by Todd Downing
She was thinking, lethargically, of that lush northern spring when she and Stephen, drunk with the air and fragile dreams and pounding young blood, had married. It had been Commencement week, a Carnival of loosened emotions and foolishly inflated ambitions. They had driven into the night, after a fraternity dance, and had aroused the justice of the peace of some little village, the name of which she couldn’t recall now.
She brushed a hand across her eyes. Incredibly remote, it all seemed, unassociated with reality.
The serrated tops of the mountains wavered, as if they had given off a suddenly intensified radiation of heat waves.
She was too tired now to protest any longer against the remorse-lessness with which things had tumbled about their heads. The families of neither had been in a position to aid them. Modest investments had been swept away in the cataclysm of the depression. There had been no demand for architects, even good ones as (she told herself again loyally) Stephen undoubtedly was. And then the final numbing blow. Tuberculosis, the doctors had pronounced it. Stephen must have rest in another and drier climate. There had been talk of sanitariums, frantic plans that flooded vainly against the granite wall of impecunity. They had moved to Texas, where Stephen had found a job. They had gotten along fairly well for a time. Then had come that incredible incident in San Antonio, the thought of which sent hot tears of resentment to her young eyes and contracted the fingers of her hands into tight little fists.
She had known then the fierce white flame that makes people kill.
She let her eyes fall and stared at the yellow marigolds at her feet. A mass of them occupied the entire corner of the patio in which she stood. Their heads were drooping toward the hard, dark soil that had cracked crazily in little zigzags.
She had endured these two months of heat and loneliness because the climate was helping Stephen. But now they said that the rains were about to commence, that day after day throughout the summer there would be showers—the fierce pounding showers of the tropics. Stephen must be gotten out before they came.…
She saw it, lying very still and wary, coiled under a dense clump of the marigolds. Two black flakes of light regarded her with lidless fixity. As she stared, fascinated by a coldness that the eyes clamped about her heart, she heard a tiny sound. It was harsh and rasping, like two stiff withered leaves vibrating against each other.
She started to draw back then stopped, the fingers of one hand tight about the post.
Here was a way. It would neither be quick nor painless—but no one would ever suspect.
The rasping filled her ears. The sound steeled her with determination, breaking the tension that gripped her as she stared at those two steady eyes.
If I could only tell Steve, she thought. A queer distorted little prayer flitted across her mind.
She moved forward.…
“Hacienda Flores,” Rennert read with dust-weary eyes.
The letters had been burned deep into a huge hewn beam, the ends of which rested upon the tops of two stone pillars.
He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it across his face. In his ears was the gentle churning of the water in the radiator, heated by hours of driving over uneven roads.
He looked about him, paying silent tribute to the wild beauty of the setting.
Straight ahead of him rose the mountains, barren gray-brown slopes that shot suddenly up into sheer walls of rock, above and beyond which rose higher peaks, their outlines lost in a thin haze of heat. Against the horizon, as he narrowed his eyes, he could distinguish the shimmering blue shapes of farther, mirage-like ranges.
The hacienda lay in a pocket of the mountains, where a precipitous valley debouched onto the desert. Its adobe walls had evidently once been painted a bright vermilion, traces of which remained obstinately in irregular splotches on the gray surface. A wide, open doorway and two narrow barred windows broke the monotony of the front. From the sloping tiled roof projected the ends of round logs, like cannon aimed at an intruder.
It was a building as characteristic of the Mexican landscape as the mountains and the mesquite and the cruel claws of the maguey. One had the feeling that it, too, had grown out of the soil.
Two objects jarred with their blatant notes of modernity. On the slope to the left of the house stood a square one-story building of red brick. Nearer at hand, half hidden by the corner of the adobe walls, was a small biplane, its wings bright silver in the sun.
Rennert started the car and drove straight ahead, under the rude archway. He came to a stop at one side of the entrance and got out, shaking loose the clothing that clung damply to his body. His muscles ached from the hours spent in the jolting car. He longed to plunge into cold clear water, to cleanse body and brain.
A suitcase in either hand he walked toward the doorway. It was so wide that he might easily have driven the car through it. His feet, crunching against the loose gravel, sounded unnaturally loud in the heavy afternoon stillness that held the place.
He stopped in the entrance, staring in surprise at the interior. He felt as if he had stepped into a greenhouse.
The patio, around which the house was built, was larger than he had expected from his survey of the exterior. A tiled fountain rose out of a stone basin. Beyond this he caught a glimpse of another inner patio. Both were filled (confusingly, was his first impression) with flowers.
However, as he advanced, he saw that there was a certain symmetrical arrangement about them.
The stone base of the fountain was hidden by a bed of flaming red poinsettias. In a narrow circle about these was a variety of poppy with white crepe-like petals. In the far corners were a frangipani tree, its flowers white and gold against long glistening green leaves, and a mass of white-trumpeted floripondio blossoms.
He stepped inside.
Between the fioripondios and the corner at his left were regular beds of flowers whose names he did not know, with clover-like heads of white and red and violet. The corner itself was filled with tiny flores del Indio, cardinal red. Straight in front of him was a star-shaped bed of gentian-blue gilias. To his right a dazzling-bright profusion of yellow marigolds.
A girl in a plain faded blue dress was standing a few feet from the marigolds, by the wooden post that supported the roof. She was staring fixedly at the ground. As Rennert watched she began to move forward, walking with stiff mechanical steps.
Rennert moved into the shade and advanced toward her. She didn’t seem to hear his footsteps on the worn flagstones.
He got within a few feet of her and stopped, puzzled by her actions.
His ears caught the note of warning. The rasping was loud now, grating angrily into the hot silence.
He looked down and saw the brown quivering coil under the marigolds.
He sprang forward, caught her by the shoulders and pushed her back. He stepped quickly to one side and jerked loose a stone from the paving. He threw it just as the brown coil unwound.
A thud and the long loose end of the coil writhed frantically, filling the air with its buzzing rattle.
“For God’s sake, woman—” He turned to the girl and stopped.
She was standing by the post, one bare arm encircling it. The other hung straight down at her side. She was staring at the ground, her light brown eyes widened by horror. The white skin seemed suddenly stretched tightly over the bones of her small delicately chiseled face. Her chin was firm but the bloodless lips above it were tightly compressed, as if to quiet the tendon that quivered spas-modically in her bare throat.
She raised her eyes very slowly and looked at him dazedly.
She said in a flat, tired voice: “You might have saved yourself the trouble, you know. There are so many ways.”
3
A Blow
The girl started across the patio, along a graveled path that ran between rectangular beds of red coral-bells and lilac zinnias. A few steps and she stopped, her shoulders sagging.
Rennert went to her side and put an arm about her. She steadied
herself, her head thrown back so that the sun shone full on it. He observed the dark circles below her averted eyes, the telltale lines that had etched her thin cheeks.
“I’m all right,” she spoke with a visible effort. “I’m going to my room.”
“Let me help you.”
She made no reply but accompanied him, the fingers of one hand grasping his sleeve tightly. He felt the uncontrollable trembling of her arm.
As they came to a door on the west side she stopped, looked up at his face and said in a low voice, little more than a whisper: “There’s no need to say anything, is there?”
“About the snake?”
“About what I was going to do.”
“None at all.”
“Thanks.” She put out a hand and opened the door. She paused on the threshold.
A tall young man clad in white pajamas was advancing out of the dim coolness of the room. He came forward and threw an arm about the girl.
“Ann! What’s the matter?”
A little tremor ran through her body and she buried her head against his shoulder, one hand running up the side of his temple to bury itself in his ruffled yellow hair.
“It was a rattlesnake,” Rennert explained. “She came very near stepping on it.”
“Oh!” He saw the quick flare of concern in the light blue eyes that were rimmed by dark shadows. The man’s face was long and handsome but weakened by an indeterminate chin. He stared at Rennert for a moment then extended a hand. “Tolman’s my name. This is my wife, Ann.”
“My name is Rennert. I’m to be a guest here at the hacienda for a while.”
He felt the soft thin-boned hand press ineffectually against his large tanned one before they released their grip.
“Thank you, Rennert,” Tolman said. He looked straight into Rennert’s eyes and repeated: “Thank you,” as if he were impressing upon him some special message.
“Could you tell me,” Rennert asked, “where I can find Mr. Falter?”
“That’s his room over there on the north side, to the right of the entrance to the inside patio.”
“Much obliged. And now,” Rennert had been observing the girl’s face, “I think it would be well if Mrs. Tolman lay down for a while. She had quite a shock.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Her husband was quickly apologetic.
They turned into the room and closed the door.
Rennert stared for a moment, thoughtfully, at the thick wooden panels before he walked away.
He knocked at the door that Tolman had indicated.
It was thrown open almost immediately by a florid, heavy-featured man with sparse, sandy-colored hair. A faded olive-colored shirt and gray drill trousers hung loosely upon a frame that would have been capable of supporting a great deal of solid flesh and muscle. He looked sixty and might have been forty.
“Mr. Falter?” Rennert inquired.
“Yes, you’re Rennert?” The voice was deep and heavy with a suggestion of Germanic gutturalness. “I had a talk with Ed Solier this morning and he said you were on your way down. Glad to see you.”
He gripped Rennert’s hand and looked straight and appraisingly into his eyes. His own hard china-blue eyes were sun-narrowed. He blinked them as if he had been aroused from sleep.
“Come in,” he said, “or would you rather get washed up first?”
“I’d like to get at least one layer of this dust off, if you don’t mind.”
“I expect so. I’ll show you where your room is. Where are your things?”
“Over by the door.”
Rennert followed him along the narrow stone-paved path that circled the patio under the shelter of the roof.
“Have a good trip down?” Falter asked conversationally.
“Hot and dry and dusty, but it’s what I expected.”
“You’ve been in this part of Mexico before, I believe?”
“Yes, I’ve spent a considerable number of years along the border.”
They retrieved Rennert’s suitcases and carried them to a door on the east side. Falter gestured toward it.
“Here you are. I expect you’ll want a bath?”
“It’s almost a necessity in my present condition.”
“All right. I had Miguel fill up a tub this afternoon. It runs pretty slow and I thought you wouldn’t want to wait. You’ll find the bathroom in the inside patio. If there’s anything you want, just shout.”
Rennert had opened the door and was already peeling off a coat that had once been white.
“You’ll have to pardon a little confusion around here,” Falter was glancing about him. “Miguel, the Mexican who acts as a sort of manager of the place, was taken sick a couple of hours ago. He didn’t have time to get all the things moved out of this room.”
“This looks very comfortable. Is the man seriously ill?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so.” Falter went to the door, turned back and said: “Come on into my room when you get through and we’ll have a drink.”
As he loosened his tie Rennert looked about him. The floor of the room was of dark red tiles, upon which lay a heavy blue-and-gray sarape. Overhead, huge beams had been patinated by time to metal smoothness. The walls were calcimined a light blue, restful to eyes that had to endure the glare of the sun outside. There was a bed with clean white sheets, an enormous wardrobe with mirrors set in the panels of its doors, a washstand and two chairs. Beneath the deep barred window stood a small metal trunk, bearing the initials EOS. Evidently a relic of Solier’s visit to the hacienda.
Rennert relaxed in the coolness and began to burrow in his luggage for clean clothing.
Half an hour later he stood before one of the mirrors, straightening his tie. There was a slight frown on his wide tanned forehead and the eyes that followed the movements of his fingers were thoughtful. His mind was on that scene in the patio, the snake coiled under the flowers and the white-faced girl who had walked through the sun toward it. If there had been any doubt about her intentions her words had effectually dispelled it. Did her husband suspect what she had been about to do? There had been, unless he was mistaken, a queer troubled look deep down in the blue eyes that had looked into his. Yet there had been no mistaking the manner in which the girl’s head had sought his shoulder, the gentle protectiveness of his arm as it went around her body.
He went to the bed and picked up the soiled suit that he had worn to the hacienda. He carried it to the wardrobe, opened one of the doors and hung it upon a hook. There was a shelf just above and on the shelf an empty Habanero whisky bottle.
Dazzling bright sunlight flooded into the room. He turned.
A young man was standing with one hand on the knob of the door and staring at him. As Rennert’s eyes accustomed themselves to the glare he had an impression of a well-built, compactly muscled body clad in baggy seersucker trousers and a flannel shirt. The shirt splayed open at the top to reveal a brown stocky throat. The shoulders were broad and straight.
The newcomer strode into the room, moving easily with a lithe swinging gait.
“Hello!” he said, a bit awkwardly. “Sorry I bothered you. I’m Mark Arnhardt. I suppose you’re Mr. Rennert?”
“Yes.”
They shook hands perfunctorily.
Glancing at Arnhardt’s face one would have noticed his eyes first. They were clear dark brown and the pupils seemed to protrude slightly, like two very bright marbles. They gave the effect of a bold disconcerting stare. Looking more closely, one saw that there was something gentle and friendly about their directness that offset the superficial sternness of his strong plainly featured countenance.
“Glad to have you with us, Mr. Rennert.” He hesitated. “I suppose I ought to explain why I came busting in here like I did. I didn’t know you were in here, you see. I thought it was still my own room.” He looked about him. “Falter must have moved my stuff while I was out this afternoon.”
“See here,” Rennert protested, “I don’t want to disturb you. I can take another ro
om.”
“Oh, no, it doesn’t matter,” the other said quickly. “This is cooler and you aren’t as used to the heat as we are.” He hooked his right thumb about his belt and let his shoulders sag forward. He stood for a moment, planted in this posture of well-balanced relaxation, and seemed to be trying to think of something further to say.
“Going to be with us long?” he asked.
“Several days, at any rate.”
“Well,” Arnhardt swung around, “I’ve got to go and find out where Falter moved me to.” He unloosened his thumb and thrust his hand into a trousers pocket. “Glad to have met you, Mr. Rennert. See you later.” His smile was pleasant as he closed the door.
Rennert felt in his pocket for cigarettes. He felt a mental alertness, the result of several factors: the cool water which had splashed his tired body, the confrontation with a problem which had its origin in the tap roots of some individual’s behavior and (although be would not have admitted it verbally) the insistent presence about him of the hot enigmatic sensuousness of Mexico.
As he walked into the patio and strolled toward Falter’s room he heard a low murmur of conversation coming from the open door.
He stopped to light his cigarette under the frangipani tree that rose above him to a height of at least twenty feet, charging the air with the sweet cloying odor of its white golden-hearted blossoms.
The murmur fused into a strong young voice raised in anger—the same voice that Rennert had heard a few moments earlier in his own room. Its hesitancy was gone now.
“I’ll have you remember that I’m as much an owner of this ranch and this house as you are. I’ve got as much to say about the living arrangements as you have. You haven’t any right to move me about from room to room without consulting me. Understand?”
There was a low rumble of protest from Falter. “I told you when you moved in there that that room was Solier’s, that he didn’t want anyone in there. He told me to put Rennert there and I did. If you’ve got any kick register it with him, not with me.”
