Bella

by C M Blackwood

  The room was equipped with two small beds, a battered chest of drawers, and a television without a screen. Lucie sat for a while on the end of one of the beds, and stared quizzically into the hollow set, complete with rabbit ears that reached ever upwards for a faraway signal not to be found.

  “And what am I supposed to do here?” she muttered, kicking off her sweaty shoes. “What am I supposed to eat?”

  Of course, she had no money. Robert never allowed her to carry any with her, but kept whatever cash he had in his own wallet, to be given to her only under his supervising eye, and only in the event that he approved of the purchase.

  Which wasn’t to say that she didn’t understand why. Granted, she needed to be reminded of the fact each and every time she wanted to know why she wasn’t trusted, because she tended to forget it – but she’d once left home with one hundred dollars, withdrawn from her parents’ bank account so that she could fetch her mother’s prescriptions from the pharmacy. She had been young, of course, but no one had thought that was a good enough reason for her to return home with nothing but a pink baseball, a candy bar, and fifty cents.

  “Where are the prescriptions?” her father had demanded, standing his hair on its ends with frantic hands.

  “What prescriptions?” Lucie had returned, with a perfectly blank expression on her childish face.

  “Then where is the money I gave you?” her father cried.

  “What money?” Lucie asked.

  “I gave you one hundred dollars, Lucie!”

  So she’d puckered her lips, and reached into her pocket, drawing out the two quarters.

  “Here, Daddy,” she said.

  His eyes had bulged so far out of their sockets, it was a real wonder they hadn’t popped out of his head.

  Now, Lucie just sighed, and lay back on the bed. Her stomach growled viciously.

  ~

  It was three hours later when Robert came into the room.

  Well, three hours later when he arrived at the opposite side of door 12A; and ten minutes after that, when Lucie finally opened it for him. She had fallen sound asleep, despite the persistent gnaw of hunger in the pit of her stomach.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Robert asked, once she’d let him in. “Have you gone completely daft?”

  “So you always say,” Lucie mumbled dejectedly, returning to her place on the nearest bed.

  But Robert wasn’t to be kept in poor spirits. He went to the second bed, and threw himself down on it, seemingly unable to keep a wide grin from his face.

  “Your business went well?” Lucie inquired.

  “Well enough,” Robert answered, laying an arm behind his head, and gazing dreamily towards the ceiling.

  Lucie sniffed the air. There was a pervading odor of beef and French fries, and her stomach started rumbling again.

  “Robert?”

  “What?”

  “Did you bring me something to eat?”

  “Does it look like I’ve brought you anything to eat?”

  She frowned. “No.”

  “Then I suppose I haven’t.”

  She was quiet for a moment, because he’d closed his eyes, and appeared to be trying to sleep. But . . .

  “Robert?”

  “What?”

  “May I have a little money, please?”

  “What for?”

  “For food.”

  “Forget it,” he said, turning his back to her. “I’ll give you ten dollars, and you’ll come back with a bag of magic beans.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said softly, putting a hand to her stomach. “Not unless they’re refried, and stuffed into a tortilla. We are in Mexico, aren’t we?”

  “Go to sleep, Lucie.”

  “But I’m starving, Robert!”

  “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  “But I haven’t even had lunch yet!”

  “And so you won’t, if you keep on acting this way.”

  Lucie was silent for a few moments, hoping that Robert’s mood would soften, and he’d give her some money. But instead, he just fell asleep.

  Lucie threw herself back miserably, and shut her eyes tight against the grumbling of her stomach.

  But then came the call from above; and her eyes sprang open again.

  “Lorena!”

  3

  Miss Benoit’s Staircase

  Once upon a time, there was a great black staircase which was built within the mind of one Mrs. Sparsit; and this professedly good lady did watch for a long while, the way in which the honor of one Louisa Gradgrind did dwindle, as she descended this staircase.

  Hard times were those. But hard times were these, also, for one Lucie Benoit; and although it wasn’t in particular her honor that she lost, as she went lower and lower down her own staircase, it was something perhaps even more essential that was gradually displaced: and this thing was her sanity.

  Already, each and every individual whom she had ever met, ended whatever short acquaintance they had begun with an identical concern. Was poor Miss Benoit insane? Was she truly gone without hope?

  Though Lucie didn’t think much of these reactions, in and of themselves, it seemed that they still made some sort of unconscious impression on her, which could be seen for what it was only in sleep. When she woke, she didn’t recollect her worry, and she could find no trace of its residue left behind. But she was often plagued, upon rousing, with an inexplicable urge and necessity to write down certain thoughts on paper.

  “Mrs. Sparsit,” she mumbled presently, completing the final turn of a last toss. “Don’t watch me, ma’am – don’t.”

  And then, quite suddenly, she was awake. She had no more memory, as she sat up in bed, of good (but perhaps somewhat prying; and perhaps somewhat arrogant beyond her own means) Mrs. Sparsit, than she had of what brief conversation she had lately held with her brother, concerning the credibility of one Lucie Manette.

  But she looked instinctively all about, with a slight itch only just having entered the tips of her fingers.

  “And where’s the paper?” she asked, rising from bed in quest of it. “There must be some – paper – somewhere –”

  Her eyes lighted on a small memorandum book atop the beaten bureau. Her brother’s book.

  But she didn’t much care.

  She tore a page from the book, and took up the pen that lay beside it. She then leaned down over the bureau, pressed the pen to the paper, and began to write.

  I believe I dreamt of a dark set of steps – long and narrow, with an end stuck into a pool of black. I was going up, I think – no, down.

  She closed her eyes, and pictured the staircase. She felt, in a strange and unsettling way, that she was still descending; and though she tried very hard to stop, it didn’t seem in her power to do so. The pool appeared to be steadily approaching – though she didn’t remember at all, of course, what it signified.

  I still seem to be moving towards the blackness. I have this dream very often, I think. I’m sure that I’ve written this before – though I probably lost the paper. Will I lose this one, too? I hope not. I want to remember this time.

  “What are you doing?” Robert asked loudly, sitting up in bed. “What are you doing, there?”

  “Nothing, Robert,” she said quickly, stuffing the paper into her pocket.

  “Well, I’ll have no more of it, do you hear?” he continued; though by this time he had replaced his head on the pillow, and turned it away from her.

  “Yes, Robert,” she said, propping her elbows up on the bureau, and looking out of the window. The curtains over it were thin and worn, and she could see the parking lot quite clearly through them. Besides Robert’s car, there were only two more in the place, parked next to one another at the opposite end of the motel. There was a small and raggedy row of shops on the other side of the dirty street, with a surprising number of people moving all up and down the sidewalk. Lucie went to the window, to get a closer look.

  “What are you doing?” Robert rep
eated, bolting upright once again. “What are you doing, Lucie?”

  “Nothing, Robert!”

  He fell back on the bed, not even seeming to know that he had spoken. But Lucie sighed heavily, and pressed her forehead to the grimy window.

  4

  The Vicentes

  Although she was abundantly displeased by the fact, still Lucie wasn’t at all surprised that Robert didn’t fulfill his earlier promise of breaking her exceptionally long fast. Neither was she in the least astonished, when he splashed a bit of water on his face, slipped on his shiny black shoes, and jilted his hat on his head – all in a precursor to walking deliberately out the door, with an irritably stolid expression, and not even the smallest glance towards his sister.

  He remained absent for a very long while. Darkness was settling; and she was just beginning to contemplate walking to the shops across the way, and begging at each one which vended edible items, just a small amount of absolutely anything that could be spared, when she heard the sound of a car door slamming. She raced to the window, looked out, and saw Robert approaching the room. Beside him walked a young Mexican man. The very first thing Lucie noticed about this man, was his brilliant smile: a smile that was perhaps even more brilliant than Robert’s own, as it wasn’t even slightly diminished by the dim light of the parking lamps. She took a moment to wonder, if this overshadowing of his customarily unsurpassed charm was what made Robert look so glum. For surely, he walked along slowly, with a grimace on his face that seemed one nearly of pain.

  But then the door opened, and Lucie had no more time for conjectures. She stepped away from the window, and stood back, with her arms tucked behind her waist.

  “What are you doing there, Lucie?” Robert asked moodily, as he cast her a suspicious glance. “Why are you standing around?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You are.”

  “I’m not.”

  But at this moment the stranger stepped forward, and offered his hand to Lucie. He flashed a smile, that seemed somehow to have just appeared, but also to have been there all along; and Lucie took his hand, mystified.

  “Hello, Miss Lucie!” he exclaimed. “My name is César. I am a friend of your brother’s.”

  “A business associate, rather,” muttered Robert.

  César’s good humor didn’t falter. He only jerked a thumb towards Robert, and grinned widely at Lucie, as if alluding to some long-known private joke between only themselves, which pertained to his “business associate.”

  “That’s enough,” Robert snapped. “You’re here to fetch the package; not mess around with my sister.”

  “Mess around?” César asked innocently. “Who is messing around?”

  His voice was low, and smooth, and spoke well in English. In it there was the strong flavor of an accent, which served less to obscure, than to appeal. Lucie smirked slightly, unable to help feeling that she was beginning to like this strange, undeniably enigmatic fellow. But next instant he turned away from her, and followed Robert to the second bed, at the end of which lay a suitcase. It was locked (the reason for which Lucie was never told, no matter how many times she asked), so Robert took a key from his pocket, and unfastened it. He removed a large yellow envelope from the case, and handed it to César.

  “That’s just a sample,” said Robert, “of the new things coming your way. I daresay you’ll take a liking to it.”

  “Gracias, amigo,” said César, tucking the envelope into the back of his belt. Then he smoothed his clean white T-shirt down over his broad chest, and looked up, still smiling.

  “You must come home for supper, amigo!” he said. He looked with concern to Lucie, who was now sitting silent on her bed, hands shaking on account of nearly overpowering hunger. “Tu hermana tiene mucho hambre!”

  “Excuse me?” said Robert.

  César sighed. “Ah, amigo! Why be so difficult? You know very well what I said to you! But, for the benefit of the lovely lady –”

  “I know what you said,” Lucie interrupted.

  César beamed. “Bueno, chica! I think you and I will get along well.”

  “What does it matter how you get along?” demanded Robert. “You’ll never see her again. And believe me when I tell you – it’s a blessing.”

  César scowled, seeming not to favor Robert’s attitude. “But now you have convinced me!” he said. “Lucie and I will go, and enjoy my mamá’s beautiful cooking – with or without you! Come on, Lucie, what do you say?”

  Lucie didn’t need to mull the offer very long at all, given the despicably empty state of her stomach. She eagerly took the hand that César offered her, and was in the process of being swept from the room, when Robert called out, “Wait!”

  ~

  They made the short trip in César’s own car. It wasn’t much larger than Robert’s; and Lucie could only find gratitude for the fallen night, which had brought some amount of coolness with its coming. (You may wonder why no one in this story seems to have a vehicle with an air conditioner; and probably this was only because, they could all think of much better things to do with their money. Robert, for one, wouldn’t have liked to think just how many pairs of shoes he could have bought, with what it would have cost to perform such an unnecessary task.) So, with the window open, Lucie laid her head against the door, and relished for a moment the fine breeze that blew across her face.

  She sat, of course, in the backseat. She turned her eyes, sometimes (though never her whole head) towards the two men in front, and listened to their incomprehensible whispers. What reason did they have to whisper? What sort of business called for such apparent secrecy? Lucie only sighed, and gave up her attempt to make their words intelligible.

  The sky was of that perfectly lovely sort, that seems altogether more purple than black (or perhaps only a very deep blue), and shone very richly in the light of all its stars. A star here, a star there – perhaps a brighter star here than there. Lucie sought out the very brightest with her keen eyes, and focused intently on it, preparing herself to make a wish. She knew that it must be a very important wish, quite the most important of them all; but she realized with some considerable amount of disappointment, that she didn’t have any idea what it might be.

  But that’s the way it always goes, you know. When you’re looking at such a lovely star as the one Lucie saw, and you’re determined to offer it your greatest wish, you become entirely oblivious of what you want in the first place. You’ll remember later on, of course; and you’ll run outside, and try to catch sight again of that special star; but alas! you won’t be able. You’ll feel much farther away, then, than you felt from the sky before, and infinitely more disconnected from it. It will be as if a diaphanous screen has been placed between you and it, allowing you sight, but certainly no chance for a wish.

  Lucie was still lost in the enchanted fairy-place that hovers there between the earth and the sky, when the car pulled suddenly to the curb at Little Tortuga Street (so named on account of what turtle races used to be held there by the children of the neighborhood – but which ill-fated expositions often ended in the squashing of at least one turtle beneath the wheel of a car), and the sound of the dying engine recaptured her attention. She looked to the right, and saw there a long, tall line of apartment buildings, stretching far as the eye (or her eye, at least; bothered still as it was with the remnants of the stars’ fairy-dust) could see. The buildings served as massive blockades, fierce battlements standing between her and the white even-light, commanding her to relinquish her hold on the distant regions, and fall complacently back to the ground. She emerged from the car, and joined the two men on the cracked sidewalk, looking up at the dark and shining eyes of the nearest building – which were gazing down, down on her with a rapt awareness, of an amount no less than she herself paid to them.

  “It is not very much from the outside,” said César, “but inside you will see, that my mamá makes more than anyone else could make, of such a place.”

  Lucie smiled at him kin
dly, wishing to show that she believed, while her brother only snorted in contempt. But César made nothing of his reaction, choosing rather to smooth his white T-shirt again, which had suffered some wrinkles on the journey. He then led his companions through a thick metal door, at which he made use of a small white button, which elicited a sharp ring. A voice came to him through the battered speaker, asking if it was he. Then he answered, that indeed it was; and a high-pitched buzzing welcomed him into a dark and narrow corridor.

  As he passed through the door, he beckoned the others to follow him. Robert was the last to enter. Lucie could hear perfectly well his quiet protestations against the state of the place, which was complete with walls of chipped and peeling plaster and paint; a stained and well-worn carpet; and the smell of what seemed years-old boiled cabbage, so strangely common to such large complexes.

  “Come, come,” César said amiably, as he mounted the winding staircase. He patted Lucie’s hand as she placed it on the banister, not a moment after which there came the sound of a low growl from Robert’s throat.

  “I am sorry to tell you, that we are bound for the fourth floor,” said César, skipping his way quickly up the steps. “I am used to it by now; but for you I apologize!”

  Certainly enough, by the time they had all arrived at the fourth landing, Lucie was puffing rather uncomfortably. Robert was gasping irately, and grasping Lucie’s wrist in his bad temper. She winced as the bones ground together; and was thankfully snatched from his grip by the strength of César, who came presently to whisk her away down the short hall.

  César led them on to the end of it, and stopped before a door whose metal markers seemed to have dropped away. Only the faint outline of a number four could be seen.

  César turned the knob. The door wasn’t locked.

  A dimly lit entryway was revealed, as well as a small corridor that lay directly before it. They started into the place, and the light increased as they went – as did the volume of a radio, which pounded out some quick Latin beat. At the end of the corridor there opened up, to the left, a bright kitchen; and to the right, a little parlor, whence it seemed that the music was originating. Lucie examined both of these rooms carefully, and César let go of her hand, to make his way into the kitchen.