The Haunting of Las Lágrimas Read online

  The train had come to a standstill, not at a station but on a siding in the middle of nowhere. A sea of grass, rippling and swaying in the breeze, stretched as far as the eye could see out of both windows.

  ‘Do not be troubled,’ said Doña Ybarra, observing my concern. ‘Delays are what we live with in the Pampas.’

  ‘I’m meeting someone,’ I replied, ‘and afterward have a long journey ahead. I do not want to be late.’

  ‘If they know the trains, they will know to wait.’

  Whereupon we sat in silence except for the steady wheeze of the locomotive. The minutes passed and became a quarter, then half of an hour. I picked up Nostromo, but after a few pages realized I had taken in nothing of what I had read. Outside, the day began a slow but perceptible fading.

  I stood up, rapping my knuckles against the window. ‘How I hate dawdling,’ I let forth in English. Doña Ybarra started at this outburst in a language alien to her. I apologized and translated my words.

  ‘We’ll be on our way soon,’ she soothed. She was feeding her animal, dangling morsels of meat through an opening in the basket’s top. ‘It is only a single track ahead. Most likely we’re being held for the up-train to Las Flores.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I replied, peering into her basket. I expected to see a wide-eyed, whiskered countenance. Instead, a lizard blankly returned my gaze.

  ‘My iguana,’ explained the woman.

  What does one say in reply to a reptile? ‘I’m sure they make loving pets.’

  As if to confirm my statement she removed the beast, her rings flashing, and held it to her cheek, making a cooing sound. ‘Where are you from, Señorita?’ she asked, replacing the creature in its basket.

  ‘Britain.’

  ‘Your Spanish is excellent.’

  ‘My grandfather taught me. He had travelled across all the Americas.’

  ‘And what brings you to these parts?’

  ‘I have been offered a position, at an estancia.’

  ‘Let me see,’ she replied, animated by the prospect of a guessing-game. ‘A housekeeper?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Of course not. You are far too educated. Governess?’

  ‘Head Gardener,’ I answered, liking how it sounded for in those two words were encapsulated all my ambition and love of horticulture.

  Doña Ybarra puckered her lips. ‘A rather unusual choice for a lady. Which estancia?’

  ‘Las Lágrimas.’

  Her expression became more complex, her disapproval combining with dismay. ‘Why would you want to go to that place? It has been deserted for years.’

  ‘You know of it?’

  ‘My husband and I, when we were young and recently married, were often invited there. Such lavish parties! The food and drink, the dancing through the night.’ She recollected this without a flicker of enthusiasm. ‘But I never liked Don Guido, the owner. You couldn’t refuse his invitation, yet I never knew one more godless.’

  It was a description that seemed not to tally with Moyano’s. ‘We are talking of the Agramonte family?’ I asked.

  ‘Guido Agramonte, yes. A wild, profane and godless man.’

  ‘His son, Don Paquito, has taken possession of the estate, and wishes to restore it.’

  ‘Then he is either very brave. Or a fool.’

  ‘Why do you say these things?’

  ‘Has no one told you about Las Lágrimas?’

  ‘It would appear not.’

  ‘The estancia is notorious in these parts.’ She phrased her next words with care. ‘It is maldita.’

  As already noted, my Spanish is most proficient – albeit I am not wholly fluent. I still come across words I am unfamiliar with and, to that end, always keep my Tauchnitz* at hand. I flicked through the pages until I found maldita. It was an adjective, meaning ‘cursed’, and not the kind of poorly informed, heathen belief I would expect in a country as modern as Argentina. ‘Doña Ybarra, you will forgive me, but my grandfather, when travelling in Peru, was put under a curse, yet little ill-fortune ever befell him. He was healthy and happy to the end, and passed away peacefully in his own bed.’

  ‘Do not think me some superstitious old woman, Señorita. The curse of Las Lágrimas is as real as this carriage. As real as you or me. Why do you think no one has dared live there for decades? You would be unwise to take it lightly. They say the dead walk the grounds of the estate.’

  I was at a loss how to reply, being, at best, agnostic on such matters. I thought back to Grandfather’s final day. He had died in the spring, gently squeezing my hand as I sat by his bedside. The scent of quince blossom floated in through the casement. And though I may have feared for myself and what the future might bring, from that dear, old man I felt a great peace as his grip weakened and he left me. In my naïvety, I could not imagine why the dead would wish to return.

  At that moment, there was a whistle-shriek and, on the main track, a train trundled by: window after window of intermittent faces and vacant seats. As soon as it had passed, our own carriage jerked forward. ‘We’re on the move again,’ I observed, bringing our conversation to a close. I picked up my novel and made an emphatic show of reading.

  We did not exchange another word until we reached Miranda, the stop before mine. As Doña Ybarra gathered up her lizard, I bade a cheery farewell. She replied in kind and was on the point of leaving the compartment when she grasped me.

  ‘I know you think me a dolt – but please reconsider, Señorita. Do not go to Las Lágrimas. Take the train back to Buenos Aires. Go back home to England.’

  * The most commonly used English–Spanish dictionary of the day. I found a well-thumbed pocket edition in the same box as the photostat of Ursula’s journal, along with various other items (letters, photos, bills, etc.) from her time in South America.

  Rivacoba Makes Arrangements

  THE SUN WAS beginning to set by the time the train pulled into Chapaledfú station, the sky streaked with magnolia-pink cloud. The platform was deserted and unwelcoming. Moyano, who had returned to the Pampas the same night as our interview, promised someone would be waiting for me.

  ‘How will I recognize him?’ I had asked.

  ‘I think rather, Señorita, he will recognize you.’

  As I struggled to unload my luggage, I heard a baritone voice behind me. ‘Señorita Kelp, from England?’

  I turned to face a gaucho of singular appearance, robust, unshaven and dressed in traditional costume: bolero hat, a damson-coloured poncho, pantaloons beneath fur chaparejos and boots of colt-hide; his spurs were fearsome. Later, I learnt that he was more than a simple gaucho, rather he was a baqueano, the name by which the guides of the Pampas call themselves, men whose endurance and topographical knowledge of the region is formidable. ‘I am Rivacoba,’ he growled. ‘You are late.’

  It was not quite the greeting I had imagined, and I found myself replying in kind: ‘Blame the Southern Railway Company, not me.’

  ‘We cannot leave tonight.’

  ‘Surely we can start out?’

  ‘Look at the sun. Within the hour it will be blacker than pitch. What would be the point? I have made arrangements.’

  Chapaledfú was an inconsequential farming town. If the purpose of the railway line was to advance the modern world it had so far fallen short; indeed my experience of the place was of travelling backward in time to the middle of the previous century. The town consisted of a flagstoned plaza from which led a few unpaved roads, some houses (a dozen or so of brick, the rest in timber), two or three shops, an abattoir and a smattering of agricultural buildings. There was no hotel. Instead, Rivacoba’s ‘arrangements’ meant boarding with the station-master and his wife. They had a little cottage that adjoined the railway platform, cramped but cosy enough. To my shame, the station-master’s blind mother was ejected from her room so I could sleep there. There was no sign of children. Before Rivacoba left me for the night, to lodge who knows where, he informed me of another misdemeanour: ‘You have too many things
.’ I was handed a pair of panniers and a small trunk. ‘Pack what you need in these.’ I insisted that, actually, I needed everything I had brought, but was met with a gruff, unyielding response.

  So it was that I spent the first hour of my stay in Chapaledfú, reducing my luggage to those items of most immediate use. My gardening clothes I must have, whilst I restricted myself to two changes for the evening; for everything else I took my trowel, secateurs, sketchpad and, along with Nostromo, a small bundle of books that I deemed essential: W. Robinson’s excellent volume on country-house landscapes, Garden Design by Madeline Ayer and a couple by my heroine, Gertrude Jekyll.

  Supper was a hearty beef stew served with baked rice and a cup of red wine. Afterward, I sat by the fireplace with the old, blind mother and listened to her rambling stories, for it was her wish to impart the history of the land to which I had arrived. The wind had picked up and buffeted the cottage, causing the flames to shudder. I was glad Rivacoba insisted we not set out. The old woman spoke of the Desert Campaigns of Governor de Rosas and the native Mapuche Indians his men had massacred in order that civilization be brought to the Pampas. In turn, this had given rise to the great estancias where she found employ as a younger woman. All this was recounted with immense pride. I enquired whether she knew of Las Lágrimas. I noticed the station-master and his wife exchange a look, but the old woman claimed never to have heard of the place.

  ‘What colour is your hair, child?’ she asked later. ‘They tell me the English have locks the colour of straw.’

  ‘Some do, but mine is red.’

  ‘Red!’ This was a marvel to her; she wanted to touch it.

  ‘Mother,’ exclaimed the station-master. ‘Do not trouble our guest.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ I replied, and I let her comb her gnarled fingers through my hair.

  ‘Red as of blood?’ she asked. ‘Or pimientos?’

  ‘No. Red, and gold and orange, like the leaves in autumn, my grandfather used to say.’

  This description seemed to satisfy her, and after I retired to bed I was sure I could hear the old woman by the dying fire whispering to herself like the leaves in autumn. Leaves in autumn…

  Across the Pampas

  THE SUNSHINE THAT had witnessed my journey from Buenos Aires was no more when I woke the next morning. In its place low, misty clouds, the air so dank one felt it in one’s joints. We set out for Las Lágrimas first thing. Even as I made sure of my breakfast, Rivacoba was knocking at the cottage door. He carried out the belongings that I had condensed into the panniers and trunk.

  ‘What of the rest of my things?’ I asked.

  ‘They will follow.’

  His response did not inspire my confidence and I wondered if I would see them again. I bade farewell to the stationmaster and his wife, thanking them for their hospitality and discreetly passed the former a note for five pesos, which embarrassed and pleased him in equal measure. To his blind mother I gave a small lock of my hair that earlier I had snipped off.

  ‘May God and the Virgin protect you out there,’ she said in thanks.

  Rivacoba was waiting with three horses: one each for us to ride and a third, a stocky pony, which was already loaded with my luggage. My mount was a walnut-coloured mare of about fourteen hands. I took the reins and heaved myself up on to her, not side-saddle but with my legs either side of her flanks, the way Grandfather had taught me, and which found Rivacoba’s approval. The station-master waved us off. We took the horses at a walk through Chapaledfú. Few of its denizens had yet to rise. In the grey light, the place had a drear quality to it, as of a town in mourning. Perhaps in summer it was full of life and gaiety, but that August morning I was glad to be leaving. Beyond the last buildings were a score of fields, marked by fence posts, the black earth ploughed but unsown. Beyond that were the wastes. We cannot have ridden more than a quarter of an hour outside of Chapaledfú before I felt as remote as ever I have been.

  Here was the Pampas proper.

  At first glance the landscape was flat, the horizon a blade that separated grass from sky. On closer inspection, however, one noted slight undulations that offered the scenery a subtle rolling texture; in places it might be possible to find a sheltered spot. The one point not in contention was how endless it all seemed. It is difficult to convey to the reader just how vast the panorama was, though I imagine sailors must feel something of a like manner when far out at sea. Only two things broke the green monotony: clumps of the eponymous pampas grass (Cortaderia selloana) and, occasionally, small black islands of trees, or las quintas as the locals called these clusters. The whole day, the sky remained solid with cloud and gloom.

  Having left town, we broke into a steady trot and thereafter Rivacoba alternated the pace between it and walking. No word passed between us for at least the first hour.

  ‘Does my horse have a name?’ I said by-and-by, to make conversation.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I shall call her “Dahlia”. It’s one of my favourite flowers.’

  We continued on in silence.

  A number of miles later I posed another question. ‘Shall we reach the estancia tonight?’

  ‘It’s too far.’

  ‘I am supposed to arrive to-day.’

  ‘As you said: blame the trains.’

  ‘I can ride faster than this,’ I ventured.

  ‘We’ll work the horses soon enough. But we could gallop the whole day and still not accomplish our journey by nightfall. You must learn there are two distances in the Pampas, Señorita. Far, and farther still.’ And that, pretty much, was the end of his loquaciousness.

  We rode the length of the day and in that time met no other soul. That is not to say the Pampas was without life. The sky was lively with birds that flapped and darted over, some as neat as sparrows, others monstrous, and every size in between. ‘What’s that?’ I would ask, for my knowledge of ornithology is limited. ‘A viudita,’ came Rivacoba’s monotone reply. Or, ‘Chimango.’ The ground itself was more varied than first I perceived it to be. Grass, yes, an infinite quantity of it; but also speckles of tiny, white flowers; some species of wild artichoke with bluish-grey leaves; and an abundance of thistles. Most eye-catching of all was an occasional, deep-crimson flower that I took to be a miniature form of iris and that, had I been at leisure, I would have stopped to study. It grew in drifts and these appeared, from afar, not unimaginably like shoals of blood. When I quizzed my guide on them a tension hardened his features, he naming them as las flores del diablo. ‘Why that?’ I had asked.

  ‘Because they grow only where the devil treads.’

  Later, we put the horses to a canter and that sense of excitement, of adventure, which had stolen upon me when first I laid eyes on the Pampas through the train window once more enlivened my heart. I felt intoxicated with it! The untamed beauty of the wilderness quickened my blood in a manner that would have disturbed the rest of my family, for they saw staidness as a virtue, my parents expecting – insisting upon – only the most conventional of lives for me: to be untroubled by curiosity or ambition, to marry and be dutiful. In short, to be everything Grandfather had exhorted me to reach beyond, marked as he was by a disdain for convention. He would have beamed with pride that I had journeyed so far from home, and all the more so at my Head Gardenership.

  As the afternoon shortened, and we were again at a plodding walk, I grew fatigued, the muscles in my thighs, shoulders and, in particular, lower back aching. I yearned for a bath and fantasized myself at Las Lágrimas deep in hot, scented water. Behind the clouds the sun began to wester, casting the landscape in progressively darker shades that only heightened the emptiness of the place. The wind picked up and an overwhelming despondency took hold of me. To travel out here by oneself, I thought, would not be my preference and I tried to imagine how men like my guide, who must ride often without companionship, sustained themselves.

  When dusk closed in, Rivacoba brought us to a halt in a slight depression. ‘We camp here tonight.’ He had b
een silent for so long his voice caused me to startle. I gratefully slipped off Dahlia and left her munching on the grass.

  I presumed I would have a tent or some other kind of shelter, a presumption I was promptly disabused of. Rivacoba unloaded my meagre luggage and arranged it in a semi-circle to protect us from the wind. Then he unrolled a woven-grass mat and laid it on the ground over which he placed the sheepskin from underneath my saddle. Finally, I was given a thick poncho, maroon in colour, hircine in smell – and this rude bivouac was my bed for the night!

  ‘Is this how Don Paquito and his family travel?’ I demanded as Rivacoba unlooped a faggot of sticks from the pack-pony.

  ‘When I ride alone, I don’t have a fire,’ he replied, arranging the kindling on the ground. ‘But Señor Moyano insisted. You are lucky.’

  My good fortune extended to strips of dried beef and a tin of beans for dinner, cooked in the flames and eaten as gusts of wind snapped around us. There was also yerba mate, the local tea, made from the dried leaves of a species of holly plant (Ilex paraguariensis, if I remember). Rivacoba took its preparation seriously, boiling water, then cramming a gourd with leaves before filling it to the brim with the hot liquid. He passed the gourd to me to drink first. I had sampled it previously in Buenos Aires and found it not to my palate. Sipping it on the Pampas it tasted as bitter as the greenest lemon, though the warming sensation that spread through my throat and chest was compensation.

  Then I had buried myself inside my poncho and lain down for the night, watching the sparks from the fire whirl and dance and vanish into the darkness, a darkness so absolute it was hard to believe it real.