18
SHORTLY AFTERWARDS, they received a visit from Don Gabriel E., a millionaire from Medellín, who arrived with his son. Don Gabriel owned one of the neighbouring fincas—a vast estate farm spanning almost five hundred hectares — and the locals claimed he was a little stupid and a little crazy. He had bought the finca in the dead of winter while the whole area was waterlogged, only to watch in summer as it dried out to become parched as a piece of old leather. It had been a colossal mistake. In summer, his cattle had to be moved to the few fincas in the area that had water and pay to lease their grazing land. His majestic finca proved not only unprofitable, it was ruinously expensive.
Don Gabriel had become senile with old age. In order to avoid him making further costly mistakes, his son Ramiro now trailed him like a shadow. A young man with a domed forehead and a brusque, businesslike manner, he and J. had met while studying engineering at university.
“What’s new, hermano?” Ramiro called down from his horse.
It was midday and J. was sitting out on the veranda digesting his lunch. He had seen the horses emerge from the woods but it took a moment before he recognized the riders. The horses plodded slowly along the beach. As the young man called out to him, he recognized them. “It’s that idiot Ramiro,” he thought, “and his idiot father…”
“Qué tal, Ramiro?” he called back genially. “Come join me.”
When they stepped up onto the veranda, J. held out his hand. “Pleasure to see you, Don Gabriel,” he said to the old man.
“And you, young man,” said Don Gabriel, sitting in the wicker chair without waiting to be asked.
He was a man of about sixty-five, very pale and almost completely bald. Being raw-boned, when he sat down his ample paunch was pushed up to his sternum. Before losing his wits, Don Gabriel had been an overbearing man accustomed to being in control; now, his manner was vaguely paternal, an attempt to adopt the manner of the ageing patriarch of a respectable Antioquía family. He wore white shorts of the kind worn by tennis players and his badly sunburnt thighs were thickly smeared with milk of magnesia. He looked as though he had recently been ill; there were ulcerous red cold sores at the corners of his mouth. He wore sturdy black shoes that had clearly been bought to last.
“Sit here next to me, sonny,” he said, and J. inched his chair closer while trying to stay as far as possible from the old man. He did not like rich people, still less rich senile men who stank of milk of magnesia.
For some time, Don Gabriel questioned J. in a half-dictatorial, half-paternal tone. He asked how much his stud bull had cost, where J. had bought it and from whom; he enquired about the paddocks on the finca, the plans for the forest, the profitability of the shop and the proposed new house; he quizzed J. about his financial situation and his business ventures, past, present and future… And then, having quizzed him about everything under the sun — except how much water his finca had in summer — and seemingly satisfied with the vague answers he received, he took it upon himself to offer advice. Though no one had asked, he first gave a rambling disquisition on the best method of treating foot and mouth disease; he suggested — almost demanded — that J. plant a strain of multi-coloured corn developed in the United States; he expounded on the latest methods of artificial insemination; finally, he announced that Ramiro would only sell the finca over his dead body.
“Come on, J.,” Ramiro interrupted, “show me this bull of yours.”
Taking their leave of Don Gabriel (“Probably best if you don’t come, Papá, the less time you spend in the sun the better”), Ramiro and J. headed towards the paddocks.
“Don’t listen to Papá,” said Ramiro. “He’s not been himself recently, you know?”
It was no secret that the old man was not himself, but J. did not understand why Ramiro was apologizing for him; he had often heard Don Gabriel wittering on inanely but never until now had he heard one of his family apologize on his behalf.
Before they reached the field where the bull was kept, it occurred to J. that there was one possible explanation: Ramiro really did want to sell the finca. They had not gone far when Ramiro made him an offer he found difficult to refuse: J. could take over the farm without having to pay out a single peso in the short term — the finca would be paid off in instalments, the first due after three years and the second after five, and the interest Ramiro offered was less than the bank lending rate.
It was obvious Ramiro did not want his father throwing good money after bad on a finca that would never be profitable. Besides, J. knew Ramiro well enough to realize he could barely bring himself to spend two days away from the city; what he needed was a little farm half an hour from Medellín. Five hundred hectares of woodland that were almost in Panama had probably cost him many a sleepless night.
Ramiro studied the bull with polite indifference as the animal went on grazing placidly, surrounded by cattle egrets. He was astonished to learn how much the bull had cost and even more to discover that J. had paid in cash; J. clearly had money and did not invest it wisely.
On the walk back, they talked a little more about the deal. J. said that he was interested and asked for a few days to think it over.
“Think about it as much as you like,” said Ramiro. “Papá and I will be here for a while yet, so there’s plenty of time.”
Since everything of importance had now been said, Ramiro attempted to make small talk, asking J. about his plans for timber production. Reluctantly, knowing Ramiro was not really interested in the subject, J. gave him some superficial details.
“It means hacking down the forest,” he said finally. “It’s a pretty simple process…”
When they arrived back at the house, Elena was out on the veranda talking to Don Gabriel. J. could see the old man’s hand, as gnarled and twisted as a tree root, was resting on Elena’s tanned knee. Seeing him arrive, Don Gabriel did not remove his hand, clearly hoping that it seemed like a paternal gesture. Elena, in a display of filial affection, nestled into the old man’s shoulder and asked to be excused, then went and kissed J. on the cheek. It was the first affectionate gesture she had made in days; indeed it was the first gesture of any kind she had made in a long time. Her desperate need to be free of the mummified hand on her knee, it seemed, had hastened their reconciliation.
“Don Gabriel was just telling me how to treat foot and mouth disease,” she said to J.
“Ramiro’s father is one of the greatest experts on foot and mouth this side of Mexico, hermana. You should listen to him.”
The old man looked flattered; Ramiro felt an uncomfortable tingling in his brain.
Before they left, Don Gabriel offered a laboured theory on the best system for sheep farming in the area. After he had mounted his horse to leave, he called J. over and, whispering in his ear, said again that the finca would be sold over his dead body. J. told him not to worry.
“We’ll talk soon,” said Ramiro. “I’ll drop by later this week so we can sort things out.”
Elena and J. stood on the veranda watching as the horses trotted away.
“I’m going to go for a little swim, I won’t be long,” said J. when the horses had disappeared. “If foot and mouth shows up, tell it to wait until I get back.”
Elena bowed her head to hide her smile.