The figure of a woman or girl, silhouetted in the light of the moon shining through the veil on her head, appeared in the arbour above.
The other peons, too, now took off their hats, their tassels and straps touching the ground.
“Who are you?” the girl asked, though since she was Spanish, she actually put it in the Spanish manner: “Whom do I have the honour of addressing?”
“We are,” Montemayor answered, “cowboys and peons from the States, who’ve ridden across the border to meet the beauties of Mexico. Would you honour us by revealing your name, so that when we return home we can tell everyone what the most beautiful of them all is called.”
The young woman laughed. “My name is Consuelo,” she said. “And when you return, you can tell your people that in fact you never even saw me. I can see you clearly in the moonlight, but I have the moon behind me. It makes it easier for you to imagine that I’m the most beautiful.”
“We don’t need the moon,” one of the group shouted, “to know that you must be as enchanting as your voice!”
“You flatter me too much,” the young woman said. “In fact, my voice is nothing special, I hardly use it, and my mother, who also taught me the few songs that I know, sang much better than I do. I must go now! The people in the house are already asleep, and it’s not right for me to carry on talking to such charming young people as yourselves.”
This was Spanish courtesy, a matter of etiquette in response to the compliments that had been paid her. However, it was more than courtesy, for she added, “Especially to the singer among you.”
This was a direct reference, which they understood immediately.
“We wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble!” the one who’d just spoken said, after looking at Montemayor. “We’re going now and we wish you a good night. However, we should be honoured if you would give us something to remember you by.”
“With pleasure,” the young woman said. She plucked a flower from the arbour. “And now, adios,” she said, and threw the flower to Montemayor.
He caught it and kissed it.
The peons bowed. “Adios!” they shouted.
“Adios!” the maiden replied, and waved farewell to them.
They broke into a new song and returned to their inn. The sound of their singing and spurs echoed in the narrow street. In front of the tavern they untied the blankets from their saddles, went inside, rolled themselves in the blankets, and went to sleep. Montemayor, however, remained standing by the door and smoked a cigarette. He then threw it away and returned to Consuelo.
She was still leaning against an arch of the arbour when he appeared in the street below. He stepped into the shadow of the house, pulled himself up by the window grating, grabbed hold of the railing of the arbour and swung himself up.
Bent thus over the railing, he now began to woo her. Her parents were simple people, but she behaved as if she were a high-born lady. The moon had already been waning for a long time before she finally permitted Montemayor to kiss her hands. The pale light fell sideways upon her face. Until then he had seen it only in the half-light in which her eyes sparkled, but now he saw for the first time how beautiful she was. The moon had by now almost disappeared, and dawn had nearly broken, and still she listened to Montemayor.
The following day the peons left the town, but Montemayor followed them only several days later, and when he left it was only to return. He returned almost every month to Monterey.
The following year there was an outbreak of cattle-plague that destroyed huge herds, and he lost his job. He used up all his savings in search of new work and was forced to sing with his guitar in taverns and small hotels in order to survive; for this he was given accommodation and occasionally meals, and also some of the audience would invite him to their table and ply him with drinks. Finally the director of a travelling cabaret troupe engaged him. He was successful everywhere in the small towns where he appeared, though without a partner such a singer could not make a mark. It was suggested to him that he should look around for a partner. He got on a train and travelled the stretch that he’d so often ridden on horseback, to Monterey.
He proposed to Consuelo that she became his partner, which she decided to do, not so much because she thought she could make a go of it, but rather because she loved Montemayor. But fortune smiled on them, they were a great success, mainly, of course, on account of Consuelo’s beauty. Montemayor’s own forte lay in fact not so much in the singing itself, but rather in his talent for arranging old songs. After their latest engagement in Palm Beach, they went to New York.
Montemayor was by then beginning to publish songs, yet he lacked that extra something to produce a hit. He realized that he’d have to study classical music in order to be able to compose popular music. Their nightly appearances still remained his and Consuelo’s main source of income. He played the guitar and Consuelo danced and sang in Spanish costume with a foot-high comb in her hair. They earned money, he wore good suits, and Consuelo had a selection of pretty dresses. Also, he gave her jewellery, but in truth these were only small trinkets.
Yet he loved Consuelo so much that he was quite happy to see her reap more success than came his way. His own talent hardly amounted to anything. Moreover, when all was said and done, he still remained the peon that he’d always been; he gave a little of his soul and passion to his music, all the rest belonged to his beloved. If he hadn’t had Consuelo, he’d have been very unhappy. The fact was, he felt out of place in a city. He often dreamt of the prairies. However, a woman never hankers after the past. Consuelo was successful, she was acclaimed; she gave a little of her soul and passion to Montemayor, the rest went to her new way of life.
One evening she received a visiting card via her manager; a certain Jack Mortimer invited her to come to his house after the performance and sing to his guests. This Jack Mortimer, added the manager in case she didn’t know, was the son of Mortimer, the banker. Yes, she knew that, said Consuelo; and the manager mentioned a very high fee.
Montemayor, of course, didn’t know who Mortimer was. Both he and Consuelo were well received in Mortimer’s house, and from the start were treated as equals with the guests, comprising a group young people of the wealthy set and some strikingly pretty young women and wives. Mortimer about that time would have been about twenty-three or — four. He was utterly captivated by Montemayor’s and Consuelo’s singing.
They sat down to a table that was groaning with food and drink. Some of those present began, in the traditional American way, to get plastered as quickly as possible and then slump around on sofas. Mortimer gave a dismissive wave of his hand. It was good, he said, that they’d got rid of them — now they’d have some peace and quiet; and then he asked Consuelo to sing.
Sitting at the table, Consuelo and Montemayor sang a song, and those present showered them with applause, and yet the conversation immediately turned to other topics and the singing was forgotten. Mortimer finally got up and announced that he’d be more than happy if people wanted to wander round and take a look at his house. The guests dispersed in small groups in the spacious abode.
When they all reassembled, Consuelo and Mortimer were missing. The twenty minutes that elapsed before the two finally appeared were almost as painful and embarrassing to the company as to Montemayor himself. Where had they been? Just simply not there. All the time they were away, it seemed as if they were deliberately trying to humiliate someone, and when they finally appeared, Consuelo acted as if nothing had happened, while Mortimer didn’t even try to conceal his pleasure.