Chapter 15
The sight of her husband without his mustache and with his cheeks freshly shaved confounded Perla.
It made him look less sophisticated, and what she keenly admired in Ulises was his air of sophistication.
In a way, she thought of him as a precious stone she’d found by chance at a bazaar.
Luxury goods, that was what he represented.
The sort of man no one else in town could dream of, for none of the masculine specimens on display were as good-looking, as charming, as urbane.
“It’s that bad, then?” he said when she stared at him.
She took off her hat and shook her head. “It’s a surprise, that is all.”
“I can grow it back.”
“You should.”
She felt he ought to have consulted her if he was determined to undergo a radical change.
She must address the matter of his appearance later. For now, she busied herself with her hair and reapplied her lipstick. It was almost time for supper, and she never ventured into the dining room without her hair looking impeccable and her makeup freshened.
As she was adjusting one last hairpin, Rita stepped into the room.
“Mr. Sotomayor is here to see you,” the maid said.
She disliked it when people came to her house unannounced, disturbing her well-laid plans.
She especially loathed when a guest popped in around suppertime, meaning she must consider laying an extra plate for them.
Fortunately, this time around it was Cándido without his annoying sister in tow.
One plate was enough to make her frown, two was impossible.
She headed downstairs and greeted her guest with a kiss on the cheek. “Won’t you join us in the dining room?” she asked Cándido, concealing her displeasure under the veneer of politeness. “We were about to eat.”
“I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” Cándido said, which of course he would be, but courtesy demanded that she smile and assure him it was no problem, that this was his home, that she was delighted to see him.
They sat down. Perla carefully draped her napkin across her lap. The main course was arroz a la tumbada, and the scent of shrimp and clams wafted through the dining room as Rita served everyone.
Perla looked at her husband across the table and critically analyzed his features, concluding that the lack of mustache altered his face in ways she definitely did not approve of. Not only did he seem less sophisticated, but the lack of facial hair made him look younger.
It was not as if Ulises seemed old when he went unshaven, but he had a certain gravitas that was now lacking.
She wanted every knickknack in her house in its place, every dish seasoned her way, and her husband dressed and presented to suit her tastes.
This change felt, to her, like a small act of rebellion.
It reminded her, irritatingly, of her niece’s mischief and muted defiance.
She looked in the direction of Inés, but the girl was eating her food without any complaint, quiet and well-behaved. Her silences sometimes angered Perla, for they had a pointed quality to them.
Perla ate without enthusiasm, thinking that the inhabitants of Puerco Ahogado would gossip about Ulises’s new look.
No doubt some people will point out he seems closer to thirty than forty, she thought. And they will joke about this, I’m sure they will.
“By the way, I heard a funny story that a man was looking for you earlier today, Mr. Linares,” Cándido said as he reached for his glass, interrupting her thoughts. “A detective.”
Ulises nodded. “I spoke to him. He was looking for a man who lived in my same guesthouse back in Mexico City. Apparently, the fellow owes people money. But I don’t know him, and I have no idea where he lives.”
“Not a friend of yours, then?”
“No. Merely another lodger.”
“You didn’t mention someone came here today,” Perla said.
“You just returned from your friend’s house, my darling, I was going to tell you this evening, but Mr. Sotomayor has brought it up before I could. He’s informed about everything that happens in town.”
“Hardly. Someone mentioned it in passing, that is all,” Cándido said, waving the comment away.
But later, when they retired to the office to chat, he brought up the incident again. “Don’t you find it troubling that a detective spoke to your husband today? He can’t have been associating with decent people back in Mexico City.”
“He said he wasn’t friends with the man they were looking for.”
“That’s what he says. You don’t know much about him, after all. It’s not like he’s a resident of Puerco Ahogado, with a history to his name and a solid reputation. He’s not a Novo or a Sotomayor.”
No, he wasn’t, although that was partly what had appealed to her about him.
That he was different, new, and that he didn’t know her as much as she didn’t know him.
To the men of Puerco Ahogado she was Miss Inclán, the spinster.
Once she’d been placed in this category, she was not allowed to be anything else.
Romance, adventure, they were denied her, first by her family, by her stern father, then by the town itself.
Sometimes, in secret, she had been able to escape these shackles, but only when she shed her name. But she did not wish to think about those times, about anonymous encounters in the port, or the liaison she’d cultivated with a married man under the cover of the dark.
“He’s my husband now,” she reminded Cándido.
“He’s a stranger and might be the friend of thieves. A thief himself,” he said, and took out his pistol, which he placed upon the desk. “Your father gave me this as a gift for my thirtieth birthday, do you remember? I think you ought to have it from now on.”
“I do remember, and I wouldn’t know what to do with a weapon. A lady doesn’t hunt or shoot.”
“I’d sleep better knowing you’re protected.”
“You’re being silly,” she told him, and shoved the gun in a drawer. She’d take it to her room later, where she might lock it away in her desk. She did not need Fito accidentally grabbing the weapon and shooting himself in the foot, which the boy was liable to do.
“I’m cautious.”
“You’re an idiot,” she snapped at him. She did not like it when people questioned her judgment, and to question her choice of husband struck her as the epitome of rudeness.
However, that night, as she brushed her hair and looked at her husband’s reflection in the mirror above her vanity, she wondered about his provenance. Ulises was lying in her bed, idly thumbing through a book, and she watched him with careful eyes.
She dictated the rhythms of the house, the chores and schedules everyone must follow, and he abided by her commands when it came to lovemaking. He came to her room at night and had sex with her when she wanted it, decamping to his own bed afterward, which was the proper way a couple should live.
She liked him in his pajamas with the two top buttons undone, showing an expanse of his chest, sitting and awaiting her orders. But as she looked at him now and ran the comb through her hair, she wondered about the exact category of man her husband belonged to.
He looked like a gentleman, but as Cándido had pointed out, she knew little of his friends and associates. She had the nagging sensation that rather than purchasing a thoroughbred, she’d bought a horse without a pedigree.
“I think you might be right. It would be best if we took the car to Mexico City and sold that equipment you left behind,” she said, breaking the silence in the room.
He looked up at her, his gaze meeting her own in the mirror. “You want to go with me?”
“Why not? I could meet your friends while we’re there.”
“I suppose it would be fine, although the timing might be a bit of an issue. I don’t think we could go anytime soon. The friend I left the equipment with is traveling, and I don’t expect he’ll be back for a few months. Let me send a few letters and figure out a timeline.”
He turned a page of his book, then paused, pressing a finger against his lip, as if considering a complicated math problem. “It might be wise to wait to sell anything anyway. Nowadays, with the economy the way it is, it’s hard to get a fair price. We could revisit the issue later.”
Perla found herself analyzing each word. He was vague, and his effortless tone of voice struck her as a bit hollow, a bit rehearsed.
“Later when?” she asked testily.
“I don’t know. Let me write to this fellow and see when he’s coming home.”
“Wouldn’t someone else have the key?”
“Sorry?”
“Wouldn’t someone have the key to the house where you left your equipment? A housekeeper? An associate?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug.
“If we went to Mexico City, we could make a honeymoon out of the trip. We haven’t had a proper honeymoon. Our marriage was hasty.”
Too hasty, she thought. Although she had a habit of being hasty at times, a habit of seeking comfort in the arms of strangers.
He set the book aside and stood up. He smiled as he approached her and rested his hands on her shoulders.
“Dearest, is that what’s bothering you? If you want to honeymoon in Mexico City, we could go there.
Frankly I’d rather head to the beach and admire you in a bathing suit, but I won’t say no to a honeymoon in the capital. ”
“Why did you have to shave without telling me beforehand?” she asked.
“Don’t tell me you’re still annoyed about that. It was a bit of soap and a razor; I did not think you’d be offended. Has it made me appallingly ugly?” he asked, rubbing a hand against his cheek and laughing.
“It makes you look like a child.”
“Surely not.”
She clutched the hairbrush tight. “It does, and in turn it makes me look silly. It makes it obvious you’re younger than me.”
“It’s not a crime.”
“No, but it’s ridiculous! When a woman is forty-three her husband is not supposed to be thirty-eight and look like a child. They’ll say I’m a desperate spinster who married a boy.”
“They’re not going to say that.”
“They wouldn’t say it to me, but they would think it. That’s even worse.”