomorrow will be a busy day, from what Don Alejandro has been telling me.  We will have much to see."

She waited by the door for Teresa to catch up to her, and Diego strode across the room to open the door for them both.  "Buenos noches, gentlemen," he said.

The two older men raised their brandy glasses in response as Alejandro offered Urbino a cigar.  "These young people today," said Urbino.  "Why, they tire so easily."

Outside, the night air smelled soft and sweet.  Diego waved first Teresa, then Oreana, up the stairs ahead of him.  Bernardo, he knew, had already slipped out unnoticed and would now be waiting for him, either in the passageway behind his bedroom, or in the cave where Tornado was stabled.  What this girl wanted from him would have to remain a mystery—at least for the moment, though he had to admit she had succeeded in arousing his curiosity.

He couldn’t believe she was simply flirting with him.  She seemed uneasy, perhaps even frightened, and somehow she thought he could help.  As they came to her room, Teresa, who seemed a little out of breath, slipped inside ahead of her.  But just before she turned to follow, she looked up squarely at him again—not in fear, exactly, but with a look clearly meant to convey some pressing concern—and said, "Buenos noches, Señor.  Soon, we must continue this discussion of cards."

"I look forward eagerly to that conversation," he said.

By the time he reached the huts of Manuel and his family, Zorro found them as dark and silent as the starry sky. No dog barking.  No babies crying.  For a time he felt sure his worst fears had been realized, and he pictured Don Guillermo and Manuel being shot, the women and children arrested.  Cautiously, he dismounted, leaving Tornado’s reins draped loosely across the saddle.  Then, as he turned to head for the doorway of the largest hut, he noticed that the horse’s ears had both swiveled forward and his full nostrils had started to flare.  Clearly someone, or something, was out there.  He ran a hand gently down the animal’s neck, but then he, too, began to listen hard to the sound of his own footsteps in the grass, the sound of his own breathing as he moved forward.  Suddenly from around the side of the hut, a figure appeared.

"Señor Zorro."

Manuel was armed with a large skinning knife, which he casually tucked back into the leather sheath at his waist.  "Manuel, are you all right?  Where is your family?"

"Most are here," Manuel replied, glancing around him.  "I keep watch.  But my wife and daughter, they have gone into the hills.  They have taken the padre to a healer.  My wife knows much.  But the padre, he was hurt bad.  My wife, she will bring him down in a day or two."

"I see."

"The wounded padre, he will be healed, Señor.  We pray for him."

"And what about the soldiers?"

"They came," said Manuel.  "They searched everywhere, asked many questions."

"No one was hurt?"

Manuel shook his head and frowned.  "Why do they want to kill the padre," he asked finally.

"I do not believe that they do," said Zorro.  "The soldiers are simply doing what they have been told.  Some other men have accused him of being a criminal."

"Like Jesus."  Manuel nodded.  "Padre Felipe says Jesus also suffered much when he was falsely accused by the Jews.  Do the Jews want to kill this one also?"

Zorro brought his lips together tightly and looked away, thinking carefully about how to answer that question.  "No," he said finally.  "You see, Manuel, the Jews are just a tribe of people, like the Gabrioleños or the Serranos, and in any tribe, some men are bad, but others are not."

"Padre Felipe says all men are bad."

"But some are less so than others.  We cannot judge a whole tribe by the behavior of a few."

Manuel had heard this before.  "Sí," he said.  "We must forgive the ones who harm us.  It is not for us to judge.  But the padres, sometimes when we try to do what we think is good, they tell us el diablo has led us astray; they say he is tricky.  He can make men think they are doing good when they are not.  Maybe this is what has happened to the soldiers."

Zorro nodded.  That was as good an interpretation as any.

"How can men learn to tell the difference, Señor Zorro?" said Manuel.

Raising an eyebrow, Zorro reflected that that was also as good a question as any.  "There are times," he said, "when it is difficult.  You must learn as much as you can, and then you must trust your heart.  You must have . . . faith."

Manuel thought about this for a moment.  "The learning is the hard part," he said finally.

"Yes. . . ." Zorro nodded, though he wasn’t really sure he agreed.

As he turned to go, he told Manuel that Diego de la Vega needed to talk to the padre, and that he would pay them a visit in a few days.  He knew he could not sneak Don Guillermo into his father’s house through his own secret entrance, but neither did he want Zorro to be seen riding up to the hacienda’s main gates to deliver the man.  He hoped that he and Bernardo might be able to take the buggy, maybe on the pretext of visiting the mission, and disguise the patrón somehow.  Then Bernardo could simply drive him home while Zorro made sure the soldiers wouldn’t follow them.  Since the soldiers had already searched the house, they would have a difficult time coming up with an excuse to search it again.  Then, once his father had heard Don Guillermo’s story, they could send a messenger to Monterey to contact the governor.

As he headed back down the road that led from the north boundary of his father’s lands, he listened carefully for the sound of voices or distant hoof beats, wondering how much longer Capitan Acevedo would insist on sending out nightly patrols for him.  He hadn’t seen anyone on his way here, and he was just beginning to think he might not see anyone on his way back either when suddenly, there they were—at least a squad, by the sound of them, and probably riding in tight formation this time.  As he ducked into a heavily thicketed cul-de-sac, he realized where he was.  The soldiers had come straight from the pueblo, up a road that intersected this one.  As they reached the crossroads, he heard them pull up their horses.  Then he heard Sergeant Garcia tell Corporal Reyes to take half the patrol and head south while he took the other half north, toward el Camino Real.

"But Sergeant," said Reyes, "how far do you want us to go?"

"Oh, only as far as los Sierritos."

"But that’s a long way—a lot farther than the mission highway."

"Do not worry, Corporal.  When we reach the highway, we will turn around and go south again until we meet up with you."

"Sí, Sergeant," Reyes said wearily.  Zorro waited until the two sets of hoof beats receded in the distance.  Then he resigned himself to having to cut across open country again, heading due east.  He figured he could then easily find the little creek that flowed down from the hills to join the river just upstream from his house and follow it up to where it forked, sending another small rivulet down behind the stables near the entrance to the cave.  But once again the journey would be slower—and more dangerous.