picked a place that doesn’t look American, though, don’t you think? I mean, you’ve got all these expats thinking America’s like—”
“Spain.”
“No, not Spain,” she said, slowing down. “I’ve been there. It’s nothing like that. Awful place. Of course, there was a war on, which didn’t help.”
“What were you doing there? Driving an ambulance or something?”
“Mostly just sitting around hating the place. Lots of little men strutting about like stout Cortez. You can’t imagine the dreariness of it. Not like here at all.”
“Why Spain?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was the thing to do, like some finishing school for English girls. The unsatisfactory ones, anyway. All sorts of us went out-you know, fight the good fight against fascism. And take a Spanish lover into the bargain.”
He looked at her, interested. “But not you.”
“I didn’t say that. I just said they weren’t my cup of tea. Maybe it’s the mustaches-too silly.”
“I’m glad I shaved.”
“You’d have made a hit with Hannah. She loves a big mustache. Well”-she giggled-“big everything. Wait till you see Hector.”
“Her husband?”
“Her foreman. Hand. Lover, according to everybody.”
“He’s big?”
“Hm. They should have called him Ajax. I love the way the Mexicans use these classical names. Anyway, he’s strong as an ox-he can move anything. He’s got a construction job on the Hill now that she’s closing the ranch, and Hannah claims she’s heartbroken. She dotes on him, but he won’t go to Los Angeles. I don’t know, maybe it suits them both. Hannah says he’s an Aztec god, but then she treats him like a servant. I can’t imagine what they talk about. Maybe they don’t. I’m fond of Hannah, but every time I see them together I have to laugh. They look like one of those adverts for sex clubs in Berlin.”
“The things you know,” Connolly said.
But in fact she was right-the odd pairing was almost comically sexual. Hannah turned out to be a slim, petite woman still wearing the short-cropped bangs of the 1920s, as if she had just stepped off Pabst’s set. Next to her, bending over a tub of mud, was a large Mexican, stripped to the waist, his back rippling as he stirred the wet earth with a paddle. When he stood up at the sound of the car and wiped his forehead, his frame seemed a wall of muscle. Ladders had been placed on the side of the house, and two Indian women, entirely covered in long skirts, were applying the wet mud to the walls, smoothing it over with their hands in long, regular strokes. They moved with a sure, unbroken rhythm, practiced for centuries. Against this background, Hector seemed even more a primitive figure, a builder of ancient cities.
“Emma!” the woman shouted happily, extending her arms. “You came!”
Her voice was German, deep and thickened by years of smoke but not at all heavy. It seemed to float instead with an ironic playfulness.
“Just in time for the last coat. You see my enjaradoras?” she said, pointing to the Indian women. “Hector found them at Acoma. Aren’t they wonderful? So smooth, look at the walk-like new.”
“Hello, Hannah,” Emma said, embracing her quickly. “I’ve brought a friend. Actually, he brought me. Michael Connolly, Hannah Beckman.”
Hannah held up her muddy hands and bowed in greeting. “Forgive me,” she said, smiling at him. “Today I’m a worker. I couldn’t resist-the feel of the earth on your hands is something wonderful. I wanted to build my own house, just like the three little pigs, yes?”
She wiped her hands on a cloth. Neither Hector nor the Indian women paid any attention. They continued plastering the wall, their faces grave and impassive. Hannah took a cigarette out of her jacket pocket.
“But I am so glad you came. I thought I would not see you before I left. How is Daniel-he’s well?”
“Busy.”
“Ah. That’s good, yes?”
“Well, it’s good for him.”
“Then it’s good for you, my darling. So,” she said, glancing at Emma’s pants, “you came to ride and I’ve sent all the horses away. Now you’ll be disappointed.”
“No, I came to see you. We can’t stay long. Isn’t it early to be plastering?”
“What could I do? Next month is better, but I have this week. Pray for me. Appease the gods.” She looked up. “No rain, please, so Hannah’s house can dry.”
But the day was hot and clear and she spoke as if she knew luck was running her way. The house was a large square adobe with a hacienda-style overhanging porch decorated with long ristras of dried chiles. In the bright sun, the old tan walls had faded to the color of buckskin, accented by the traditional sky-blue paint around the door frame and windows. The wet mud would dry smoothly, without a crack.
“But why go to the bother if you’re shutting up the house?” Emma said. “Can’t it wait till you come back?”
“And when is that? No, you see the cracks from the winter? If you protect the bricks, they last forever. If not—” She left the consequences to their imaginations. “It must be done before the storms come in July, so better now. While Hector will still come. You’re filling his pockets with gold up there. Maybe he’ll never come back.”
She spoke as if he were not there in front of them.
“Come. We’ll have some tea, but first come watch my enjaradoras. You see how they measure the layer? Their hands tell them. Not too thin, but not too thick or it will fall off. They feel the mud and they know. They’re great sculptors, these women, and everything they make is from the earth. Think of it-earth and water and straw, that’s all. Buildings of earth. Paintings of sand. Ah, but you disapprove, Mr. Connolly, I can tell.” She turned to Emma. “He thinks I’m being a romantic.”
“Not at all,” Connolly said. “I was wondering how often this needs to be done-the walls.”
Hannah laughed. “You see, I was right. A pragmatist. Every few years,” she said to him, “depending on the severity of the winters.”
“So not so very different from painting an ordinary house.”
“But think what it means. You take the earth and build it all over again-your work is in the house. Not some cosmetic, not a Max Factor.”
Connolly smiled. “Except for the blue eye shadow,” he said, nodding to the window frames.
“Yes. The blue keeps the evil spirits away. Everyone knows that,” she said lightly.
“Why blue? Because of turquoise?”
“It’s odd you should say that,” Hannah said. “The Navajos believe that turquoise keeps evil spirits away. But these doorways-these came from the Moors. They brought the custom with them when they took Spain. So it’s nothing to do with the Indians at all. But blue-the same in both cases. It’s odd, yes?”
“Maybe it has an appeal for desert people,” he said. “A feel for the sky, something like that.”
Hannah beamed. “Well, a romantic after all. Quite a catch, Emma.”
It needn’t have meant anything-a turn of phrase with nothing implied-but Connolly was pleased that Emma let it stand uncorrected. It was only a moment, but he took in it the furtive pleasure of conspiracy.
“Hector, I must give our guests some tea,” she said, taking Emma by the arm. “Shall I make some for you?”
“Later. I need to finish up the flashings on the canales,” he said in flat, unaccented English that slid into quickly inflected Spanish. He nodded to Emma and Connolly, his only greeting, and returned to his work.
“As you wish,” Hannah said, her arm still linked in Emma’s as they walked toward the house. “You see,” she said, leaning her head toward Emma, “he’s angry with me. Should I be pleased? I don’t think so.”
“But you’ve gone away before,” Emma said.
“Yes, but this is different. The straw on the camel.”
“Nonsense, he’ll be here when you come back. He always is.”
“Well, always,” Hannah said dubiously. “Nothing is forever, my darling. Just the bricks. People have to move on. I think, you know, this will be the end of Hector.”
“Why go, then?” Emma said as they entered the house.
