Chapter 9 #4
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“We can pull him and two witnesses out of a cantina if necessary, it won’t matter. If that fails, we can convince the priest in town to marry us.”
“That’s not binding! The valid certificate is the one issued by the judge.”
He pulled her farther into the shadows and lowered his voice even more, but spoke in a brisk, hard tone.
“I know that. But if we’re married by the church, I’m sure your aunt will also want a civil wedding, it’s logical.
One or the other, whichever comes first. Now, go about your work and don’t fret. ”
He rushed back to his room and opened the box where he stored his studs, his watch, and two wedding rings.
They had belonged to his mother and father, two simple golden circles that he had yet to pawn out of misguided sentimentality.
He counted the money in his wallet and uttered a curse.
If this didn’t work, he was going to be in a dire position.
He looked in the mirror, inspecting his face, and dabbed a dash of cologne against his wrists.
He knocked at Perla’s door and asked if they might go for a drive, the two of them alone.
She didn’t like the idea of it—he’d learned by now that to her not having a driver was synonymous with being low-class; ladies always had a chauffeur—but he said there was something vital he needed to discuss, and he’d drive her anyway, there was no need for her to take the wheel.
They drove past the fields with trees laden with fruit, crossed a bridge, and stopped by a clearing.
The exuberant vegetation of the mountain loomed nearby, nourished by rivers and constant rains, growing wild.
It was not the manicured beauty of the orange groves or the coffee fields, but a chaos of oyamel and pines, as if every seed that fell upon the soil had sprouted and tried to scratch the sky.
The air was warm, and the smell of wet earth perfumed the afternoon.
It rained quite a bit in this place. Yet the rain was often light, like mist, and arrived with a suddenness that shocked him.
They’d told him that when the rains came down heavier, later in the year, the rivers would turn torrential, swelling and dragging everything in their path.
They said he hadn’t seen anything yet. He didn’t want to be here to witness it.
He opened the door for Perla and helped her out of the car. “Are we sightseeing?” she asked. She’d said nothing in the car, and he’d also been quiet.
“I wanted to get out of the house, to speak to you far from the guesthouse with all those prying eyes.”
“Well, then? What is on your mind?”
“I think you know the answer to that. I want to ask you to put on a nice dress tomorrow morning and your best shoes and hat and go with me for another ride. This time to Las Tunas, so that we might be married.” He took his mother’s wedding ring from his pocket and held it out.
“This belongs on your hand. Put it on if you’ll take me as your husband.
If not, fling it away, down the mountain.
Fling my heart away too, and instead of taking a ride to Las Tunas tomorrow morning, I’ll catch the train back to Mexico City. ”
“A wedding needs to be planned. There must be a guest list—” she said, and he was thrilled by the realization that she did not object to the idea of the wedding, merely its details. He spoke quickly, vehemently.
“Why? A wedding is a pledge, and I can pledge myself to you tomorrow. If you want a party, then throw it afterward. Invite the whole town, order a cake seven tiers tall. But I’m tired of being patient and slowly courting you. Perla, can’t you see? I won’t wait any longer.”
With that, he slid the ring upon her finger and kissed her.
He thought about Inés’s mockery of his manhood as he embraced Perla and fumbled with her clothes, guiding her to the back seat of the car, which was, admittedly, not a terribly gallant spot for a lovers’ meeting, but he had wanted to avoid the danger of interruptions at the guesthouse.
He also suspected that Perla, so used to knowing her place in town and the places of others, so used to being the proud, pristine Miss Inclán, wouldn’t mind an enthusiastic fuck in a vehicle.
It would be proof of her irresistible charm and of his Byronic, rebellious allure.
Not that Ulises had a Byronic bone in his body. He was no tortured loner loitering upon barren hills and speaking of his lost beloved. But he’d adopted that part, between kisses, and she liked the angst-filled mixture he offered her.
It was too damn hot, and he would have preferred to be sitting in a bathtub, with a cool drink in hand, rather than unbuttoning Perla’s blouse, but he went through the motions with the ease of an actor playing a familiar role, never stuttering a line.
Afterward, lying in the back of the car, with Perla’s hand skimming over his chest in postcoital gratification and his brow damp with sweat, he remembered how Inés had laughed, and swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth.