Chapter 1 #5
“There’s more, sometimes,” she said with a shrug. “People come for the feast of San Fidel de las Cumbres, during the Posadas, and for Holy Week, when they burn the effigy of Judas in the churchyard.”
“It seems like a big house. How many guests can it accommodate?”
“It depends if you count my room and my aunt’s room.”
“Those are on this floor?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I’m sure my aunt will give you a tour,” she said. Her tone bordered on insolence, and she smiled in a mocking manner that made him want to scoff.
But he contained himself and she stepped out, leaving him to continue his analysis of the house. He looked out the window and saw that there was a back patio stuffed with flowerpots and wild with greenery. The patio was bordered by a tall wall and there was a door, which must lead to an alleyway.
He lay down on the bed and the weight of his body made the old springs inside the mattress squeal. The pillow was lumpy, and he knit his fingers behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
There was more and there was less than he’d expected in this place.
The house was large and elements in it hinted at money.
But other details were worrisome, such as the state of the car and of a great deal of the furniture, the cracks in the walls and missing tiles around the fountain, all indications of neglect that made him frown.
There was also the fact that they only had a few lodgers.
It couldn’t be a terribly lucrative operation.
Perla Inclán hadn’t seemed too interested in him either.
Yes, there had been that blush, that brief flash of desire suppressed under layers of cloth and the weight of the crucifix, but that didn’t amount to much.
Not that he couldn’t work with little, not that he couldn’t charm even the steeliest widows and the most caustic of spinsters, but that took time, and he wasn’t certain if it was worth investing the time in this venture.
What was there to be had? Only the house?
Did Perla Inclán possess savings accounts, a hidden stash of gold under the bed, antique pearls?
Did she have a safe where she shoved the lodgers’ weekly rent?
He didn’t know, and although there was no threat of a bomb falling on him in this place, although there would be no war exercises where they cut off the lights, he wasn’t sure he wanted to molder in this town for a middling amount of cash.
Perla Inclán. In her letters she’d been reserved, coy with her words, although there had been that hint of desperate longing on the page.
I’m a sensitive, considerate woman, neat and refined, who has not yet found a man of similar qualities to share her life. Might that be you?
He’d sent his photograph; she’d sent pressed flowers and told him briefly about her “lovely” house, the town where she lived; she’d mentioned that she’d cared for her parents for years but they were now both dead and that there was a niece who lived with her.
In the blank spaces of the page, behind the curtain of reserve, he read quiet loneliness and desperation.
She was the typical old maid, dreaming of Prince Charming.
He could easily intoxicate her with dreams of romance and adventure.
It should not be that difficult. Although now that he thought about it, it was a bit odd that she’d never married.
She wasn’t horrid in appearance, and she had a little money.
Or perhaps it was less money than one could hope for; maybe this house was a money pit and dainty Miss Perla had nasty habits and bad traits.
Foul breath, constant snoring, a violent temper.
She might even be afflicted with a horrid venereal disease.
One couldn’t be too careful, and he must examine her from every possible angle.
He undid his tie and the top two buttons of his shirt; the breeze that wafted through the curtains did not cool his skin.
What about the niece? Good legs, lush hair, and an unnerving way of staring at you, her eyes so black they looked like they were made of obsidian and lips that were disturbingly plump.
Clearly, she was something of a handmaiden to her aunt.
Nosy relatives could be awful pests, and he had that nagging sensation that she might be a true foe.
He couldn’t afford a repeat of the scenario that had taken place with the widow Aguirre. Her sons had ruined it all, poking their heads into her business dealings and spoiling Ulises’s payday.
He simply wasn’t sure if Perla would be the same story, with the niece raising objections. Or, even worse, Perla could be penniless and hoping for a husband to keep her afloat.
His father would have been able to size them all up in five minutes. He had an instinct for such dealings; he could sniff out gold and silver and immediately detect fake pearls and sizable debts. But Ulises was not his father; he couldn’t approximate his talents.
There was nothing to do now but wait and watch and learn. He’d devise a plan, determine his next move. He stared at the pinned butterflies in their dusty shadow boxes, their wings splayed wide, showing off their markings that were slowly fading under the onslaught of the sun.