At the same time, the melancholy resonance that Hilda’s agile fingers gave to Chopin’s Preludes, her favorite music, augmented every particle of sadness-real, remembered, or imaginable-in the vast but simple house on the hill above the tropical lake.
“Would we be different if we’d grown up in Germany?” asked sister Hilda nostalgically.
“Yes,” Virginia instantly replied. “And if we’d been born in China we’d be even more different. Assez de chinoiseries, ma chère.”
“Don’t you feel nostalgia?” Hilda asked her youngest sister, Leticia.
“How could I? I’ve never been there.”
“You’re the only one who has,” Virginia berated her, interrupting, although she was looking at Leticia, Laura’s mother.
“There’s a lot to do in the house,” concluded Leticia.
Like all the country houses Spain left in the New World, this one, built on one level, consisted of four whitewashed sides around a central patio onto which opened dining room, living room, and bedrooms. Light entered the sitting rooms from the patio, because the external walls were windowless; defense might someday be necessary and modesty was a permanent concern.
“We live as if Indians, or English pirates, or rebel blacks were going to attack us,” commented young Aunt Virginia with an amused smile. “Aux armes!”
Their modesty, on the other hand, was well served. Seasonal laborers brought in to harvest coffee were curious, impertinent, sometimes insolent, and thought themselves the equal of anyone. Virginia would answer them back with a mixture of Spanish insults and Latin quotations that would scatter them-as if the young woman with black eyes, white skin, and thin lips were just one more of the witches said to live on the far shore of the lake.
To reach the master’s house, one had to walk through the main door, like a guest. The kitchen, to the rear, opened onto poultry yards, stables, storehouses, and fields; tanks and pipes conveyed the coffee fruits to the machines that pulped, fermented, washed, and dried them. There were few animals on the hacienda, baptized by its founder Felipe Kelsen “La Peregrina,” “The Pilgrim,” in honor of his wife, the brave but mutilated Cosima: five riding horses, fourteen mules, and fifty head of cattle. None of that interested little Laura, who would never set foot in those parts, which her grandfather governed with strict discipline, never complaining but noting constantly that the labor necessary to grow coffee was expensive because the product was so fragile and marketing it was so precarious. For that reason Don Felipe found himself forced into the ceaseless work of pruning trees, making sure the coffee bushes had the shade indispensable for their growth, cutting off the old stock, separating it from the new shoots, weeding the planted areas, and maintaining the drying sheds.
“Coffee is not like sugar, not like wild cane that grows anywhere. Coffee requires discipline,” the master, Don Felipe, would declare, as he closely watched over the mills, wagons, stables, and famous drying sheds, dividing his day between paying minute attention to the crop in the field and paying no less careful attention to the bills.
Little Laura took not the slightest interest in any of this. She liked the fact that the hacienda extended out into the coffee hills and that behind them the forest and the lake continued in their seemingly forbidden encounter. She would scramble up to the roof terrace to catch sight, way in the distance, of the quicksilver mirror lake, as her reading aunt, Virginia, called it, and she didn’t wonder why the prettiest thing in the place was also the thing least close to her, the farthest away from the hand the child stretched out as if to touch, giving all the power of the world to her desire. She delivered every victory of her childhood to imagination. The lake. A line of poetry.
From the salon arose the melancholy notes of a prelude, and Laura felt sad, but happy to share that feeling with her eldest aunt, so beautiful and so solitary but mistress of ten musical fingers.
The workers, under orders from her grandfather Don Felipe Kelsen, daubed the walls of the house, their hands wet with a mixture of lime and maguey sap, giving the walls the smoothness of a naked woman’s back. Which is what Don Felipe said to his always upright but now very sick wife one day before Doña Cosima died: “Every time I touch the walls of the house I’m going to think I’m running my fingers over your naked back, your beautiful, delicate naked back, do you remember?”
When Grandmama died with a sigh the next morning, her husband achieved, finally, in her death, something Doña Cosima had always refused in life: to have his wife wear black gloves with cotton stuffing in the four missing fingers of the right one.
He sent her to eternity intact, he said, just as he received her when the mail-order bride arrived from Germany at the age of twenty-two, identical to her daguerreotype-hair parted in the middle and arranged in two large hemispheres that arose from a perfect part in perfect symmetry and covered her ears as if to emphasize the perfection of the mother-of-pearl earrings hanging from her hidden earlobes.
“Ears are the ugliest thing a woman has,” muttered Virginia.
“All you ever do is find defects,” Hilda, shot back.
“I listen to you recite, Virginia, and I listen to you play, Hilda, with my horrid little ears,” laughed Laura Díaz’s mother. “How lucky Mutti Cosima wasn’t wearing her earrings in Perote!”
At the age of twenty-two, she’d arrived from Germany with very dark hair as if to contrast the more sharply with the whiteness of her skin. In the portrait, she held a fan, opened out against her bosom, with the five fingers on her right hand.
This is why Hilda played the piano with shame and passion, as if, at the same time, she wanted to make up for her mother’s deficiency and to offend her by saying, See, I can do it and you can’t, with the hidden anger of the eldest child, the only Kelsen daughter who that one time had returned to Germany with her mother and with her listened, in Cologne, to a recital by the famous pianist and composer Franz Liszt. She had heard the constant sarcastic chatter of many European immigrants. Mexico was a country of Indians and brutes where nature was so abundant and rich that one could satisfy one’s immediate needs without having to work. Encouraging German immigration was one way to remedy that state of affairs, introducing into Mexico another nature, the industrious nature of Europeans. But these immigrants, invited to cultivate the soil, could not endure the rural hardness and isolation, and they migrated to the cities. This is why Felipe Kelsen was faithful to his promise to work the land, to work it hard and resist two temptations: to return to Germany or to make trips to Mexico City like the one which cost his wife Cosima so dearly. As they left the concert in Cologne, Hilda asked her mother, “Mutti, why don’t we stay here to live? How horrible Mexico is!”
It was then Don Felipe forbade not only any return trip to the Vaterland but also the speaking of German in the house, saying this with the utmost severity, fists clenched, and when he calmed down he didn’t strike anything, merely insisted that from now on everyone was going to be Mexican, was going to assimilate, there would be no more visits to the Rhine, and everyone would speak only Spanish. Philip became Felipe, and Cosima, well, stayed Cosima. Only Virginia, with her mischievous tenderness, dared to call her mother Mutti and quote from German books. Don Felipe would shrug his shoulders; the girl had turned out eccentric.
“There are those who are cross-eyed, those who are albinos, and those who are Virginias,” she would say of herself, feigning a squint. “Gesundheit!”
No German, no involvement with anything except the house or, as modern types put it, domestic economy. The daughters became extremely hardworking, perhaps to make up for the deficiencies of their mother, who sat back in her rocking chair (another novelty brought from Louisiana) to fan herself with her left hand and stare into the distance, toward the highway to Mexico City and the mists of Perote where she had left four fingers and, some whispered, her heart.