“Oh, that’s all right,” Florence replied in an expressionless voice, for at the last minute she had not been able to decide whether to be angry, cool, or to overlook.
Nicky, assured that she was not vexed with him, opened the door again. “Come on in.”
Alfredo Sigismundo’s aristocratic figure descended the two steps into the foyer. Florence smelt the thin, medicinal aroma of tequila as he bent low over her hand and deposited a moist kiss.
“Ha! Ha!” Nicky laughed, as though both he and Alfredo considered this Latin courtesy a great joke. “You don’t mind if Alfredo joins us for dinner, do you, Florence?”
“Why, no.”
Alfredo passed a finger over his small black mustache. “Just a moment,” his voice vibrated richly, “till I wash my hands.” He took two careful strides on tiptoe before his hand went out to support him on a doorjamb. One starched white cuff glowed in the half darkness.
“Oh, there isn’t any water in there, Mr. Sigismundo,” Florence said, finding her tongue suddenly. She fumbled for the light string in the kitchen, and remembered with sudden pain that the toilet had not been flushed since that morning. “Nicky!” Florence called. She found the light string. Only one bucket of the six held water. The woman had not brought any that day. Florence felt ready to cry. “Here, Nicky!” she whispered, thrusting the full bucket into his hands. “Go flush the toilet!”
“Oh, he understands how things are with the drought on,” Nicky said with elaborate reassurance.
“Go flush it! Hurry!”
“All right,” he whispered back, and went.
Florence, her breath held in shame, walked onto the porch. Then, reminded by the sight of the table, she quickly laid another place and brought a chair from the kitchen. She lighted fires under all the pots, started to put water on for tea, then remembered the water was in the bathroom.
“Don’t we have any beer?” Nicky called with his head in the icebox. “Ah, here’s some.”
“Nicky!” She came and grasped his arm. “Don’t let him use all that water. It’s all we have for tea.”
“Oh,” Nicky said, and started off to the bathroom, where Alfredo was singing to himself in a soft baritone.
Florence seized a saucepan and with a hope that never died turned on the faucet. Nothing happened. Not even a wheeze.
“Here it is.” Nicky presented her with the bucket in which less than two inches of water remained.
Florence said nothing. She was too near tears.
When Alfredo came back, Nicky said casually, “I thought I might take the car tomorrow, Florence. Alfredo wants to go to Mexico City, and I’ve got to go anyway to get somebody’s typewriter repaired.”
“Whose typewriter?” Florence asked vaguely.
“A fellow’s who’s staying at the hotel. He’s a writer and he needs it right away.”
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Sigismundo?” Florence gestured toward the table and ducked into the kitchen.
She brought the big china tureen to the table, and Alfredo dragged himself up from his chair. He bowed deeply, an unlighted American cigarette hanging from his lips.
“Oh, please don’t get up,” Florence said, flattered and laughing a little in spite of herself.
“All right, Florence?” Nicky asked.
“What?”
“If we take the car tomorrow.”
“Oh.” She looked from him to Mr. Sigismundo, who exhaled a long stream of smoke and stared tiredly into the distance before him. “Well—all right, Nicky. Of course.”
Nicky leaned over and laid a hand on Alfredo’s shoulder. “See?”
Florence smiled and nodded awkwardly to Mr. Sigismundo as she sat down, for once more he had stood up and bowed, though without looking at her. She had a frozen smile on her lips and it would remain as long as Mr. Sigismundo was in her house. She felt his eyes fixed seriously on the soup as she ladled it into the bowls. She knew he would not say a word to her during the meal, that afterward he and Nicky would sit on the porch talking Spanish until the beer was gone, and then go down the hill to a cantina.
“I don’t know what’s happened to the car,” Nicky said, his voice as calm as ever. “Probably nothing’s happened to it at all. Alfredo’s a very good driver, you know.”
“But—two days ago, you said. Where was he going?”
“I don’t know.” Nicky removed his leather jacket slowly. “We were both taking a nap in our hotel room about three o’clock, and Alfredo woke me up and said he was going out to visit a friend near Chapultepec.”
“Where’s that?”
“Oh, that’s right in Mexico City. You remember Chapultepec Castle. Where Maximilian and Carlotta lived.”
“Didn’t you look for the car?”
Nicky opened his hands gently. “There’s not much use looking for it in a big city, Florence. I wouldn’t worry. He’ll probably come in with it today.” He took his shaving articles out of his valise.
“Oh!” Florence gasped, on the edge of tears. “I just can’t understand you, Nicky. I can’t—Why you even lower yourself to associate with him, I can’t understand!”
Nicky blinked at her. “These things just happen in Mexico,” he said soothingly. “Don’t forget you’re dealing with a different kind of people from Americans.”
“I don’t forget it! How can I forget it, when you’re getting just as shiftless as they are!”
Nicky trailed her onto the porch. She was looking down on the parking lot, at the gap where her car had stood. “You’ve no right to say that, Florence. I just meant—”
“Don’t talk to me about rights. You had no right to ask for my car and give it to that lowlifer.”
“Why, I wouldn’t call Alfredo that.”
“I would. He keeps mistresses. I’ve heard of his affairs right inside the hotel, and I’ve heard about his women in Mexico City, too. And now he’s probably given my car to one of them!” She bent forward and ran with her hands over her face into the bedroom. She cried for several minutes on the bed. Then, when Nicky came out of the bathroom in a clean shirt, freshly shaven, his thin brown hair slicked down with water, she sat up and wiped the tears out of her eyes. “Would you like some breakfast?”
Nicky looked at his watch. “Lunch is more like it.”
“Will scrambled eggs be all right? It’ll be a long time before Maria comes with the groceries.”
“That’s fine, Florence.” Nicky ran his thumb under the wrapper of his new Time, stretched out on the bed, and began to read.
“I was over to look at the house again,” Nicky said when he came home that evening. “There’s a fellow from Mexico City in the hotel who knows about plumbing, so we went over. He said it wouldn’t cost more than six hundred pesos to make those repairs on the bathroom. That’s about half what we’d figured, you know.”
Florence gazed at him dully. Her face was shiny and tear-swollen.
Nicky talked on and on, oblivious of her expression. He was not clever in perceiving people’s moods. In his business, he was used to sizing people up as easily pleased, irascible, or something in between, and he knew Florence belonged in the first category. If he noticed the despair on her face, he thought to himself, “Oh, she’s worried about the car, but I’ve already told her it’ll turn up.” So he talked on, until one of her sniffles was so loud it interrupted him.
“I’ll not buy that house with my good money!” she said so suddenly that he jumped.
He stood up in alarm.
“I don’t want to live here! I don’t want to own land here! You just want me to sink my hard-earned money in property so I’ll be anchored here, that’s all. You want the car to get stolen, too, so I can’t leave. But I’ll show you!” She flung the sentences at him defiantly but a little fearfully, as a child might at an unjust governor.
Nicky turned half-away, undecided. It was as if a gale had blown through him, ruffling his tranquil inner being. He did not for an instant believe her threats. It was only her vehemence that shocked him. He was angrier than he had ever been in his life as he lifted his jacket from the hook, put it on, and went out.
Florence spent the rest of the evening weeping and writing a letter to her mother.
April 24th
Dearest Mama,
Something terrible has happened. Nicky borrowed my car to go to Mexico City with Mr. Sigismundo and Mr. Sigismundo has just kept it. This was three days ago. Nicky thinks he will bring the car back, but I don’t. I think he has stolen it. I don’t trust Mexicans one inch and for all his manners and education Mr. Sigismundo is still a Mexican.
Added to all this, life still isn’t very pleasant down here. The drought is still on and will be for six more weeks. They are building a dam in the mountains to ensure a water system (supply) all year, but it will be two more years before it is finished. I can’t tell you how it is not to have water in the house. You have to go through it to know. Everything seems to be dirty all the time and finally you just accept it and live like a pig.
Mama, I am tired tonight and can’t say things very well, but I must tell you that I don’t think I can stand it down here much longer. Nicky can because he is used to it, but I just can’t. If I come home, it means leaving Nicky down here, because he won’t come to the States to live. He thinks he cannot make the grade in American hotels and I can’t even get him to try. I don’t want you to think it is because Nicky and I are not getting along. He is very easy to get along with and is a fine husband. It is just the country I can’t stand. I haven’t even talked to Nicky yet about it, but I wanted to explain to you if I could. I’ll write you soon when I decide something.
Ever your loving daughter,
Florence
P.S. My love to Clara and Ben and the kids. Most of all to you.
She put the letter in her top drawer under a stack of handkerchiefs, then fell into bed.
When she awoke, it was bright day. Sunshine fell through the single window onto the bed, onto the heap of dirty stockings, socks, and underwear that was collecting beside the bathroom door, onto her dry, dirty-nailed hands that she spread on the coverlet and looked at miserably. She had a headache and a bad taste in her mouth. She had not washed last night, because there was no water, and of course there was none now. She remembered last night, remembered her letter and her decision. Nicky had not come home. She supposed he had slept at the hotel. Tonight she would get things settled with him in a civilized way, and leave as soon as she could.
She drew on a bathrobe. She felt strangely relaxed and free already. Her feet padded across the tiles until her thighs struck the rail of the porch. Through old habit her eyes strayed to the parking lot.
There she saw—with an astonishment that shocked and thrilled her—her car in its usual place! She leaned far over the rail, not yet believing her eyes, but there was no mistake. It was a miracle that had happened in the night!
She got dressed as fast as she could, hurried without fear or mishap down the hill and up to the parking lot. She touched one of the shining fenders. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Then she trotted up the ramp and entered the Estrella del Sud’s lobby before she remembered that after last night’s quarrel, she ought not to call Nicky. But she was so happy, she could not control herself. She had to tell someone, and there was no one but Nicky. She went into a booth and dialed the number of Nicky’s hotel.
“Está el Señor Spangli?” she asked, even taking pleasure in her Spanish.
A spate of Spanish came back at her, then silence, and she assumed they were calling him.
Finally Nicky’s voice said, “Bueno?”
“Nicky, the car’s back! It’s in the parking lot!”
“I know,” Nicky said with a little laugh. “Alfredo got in early this morning.”
“I’m so glad it’s back!”
“Yes. So am I. He said he was delayed because one of his relatives died and he had to go to the funeral.”
“Oh.—Are you feeling all right, Nicky?”
“I guess so. A little headache.” He laughed again, apologetically. “I’ve got to go now, Florence. Someone’s calling me.”
She walked home rejoicing in her heart. Even as she climbed the hill, her thighs aching, her breath short, she felt she could endure the drought and make the best of things. How could she have thought of leaving Nicky! There never had been a divorce in her family, and it would have hurt her mother terribly if she had caused the first. The car was back! And she would never, never let Mr. Sigismundo use it again.
At the top of the hill, she remembered there was no water. She got two buckets from the house and went down the hill again.
The very next day, Florence fell down in the lane and bruised one knee severely. It gave her agonizing pain, and the doctor Nicky called in said she would have to spend two weeks or more in bed. The knee swelled to frightening size and turned black, purple, brown, and finally a mottled yellow. Nicky tried to comfort her by telling her that injuries always swelled in tropical countries and were not so bad as they seemed. Then during the second week in bed another accident befell her: something stung her over her left eye. She was sure it was the scorpion that lived in the crack in the wall just over the bed. The doctor corroborated her. It was a scorpion bite. The eye also swelled to great size and finally closed, except for a slit she could manage toward evening. The eye, too, went through a weird color cycle, but remained predominantly purple.
With the pain, her ugliness, and the inability to wash, the last ounce of morale left her. She suffered fever and anguish part of the day, and terrifying apathy the rest. At night she either could not sleep for pain or was too tired of bed to sleep. Nicky brought her bougainvilleas from the hotel garden, candy from the shop near the cathedral, but most of his evenings he spent in the cantinas. Florence did not blame him now. Lying there, thinking, she came to realize that there was not much else to do in San Vicente but drink, which was what almost everybody did. She tried to be thankful that Nicky drank only beer and not tequila. She had seen enough to know that in San Vicente drunkard husbands were crosses that many Mexican women and many American women had to bear.
She did not have the energy now to think of leaving. She lay in the state between sleeping and waking that is astir with fantastic dreams, and that finally makes a dream of reality. She believed herself nearer to death than ever before in her life. When she imagined she might die, she thought of leaving the car, her only legacy, and saw it battered and destroyed under Nicky’s ownership. Then she would realize she was not dead yet, that the car was waiting for her, that someday she might get in it and go north. But most of the time she had no desire to do anything or go anywhere. She had not the energy to hold a mirror and comb her hair. Above all, she did not want to see her face.
It was on one of the nights in the second week of her illness that Nicky came in about midnight, his eyes pink with drinking. He announced that he and Alfredo and some friends had decided to go to Mexico City to see a bullfight the next day, and that they would need the car.
Florence had awakened from nightmarish half sleep, and she was propped on one elbow, watching dazedly with her good eye as he packed his valise.
“I know you don’t like bullfights,” he said. “We’ll be back day after tomorrow without fail. Alfredo, prince of drivers, will drive us.”
“No,” she said, and her voice quavered foolishly.
Nicky straightened and looked at her. “Florence, don’t get excited.”
Florence had a vision of the cantina Nicky had just left, of Nicky treating the house to beers and tequilas and then expansively inviting everyone to go to Mexico City in the car he would provide. She saw the drunken, unshaven Mexican men greeting his prop
osal with drooling shouts. “Don’t take the car.”
“I swear to you we’ll be careful,” Nicky said patiently. He sat on the edge of her bed and stretched his hands toward her shoulders, but she twisted away and got out on the other side.
She slipped into her shoes and hobbled to the bureau where the keys were. Then she went to the closet and took a tweed coat off a hanger.
Nicky stood up slowly. “Really, Florence, you shouldn’t be out of bed.”
She did not waste energy in replying. She felt nauseous and weak, and she was afraid if she did not keep moving fast, she might faint. She got up the steps to the door, slammed it behind her and plunged recklessly down the hill.
She held her breath and let herself go, bending the tortured knee, taking fast little steps that kept her just ahead of gravity, feeling the same terror she had felt once when someone pushed her off a high diving board. The night was moonless and pitch-black, and her good eye, wildly stretched open, stared at her feet and saw absolutely nothing. She slipped, went down on one hand and pushed up again, hurling herself onward, because she felt that Nicky would come running down any second behind her. Suddenly she felt the road drop as though she had walked off the edge of something. She fell on her side and rolled over twice before her sprawling arms could stop her. She got to her feet, trembling. The ground was level now, and by the bus station’s lamp she could see where she was, all the way at the foot of the hill, near the fountain that was growing clearer to her eye.
She ran for the parking lot. No one was about, and she felt she was enacting one of her dreams. She climbed into the front seat with her coat all bunched under her, zoomed the car back, and shot out the gate. She felt strong in the car. Its power was unlimited, far more than she needed. She heard Nicky calling her name out of the darkness of the hill. Passing the plaza, she had a glimpse of Mr. Sigismundo’s tall figure rising from a bench under one of the lampposts. There was a woman on the bench also.
Now she was out of the town. The wind came strong and clean through the open window, and the tar highway hissed under the tires. Her eyes, one wide, the other a slit in a mound of purple and yellow, watched the road at the farthest reach of the headlights. It was a two-lane road that wound around mountainside after mountainside in a general westward direction toward Mexico City. After Mexico City, she would go north on the road to Juarez. She pressed the pedal to the floor and the car leapt like a fish, took a long hill at a smoothly increasing speed, turned abruptly and began another climb.
Nothing That Meets the Eye Page 16
