the town of Santiago de Tequila in 1530. It was the Franciscans who conceived of fermenting the pina's sugars into a potent liquor."
"So," Moira said, "the agave was yet another aspect of Mexican culture appropriated and changed by the conquistadores."
"Well, it's worse than that, really." Barbara licked her fingertips, reminding Moira of Roberto Corellos. "The conquistadores merely killed the Mexicans. It was the Franciscans who traveled with them, systematically dismantling the Mexican way of life and replacing it with the particularly cruel Spanish version of Catholicism. Ethnically speaking, it was the Spanish church that destroyed Mexican culture." She smiled with her teeth. "The conquistadores were merely soldiers, they were after Mexican gold. The Franciscans were the soldiers of God, they wanted the Mexican soul."
As Barbara poured herself a goblet of blood-red sangria, Narsico cleared his throat. "As you can see, my wife has become a fierce advocate of the Mexican way of life."
He seemed embarrassed by this discussion, as if his wife was guilty of bad manners. Moira wondered how long Barbara's convictions had been a bone of contention between them. Did he disagree with her, or did he think her outspokenness on this issue was bad PR for his company, which was, after all, wholly dependent on consumers?
"You didn't always hold that conviction, Senora Skydel?"
"Growing up in Colombia, I knew only the struggle of my people against our dictator-generals and fascist armies."
Narsico sighed theatrically. "Mexico has changed her."
Moira did not miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. She studied Barbara as she ate, an elemental act that often revealed more about people than they realized. Barbara ate quickly and aggressively, as if there were a need to defend her food, and Moira wondered what her upbringing had been like. As the only female child she would have been served last, with her mother. Also, she was wholly concentrated on her food, and Moira imagined it was a sensual experience for her. Moira liked the way she ate, she found it endearing, and she thought again of Corellos's description of her as a piranha.
At that moment Narsico's cell phone buzzed, and taking it up, he rose and excused himself. Moira noticed that Barbara ignored him as he walked back inside the hacienda.
"As you can already see," Barbara said, "there are a number of ways to tell this story." She had a very direct way of speaking, and of looking at you when she spoke. "I'd like to influence the way you tell it."
"You already have."
Barbara nodded. She was one of those fortunate women with excellent bone structure, lucid skin, and a tight, athletic body, all of which naturally defied the passing of time. It was impossible to guess her precise age. Judging by her manner, Moira supposed she might have reached forty, though she looked a good five or six years younger.
"Where are you from?"
"Actually, I just came from Bogota," Moira said. She knew she was taking a chance, but she didn't have the time to draw this out, and she felt the need to take advantage of Narsico's absence. "I saw Roberto Corellos, Narsico's cousin." She watched the other woman's face carefully. "And, coincidentally or not, an old friend of yours."
Something dark and cold passed across Berengaria Moreno's face. "I don't know what you mean, Corellos and I never saw eye-to-eye," she said coldly.
"How about mouth-to-mouth?"
For a long, uncomfortable moment Barbara sat perfectly still. When she opened her mouth again she no longer looked handsome, or even appealing, and Moira knew precisely what Corellos had meant. Here comes the piranha, she thought.
In a low voice filled with menace Barbara said, "I could have you thrown out on your ass, beaten senseless, or even - " She bit back her words.
"Or what?" Moira said, egging her on. "Have me killed? Well, we know your husband wouldn't have the balls to do it."
Unexpectedly, Barbara Skydel exploded into laughter. "Oh, Jesus mio, can you imagine?" But almost immediately she sobered up. "Roberto had no business telling you about what happened."
"You'll have to take that up with him."
Moira noticed Barbara glance back at the house where Narsico, still on his cell, paced up and down behind one of the French doors.
Barbara stood. "Why don't we go for a walk?"
After hesitating for a moment, Moira drank off the last of her sangria and, rising, followed Barbara down past the tennis court, toward the gardens. When they were far away from the hacienda, in among a dusty stand of dwarf pine trees, Barbara turned