Bella

by C M Blackwood

  She sat for quite as long as she was able; but was soon afflicted with a thick throbbing in her chest, that cleared the static, but which seemed only to grow worse every time she glanced towards the place where Clara sat with Tomás. He hadn’t let go of her hand, she was sure, since entering the apartment. And each time he spoke, he had an aggravating habit of looking afterwards into Clara’s face, as if to see whether she approved of his opinions. Lucie could never see any clear signs of either approbation or dissent, on Clara’s own part; but neither did she seem to mind at all, as Tomás repeatedly put a hand to the side of her face, and tucked a single lock of ebony hair behind her ear – which seemed determined to be free, and only sprang loose again after each instance, so that Tomás was obliged (kind and watchful lover that he was) to go in for another attack.

  To distract her from all this instigation, Lucie tried to listen to a small side conversation that was taking place between Josefína and Maríbel. They were talking, at first, about a particular material which had arrived just that afternoon for the crafting of one Delfina Barba’s wedding dress (an article due in such a short amount of time, given the spontaneity of the wedding, that its manufacture would have to be done right on top of the quilt for Mrs. Flores). They spoke in Spanish, but when Maríbel noticed that Lucie was listening, she did her the service of soliciting an English dialogue. In this, of course, her mother couldn’t speak so quickly, and couldn’t seem to express herself in quite the way she wished; but good-natured as she was, she did try.

  As to the material for Delfina Barba’s wedding dress – it was no good, mother and daughter said to one another. It was too thin, and too sheer, for a woman of Delfina’s size. No – it would have to be sent back. Delfina would thank them in the end. Whatever could her mother have been thinking, to order such fabric as that? Maríbel explained to Lucie, that Delfina was a very beautiful girl; “but she takes right after my own figure, you know – and tell me, would you like to see me in a dress made of this?”

  She fished about in her workbag, and held up a little square of fabric for Lucie to see. Lucie didn’t observe anything particularly good or bad about it; so she only nodded, and then shook her head; and then said, “I perfectly agree with you,” so that there could be no mistake as to her concurrence with Maríbel’s opinion.

  “Exactly,” said Maríbel, nodding resolutely as she dropped the fabric down again.

  Lucie took solace, for a few minutes, in the women’s talk; but they soon exhausted the topic of Delfina Barba’s wedding dress, and fell quiet for a moment, to delve about their minds for a fresh topic. But suddenly Mrs. Vicente looked up, and her eyes lighted on Tomás. She positively beamed, and looked first to her daughter, then to Lucie.

  “Is he not muy guapo?” she asked. “Perfecto! Él es perfecto. Sólo piensa de los nietos yo voy a tener!”

  “She thinks she will have beautiful grandchildren,” Maríbel explained.

  The thought made Lucie a bit sick; and she was obliged to rise up from her seat. With the excuse that she wasn’t feeling well, she made a show of putting a hand to her hip, to indicate soreness there. Eduardo rose gallantly, after his own dear fashion, and inquired after her; but she waved him off with a smile, and quit the room as fast as her feigned hobble would allow. Once she had reached the back hall, she broke into a short sprint, and fastened herself securely into the little room with the one unnecessary bed.

  Her thoughts were roiling. She was entertaining notions the likes of which she did not believe she had ever had cause to think of; and she wasn’t sure whether she was pleased with them; was nearly convinced, rather, that she was excessively displeased.

  She tried to sleep, but couldn’t find the peace. She tossed this way and that, rolling painfully and repeatedly into the wall. She ended up lying on her back, and breathing heavily, with a bruised shoulder that manifested physically her severe melancholy.

  “What to do?” she asked herself, over and over again. “What to do? Nothing to do. What could I do?”

  The answer to that question was unclear – for she needed admit that her aim was likewise somewhat indistinct.

  She almost wished that Robert were there. She almost wished that she were with him, in that unpleasant little motel where they had lived for several days. From there they could journey home, where she would trade her discomfort for joy – or, at least, for forgetfulness.

  She was debating whether she would ask César to take her to her brother, when there came a knock at the door, and she sprang up in bed. She made no inquiry as to the caller, wishing for them to go away; but the throbbing returned round her heart, and her head grew muddled and confused, when she heard Clara’s voice speak her name.

  “Lucie?”

  “What?”

  “You’re awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I come in?”

  A pause. Then, “Yes.”

  The door opened. For a moment, the light from the hall (diffused by its short journey from the kitchen) showed across the floor, but then Clara stepped into the room, and shut the door after her. Darkness fell again, pierced after a second or two by the moonlight through the little window.

  “Are you feeling all right, Lucie?” Clara asked.

  “Yes, quite. Thank you.”

  “You looked as if you were in pain. Is it bad?”

  “Not so bad.”

  Clara was standing near the door, with her arms folded tightly across her chest, and something of a worried look upon her face. Lucie didn’t know what she worried for; but simply the thought of someone else’s difficulty, eased a little of what she felt of her own.

  “Are you all right, Clara?” she asked.

  Clara smiled – but only faintly. She came to sit down on the end of the bed.

  “I have the idea,” she said finally, “that you left the room, for some reason other than feeling unwell.”

  “No,” Lucie said slowly. “I felt quite unwell.”

  “In what way?”

  Lucie squirmed uncomfortably. Clara reached out to take her hand.

  “Does it bother you, Lucie, my seeing Tomás? Why don’t you say so?”

  Lucie’s head snapped up. Her eyes narrowed, and she felt more alert, in that moment, than she believed she had ever felt in all her life. The haze which normally hovered round her, serving as a sort of buffer between herself and the world, fell all away in an instant.

  Something had happened, which had never happened before. Someone had seen (Clara had seen) into her thoughts. Never had anyone possessed the extreme power of mind which it would require, to pierce the veil of their obscurity. Bewilderment succeeded her shock, and she could only move backward, backward as far as she was able, till her back was pressed against the wall.

  “Why don’t you say so, Lucie?” Clara repeated.

  “Why – why would you want me to?” Lucie breathed.

  There was no putting aside, now, the particular awkwardness of their position. Though Lucie was certainly a trump for that sort of forgetful behavior, the peculiar potency of her own emotions wouldn’t allow her such an indulgence.

  Till now, Clara had kept her eyes on the wall; but presently she turned her face to Lucie. There was a strange expression painted over it, which Lucie had never seen before in that particular spot, and therefore didn’t recognize.

  “Because I care how you feel,” Clara said simply.

  “Why?” Lucie asked.

  Clara smiled. “What does it matter, ‘why?’ I just do.”

  “But I don’t –”

  Clara pressed the hand she still held. Then she lifted it up, and held it just below her eyes, so as to look at it carefully. “I know you don’t,” was all she said; though she went on examining Lucie’s hand, as if trying to discover something there that Lucie’s face couldn’t tell her.

  “Has he gone?” Lucie asked.

  “Yes.”

  Lucie lowered her eyes, then; for she was ashamed. What concern was it of hers, whether h
e were gone or no? She drew her hand away, and covered her burning eyes.

  “Don’t do that,” Clara said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I only – I just don’t –”

  Lucie fell back against the pillows, with her hair clutched in her fists. She tried to turn away, when Clara came to sit beside her; but she felt her hands being pulled aside, and found herself looking full into the face of a dark-eyed angel, so long observed from a distance; and now so very near.

  “You shouldn’t,” she whispered. “My brother says it’s not safe to come too close. He says I hurt people. Him most of all.”

  “And how do you do that, Lucie?”

  “By being me.”

  Clara put her arms around Lucie; and she felt so very safe, in their warm circle, that she knew she was in great peril indeed.

  “You shouldn’t,” she repeated.

  Clara spoke into her ear, and drew her head down to her shoulder. “I’m not afraid,” she said.

  “I am, Clara.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be. I’m here with you – do you see?”

  Lucie shook her head, as a tear slipped from her eye. “I’m crazy,” she said. “You shouldn’t come so close.”

  “I suppose Robert tells you that?”

  “It doesn’t matter whether he does. It’s true.”

  “You’re not crazy, Lucie.”

  “Then what am I, Clara?”

  “You’re everything Robert isn’t. You’re everything everyone isn’t.” She pressed her forehead to Lucie’s, and kissed her cheek. “Tú eres muy bella, Lucie. Muy bella.”

  19

  Tom Forms a Plan

  The apartment was empty Wednesday night. Mr. and Mrs. Vicente had gone to visit the former’s brother; Alejandra had disappeared again; Clara was at work; Eduardo was playing poker with friends on the floor below; César was who-knew-where; and Maríbel was meeting with Delfina Barba, to discuss a change of plan for her wedding dress (which change Delfina had been sorely offended by – so much that she threatened to go to Carmen Romero with her money – and Maríbel was forced to go to her in person, to prove visually just how much she could improve upon what style Delfina had wanted to begin with).

  Mateo and Josefína had invited Lucie along with them; but she politely declined. Eduardo asked her if she would like to learn to play poker; but again, she said no. So, when César arrived home in the early evening, he found her sitting alone in the dark.

  “Why, Lucie!” he exclaimed. “You are here by yourself?”

  “It’s all right,” Lucie insisted; though she couldn’t keep a hint of despondency from her voice.

  “Everyone went out?” César asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then! You and I will go to supper.”

  Lucie’s face brightened, and she asked where they would go.

  “To my very favorite place,” he said. “You will love it.”

  They went together down to the car. Just as soon as they had settled themselves in, however, César realized that he had forgotten his wallet, and would have to dash back upstairs. He told Lucie to lock the doors.

  Now, Tom Folsom himself had been watching the place for the last half hour, and didn’t hesitate in seizing this opportunity. He crossed the street from his gloomy nook, where he had lain by well-hidden, and knocked on the window of the passenger door.

  Lucie started, and looked towards the sound. Just outside the door, there stood a tall man, wearing a long grey coat, and a perfectly straight tie, hunched down so that he could peer inside. He was very handsome, but somehow disconcerting. It was something in his eyes.

  Lucie opened the window just a crack, and said: “What?”

  “I’m a friend of César’s,” said Tom.

  “He’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I’m in a hurry.” But he smiled, and asked, “What’s your name?”

  “What’s your name?” returned Lucie, narrowing her eyes at the suspicious-looking man.

  “My name is Folsom,” he answered.

  “Folsom?” echoed Lucie. “Like Folsom Prison?”

  The shadow of a smile touched the corners of his lips. “Yes,” he said.

  “Do you know Johnny Cash?”

  “Johnny Cash is dead, young lady.”

  “Well, did you know him, then?”

  “No – I did not know Johnny Cash.”

  Already his voice was tinged with that same impatience, which Robert Benoit considered his hard-earned privilege of twenty-eight years’ torment.

  “I have to go,” said Folsom. “Just tell César I said hello.”

  “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

  “I told you. I’m in a hurry.”

  “No one’s in that much of a hurry.”

  Tom had to fight the urge to break through the window, take hold of Lucie by the throat, and simply drag her along behind him. He could keep her in his office, and take his time questioning her.

  He was just about to lose the battle against this plan, when he heard the soft click of the building door, which announced César’s approach. He was gone in a flash, having disappeared into the night like a shadow. Lucie looked for him, but couldn’t for anything understand where he had got to.

  She reached over to unlock César’s door. He got into the car with a smile, and held up his wallet. “Now we can go,” he said.

  “I should tell you, though,” said Lucie, still searching the emptiness of the street for some sign of Folsom, “that someone was just here.”

  “Who was here?”

  “He said his name was Folsom.”

  It seemed as if César’s breath had stopped. He choked a little, but composed himself quickly.

  Of course, Tom Folsom’s goal had been to frighten him. He had wanted him to think, of how his new little friend had sat mere feet away from the very most deadly man he knew; and he was accordingly shaken up.

  “Who was he?” Lucie asked, made uneasy by the way in which César seemed to be receiving her announcement.

  “Just an old friend,” said César.

  Now, of course Lucie didn’t believe him; but the trouble was that she was exceedingly hungry, and this did its work in swallowing up her suspicions, so that in two more minutes there was absolutely nothing on her mind but the thought of a large steak, which she believed wholeheartedly she could convince César to buy for her.

  ~

  After introducing himself, in a fashion, to his object of interest, Tom Folsom hurried with all due haste from Little Tortuga Street, and back to his own building on Robledo. It was late, and Natalie (somewhat to Tom’s disappointment) was gone for the evening. But he feigned a smile upon pushing through his office door, and spotting his wife in the chair before his desk.

  “Hello, Cora dear,” he said.

  “Hello, Tom.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you, my love?”

  “I only want to know what you’ve found out.”

  “Why, of course! I will tell you all, my life.”

  Cora sat with her arms folded, and her mouth puckered. Her expression grew a little more sour, with each of Tom’s “my’s.” It seemed very much, the past several days, that she didn’t want to be his anything at all.

  “Well,” he said, settling himself down behind his desk, and pulling a thick manila folder from a stack (he thumbed through it for a few seconds before resuming), “I came across the woman. Vicente left her alone for a moment in the car, and I tapped at the window, with my most winning smile.”

  Almost imperceptibly, Cora rolled her eyes; but she merely followed with, “And what did you win, Tom?”

  “Not much, Cor – not much. She’s an irritating little chit. I believe very much she was trying to frazzle me.”

  “And did she succeed?”

  “Of course not! But she tried just the same. I got nothing out of her, Cor – nothing at all.”

  “And what ab
out the man?”

  “I didn’t see him. He must still be at the motel. I would take that as a good sign, and as enough to signify that Vicente means to do no business tonight – but did he take the man along last time? Did he take him to Jiménez? No, he didn’t. He only took the girl, whose company he seems greatly to prefer.”

  “You still believe she’s at the bottom of this?”

  “I do.”

  “What do you intend to do about it?”

  Tom leaned forward, and rested his chin on his fingertips. Deep cogitation was visible in his expression. He looked for a long while at a black knot in the wood, there at the upper left corner of his desk; but finally dropped his hands, raised his head, and smiled.

  “Well?” Cora persisted.

  “Well,” said Tom, very slowly, “I’ll tell you what I intend to do. I shall summon the good Mr. Vicente, and make my wishes most clear. Should he fail to comply with my demands – again – then I will ruin him entirely.”

  Cora grinned in spite of herself, and was swayed once again into love with her husband, impressed and affected as she always was by his beautiful maliciousness.

  ~

  César Vicente slept in the next morning, filled as he was after his dinner with Lucie, quite to the brim with food and happiness. He was still asleep, in fact, when there came a knock at the apartment door. It was his mother who answered it, to find standing in the hall a man wearing a black hat, jacket and tie, with a pair of dark sunglasses perched atop his pale nose. She asked after his identity, and his business; to which he responded simply, that he wished to speak to César Vicente. Mrs. Vicente asked why; and Frederick Larson said merely, that it was quite private.

  And so, though she was much less than pleased, Mrs. Vicente closed the door in Larson’s face, and went to fetch her son. She approached the sofa where he was asleep, and tapped him on the shoulder.

  César rolled over, and grumbled. His mother persisted; and so he grumbled more loudly, what it was that she wanted? She told him there was a man at the door. César asked, what sort of man? His mother answered, an unpleasant white man in dark clothes.