The period that followed became for Montemayor one of unbearable anguish. Spurred on by personal vanity, it is quite easy to fight for the constancy of a woman whom one hardly loves any more. But it is impossible to hold on to a woman with whom one is still in love and who does not requite that love. Montemayor was leaving behind a trail of blood from his heart, which had been mortally wounded not by Mortimer but by Consuelo herself. She disarmed him by not making any secret of the fact that she no longer loved him. Jealousy can only exist when one hopes one has made a mistake. With her indifference, however, Consuelo convinced him that he had not made a mistake. He remonstrated with her, of course, but she did not react. He no longer had any claim to her heart.
If he’d still been in his own country, he’d have known what to do. There a woman is not free. She belongs to him who can defend her. Here, however, she was free. She could do whatever she wanted. In the States no man any longer has a natural right to a woman. She no longer needs his protection, she does what she wants. Mortimer, too, told him that. Montemayor had drawn him into an argument in order, at the end of it, to beat the daylights out of him.
However, Mortimer said, “I haven’t a clue what you want. You think Consuelo loves me? I believe you’re mistaken. One doesn’t fall in love so quickly. There’s too much else going on. Naturally, I was flattered to see Consuelo here and there, but I’m pretty sure she’s not really interested in me. She wants to make a career. You shouldn’t stand in her way. I myself have done what I can for her. Hasn’t she said anything to you about that? I’ve introduced her to many people who could be useful to her. Honestly, you’re wrong if you think I’ve got any ulterior motives. I was only a middleman. I haven’t even seen Consuelo for the last two or three days. However, I introduced her to George Anstruther. Do you know Anstruther? You don’t? Well, he’s extremely influential. They say he’s very interested in Consuelo. Malicious gossips even say she’s his mistress.”
Having said that, Mortimer lit a cigarette. Montemayor looked him in the eyes for a moment, turned short on his heel and left.
Lately he had seen Consuelo only in the evenings when they performed together. He returned to his flat, packed a few things, and left New York without even seeing Consuelo or even so much as contacting his manager. The intermezzo was at an end. He would, he decided, become a peon once more, and that was that.
Two days later he got off the train in a small station in the South. It was raining. The rain was falling in sheets over the prairie, drumming on the tin roof of the station, forming puddles between the tracks. On the horizon a couple clapboard houses appeared to be sinking in a sea of mud.
He stared into the wilderness. A pair of horses saddled the Mexican way stood at the corner of a house, their shanks turned towards the weather. The tall grass swayed, the rain beat down, the gloom and the mist were closing in.
He enquired when the next train was due.
He had two hours to wait. He didn’t wait under the station canopy, but stood out in the open. His shoes, his coat, his business suit were soaking wet.
The sound of singing, shouting and laughter reached him from the house where the horses were tied up.
No one bothered about him.
At last the train came. It was heading for New Orleans.
In New Orleans he had to wait a day. He sailed on the Jeanne d’Arc to France.
In Paris he appeared on the stage with several artistes, whom he often changed. Day in, day out, he studied music. After a year he moved to Berlin, then back to Paris again.
He got people to write French and English lyrics to his melodies, and published them.
‘Juanita’ made him famous.
He returned to the States; however, he stayed only a short time in New York, travelled down to the South again, and bought a property in Florida near Palm Beach.
Here he composed his second great hit, ‘Castilliana’.
He made several hundred thousand dollars from this hit. He wrote the song one evening very quickly, in a matter of minutes, before driving to Palm Beach to meet some friends, and the moon over the sea was just like it had been that time over Monterey.
‘Castilliana’ was played endlessly at parties where people first danced and then the women went and deceived their husbands.
From now on he lived part of the time in Palm Beach and part of the time in New York and Paris. The much heralded ‘Sonora’ was a flop.
In New York he learnt that Mortimer no longer lived there, but had moved to Chicago, where he ran his father’s bank.
He didn’t enquire after Consuelo, and people obviously avoided mentioning her name in his presence. No one knew whether he still thought about her. Also, her name no longer appeared anywhere. He couldn’t find her on any programme or notice.
One day he got to know George Anstruther. He was a very handsome man of about forty. They obviously didn’t talk about Consuelo. Strangely enough, though, Montemayor let slip a few words about Jack Mortimer. Anstruther smiled in a peculiar way. This was like a red rag to a bull, and Anstruther, in order not to be misinterpreted, felt obliged to justify himself why he had reacted that way: wasn’t Montemayor aware that Mortimer… “Go on!” Montemayor shouted, his heart missing a beat… that Mortimer, said Anstruther, was now more of a gangster than a banker, like so many other bankers, judges and businessmen in the States. “I see,” Montemayor mumbled, and they talked a little bit more about Mortimer’s possible connections with the underworld, and then about other things. It became clear to Montemayor that Mortimer’s bank was in financial difficulties; however, it was not uncommon even for wealthy people to get mixed up with criminals in the end.
A few days later Montemayor learnt by chance from people who knew nothing of his sad tale, that Consuelo had been suffering from tuberculosis and had died in a sanatorium in the Rocky Mountains some three years previously.
Two months later he married Winifred Parr.
Late that autumn Montemayor travelled with Winifred to Paris. One evening after the opera, when they were having supper at Ciro’s, Montemayor noticed Winifred nod at someone who was sitting behind him, evidently to acknowledge a greeting. He turned around; it was Jack Mortimer.
Mortimer immediately came over to their table. He knew Winifred fleetingly from earlier times. He spoke a few inconsequential words and behaved as though nothing had ever happened between himself and Montemayor.
Before Montemayor could stop her, Winifred had invited him to join them.
What followed in the next few days was quite inevitable. Mortimer had never shown any particular interest in Winifred. However, when he saw that she was Montemayor’s wife, he immediately became excited.
People who’ve already once deprived a man of his wife will feel almost compelled to do it a second time.
Montemayor himself immediately sensed that in Mortimer’s eyes it wasn’t Winifred, but in actual fact Consuelo who was sitting next to Montemayor. The only difference was that he didn’t love Winifred half as much as he had loved Consuelo. It became at once clear that he’d be able to protect her better than his previous love.
Winifred knew nothing of Consuelo, but she immediately sensed the tension between the two men, and she reacted as any pretty but empty-headed woman would in such a situation. Straight away she enjoyed to the full the interest that Mortimer was showing in her. Had Montemayor ignored Mortimer, she’d have done the same. However, since she noticed Montemayor’s jealousy, there was no greater pleasure for her than to fall in love with Mortimer.
At this stage, of course, it would still have been easy for Montemayor to have dashed the hopes that the two were entertaining. He could simply have gone away somewhere with Winifred, and that would have been the end of the matter. However, after his initial aversion, it occurred to him that Mortimer’s presence was right up his street. He still had a score to settle with Mortimer. An opportunity now arose for Montemayor to make out that he couldn’t care less about Mortimer’s advances. He’d be able to play with Winifred like a puppet on a string.