“My deah! How really jolly—we’ll just have time for a cocktail before we sit down to lunch,” and he swept me into the lobby, where he seemed to have a speaking acquaintance with everybody from the governor of the state to Joe the beautiful Indian, brilliant in yellow satin shirt and striped blanket, who draped himself gracefully over a deep lounge chair. He was laden with turquoise necklaces, rings, and bracelets, which he made only very languid efforts to sell.
In the cantina it was the same thing. Freddy paused to speak to handsome Pop Chalee, the artist whose thick black braids hanging to her knees contrasted dramatically with her red velvet dress. There were ranchers in tengallon hats, and as much Spanish heard as English.
Later, as we bounced along toward Taos in Freddy’s ancient but valiant little Ford, which he had christened The Martyr, he said, “I have engaged a room for you at a small hotel, as unfortunately my house has only two rooms—it’s just a little Mexican adobe house—not too convenient.” He smiled rather ruefully. I didn’t realize at the time what a masterpiece of understatement this was. I was absorbed in contemplating on one side the wild sweep of jagged mountains and on the other the immensity of the plains which stretched off and away beyond the deep gorge of the Rio Grande. The feeling of height, immensity, and grandeur deepened as we approached Taos. We rounded the last bend in the highway as the sun was low; the tips of the snow-covered mountains were washed red by the slanting rays.
“That,” said Lord Freddy, “is why the conquering Spaniards called this range Sangre de Cristo—the Blood of Christ.”
There was the village of Taos nestled protectively under the great range; then I saw the two humped peaks of Taos Mountain itself—the mountain sacred to the Taos Indians, high in whose folds lies the magic Blue Lake. Like crowns, wispy wreaths of cloud floated about their twin heads.
We drove even more slowly. “Y’know,” said Lord Freddy, “the first time I came to Taos, I said to myself—this is Asia in America. This place gives me all the feeling of Darjeeling in northern India under the shadows of the Himalayas. Even the Indians here wrap themselves in their blankets the way the hill men do there. And when they speak, their singing language …”
The Taos plaza was a rather formal little square with trees, shrubs, and a fountain surrounded by shops, just like any village in Old Mexico. On the most prominent corner was Don Fernando’s tavern, where we dined on tamales and chile con carne. At some of the tables there were Spanish-speaking people (Lord Freddy had warned me that in New Mexico there were no Mexicans, but Spanish-Americans, and no Americans, but Anglos); at others there was a heterogeneous collection of the art colony, judging by the carefully unkempt beards and overheard snatches of hyperintellectual conversation. To counterbalance this was a table of what looked like the Chamber of Commerce or the Rotary Club.
“America,” remarked Lord Freddy, “is a most curious place—particularly Taos. The Indian pueblo which lies two miles beyond the village is centuries old—perhaps the oldest inhabited settlement in the United States; the aloof Indians keep their culture and customs intact. But in the village you see the three cultural strata like a passing of history—the Asiatic Indians, the Moorish Spanish, and the European Anglos. Most curious,” he shook his head musingly. “But the Texans,” he sighed, “I’m actually not even sure about them—particularly landladies …”
I began to divine his meaning the next morning when I went to his house for breakfast. Lord Freddy was in his tiny kitchen struggling heroically to get a fire started in a huge coal range. His face was smudged, and the once beautiful Bond Street dressing gown was generously stained with soot and ashes. He waved his hands rather helplessly and said, “Do go into the living room—I’ve got the bloody stove in there going.” The living room was a rather gloomy, sparsely furnished place, most of which was taken up by a coal heater that seemed to be suffering from asthma. “Y’see, it’s absolutely the only place I could find,”said Freddy dismally, with a note of apology.“Housing situation, y’know, and it’s blasted expensive, too.”
There was an imperious rap at the door. With a slightly strained but resigned expression, Lord Freddy opened it. A large and determined-looking woman dressed in slacks and a leather jacket, her head wrapped in a bandanna, stood in an assured and possessive manner in the doorway.
“Kid,” she said to Freddy, “I need your mop and broom—got to clean up that filthy apartment them people moved out of yesterday. Took some of my best silver, too. The way these people from New York expect everything out West here … the drinking and carrying on. Cigarette burns on my best tables …” She pushed past Freddy into the room, her eagle eyes apparently seeking the worst. Then she saw me. Her expression was, to say the least, curious.
“This,” murmured Lord Freddy rather faintly, “is my landlady. She’s a—a lady from Texas.”
“Well,” said the lady from Texas, “I’ll just get the mop and broom. I gotta get to work. Got Indians coming to chop wood, too.”
“Er—ah,” said Freddy plaintively, as he trailed her into the kitchen, “when do you think you can get the hot water fixed? It’s been over a month now since I’ve had any.”
“Well, kid, you know how them plumbers are. Anyway, you stay in bed so late in the morning…“The door slammed, and Freddy remained alone.
It seemed hours before we could get water hot enough for coffee. As we sat drinking it, a blanketed Indian appeared in the yard and looked contemplatively at a pile of logs stacked against the fence. He then took off his blanket, folded it, and proceeded to comb his hair. It hung in two long ropes over his shoulders, and instead of braiding it, he wrapped it expertly with strips of bright red cloth. We watched in fascination.
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