The Haunting of Las Lágrimas Read online

  When next he spoke his voice was not unkind. ‘Do you know Café Tortoni’s?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied.

  ‘Meet me there this Thursday evening, six o’clock sharp. If I haven’t found someone to fill the position, you might be in luck.’

  ‘My hours here are until six.’

  ‘Then you will be late and I will be gone.’

  With that he tipped his bowler, and strode away.

  The House of Tears

  FOR THE NEXT two days I could do nothing but speculate about this post. Working in the garden – digging, winter-pruning the salix and buddleia, scalding pots – my thoughts roved endlessly to it.

  I had been at the Belgrano garden for six months already; I doubted I could suffer many more. The work itself was unfulfilling and made little use of my talents, and though I had discreetly looked for an alternative position, none was to be found. I was painfully lonely and found no respite in the staff that to a man – and in the garden they were all men – treated me with suspicion: because I was British; because I lived in a room in the main house, not the gardeners’ block or attic; because Mrs Houghton treated me more as an equal than an employee. I am sure they thought me as a spy set amidst them. The Houghtons themselves were decent enough if not ‘our kind of people’, as Grandfather would say, being too interested in the price of everything and the value of nothing. Bernadice, the eldest daughter, was forever harping on over whether I had a beau back home and when I was going to get engaged; the word ‘Suffrage’, let alone the concept, was as profane to her as it was to my sisters. Even the garden was an object of mere show: an ornament to demonstrate their wealth, they having no true appreciation of the flowers, shrubs and trees per se. ‘How can you know so much about plants?’ Mrs Houghton would exclaim to me in marvel and what I thought was slight rebuke, the same rebuke I knew too well from my parents who had only ire at my wanting to garden as a profession. The one advantage of the Houghtons was they were often out of town.

  If Grandfather were still alive, I would have written to him every week, unpacking my heart, and found solace in those letters. Instead, once a month I sent a brief epistle to my family, full of fallacies of how wonderful I was finding Argentina. I received no replies. To work on an estancia, where the gardens must surely be as expansive as they were grand, and achieve such through my own merits was as a dream come true. To be candid, the position of ‘Head Gardener’ also appealed to the vainer side of my character.

  * * *

  Thursday afternoon arrived. I could have asked Gil to finish early or gone to him feigning some womanly complaint but I feared he might thwart my plans. He rarely passed on an opportunity for vindictiveness toward me, especially given the Houghtons were away at the time. In the end, I simply took myself from the garden when no one was about, returned to my room, washed, changed my outfit and left bold as anything through the front door.

  Dusk was already settling upon the city, the sky mauve and misty, the streetlamps fuzzing orbs. As I headed to the tram-stop the air chilled my throat. Many things had astounded me about Buenos Aires, not least how wealthy, modern and Europeanized it was. More unanticipated, however, was the weather. It had been hot and fine when first I landed but, as the year turned, the city was gripped by days of low, murky clouds. Fogs were not an irregular occurrence. These had nothing on a London particular, but were sufficient to veil the streets and cast one down. The Argentine capital certainly fell short of its name, Buenos Aires: good airs. I took the Number 35 tram to Avenida de Mayo and walked the final blocks through swirling vapour. It was a relief to reach the lights of Tortoni’s.

  Inside, chandeliers reflected off mahogany walls and smoked-glass panels, giving everything a welcoming, amber-coloured glow. It was crowded, and I felt immediately enlivened by so many people and their convivial chatter, not to mention the sweet, buttery aroma of the patisserie. The café had a reputation for the best cake, coffee and chocolate in the city – and the most condescending staff. The maître d’hôtel sniffed as I approached him.

  ‘We are most busy, Señorita. You will have to wait.’

  ‘I am meeting someone. A gentleman acquaintance. He said he would have us a table.’

  ‘His name?’

  I went to reply and it occurred to me that I had been so keyed-up by the prospect of a Head Gardenership that I had never enquired of the stranger’s name nor the estancia he represented. I foundered, at a loss as how to respond. The maître d’ made no attempt to conceal his irritation and was about to offer some reprimand when there was a touch on my shoulder.

  ‘Buenas tardes, Señorita Kelp.’

  The stranger had already taken a table and, upon seeing my entrance, emerged from the depths of the café to rescue me. His countenance was still gaunt but his face was more handsome than I remembered, a rather long, Spanish face, and very smoothly shaven. I studied it until he caught me, and quickly averted my eyes. He had thick hair of the darkest hue, swept back off a high forehead.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, regaining my composure. ‘I forgot to ask your name.’

  ‘Juan-Pérez Moyano.’

  I offered him my hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Señor Moyano.’

  He chuckled at my formality and we shook. His skin felt curiously soft to mine, as though slathering his palms in ointment was for him a daily ritual. He guided me away from the maître d’ and in the direction of his table. ‘Have you come from a funeral?’ he asked with a hint of mischief.

  I had worn a black, unembroidered dress and hat with no jewellery, my intention to look as serious-minded as possible. All the other women in the café were gaily attired, as bright and colourful as zinnias, and I admit to a prickle of embarrassment – one I was determined not to show. ‘You should not joke about such things,’ I replied tartly. I sat down before he had the chance to pull back the chair for me.

  Without enquiring as to what I would prefer, he signalled a waiter and ordered two hot chocolates. Whilst we waited for them, he began some small talk, but I wanted to know whether I had made a wasted trip or not.

  ‘Did you find a gardener?’ I asked.

  ‘There was interest.’

  ‘But my being offered the position is still a possibility?’

  ‘A possibility. Yes.’

  ‘Then you must look at these.’

  I handed him my references. Moyano took them from their envelopes and read carefully before his face creased into a frown. ‘These are encouraging, Señorita, but who, may I ask, is this “Deborah” Kelp?’

  ‘Deborah was the name I grew up with. Now I prefer Ursula. It’s what my grandfather called me.’

  ‘And why did he do that?’

  ‘Señor Moyano, are we here to discuss my name or my suitability for employment?’

  He returned my references and looked at me deeply. ‘Have you heard of the Estancia Las Lágrimas?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘It was once the grandest house in all the Pampas. An estate of more than seven thousand hectares. It is where I am the general manager.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound very jolly.’ Las Lágrimas, Spanish for ‘the House of Tears’.

  Moyano allowed me a tolerant, little smile. ‘It’s said that when the founder first laid eyes on that part of the Pampas he was moved to weeping by the beauty of the place. Once the house was built, people would visit from all over. It was famous for its parties, for its hunts and Christmas balls. And not least its garden. Then the owner decided to leave.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  The waiter arrived with our order. I took a sip of chocolate. It was deliciously thick, but after a second mouthful tasted overpowering. I had not eaten since lunch, and by the time I drained the cup I experienced a certain queasiness.

  ‘He took to God,’ was Moyano’s reply. ‘And devoted the rest of his life to prayer. For thirty years the estancia has lain empty. Now my employer – Don Paquito Agramonte, son of the last owner, grandson of the founder
– has inherited the property. He wants to return it to its former glory and live there with his family. He is keen to restore the garden to the one he remembers as a child.’

  ‘How is it now?’

  ‘As any garden that’s been abandoned for so long: something of a wilderness. It will need work! The garden was planted in the English-style, which is why you might be an ideal candidate.’

  ‘Are you offering me the post?’

  ‘If I were, you do understand the remoteness of the Pampas? There are no nearby towns, nor even other houses. There are few of the modern conveniences, no telephone, only part of the property has electricity. You can get mail, but one never knows when it arrives.’

  ‘I should be glad for the opportunity.’

  He spoke his next words with feeling, almost as if hoping to dissuade me. ‘I fear it might demand too much for the female constitution. It gets very lonely.’

  I gave a dismissive snort and, thinking of my life at the Houghtons, replied, ‘I have a tolerance for it, Señor.’

  ‘You would have a team of gardeners working beneath you, men who may not like taking orders from a woman. They will be labourers, not horticulturists.’

  ‘So you are offering me the job?’

  He leant forward, not quite touching my leg beneath the table but close enough that I was aware of the movement against my dress. ‘There’s one thing I’m curious about, Señorita. How did you come to be in my country?’

  I took care in answering for it was a matter I had no desire to discuss. ‘Because of my grandfather.’

  ‘He’s with you? He will not be able to accompany you to the estancia.’

  ‘He died. Last year.’

  ‘Ah. I am sorry to hear that, Señorita.’

  ‘His wish was that I make gardening my profession.’

  ‘Surely you could have found somewhere closer to home.’

  ‘I wanted to improve my Spanish.’

  ‘There must be more to it than that.’

  ‘To be entirely honest,’ I replied by way of distraction, ‘I was fed up with the British. We’re everywhere: Africa, Asia, the Antipodes. As a nation we are drawn to exotic places; it’s stifling. So to Argentina I came. Little did I know.’

  Along with my dismay at the weather, another revelation had been the sheer number of British, working in the meat industry or building the railways. We even had our own daily newspaper, the Buenos Aires Herald. I should have foreseen it by the fact that people like the Houghtons lived here; they were beef money.

  Moyano found my explanation amusing. ‘Well, Señorita, you’ll certainly find none of your countrymen in the Pampas.’

  ‘Then it would seem I am a perfect match.’

  ‘In which case it is my turn to be honest with you. I have asked every gardener in Buenos Aires to take the position at Las Lágrimas. I even took the ferry across to Montevideo to find a man there. Everyone refused me. Which is why the job is yours, should you so like it.’

  It was not the most auspicious of starts, but barely twenty minutes after arriving at Tortoni’s I found my signature on a contract of employment and my person outside on the pavement, lost in the fog again. If I could have overlooked my excitement, or the relish with which I would communicate to my family this promotion, I may have had pause to ask why such a prestigious job had been offered to me with such ease. Or, more importantly, why every other candidate had thought better to reject it.

  Maldita (adj.)

  IT WAS IN an altogether more aggrieved mood that I reached Constitución station the next morning. I was travelling with every item that had made its way with me to Argentina, namely three suitcases of clothes, two hatboxes, a vanity case, a chest of gardening implements and Grandfather’s trunk, heavy with books and sundries. The station was cavernous and gleaming (the latest extension had been completed the year before), and reminded me of St Pancras in London. It was filled with a sense of bustle and languid, Latin urgency, the air sweetened with smuts. I found my platform, number 5, supervised the loading of my luggage, then took my seat. Señor Moyano, courtesy of Don Paquito, had provided for a first-class carriage. I settled down and waited to leave, still fuming at what had transpired earlier that day.

  Moyano expected me to start forthwith at Las Lágrimas. Don Paquito and his family planned to take up residence in September. A firm of builders had been renovating the house but the garden remained ‘a wild beast’, as Moyano described it. He wanted a semblance of respectability to the exterior before the Don arrived. We agreed I would take the Friday morning train to arrive at the estancia by Saturday and start work on Monday, 18th August. After leaving Café Tortoni’s, I returned to Belgrano and, with scarcely concealed triumph, went to see Gil in his hut. A meagre fire was burning in the stove. He told me to take a seat; I refused him.

  ‘I wish to hand in my notice,’ I declared.

  ‘To leave when?’

  ‘Immediately.’

  Gil let out a long, condescending sigh. ‘Your contract stipulates a month’s forewarning, Señorita.’

  Whilst Mr Houghton felt it unnecessary for me to sign a contract, Gil had been adamant, saying that exceptions could not be made otherwise it would foster resentments amongst the staff.

  I decided to make plain my mind. ‘Señor Gil, please, it is winter, the garden far from busy. I am sure no one, least of all you, will mourn my departure. Why not simply release me?’

  ‘A contract is a contract, Señorita Kelp.’

  ‘You can be reasonable, Señor, or I can speak with the master of the household.’

  ‘You could. But you know, as well do I, that the family is away for another week. I thought you wanted to leave at once.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Have you found a new position? Or are you returning to a life of idleness?’

  ‘You can’t refuse me.’

  He sucked on his teeth, a habit I found disgusting. ‘Your departure wouldn’t have anything to do with Moyano sniffing roundabout?’

  I felt a rush of loyalty to my new employer, equally I wanted to give away nothing. ‘Who?’

  Gil was not taken in by my subterfuge. This time he chuckled to himself. ‘That wastrel asked every gardener from here to Uruguay to take the job. Not a single man wanted it. If you understood anything of my country, Señorita, you would be of the same mind.’ Gil pondered the matter. ‘If you’re heading to Las Lágrimas, your notice is duly received. Good night.’

  I cannot say I was sad to leave the Houghtons, for they had always reminded me too much of my own family for comfort. All the same, the next morning I left a note of farewell and genuine thanks, then went to see Gil for the final time to hand back my door-key and collect my wages for the month past. None were forthcoming.

  ‘You are in breach of your contract,’ he said, waving the agreement in my face.

  ‘But the work I did!’

  ‘A consideration you should have made before swanning off to the Pampas.’

  Such was my zeal to start afresh, I had rather overlooked this complication, and though Gil may have been strictly correct, I nevertheless felt the hand of unfairness. ‘I shall speak to Mr Houghton about this.’

  ‘And he’ll show you the exact same clause. “Should an employee leave without due notice, those earnings outstanding will be forfeit”.’

  Waiting for my train to depart I fought back hot, rising tears. It was not the money, you understand, it was the principle of the matter, one that summoned memories I had tried my utmost to bury, for I felt anew the injustice of being denied what was rightfully mine through the malice of others. For several moments I was transported to the office of a Cambridge solicitor as Grandfather’s will was read, my heart racing violently, until at last I made every effort to calm myself for I had no wish to make a show in public.

  As it happened, only two other passengers joined me in my compartment. The first was a man of the type my sisters would describe as ‘eligible’. He gave a polite nod before applying himself to h
is newspaper and, thankfully, paid me no heed for the rest of the journey. Shortly after, a woman of Mother’s age entered. She was well outfitted with rough, veiny hands that wore fine diamonds. By her side was a cat-basket, though I saw no feline face.

  At a quarter to ten, the guard blew his whistle and we began to chug away. The mistiness of the past few days had vanished overnight, the sky being a hydrangea-blue, the sun watery yet bright. The train passed through the centre of Buenos Aires, then less salubrious districts where shacks huddled either side of the line and the air had an intense, gamey tang; the skyline was dominated by the chimneys of meat-processing factories. Soon after, urban landscape surrendered to the grasslands that mark the city’s limit. This was the first fringe of the Pampas. Of the region I knew little other than its vastness. It stretched from the Atlantic in the east to the foothills of the Andes in the west. The Rio Negro, the boundary between the Pampas and the land of Patagonia, was a thousand miles to the south. And in between nothing but flat, empty plains and the occasional estancia. On my map of Argentina it was drawn as a green enigma, marked with few towns and no features. The railway had braved this territory only in the last five years.

  Gazing out of the window, the sun flashing into my eyes, I forgot Gil and those other, hurtful memories and instead experienced a stirring of adventure. It was not by coincidence I had come to South America: as a young man, Grandfather had travelled the continent, and to be here myself offered the solace of some connection to him, however tenuous. Perhaps, some day in the future, I would follow the route he had taken and experience in person those wonders he had related to me.

  Many hours lay ahead to my station. Although the grasslands may have held the promise of adventure, after a time they did become rather monotonous. I took out my novel, Nostromo by Joseph Conrad (a favourite of Grandfather’s, which I was dutifully ploughing through), and read. At the town of Vilela, the man opposite folded up his newspaper and disembarked. No new passenger joined the carriage. At Las Flores, I had to change trains for the branch-line to Tandil. By now it was lunchtime, and I bought some empanadas to eat whilst I waited for the connecting service. My train arrived late, and I again found myself a companion of the woman I had travelled with from Buenos Aires, the one with the cat-box. We passed a few pleasantries during which she introduced herself as Doña Ybarra. Once the train had left the station, I returned to the Conrad before feeling tired. I closed my book and napped until, some indeterminate period after, I was woken by a jolt.