The Dance

Eusepio Marigál stood before the dressing table in his room gazing intently at the large mirror behind it, though Endicott wasn’t at all sure he was looking at himself.  He wasn’t vain, nor was he given to fancy dress, even on occasions like this.  Now he wore the same plain brown suit as always, black velvet collar, lapels trimmed in black piping, their simple zigzag pattern framing the v-shape of the black waistcoat and plain white shirt with its modest silk tie.  He didn’t look like anyone you would notice in a crowd—not unless he noticed you, anyway.  Then, sometimes, he could be downright scary.

The first time Endicott had ever felt that gaze was just over a year ago now—back when he was still an illegal alien, a Yanqui smuggler trading Chinese tea and silk for furs.  And he had felt it even before he saw whose gaze it was.  It had been Easter in Monterey, the locals parading through the streets, carrying the host.  Naturally Endicott, good Catholic that he was, had doffed his hat when they went by.  He had even gone to mass—a practice no inquisitor would have failed to notice.  They usually watched foreigners like vultures.  In Spain, the Inquisition had arrested more than a few British sailors for heresies as trifling as mild profanity.

Not that a British sailor couldn’t rise to the sublime heights of grandiloquent oratory when discussing God’s wounds or the nature of His Mother.  Padre Eusepio must have been surprised to find an English-speaking foreigner whose ship he couldn’t seize at once in the name of the cross.  Of course, he never gave up easily.  And so their acquaintance began—a pair of opportunists, two big-city gentlemen in the midst of so many simple, honest country folk.  Before long they had both begun to see advantages in working together.

Endicott made a good front man, since he did work for a legitimate trading firm.  His English ancestors had settled in Maryland, once a Catholic haven from Protestant persecution.  But his grandfather, leery of owning slaves who had taken the faith, finally moved his whole family to New York, where he had invested some of his fortune in a new fur trading company founded by a German named Astor.(1)  Business was good.

Luckily, Endicott’s father had been able to afford to send him all over Europe—Spain, France, London—and now out to this desolate settlement at the westernmost ends of the earth, just to keep him one step ahead of the trouble he always seemed to be getting into, both in and out of those expensive private schools.  And it was equally lucky that his father never knew the half of it.  But Padre Eusepio understood.

"Did you tell Silvio to arrange for the coach?"

"Oh—yes, just a little while ago."  Endicott blinked and brought his own eyes back to focus on the scene before him.  Often, when the padre went into these little trances, it was easy to forget that he was still keenly aware of everything around him.  As he fondled, then pocketed the shiny black beads of his rosary, Endicott added, "I guess it was lucky after all, wasn’t it, that I managed to strike up an acquaintance with that little barmaid Amalia–ah . . . what was her family’s name?"

"Rios," Marigál replied casually as he scrutinized his associate from head to foot—quite the young gentleman, perched there on the edge of the bed, black tailcoat, rich red, black and gold brocade vest, red silk tie at this throat, white shirt with pinstripe pleats.  A sudden boyish grin.

"Rios.  Oh yes, well, good thing I didn’t ignore her completely, eh?"

As if in assent, Marigál simply let his gaze drift past Endicott and on out the window into the gathering twilight.  "You say she’ll be working in the kitchen tonight.  And you’re certain she’ll agree to go with you."

"Oh I think so," said Endicott modestly.  "I mean, yes—she’ll be helping the innkeeper; he’s catering the whole affair.  And as for the rest, well, I think that if I were that poor girl, I would elope with practically anyone, just to get out of this dreary little town— "

"And you don’t think she might change her mind?"

Endicott pursed his lips and shook his head.  "No."

"Very well, then."

"But what if the dress doesn’t fit her?"

"It will fit well enough," said Marigál.  "Just remember to get her out of it before you leave her at the mission.  Then you and Silvio can dispose of it.  We don’t want any clues left lying around that might link you to de la Vega’s disappearance."

Endicott smiled faintly.  "That shouldn’t be a problem," he said.  "But what if the witch doesn’t even show up?"

"She will," said Marigál, his brows tightening a little over narrowed eyes.  "If the De la Vegas come, she’ll come.  If they don’t, it only means she’s convinced them not to.  But that won’t help her now.  She didn’t think she could trick Silvio into revealing her brother’s whereabouts.  That’s why she sent him away.  But that only means she needs us to do it.  She wants us to take young de la Vega."

"Silvio said the two of them were getting pretty cozy."

"No matter.  She’ll sell him out if she has to.  A witch’s only loyalty is to her clan.  She knows if she betrays them, they’ll kill her."

"Pretty cold-blooded."

"You don’t know them as well as I do," said Marigál.  "When the Devil gets his hooks that far into them, they’ll devour the flesh of their own children."

Endicott shrugged noncommittally.  He was never quite sure how much of the padre’s fire-and-brimstone rhetoric was just for show and how much he truly believed.  Not that it mattered, really.  "What about Zorro?" he said instead.  "Suppose he follows us?  Or suppose he has found someone else who believes that . . . marrano?"

"The Jew is probably dead of his injuries, or else someone would have tried to arrest us by now.  And as for Zorro"—Marigál turned toward the sudden soft knock at the door, then went to open it.  "The soldiers will take care of him," he added. "With so many wealthy people out traveling tonight in coaches, they’ll be especially alert for highwaymen.  Isn’t that right, Silvio."

"Sí, Padre."  Silvio came in, removed his hat and bowed respectfully.  Then he added, "Those vaqueros from the Rancho Nevarez—I told them el Zorro was seen last night, out on the mission highway.  Then later they told the soldiers."

"The power of gossip," said Marigál, raising the corners of his mouth into an expression that looked almost smug.  "You see?"

"Amazing . . . ."  Endicott shook his head as if he had just witnessed some charming new parlor trick, then turned to Silvio.  " And nobody recognized you as Urbino’s servant—not even the soldiers who brought you here?   You know you were lucky you didn’t get past Cahuenga Pass."

Silvio shrugged, glancing down at his feet, then back up at Marigál.  "They never saw me at the hacienda," he said.  "I stayed out of sight."

"Charming."

"A useful skill to have," said Marigál, as if to refute the faint trace of irony in Endicott’s tone.  "And now, my son," he added, turning back to Silvio, "you must see that my things are put on the wagon for San Pedro.  And see that the men from Señor Endicott’s ship understand that I will be sailing with them in the morning."

"Sí, Padre."  Silvio bowed again, then went to gather up a small trunk and another chest that sat beside the wardrobe.

"Oh, and get that trunk of mine, too, while you’re at it," said Endicott.  "I already had them take the one with the company ledgers and contracts in it, but they forgot this one, and I won’t be needing it either."  He patted the saddlebag lying across the bed.  "We’ll be traveling light, eh?"

Silvio nodded as if to say he would return for the trunk, then left with Marigál’s luggage.  Marigál closed the door behind him.  "When you take me to the ship, you can pick up the carbine," he said to Endicott.  "Your crew said it had finally arrived."

Endicott brightened.  "Ah, yes, a nice little weapon," he said.  "And well worth the price.  That gunsmith would make a fortune if he ever decided to really promote this design.  I know he only bought the patent to keep them off the market so he could sell his own.  That’s why the ammunition is a little hard to find.  Still, I think we’ll have enough.  They did send us several boxes, yes?"

Marigál nodded.  "Silvio isn’t likely to waste it."

"And of course, I still prefer a sword anyway."

"That," said Marigál, "is just as well."

Endicott got to his feet.  "I suppose we should go," he said, reaching for his overcoat and the black silk hat laying at the foot of the bed.  "We are already fashionably late."

"On the contrary," said Marigál, reaching for his topcoat also.  "Our timing will be impeccable.  God is on our side."

The full moon looked moist and iridescent, like mother of pearl, as it shone through the lacy black silhouettes of the trees above the red tile rooftops that framed the central courtyard of the alcalde’s home.  Hundreds of brightly colored paper lanterns had been strung from the balconies, and inside, hundreds more candles blazed forth like golden garlands from the huge chandeliers and sconces.  No doubt they would have made the sala unbearably hot and stuffy, except that all the doors and windows had been thrown open to let in the soft, cool night air.

Even so, as Diego followed his father and the girl through the elegant wrought iron gates and down the covered passage that led into the heart of the house, he surmised that most of the guests—except for the most elderly of señoras—would be staying outdoors.  And that was good, he reasoned.  As long as he and the girl stayed at the center of the festivities, away from the dark private rooms and corridors that formed the perimeter of the building, they would be safe.

A small group of musicians with guitars and a violin had set up their operations at one end of the courtyard under an arched portico beneath the balcony.  Just beyond them, inside the double doors that led into the sala, he noticed a sleek, highly lacquered grand piano, though he doubted that his father would be able to coax Oreana to play it, since it would probably be out of tune to her ear.  But that was good, too.  No sense having her draw even more attention to herself than she usually did just by walking into a room.  And while he felt more sympathy for her than pride when people stared at her, he knew he couldn’t blame them either, since she did look beautiful this evening, her eyes shining as if she were in love.

He wondered just how his father meant to introduce her to their friends, having decreed that his son should wear his heart proudly on his sleeve despite the indelicate nature of this affair.  Was there a polite way to introduce a business associate’s fiancée whose heart your son had just stolen?  Diego didn’t think so.  Nor did he think his father would want to embarrass her.  Alejandro would probably say as little as possible.

But Diego also knew there would be no way to stop the ensuing gossip once the Señoras Barrajas and Miraflores noticed her.  Those two had apparently made it their mission in life to rectify the affront to nature that he, as a wealthy and rapidly aging bachelor, represented.  For quite a while, they had been trying to fix him up with nearly every girl in the pueblo, and they would almost certainly let wishful thinking persuade them that something was up between him and Oreana, even if she had walked in on Urbino’s arm.

He scanned the faces of the crowd looking for them, and for Señor Marigál, the apparent guest of honor, wondering how the man had managed, in such a short time, to ingratiate himself to the town’s most prominent citizens.  Probably just by spending a lot of money.  Would Oreana recognize him?  And who the devil did she think he was anyway?  Diego had never got the chance to ask her, though he knew by now that beneath the sparkling facade, she was still as frightened as if it were the very Devil himself they had dreamed of.

As he watched her, he realized that she, too, was sifting through the faces, not meeting but discreetly watching the eyes that followed her.  And somehow, he also felt her longing for the touch of his hand.

"Ah, Señor de la Vega, how very good of you to come."

"Señor Alcalde."  Turning to face the short wiry old man with the long grey beard, Alejandro bowed politely.  "It is an honor to be here," he said.

"It is you who honor us, Don Alejandro, the man replied, offering his own diminutive bow.  "I am very pleased to see you."

"The pleasure is mine, I assure you."  Alejandro stepped to one side. " And of course you know my son Diego."

"Oh, sí, sí, Don Diego, how good of you to join us this evening."  Diego smiled and bowed politely.  He would have said something as well, but he doubted that the man would have heard a word of it once he turned to Oreana.  "And who is this charming young lady?"

Clearly, Alejandro already felt the weight of his son’s scrutiny.  Diego folded his hands behind his back and aimed his gaze at the balcony to his left as his father said, "This is the Señorita Oreana María Venancio y Antigua.  Her family has a hacienda not far from the mission Dolores, no?" he added, glancing at her for confirmation.

"Well, actually, it may be a little closer to San Rafael," she said.  "Quite far north."

"And this," Alejandro went on, "this is Don Francisco Anaya, Alcalde del pueblo de Los Angeles."  The alcalde bowed again, as deeply as his stiff frame would allow, and kissed her hand.

"Enchanted to meet you, my dear.  And what, if I may ask, might bring such an attractive young lady so far from her home?"

"Business," said Oreana quickly, "and to see the country.  You know, I had no idea that this part of California would be so beautiful.  Tell me," she added, "you must have been among the first settlers to come here, no?  And what a remarkable achievement to have built such a beautiful little town in such a short period of time.  However did you manage?"

"Well, one must admit it was not easy," the old man smiled, prefacing what was sure to be a lengthy answer.  Diego let himself exchange a glance with his father, who only shrugged as if he had known all along that this would happen, then nodded in the direction of a nearby table where bottles of wine, a punch bowl and several large trays of food had been set out.

Diego followed him, still keeping an eye on the girl, who by now seemed quite engrossed in what the alcalde was saying.  His father poured him a glass of wine, and, not knowing how to refuse it, he determined to hold onto it for a while, thinking that, as long as he did, at least no one would try to offer him anything else.

Then Alejandro surveyed the assembled gathering, trying to decide who to talk to first among the many neighbors and friends he hadn’t seen lately.  Diego followed him toward the first clutch of dons, knowing that soon he, too, would have to decide which of their daughters to dance with first.  Soon they were both engrossed in talk of cattle and politics.

When Diego finally spotted the two señoras Miraflores and Barrajas, he was amused to find the alcalde in the process of introducing them to Oreana, and he wondered how long it would be before they tried introducing her to him.  He also wondered how long it would be before either he or she had spotted Eusepio Marigál.

Nearly an hour later, neither of them had succeeded, though they had kept in distant visual contact more or less the whole time.  He had just finished dancing with Petra, the daughter of one of his neighbors, Don Ramón Barrientos, when suddenly he found Matthew Endicott standing beside him, as if out of nowhere.

"Well, you certainly have good taste in women, Señor—de la Vega, isn’t it?" said Endicott as Diego graciously released the blue-eyed, auburn-haired girl into the arms of another young man who led her back toward the dance floor.  "I was hoping maybe you could introduce me.  If not to that one, then to the one you came in with, eh?"

"Perhaps, Señor—Endicott, is it not?  Though it does seem as if you and your associate Señor Marigál have managed, on your own, to make the acquaintance of more than a few of the townsfolk since your arrival.  I understand that he is the guest of honor here tonight, no?" Diego added, making it a point to survey the crowd again.

"Oh, yes, he should be around here somewhere," said Endicott, craning his neck a little as he also sorted through the faces.  "I just saw him a minute ago.  He and I have both been pretty lucky, you know, contracting for the sale of hides and furs.  We haven’t had the chance to speak to your father yet—though I understand he has been talking to a competitor of ours, Señor Urbino Guzman?  You know, we can probably give you a better deal."

Diego glanced at the cool icy blue eyes that were now studying him with great care.  This was clearly a test.  Then he nodded.  "Sí, Señor Guzman has been staying with us.  Though I do not recall the price he quoted my father.  Nor do I recall him mentioning that he knew the two of you."

"Interesting," said Endicott with a shrug, then added, "Well, I imagine he might be afraid to lose your business.  Anyway, I barely know him.  He’s more an acquaintance of Don Eusepio, you know.  Friendly enemies.  They go way back."

"Way back?"

"Oh, yes, I mean they’ve known each other a long time.  It’s an English expression.  I tend to forget that English isn’t your native tongue.  You speak it so well."

Diego shrugged—"Thank you"—then tried not to smile as he added, "So do you."

Endicott looked up, surprised, trying not to spit out the wine he had just taken a sip of as he broke into a laugh.  "Well, yes, I guess I do," he chuckled.  "Thanks.  And touché.  I don’t know why I should assume you wouldn’t.  But then, you aren’t just the average Californiano, are you.  You spent quite a while in Europe.  Everyone there speaks at least five languages."

"Yes."  Diego had to smile at the man’s disingenuous tendency to prattle.  Oddly enough, he thought he might have found Endicott rather likeable had they met under other circumstances.  "In Spain," he said, "they often assume that the English cannot speak Spanish."

"That’s true," Endicott grinned.  "Don Eusepio is always saying, ‘Hábleme en Cristiano.’  He thinks Spanish is God’s language.  But I think you miss out if you don’t at least read some Milton, wouldn’t you say?  Or the French thinkers—Rousseau, Voltaire?  At least you would get an idea of what those revolutionaries in France were up to, cutting off people’s heads left and right."

"Or those in the British colonies," Diego replied carefully as he realized that Endicott’s prattling had apparently taken a pretty carefully calculated turn.

"Oh, yes, us.  Well, we Yanks didn’t really go after King George’s head now, did we.   But perhaps we would have, had he been there.  Ugly business, war.  And now, you know, New York has really started to swell up with foreigners—all that refuse from Ireland and Italy.  You’re lucky to be so isolated here, and to have Holy Mother Church training and civilizing your natives.  A source of good, cheap labor—and they seem to know their places, don’t they.  Not at all like our lower classes.  Not to mention our ‘noble savages.’"

"So I have heard," Diego replied casually, realizing how easy it would have been for him to react to this elitist rhetoric.  Narrowing his eyes, he glanced across the courtyard to where his father stood talking to a group of dons.  Then suddenly he turned to Endicott and said, "Oh, will you excuse me for just one moment, Señor? Con permisso—"

Endicott was left with little to say but a mildly surprised, "Of course," as he watched Diego walk away, but Diego still felt the cold blue eyes studying his every move.  He was actually a bit relieved when he noticed Señora Barrajas coming toward him with Oreana following at her side.  They reached him just before he reached his father.

"Ah, Señora Barrajas, how nice to see you—lovely as ever."  He beamed his most charming grin at her.  "And how are you this evening?"  Then, noticing Señora Miraflores standing beside a nearby column, he smiled and nodded graciously in her direction also.

"Quite well, gracias, Don Diego, Señora Barrajas replied.  "It is such a lovely evening, no?  The moon so bright, so romantic.  By the way— "

She had started to turn toward Oreana, who was, by now, barely able to contain an impish grin.  But before the señora could say another word, Diego turned toward Oreana and said, "Ah, there you are, mi Querida."  Then, taking her hand, he added, "I was wondering when you might find the time this evening to favor me with a dance.  If you would pardon us, Señora?"

"Sí, como no, Don Diego. . . ."

As they walked toward the center of the courtyard, Oreana could no longer stifle her laughter.  "You are evil, Señor," she giggled.

"I . . . ?"  He raised an innocent pair of eyebrows.  "You could have told her you knew me."

"I did not think you wanted the whole town gossiping.  If I had known you didn’t care—"

"It was worth it—just to see the look on the faces of those two."

"They were telling me all sorts of things about you," she said, turning her body sideways from his and arching the small of her back against the palm of his hand.  "They said they introduced you to every other girl in the pueblo, but that you weren’t interested in any of them.  They did not know what it would take to make you fall in love."

She tilted her face up toward his, lips parted longingly, eyes dark with desire, and his grin faded also as the music began.  Then, at the touch of her hand, all the images of the previous night came flooding back to him.

"Now they do," he said.