“But why go to the bother if you’re shutting up the house?” Emma said. “Can’t it wait till you come back?”
“And when is that? No, you see the cracks from the winter? If you protect the bricks, they last forever. If not-” She left the consequences to their imaginations. “It must be done before the storms come in July, so better now. While Hector will still come. You’re filling his pockets with gold up there. Maybe he’ll never come back.”
She spoke as if he were not there in front of them.
“Come. We’ll have some tea, but first come watch my enjaradoras. You see how they measure the layer? Their hands tell them. Not too thin, but not too thick or it will fall off. They feel the mud and they know. They’re great sculptors, these women, and everything they make is from the earth. Think of it-earth and water and straw, that’s all. Buildings of earth. Paintings of sand. Ah, but you disapprove, Mr. Connolly, I can tell.” She turned to Emma. “He thinks I’m being a romantic.”
“Not at all,” Connolly said. “I was wondering how often this needs to be done-the walls.”
Hannah laughed. “You see, I was right. A pragmatist. Every few years,” she said to him, “depending on the severity of the winters.”
“So not so very different from painting an ordinary house.”
“But think what it means. You take the earth and build it all over again-your work is in the house. Not some cosmetic, not a Max Factor.”
Connolly smiled. “Except for the blue eye shadow,” he said, nodding to the window frames.
“Yes. The blue keeps the evil spirits away. Everyone knows that,” she said lightly.
“Why blue? Because of turquoise?”
“It’s odd you should say that,” Hannah said. “The Navajos believe that turquoise keeps evil spirits away. But these doorways-these came from the Moors. They brought the custom with them when they took Spain. So it’s nothing to do with the Indians at all. But blue-the same in both cases. It’s odd, yes?”
“Maybe it has an appeal for desert people,” he said. “A feel for the sky, something like that.”
Hannah beamed. “Well, a romantic after all. Quite a catch, Emma.”
It needn’t have meant anything-a turn of phrase with nothing implied-but Connolly was pleased that Emma let it stand uncorrected. It was only a moment, but he took in it the furtive pleasure of conspiracy.
“Hector, I must give our guests some tea,” she said, taking Emma by the arm. “Shall I make some for you?”
“Later. I need to finish up the flashings on the canales,” he said in flat, unaccented English that slid into quickly inflected Spanish. He nodded to Emma and Connolly, his only greeting, and returned to his work.
“As you wish,” Hannah said, her arm still linked in Emma’s as they walked toward the house. “You see,” she said, leaning her head toward Emma, “he’s angry with me. Should I be pleased? I don’t think so.”
“But you’ve gone away before,” Emma said.
“Yes, but this is different. The straw on the camel.”
“Nonsense, he’ll be here when you come back. He always is.”
“Well, always,” Hannah said dubiously. “Nothing is forever, my darling. Just the bricks. People have to move on. I think, you know, this will be the end of Hector.”
“Why go, then?” Emma said as they entered the house.
“My new master. They don’t like these long vacations at Fox. On the lot every day. What can I do? No more freelance. Mr. Zanuck says I have responsibilities now. Yes, sir.” She raised her hand in a mock salute. “So I obey. The good soldier.”
“You?” Emma said. “He doesn’t know what he’s letting himself in for.”
The wide center hall, with two rooms off each side, was cool and dim, but it led to a large open room in the back that ran the entire length of the house, bordering the patio. It was an artificial room, clearly made by combining several smaller ones, and its whitewashed walls were Hannah’s art gallery, filled with large, vivid canvases. She painted in closeup. Over the fireplace, Connolly noticed two paintings from the corn series, massive abstract ears of multicolored kernels, but there were other subjects as well-desert landscapes, still lifes of chiles, an adobe wall lined with morning glories, so like the actual courtyard wall outside that it made a trompe l’oeil effect in the room. There were large terra-cotta jars on the tile floor and the geometric colors of Indian rugs. Single low-lying shelves held found objects-a rusty farm tool, little piles of pink rocks. Nothing was out of place. It was one of those rooms entirely arranged to serve an aesthetic.
The tea was ready so quickly that Connolly guessed she kept a kettle always near the boil. It was served, incongruously, in pretty Meissen cups, floral and delicate in the severe Southwestern room, like some gap in taste she could not leave behind.
