Raul understood the lie, and grinned back at the old king.
15
Roberto sat on the veranda at Petaca and sipped a ron fuerte, his feet on the railing, a handkerchief in one hand. He felt happy though tired, happy to be showing off his new dark green riding suit and tired because he had already performed his stock of equestrian tricks. It was almost mid-morning and growing hot and humid, a clear, cloudless day.
"Federicka rides better every year," he said to Raul, sitting beside him, drinking, eyes on Federicka as she jumped a barrier.
Baroness Radziwill executed precise jumps on her claybank, her split skirt flapping gayly. For a stout woman she was a fine rider, and her horse carried her weight well, taking each hurdle rhythmically.
Armand Guerrero, her friend, followed on a Cuban horse, sailing over the whitewashed logs, all of them participating in an improvised arena, sodded and graveled for their annual get-together.
"Armand's mare is heavy-footed," Raul said. "Maybe a bit too old."
Count de Selva sat down beside Raul, breathing through a corner of his mouth, an unlighted cigar between his fingers. Dressed in duck, like Raul, his clothes rather creased, he brushed dust off his knees and groaned because of his asthma.
"There used to be quite a showing of us—quite a showing," he said. "I can remember when as many as fifteen of us families turned out.... Say, that Benito does well enough. If he's as good a mayor as he is a horseman, we'll get things done in Colima."