Chapter 5 #3
When the house was silent, she went to Ulises’s room.
He had not locked the door, so there was no need to knock.
She slipped inside and stood by the bed, watching him in the moonlight, holding her breath and biting her lip to keep herself from shivering.
When he opened his eyes and looked at her, her first instinct was to bolt, but she managed to force herself to remain firmly in place.
“What time is it?” he asked, drowsy with sleep.
“Past midnight.”
He stretched his arms, brushed the hair away from his forehead, and smiled.
The knowing gleam she glimpsed in his eyes steeled her resolve.
It was a conceited, sly look. Like he’d expected Inés might slip into his room in the darkness.
Or he expected her aunt Perla to make a late-night trip to his bedroom.
Either way, she felt like shattering his pride.
“I know you’re a fraud,” she said.
“What?” he asked, as if she’d tossed a bucket of icy water in his face.
He reached for the lamp near the bed, but she swatted his hand away. “No lights. And keep your voice down unless you want them to find me here with you. It wouldn’t look too good, would it?”
He frowned but pulled his hand back. “You’re a mad girl. I’m—”
“A fraud. Don’t bother denying it. I found the letters.”
“I don’t know what letters you’re talking about.”
“In the lining of your suitcase. If you try to play innocent one more time, I’ll scream and have my aunt here in a minute.”
He sat up, wide awake, and stared at her. She almost lost her nerve and looked down, but the memory of Aunt Perla’s recriminations gave her courage. She was not going to wither inside this house.
“I may send postcards or letters, but that’s not a crime. What were you doing looking in my suitcase anyway? Who gives you the right to go through my things?”
His rebuke had no effect on her, since she knew she was correct. “You write to many women,” she insisted.
“I wrote to many women, before I settled on your aunt. But now that my heart is determined—”
“You wrote to them under different names. Ulises Linares. Ulises Orozco. Luis Cacho. Armando Zozaya. Nobody does that unless they’re up to no good. Your heart is not set on anybody. You asked for money in the letters. You con women, don’t you? Don’t play innocent, you con them, right?”
Her words seemed to needle him, and he replied with a voice that was insolent and smug. “Yes, I con them.”
“Using the lonely hearts ads.”
On the night table there was a pack of cigarettes, and he struck a match and lit one. Then he leaned back against the headboard of the bed and watched her with careful eyes as he took a drag. “Yes.”
“Do you make much money out of it?”
“Some. I make a living.”
“Your clothing is expensive.”
He grinned, pleased, maybe even amused at the line of questioning. “It ought to be. It’s meant to impress people. When someone thinks they’re speaking to a man of substance, they never question the minor discrepancies.”
“You’re not a photographer at all.”
“I know photography. But I’m not employed at any studio.”
“You ask them for money in your letters, but you came here in person. Why?”
“I thought there might be something worth stealing here,” he said smoothly.
Something more than a hundred pesos, she thought. Something big. She was almost afraid of continuing their conversation. Not because what they were discussing was wicked—though it was, and if she confessed to the priest he would die of shock—but because of the thrill that ran down her spine.
“You think you could steal my aunt’s money?”
“The odds are good I could, if she marries me.”
“I could help you,” she said, feeling breathless when she spoke.
He smirked. “I work alone.”
“Two is better than one. I know her; I’d come in handy.”
“And what would you want for your help?”
Freedom, she thought.
“We split the money down the middle,” she said. “You’ll need me. You don’t know her. She’s tough. Cándido’s been trying to marry her for ages and she won’t budge. She’s careful with her property, with her money.”
“Really, you’re too much,” he replied, and gave the cigarette a final puff before tossing it in an ashtray. “Get out of my room and let me sleep.”
“I’ll tell her in the morning if you don’t partner up with me.”
He stood up and looked at her, studying her face. “Not if I call her right now and inform her that her niece is a tart who tried to jump into my bed. I have a feeling she’d believe me. I don’t think your aunt has a high opinion of you.”
He was bluffing, she was sure of it, but still her cheeks grew warm with mortification.
She understood, in that moment, that she had a choice.
She could run out of the room, shamed and afraid.
She could forget about any freedom, about a life outside the walls of the house.
She could cross off the days on her calendar and watch the years crawl by.
Or she could be bold.
She chose boldness and slapped him. He stared at her, open-mouthed, unable to utter a word, as if such an injury were inconceivable. Maybe it was. Maybe no one had dared to slap that pretty face before.
“We split the money down the middle. We split the money, or you get nothing.”
He rubbed his cheek and snorted. “Blackmail—”
“It’s not blackmail. It’s common sense. I assure you, you won’t get anywhere without me. Give it a try. You’ll see.”
He said nothing, still rubbing his cheek, quietly seething. She went back to her room with her heart beating fast in her chest.
I’ve gone mad, she thought. She was extremely nervous about what she’d done, half terrified he would speak to Aunt Perla and tell a horrible lie about her and she’d be put out on the street. But she was also glad, even giddy.
She wondered if her mother had felt like this when she ran away from home. And it was that thought that propelled her dreams that night, which were about her dead mother.
First her mother in the city, in front of her sewing machine, or else making dinner for her and her father, who came to visit every few days.
The scents of that old apartment, of the flowerpots on the balcony.
Then Mother taking her by the hand, walking her through the hallways of the house in Puerco Ahogado, which seemed immense to her young eyes.
Her mother feeding the canaries on the patio and singing love songs to them. Sweet memories.
But then came her mother, dead at the foot of the stairs, with her eyes boring into Inés while the girl clutched her doll between her hands.
In the dream, even though her mother had broken her neck, she managed to speak, her tongue wagging inside her mouth. And then her mother’s body was shriveled and decayed, the black tongue poking out through the mouth of a skull. It spoke her name.
Inés woke up with a start. The morning sun was peeking through the curtains of her room. She opened the window, breathing in a mouthful of fresh air.
I must get out of here.