As Konrad approached he could see dirt, marble powder and splinters under her bronze fingernails. ‘Y-you . . .’ he began. ‘I . . .’ He remembered his message to her: ‘Beatrice, Konrad wants to be rich.’ In hushed tones, he said, ‘You heard me . . . you goddam heard me! How strong you must be, to have ripped open the mausoleum doors, smashed through the marble walls. You must come alive at night!’ This and so many other things rolled through his mind and filled his imagination with endless possibilities.
Fear gripped his heart. What if someone came upon them now. What if they realised these were the stolen jewels? Konrad couldn’t say Beatrice had done it. And, even if he did, they wouldn’t believe him. They’d take him for the grave robber or a lunatic, and they’d lock him up.
Quickly, he unlooped the strands of jewels from Beatrice’s statue. He had problems with the rings, however. As he wrenched them off, he scratched the green patina from the statue, as if the metal fingers had been flexible and supple when she’d put them on. With every jewel he removed, he said, ‘Excuse me, Beatrice . . . pardon me, my Queen.’
When he was done, he wiped the remains of the broken tombs from her hands with his handkerchief. He shined and buffed the parts of her covered in marble dust. Then he wrapped up the jewels in the handkerchief and stuffed it in his pants.
Before he left, he searched the surrounding tombs until he found the flower he was looking for: with a bow, he placed it at the base of her pedestal . . . it was a pink carnation, a sign of gratitude.
***
The next day at the breakfast table, Dolores snorted, ‘I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.’
‘¿Qué te pasa, hermana?’ Guadalupe replied, fanning her neck in the hot kitchen with a napkin. Her shirt was open several buttons, showing a beautiful choker with an amethyst setting tied tight against her throat. ‘Can’t a girl have a secret admirer?’
‘Well, it ain’t decent,’ Dolores continued. ‘That necklace could’ve come from anyone. Just lyin’ there on the front porch with a note: “Guadalupe, my queen”. Oh, please! Queen o’ what, I ask ya? Queen o’ unemployment? Queen o’ licentiousness? They could want things . . . things in return,’ she warned, waving a wooden spoon at her.
‘Oh, I hope so,’ Guadalupe purred, as she rubbed Konrad’s leg under the table. This time, he didn’t look away. . . .
Later that night, as Konrad walked down the hallway, getting ready for bed, Guadalupe brushed past him again. This time, he grabbed her by the wrists and held her close to him, whispering in her ear, ‘There’s more where that necklace came from, you know that? I’m goin’ places.’
‘I always knew you would, some day. . . . If you didn’t let her hold you back.’
‘Well, now we can be together. You see? I don’t wanna hide no more. I’ll take you away from all of this.’
‘Oh, no,’ she gasped, and she tried to withdraw, but he held her tight by the wrists.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘this’s been fun and all, but she’d never let us go. The scandal she’d make. She’d accuse us of all sorts of things. And if you got this necklace from where I think you did, the sheriff’ll be on to us quick.’
‘Yeah?’ Konrad sneered, a new thought forming in his mind. ‘Well, maybe we don’t have to run. Maybe things’ll turn out right all by themselves.’
‘Yeah?’ she said, her body relaxing under his control.
‘Yeah.’ he replied, pressing his body into hers in the darkened hallway. ‘Accidents happen every day.’
***
The next day, Konrad was filled with new purpose. He put Brilliantine in his hair, combed it back and put on a clean shirt. Then he fetched a greasy old cardboard box of spices from the kitchen. With that, he went out the front door whistling.
All the previous night, by the small lamp hanging above the kitchen table, he’d studied his book of flowers. But he couldn’t find the scent he was looking for. Revenge, revenge . . . bird’s-foot trefoil? Now, what the heck kind of flower was that?
No matter. He was filled with a new drive. He hadn’t felt this way in years. He knew he’d eventually find the right combination. And, for his efforts, Guadalupe would be the prize!
When Konrad got to the tomb he saw Beatrice had moved again. Even without the jewels she was radiant. She’d moved back a bit on her elbows with a ‘I told you so’ look on her face. He set down his box and started sorting through it. ‘Oregano . . . naw, that’s not it. She’d probably go out and steal some pasta. Uh . . . here’s the laurel leaf. That means, uh, what was that . . . victory? And, here it is . . . saffron means “God”. Is she gonna understand? And how am I gonna direct it at her? Well, it’s worth a shot.’
He got up from the box, his knees creaking. He waved a red carnation under the statue’s nose, and then a poppy. ‘See, we’re here together,’ he said. ‘Oh, wait,’ and then he pulled out one of Dolores’s dirty dishrags and waved it under her nose. He crushed a laurel leaf in his hand and then anointed Beatrice with a touch of saffron—right in the middle of her forehead, like he’d seen in a picture once in a magazine the way brides do in India.
He stood back and said, ‘Beatrice, Konrad wants you to give Dolores God’s victory.’ As always, there was no change in the expression on the statue’s face, not a movement or an indication that what he’d said was getting through to her.
‘You get it?’ he asked.
He stood there for several minutes looking intently. Then he huffed and turned back to the box of spices. ‘Oh, just forget it. I’ll come back tomorrow and see what you’ve done. If it doesn’t happen tonight, I’m sure I’ll find the right combination sooner or later.’
As he bent down to pick up the box, his back caught and he let out a sharp cry of pain. This noise startled the young cat that had snuck up behind Konrad. The creature bolted away, crashing into the box and scattering tins of spices everywhere. Konrad painfully righted himself, slowly bending against the pulled muscle. ‘Stupid cat!’ He saw, strewn across the path, the shards of a small brown bottle the cat had just broken. It was the most expensive of all . . . vanilla extract.
The next day, Konrad returned to the tomb, muttering under his breath. His back still troubled him, and nothing had happened to Dolores. He said, ‘Well, it was foolish of me anyway. I’ll need an alibi if I’m going to get away with this.’
Just as he came upon Beatrice’s tomb, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He felt a joy rising inside of him, for the statue’s face was spattered in blood, and there were clumps of cat hair beneath her fingernails. She had a new look on her face . . . wickedness.
***
Two weeks had passed, and now everything was in place. The most difficult thing had been convincing Dolores that Konrad wanted a reconciliation with her. He began to be pleasant at the dinner table. He helped his wife with the washing up. He used all the sweet words he knew. He even began buying Dolores little gifts, a thimble for her sewing, a barrette.
Dolores was justifiably suspicious, as if she could smell the trap he was setting for her. But it was her sister, Guadalupe, who’d finally convinced her. ‘He’s reaching out to you, hermana,’ she’d said. ‘You stood before the pastor and promised to stick by him no matter what. You know what God wants you to do.’
Slowly, a transformation came over Dolores. She began to comb her hair. She dressed in normal clothes and not that awful house dress. And she would serve Konrad the cuts of meat with less tendons in them, placing them gently on his plate, instead of just tossing them at him. True, she was still hideous, and Konrad shuddered as he kissed her on the forehead, as he began to do each night. But at least their mealtimes were less tense. Dolores began to trust him again.
The part where it could have all gone wrong—her believing he still loved her—went off without a hitch. One evening he’d taken her hand tenderly—stifling his disgust—and said, ‘Wife, I know I can be a hard man to deal with. I know I goad you sometimes. But I’d like to start again. I’d like to have a t
ryst with you . . . like we did when we first started courtin’.’
‘At the cemetery?’
‘Sure, at the cemetery. Remember, how you’d sneak out of the house to meet me there, because your father didn’t approve of me?’ And then he added, ‘God rest his soul.’
‘But we were just children then.’
‘And,’ he forced himself to say it, although the words came out jagged in his throat, ‘in love.’
For a moment, she vacillated. Konrad thought all the careful planning had been for nothing. But then he saw her eyes misting over, and she said, ‘Oh, Konrad, I’d given up hope.’
He pressed her bony, repugnant body against his and patted her on the back. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘This will be like the good, old times. I’ll give you the key, and you can open the gates a bit before midnight.’
‘Is it true?’ she whispered. ‘Can we really start all over again?’
‘I’m planning on it,’ he said. ‘And I’ll tell you exactly where we’ll meet. I found a lovely, little spot where we can sit on a blanket and gaze up at the moon. You go first and wait for me, ’cause I’m bringin’ you a special present.’
He pulled out a small packet from his coat. ‘And you can fix yourself up all nice and special. Here, I got you a pretty bar of soap.’
She took his hand and raised the box to her nose and took in a deep, long breath. ‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Vanilla.’
***
Later that night, Konrad met up with Guadalupe at a bend in the road, close to Doc Bettenmeyer’s house. It was some time before midnight.
‘Are you going to tell me about the plan?’ she whispered, her lips bright crimson.
‘No,’ he commanded. ‘The less you know, the better. But we gotta make this believable.’
In the shadow of the trees, he searched about for a rock. He grabbed a heavy, jagged one. Then he sat down on the side of the road and positioned it over his leg.
‘Oh, Konrad, querido, do you have to do this?’
‘Yes, baby. It’s all part of the plan.’ Then, gritting his teeth, he brought down the rock as hard as he could against his right knee. Konrad writhed in pain on the ground for a while. He waited until his knee swelled up. Then he groaned, ‘Okay, now, help me up. Remember, when we get to the undertaker’s house, we say I got hurt at work. I was laid up all evening, thinkin’ it would get better, but it started ballooning up. And you needed to help me.’
‘What do we say about Dolores?’
‘Just say she went out earlier. I was concerned, but I couldn’t look for her, obviously, ’cause a my leg.’
He wrapped his arm around her thin waist, and he hobbled towards the undertaker’s house.
***
By the time Doc Bettenmeyer had helped Guadalupe put Konrad into his own bed back home, it was about 3 a.m. ‘Sorry for botherin’ you, Doc,’ Konrad said, an unfeigned look of pain on his face. His face was red and sweaty from hopping on one leg.
‘Nonsense,’ Doc Bettenmeyer replied. ‘You had a mighty bad break. You should’ve come see me right away. I’m just surprised you could make it all the way down the road, even with Guadalupe’s help.’
‘That’s my sister-in-law . . . an angel,’ he said, squeezing her hand. ‘But Doc, I’m worried about Dolores. She’s nowhere to be found.’ Then, half-rising from bed, with a groan he said, ‘I’ve got to go look for her. What if she’s hurt?’
‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ the undertaker said. ‘You’re not goin’ anywhere in your condition. When it’s light out, I’ll go into town and get the Sheriff. We’ll send out a search party. Just stay and let Guadalupe take care of you.’
‘If that’s what you think is best, Doc,’ Konrad said and squeezed Guadalupe’s hand again.
In the morning, Konrad opened his eyes and saw Doc Bettenmeyer sitting by his bed. Guadalupe was applying a cold compress to his forehead, because he’d been feverish during the night. The old man shook his head gravely, sucking on his burned-out pipe. His eyes full of sorrow, he said, ‘Konrad, Guadalupe, I went out with the Sheriff and some volunteers. We searched all around these parts. I have to come right out and say it: Dolores is dead.’
Guadalupe performed a swoon over the bed that would have put any vaudeville starlet to shame. Holding her so her perfectly-coiffed hair wouldn’t get messed up, Konrad stuttered, ‘H-how did it happen? Where is she?’
‘What’s . . . left of her is in the graveyard. I can’t go into details, not with a lady present, but it looks as if a wild animal got her.’
‘B-but why would she be in the graveyard? It doesn’t make any sense,’ he said.
‘I don’t know, Konrad. Maybe we’ll never know. Far as I can tell, it happened some time around midnight. You’ll . . . I’m sorry, but later on today, you’re going to have to identify the body. At least the head is intact.’
***
Konrad let himself be guided by the Sheriff and the undertaker through the maze of alleyways in the cemetery. He went slowly, painfully, over the cobblestones, full of anticipation over what he would see. When they reached the base of Beatrice’s statue, the blanket he had left for her was soaked in blood and the bottle of wine shattered. Blood and body parts were scattered here and there, covering Beatrice and the surrounding tombs. No one but Konrad noticed the look on the statue’s face. He had only peeked at it, afraid others might follow the direction of his eyes. Beatrice’s face was radiant, beatific. It was like a Don Juan, triumphant above the very flames of hell. . . .
When a respectable time had passed, so the neighbours wouldn’t gossip, Konrad and Guadalupe become a formal couple. Sometimes, they would walk to town for an ice-cream cone and eat it in the town square. True to her word, Guadalupe did little but lay around the shack all day long, eating ice cream and other sweets, waiting for Konrad to come home and please him. The shack was soon a complete disaster. Cobwebs began to grow in the corners, a film of dust slowly covered everything. Konrad didn’t mind. In fact, he felt like a king in his castle. He’d never appreciated the way Dolores had kept the house. Now that it was falling apart, he barely noticed.
He sold a piece of jewellery every now and then, very discreetely, in nearby towns, so it wouldn’t be traced back to him. But no one had seen those jewels for decades, perhaps even for hundreds of years (no one even knew they were missing). He slipped into what could be described as a coma of contentedness. Everything was fine with his life. Everything was better than he could have ever dreamed. He’d never told Guadalupe how he’d pulled off the murder. Whether she’d imagined he’d had a secret accomplice or not, she never asked him about it. In fact, that mystery only fuelled the attraction between them, and she truly abandoned herself to him.
There was one thing, however, that troubled him now and then, and that was Beatrice, his benefactor. After the murder, Konrad never tried to make contact with the statue again. Perhaps this was because he was afraid of someone coming across his secret—someone like the doddering old undertaker. Perhaps, it was because he was a simple man at heart with simple tastes, and he couldn’t think of anything else to ask the metal goddess. But the fact of the matter was, as Konrad grew older, and as Guadalupe grew more affectionate, it took all of his strength just to keep up with her. Although he had a lingering thankfulness for what the statue had done for him, his interest in her dwindled.
One day, as Konrad was pushing his wheelbarrow of carnations from grave to grave, he was surprised to find himself in front of Beatrice’s tomb. He was more surprised to find he had no interest in talking to her. She had returned to the position she’d been in the day he’d uncovered her. Certainly, she was still very attractive, but her greenish skin was more tarnished now. The elements had not been kind to her, and streaks of rust ran down her face as if they were dirty tears.
Maybe it was remorse over his wife’s death—although he didn’t think so—or maybe it was the need to tie up loose ends, but he decided to drag the old tin sheet back across the grave an
d cover her up completely. He set to work on this, huffing and grunting as he pulled the tin towards the grave. It was an exceptionally hot day, and he had to stop regularly and dab his old handkerchief across his brow to stem the flow of perspiration. Just as he was about to complete his task, for old times’ sake he brushed the dead flowers from her grave. He stole a poppy from a grave nearby, and with his hands still reeking of carnations, placed it behind one of her ears. Then he covered her up completely, save for the tips of her toes.
When Konrad got home that night, the shack was dark, and the doors and windows of his house wide open. Guided only by a faint, flickering light in the kitchen, he stumbled into the dusty shack. He found Guadalupe hunched over the table with a spoon and a tub of ice cream.
‘Hey, lover,’ she said, rising. As she kissed him, he tasted the sweet vanilla in his mouth. ‘I went into town and bought a whole quart of ice cream. The icebox’s broke, so I gotta eat it all. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘No problem,’ Konrad said, grabbing her by the waist. He enjoyed seeing her indulge herself. He said, ‘Eat whatever you want. Just don’t get fat on me.’
‘That’s impossible,’ she purred. ‘After what I’ve got planned for you tonight, I’m gonna burn it all up, and I’ll be hungry for more.’
‘Well,’ he grunted, contented but tired, ‘just let me take a bath first. I stink, and it’s as hot as hell in here.’
He fished around in the cutlery drawer for a candle. He stuck it in a tea cup, lit it and hobbled down the hall and to the pump outside. A breeze was picking up, blowing from the house towards the cemetery. It was a welcome relief. He felt exhausted as he pumped the water to fill the big, galvanized tub out back. . . .
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