|
VIII
The storm had abated. We sent the Rickenbacker into Salinas.
 Throughout the morning Emilia and Atuel stayed with the
deceased. The rest of us discreetly shared that sad duty. Andrea avoided
the room. That someone could have died in her hotel was unthinkable;
that she would now have to deal with the police and their investigation
exceeded her ability to consider and tolerate. In her transactions with
Atuel and Emilia, she became careless. Speaking of the dead girl, she
did not hide her irritation.
At eleven exactly I took myself to
the kitchen and asked Andrea to have my usual soup and toast prepared. I
had an unpleasant presentiment: Andrea was pale; a tremor in her jaw
announced the imminent appearance of sobbing. Hardly keeping my
impatience in check, I realized that a delay in the arrival of the soup
was virtually inevitable. It seemed prudent not to speak further until I
was served.
I am disposed to recognize my cousin's many failings, but
I must admit that she is an excellent cook. The soup she brought me was
perhaps superior to that my two lighthearted dwarves prepared for me in
my office.
Seated astraddle the carpenter's bench with the tray in
front of me, I resigned myself to listening to Andrea.
"I'm
worried about Miguel," she assured me, her tone indicating that no one
but she and I had good sense or equanimity. "Those women don't remember
that he is only a boy; they make no attempt to keep their arguments to
themselves or to be discreet with their boyfriend."
The
ancient typist passed nimbly with a fly swatter in her hand. Thinking
back, I know I heard the monotonous blows of that huntress against the
walls and furniture. As the storm kept us from opening the windows, the
hotel was aswarm with flies. The atmosphere was oppressive.
"You
forget that one of 'those women' is dead," I said, resuming the
conversation.
It was not only Andrea's soup which deserved eulogies:
the toast too was distinguished.
"That will completely drive him out
of his mind. I'm worried, Humberto. Miguel has had a sad childhood. He's
anemic and hasn't developed properly. He's very small for his age. He
thinks all the time. My brother had hoped that the sea would strengthen
him. He's in his room crying. I wish you would go see him."
My
cousin's cruelty toward the dead woman shouldn't confuse me: what she
had said about the boy was right on target. First impressions leave an
echo in the soul that resonates throughout an entire life. It behooved
all of us to make sure those echoes were not ominous. I ought not
forget, on the other hand, Miguel's unsavory disposition as he
eavesdropped on the intimate conversations of Emilia and Mary.
I
followed Andrea into the depths of the hotel, to the room of the cages,
where they had placed a bed for Miguel. While I vainly ran my hand over
the wall in search of a light switch, Andrea lit a match. Then she lit
the stub of a candle resting on one of the cages.
The
boy wasn't there.
Nailed to the wall was a page cut from El
Gráfico: the first division team of Western Railway. On top of a
newspaper spread out like a carpet over a cage was an empty bottle of
paste, a comb, a toothbrush, and a packet of Barrilete cigarettes. The
bed was a mess.
|
