Page 6 of A Good Prospect
Ophir chuckled weakly.
There was a brief uncomfortable silence that was broken when Knut cried, “Mein Gott im Himmel, a fiddle!” and snatched that instrument out of José’s claw.
“Careful, now,” Salvador warned the musical enthusiast, as the majordomo set the bow onto the strings and raked most painfully. “That’s Ophir’s.”
Ophir raised himself on his elbow and reached for the fiddle, which after all was one of the only possessions left in the world to him. Salvador stayed Knut’s arm and extracted the bow. “Now, Knut,” Sal said. “I recall there was some mining equipment the Captain had hauled up the valley. Has it rusted into dust?”
Reluctantly abandoning the fiddle, Knut entreated Ophir, “That is your fiddle? We must play together sometime! I have a guitar, and I can be very entertaining at fandangos. I know all the most modern and up-to-date tunes such as O! Susannah, and the song about the grandma leaving an old armchair to someone in her will.” Knut could be a trial when in his cups, but he made Ophir laugh, so Salvador relaxed.
Ophir asked, “Do you know The Pope He Leads a Happy Life?”
Knut held a splayed hand to his chest. “Do I?
The Pope he leads a happy life
He knows no cares nor marriage strife
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine
I would the Pope's gay lot were mine!”
Salvador relaxed so much to see his newfound partner singing, he even sat on the edge of the bedstead. Ophir was encouraged to tune his fiddle, and Salvador was not surprised to discover he had a clear and robust singing voice.
But yet not happy in his life
He loves no maid or wedded wife
Nor child hath he to cheer his hope
I would not wish to be the Pope
Salvador should have paid more attention to these tunes over the years. Before the War, he had been a carefree youth, not prone to studies or learning his father’s business. Learning happened oftener by running your head against a stone wall. Even before the War had robbed him of any idealism, he had taken to drink and horse racing, gambling, bull- and bear-baiting. If someone struck up a song, it was an invitation to leap into a wild el jarabe dance. The War, at first, had no material effect upon the doings at Las Oliveras. The Captain after all was a Boston whaling man who had just happened to marry into a gente de razon family, the daughter of a member of the DeAnza expedition. Stuck in between two cultures, there was no apparent need to run from either one of them.
But with the death of the Captain and Salvador’s older brother, out of necessity he had paid more attention to running the cattle business. Now, sitting in Ophir’s apartments, listening to him bellowing about the jolly life of a sultan, Salvador wondered if he hadn’t finally found that human contact he’d been longing for. Maybe the connection he wanted to all things that were lively on this planet was not a wife, but a partner. A partner in business, so he wouldn’t have to roam these leagues of rolling hills alone. A brother in arms, so to speak, someone who knew the travails of living in two different worlds. Saving Ophir had been the first, and perhaps only, kind act Salvador had committed in many years, and perhaps he was just getting carried away with the benevolence of it, but he now felt like sallying forth and committing yet more acts of kindness. With the Sonorans, they could find Ophir the richest vein of gold in the entire southern mines.
“Mein Gott!”Knut wheezed, holding fast to a bedpost to keep from falling over with mirth. “That was a regular old to-do!”
Salvador tried to unstick the majordomo from the wooden post. “Come now, Knut. Ophir needs his rest.”
“I shall be back tomorrow, jah?” Knut insisted on pleading. “I will come back with my guitar!”
Salvador shoved Knut out the door after José. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to Ophir. “I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”
Ophir lifted a hand of acceptance with a sleepy smile. When his fingers moved to unhook his suspenders, Salvador at last shut the door, an odd feeling of contentment filling him.
