Chapter 11
The house had changed, but merely a tad. It had not been as monumental a change as they had imagined. Perla asked everyone to call her “Perla Inclán Arnao de Linares” and Fito was assigned to fulfill the role of Ulises’s manservant.
Grandfather Osorio had a manservant back in the day, Perla said.
But Fito was ill-prepared for the role. He could water plants, drive a car, and fix leaky faucets, but he was not the sophisticated valet Perla dreamed of.
She desired a servant who could make cocktails, mull claret, take off Ulises’s shoes and put them away as soon as he walked into the sitting room.
Most of the time Ulises simply smiled at Perla’s ridiculous requests and waved Fito away, to the relief of the young man.
Ulises now sat by Perla’s side at the dinner table, he accompanied her to whatever lunches or dinners or social functions she was invited to, and on occasion he received pocket money from his wife.
That everything should remain practically the same did not initially bother Ulises or Inés.
They made bawdy jokes about Perla when they were alone, wasted time playing with the dog, shared useless tidbits of information—his favorite ice cream flavor was pistachio, hers strawberry.
Yet the days gathered, one after the other, like a bouquet of flowers that wilts under the sudden onslaught of summer.
They began to fret, to drum their fingers nervously at the table and realize they were no closer to achieving their goal than before.
“Nothing works,” he said one day. “Nothing at all.”
“You need to try harder,” Inés insisted.
He paced back and forth inside his room while Inés busied herself changing his bedsheets.
“As if I haven’t been trying. She’s as hard as iron. I now have less money than I had when I arrived. She won’t budge.”
She brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “What if you falsified a power of attorney?”
“I don’t know how to falsify documents.”
“What can you do?” she asked, exasperated, balling the dirty sheets in a fury.
He took out a cigarette and lit it, then he tapped his foot. “You said she has money in that desk in her room.”
“I think so. But you told me it couldn’t be much, and you said you can’t pick locks. You’re simply useless.”
“No, I said I’m not much of a lock picker, which means I’d rather avoid it.
But if worse comes to worst, I could try.
There might be money, there might be traveler’s checks, other useful documents.
I’d need time, though. That’s the problem with my lock-picking skills: I’m not that fast, she spends an abominable amount of time in the house, and when she’s out she wants me with her.
It’s hard to do anything when she’s right there in her room. ”
“What about when she takes her bath? She spends a good hour in the bath.”
He shook his head. “The bath’s connected to the room. Any noise and she might jump out and find me going through her things. Even right now I’m afraid she’s going to come barging through that door.”
They both turned their heads and stared at the closed door. They could hear the noises of the household, the cook singing and the birds in the trees and someone coughing loudly below. They drifted toward each other, both apprehensive.
“She’s always nearby,” he whispered.
“What about during mass?”
“We all go together to mass and walk back together too.”
“Not this Sunday,” Inés whispered back. He looked at her, confused. “The first Sunday of the month, that’s the day when all the women in town pray the rosary. She’ll be out with all the other ladies in Puerco Ahogado.”
For that was the practice and tradition in Puerco Ahogado.
Some families prayed even more, prayed a rosary every night, and the Zorrilla sisters prayed to each and every saint whose picture they had in their room, reciting half a dozen rosaries before bedtime.
But, at minimum, the women of decent families in town were expected to gather respectfully in one of the rooms of the church, which was normally reserved for the teaching of the catechism, and bow their heads as they prayed that monthly rosary together.
Afterward, there was a chance for socializing and gossiping before they dispersed.
Men were not invited to join in this activity and happily hurried in search of food or drinks.
“But you’ll also be praying the rosary.”
“I could be sick,” Inés said. He grinned at her, and she grabbed the bedsheets and rushed down the stairs.
She dumped the dirty bedsheets in the laundry room, grabbed a clean set, then knocked on Nepomuceno’s door. He took his time, but she heard the shuffling of his feet, his low grumblings. Finally, he opened the door and let her in.
“Good morning, Professor,” she said. “Time for fresh laundry.”
“It’s already Tuesday? Are you sure?” he asked.
“As sure as my name.”
Nepomuceno nodded. He shooed away the dog, which had been curled up on the bed, and sat on a grand old burgundy armchair. His white hair was a tangled mess, his eyes were red, and he reeked of booze, but that was normal with Professor Nepomuceno.
The dog barked and barked, eliciting a groan from Nepomuceno, and she let it out of the room.
“It wants you to take it for a walk,” she said.
“How an animal can insist on going around and around the block each day of its life, I do not know,” he said. “And at this hour.”
“It’s late enough.”
“Bah. It’s not as if I need to rise at the crack of dawn to teach lessons. It doesn’t matter much whether it’s noon or dawn for me, does it?” he asked.
She spied his breakfast tray, untouched, upon the desk that was set by the window, and sighed.
“You’re not eating again,” she chided him. “You haven’t touched your food.”
“Estrella cooks too many fatty things for me.”
“It’s eggs and beans, Professor.”
“She’s an awful cook.”
“Let me bring you your tray. You can eat while I make your bed.”
He was cadaverous in his thinness and seemed to live off liquids.
She handed him the tray. He sighed but placed it on his lap and began to eat.
The room was in disarray. The bed was littered with books.
The professor had the bad habit of falling asleep in the armchair rather than bothering to slip under the bedsheets.
He’d also left a couple of bottles on the floor, and a half-empty bowl of rice.
Rita hated it when he did that, she said it attracted roaches and mice.
Inés scooped up the empty bottles of booze and stacked them outside the door, along with the bowl. Then she turned to the books. She held one up. Poetry.
“ ‘It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee,’ ” he recited smoothly. “Now, who’s that?”
“Poe.”
She went to the bookcases and slid the volume back in its place. Then she stripped off the bedsheets and replaced them with freshly laundered ones.
“ ‘Your hair is black as the wing of mystery; dark as a gloomy never, like a farewell, or as the words “who knows!” Yet there is something darker still: your eyes!’ ” the professor said. “And that?”
“Nervo. Professor, you make it too easy some days.”
“You know me too well.”
She did. She’d had no proper father, as her aunt liked to remind her.
Her mother had been abandoned, cast off, and her father had erased any bonds he’d had with them.
No letters ever came, no birthday cards or gifts.
Nepomuceno had become her father. He was the one who sat her down to hear tales of long-gone heroes and the dusty rhymes of dead poets.
The lessons he’d once taught his pupils had been shared with the eager child.
Nepomuceno smiled and handed her the tray, which she set upon the desk once more.
“ ‘Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost,’ ” he said.
This time she did not recognize the line and remained mute. “Dante,” the professor said, and he stood up, heading to the bookshelf. “You haven’t been reading lately, my tenacious Atalanta. Now, let me see, for a young soul such as you, I would recommend—”
He winced and paused, bending a little and pressing a hand against his stomach. Inés dropped the pillow she’d been holding and went around the bed to his side. “Professor, what’s wrong?”
“It’s that old twinge. My war wounds.”
“War wounds, my ass, Professor. You were not a soldier.”
“There are all types of wars,” he said as he leaned on her and she sat him down on the freshly made bed. He rubbed his belly with his right hand and looked up at her, sighing. “You must not use crude language. It’s not becoming of a lady.”
“What kind of lady might I be in this house? Lady of lye and soap?” she asked, showing him her hands, which were rough from household chores.
“A lady is a lady, no matter if she scrubs pots and pans,” he said solemnly.
He lay down. Inés picked up the pillow and placed it behind his head. He laced his hands together and rested them on his stomach.
“You should make an appointment with Dr. Carrel.”
“That butcher! No, thank you. I detest the man. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to pay his fee. I’m already behind on the rent and your aunt has threatened to haul me out of the house if I don’t pay her by next week.”
Inés opened the top drawer of a bureau and took out a blanket. She wrapped it around Nepomuceno. “She always says that and then you pay her a month and she’s happy to have you around.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve exhausted all my charitable friends. Affection has its limits.”
“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she said, patting his hand.
Nepomuceno smiled. “Thank you. And the dog? Might you take it for a walk?”
“Of course. Around and around the block, as usual.”