by Jack Vance
Wayness stepped primly into the cab. “Mind you, I am not hiring the cab for an hour, For one-half hour, I pay one-half sol, and this rate must include the gratuities."
Esteban roared: “Why do I not just give you the cab and all my miserable belongings and walk from the town a pauper?”
Esteban's emotion was so genuine that Wayness knew they had arrived at his ordinary rate.
Wayness laughed. "Calm yourself! You cannot hope for sudden wealth every time some poor innocent enters your cab."
"You are not so innocent as you look,” grumbled Esteban. He closed the door and the cab set off up the Calle Luneta. “Where do you want to go?”
“First, let us drive up Calle Maduro.”
Esteban gave a nod of comprehension. "You have relatives in the cemetery, so it seems."
“I don’t know of any.”
Esteban raised his eyebrows. What kind of odd conduct was this? "There is little to see from one end of town to the other even less along Calle Maduro."
“Do you know the folk who live along the street?"
“I know everyone in Pombareales." Esteban turned the cab into Calle Maduro, which had been hard-surfaced a very long time ago and was now pocked with potholes. Only about half of the lots had been developed; houses stood in isolation at intervals of twenty yards or more. Each was surrounded by a yard, where occasionally a few sickly shrubs or a wind-beaten tree indicated someone's attempt at a garden. Esteban pointed to a house which showed blank windows to the street, and patches of thistle in the yard. “There is a house you might buy at the cheap."
"It looks rather dismal.”
"That is because it is haunted by the ghost of Edgar Sambaster, who hanged himself one night at midnight when the wind blew down from the mountains."
“And no one has lived there since?"
Esteban shook his head. “The owners have gone off-world. A few years ago a certain Professor Solomon became involved in a scandal and hid there for a few weeks, and no one has heard from him since.”
“Hm. Has anyone looked in the house to see whether he might be hanging there too?”
“Yes, that was considered, and the constables made an inspection, but found nothing.”
“Odd.” The cab had drawn abreast of another house, which was like any of the others except for a pair of life size statues in the front yard, representing nymphs with their arms raised in benediction. “Who lives there?"
“That is the house of Hector Lopez, who works as gardener at the cemetery. He brought home the statues when a tract of graves was relocated.”
“They make an interesting decoration."
"So it may be. There are some who think that Hector Lopez is putting on airs. What is your opinion?”
“I don't find them offensives. Could it be that the neighbors are envious?"
“Possible, I suppose. There you see the house of Leon Casinde, the pork butcher. He is a great singer and may often be heard, drunk or sober, in the cantina.”
The cab proceeded up the Calle Maduro. Esteban warmed to his task and Wayness learned much of the lives and habits of those in the houses along the way. Presently they came to No. 31, Casa Lucasta: a house of two stories, somewhat larger than others along the street, with a stout fence enclosing its yard. A garden of sorts grew along the north side of the house, in an angle protected from the wind, where the sun shone its brightest. There were geraniums, hydrangeas, marigolds, a lemon verbena, a ragged clump of bamboo. To the side were miscellaneous pieces of inexpensive outdoor furniture: a table, a bench, several chairs, a lawn swing, a large sandbox, another wooden box containing oddments of hardware. In this area, a boy of about twelve and a girl two or three years younger were occupied, each absorbed in his private concerns.
Noticing Wayness' interest, Esteban slowed the cab. He tapped his forehead significantly. “Both mental cases; very hard for the mother."
“So I should think,” said Wayness. “Stop here for a moment if you please. “She watched the children with interest. The girl sat at the table, busy with what might have been a puzzle; the boy knelt in the sandbox, building a complicated edifice from damp sand, which he had moistened with liquid from a bucket. Both children were thin: slender rather than frail, long of leg and arm. Their chestnut hair was cut short without affectation of fashion, as if no one cared much how they looked, much less themselves. Their faces were thin, with cleanly modeled features, gray eyes, pale tan skin almost imperceptibly warmed with pink and orange. They were rather attractive children, thought Wayness, though clearly not native to the locality, The girl's face showed more animation than that of the boy, who worked with thoughtful precision. Nether of the two spoke. Each, after a single disinterested glance toward the cab, paid no further heed.
"Hm!” said Wayness. “Those are the first children I have seen along the street."
“No mystery here," said Esteban. "Other children are at school."
"Yes, of course. What is wrong with these two?”
“That is hard to say. The doctors come regularly, and all leave shaking their heads, while the children continue to do as they see fit. The girl goes wild with rage if she is thwarted in any way and falls into a foaming fit, so that everyone fears for her life. The boy is sullen and won’t say a word, though he is said to be clever in certain ways. Some say that they need no more than a few good switching’s to bring them around; others say it is all a matter of hormones, or some such substance."
"For a fact, they don’t look deficient, or slack-witted. Usually the doctors can cure such folk.”
“Not these two. The doctor comes up every week from the Institute at Montalvo, but nothing seems to change."
“That’s a pity. Who is the father?”
"It is a complicated story. I mentioned Professor Solomon, who was involved in a scandal. He is off-world now, and no one seems to know where, though quite a few folk would like to find him. He is the father.”
“And the mother?”
“That would be Madame Portils who goes about proud as a Countess, even though she's a local. Her mother is Madame Clara, who was born a Salgas, and is common as dirt."
“How does Madame Portils support herself?”
“She works at the library mending books, or some such footling job. With two children and her own mother in the household she receives a public stipend, which brings her the necessities of life. No cause for vanity there; still she tilts her nose to everyone, even the upper class folk."
“She would seem to be a peculiar woman," said Wayness. "Perhaps she has secret talents.”
“If so, she is as jealous with them as if they were crimes. Ah well, it is sad, all the same.”
Down from the hill came a gust of wind, blowing dust and litter along the road, hissing among the brambles of the waste. Esteban indicated the girl. "Look! The wind excites her!"
Wayness saw that the girl had jumped to her feet, to face the wind, with feet somewhat apart, swaying and nodding her head to some slow inner cadence.
The boy paid her no heed and continued with his work. From the house came a sharp call. The girl's body lost its tension. Reluctantly she turned toward the house. The boy ignored the call, and continued his work, molding damp sand into a structure of many complications. From the house came a second call, even shorter than before. The girl halted, looked over her shoulder, went to the sandbox and with her foot obliterated the boy's handiwork. He froze into rigidity, staring at the devastation. The girl waited. The boy slowly turned his head to look at her. As best Wayness could see, his face was blank of expression. The girl turned away and with head drooping pensively, went to the house. The boy followed, slowly and sadly.
Esteban set the cab into motion. “Next we will inspect the cemetery, which must be considered the climactic event for anyone who like yourself has chosen to explore Calle Maduro. To do a proper job, we must count upon investing at least half an hour, or even better.
Wayness laughed. “I have seen enough for now. You may tak
e me back to the hotel."
Esteban gave a fatalistic shrug and started back down Calle Maduro. “You might enjoy a drive along the Avandia de las Floritas, where the patricians reside. Also, the park is well worth a visit, what with the fountain and the Palladium, where the band performs each Sunday afternoon. You would enjoy the music, which is played freely, for the ears of all. You might well meet a handsome young gentleman or two — who knows? — or even end up with a fine husband!"
“That would be a wonderful surprise,” said Wayness.
Esteban pointed to a tall lean woman approaching along the sidewalk. “There is Madame Portils herself, on her way home from work.”
Esteban slowed the cab. Wayness watched Irena Portils marching swiftly along the sidewalk, head bent, leaning forward into the wind. At first glance and from a distance she seemed comely; almost instantly the illusion shattered and vanished. She was dressed in a well-worn skirt of russet tweed and a tight-fitting black jacket. From beneath a small shapeless hat, lank black hair hung down past her cheeks. Middle age was close upon her and the years had not treated her kindly. Black eyes in dark sockets were set too closely beside a long pinched nose; her complexion was pasty and ravaged by the deep lines of stress and pessimism.
Esteban turned his head to watch her as the cab passed by. "Strange to say, she was a handsome piece of goods when she was young. But she went off to actor's school and next we heard she had joined a troupe of comic impressionists or dramaturgists — whatever — these groups are called, and the word came that she had gone off-world with the troupe and no one thought of her again until one day she returned and then she was married to Professor Solomon, who called himself an archaeologist. They only stayed a month or two and were gone off-world again."
Esteban had arrived at a long low concrete building shaded by a half dozen eucalyptus trees. Wayness said: “This is not the Hotel Monopole!"
"I took a wrong turning,” Esteban explained. “This is the poultry cooperative. Now that we are here, perhaps you will want to look at the chickens. No? Then I'll take you to the hotel, at best speed.”
Wayness settled back into the seat. “You were telling me about Professor Solomon.”
“Ah, yes. The Professor and Irena returned a few years ago, with the children. For a time Professor Solomon was well-regarded, and considered a credit to the community, being a scientist and a man of education. He occupied himself, exploring the mountains and looking for prehistoric ruins. Then he claimed he had found some buried treasure and involved himself in a terrible scandal, so that he was forced to take himself off-world. Irena claims she knows nothing of his whereabouts, but no one believes her."
Esteban guided the cab from Calle Luneta to its previous place beside the hotel. "And that is the state of affairs along Calle Maduro."
VII.
Wayness sat in a corner of the hotel lobby, eyes half-closed, notebook in her lap. Under the heading ‘Irena Portils’ she had started to organize a few ideas, but the topic was baffling and her thinking blurred. Her mind needed rest. A few tranquil hours might clarify her problems. Wayness settled back into the chair and tried not to think.
A soothing murmur permeated the lobby. It was an enormous room, with massive wooden beams supporting a high ceiling. Furnishings were heavy: leather upholstered chairs and couches, long low tables whose tops were single slabs of chirique. In the far wall an archway opened into the restaurant.
A party of ranchers entered from the square and seated themselves to drink beer and discuss business before moving into the restaurant for lunch. Wayness found that their joviality, loud voices and sudden claps of hand on leg interfered with her efforts not to think: Also, one of the ranchers boasted a very large bushy black mustache, at which Wayness could not avoid staring, even though she began to fear that the rancher might notice and come over to ask why she was looking at his mustache.
Wayness decided that it was time for her own lunch. She went into the restaurant and was seated where she could overlook the square, though at this time of day nothing of consequence was happening.
According to the menu, one of the daily specials was ptarmigan: an item which intrigued Wayness, since she had never seen it offered on a menu before. Well then, she thought: why not? She so placed her order, but in the end found the ptarmigan too gamy for her taste.
Wayness lingered at the table over dessert and coffee. The afternoon lay before her, but she decided not to attempt another period of serenity, and once again she took up the matter of Irena Portils.
The basic problem was straightforward: how to induce Irena to reveal the whereabouts of the man known as ‘Professor Solomon’?
Wayness brought out her notebook and examined the entries she had inscribed earlier in the day.
Problem: Find Moncurio.
— Solution 1; Make a full explanation to Irena and request cooperation.
— Solution 2; Similar to No.1, but offer of money — perhaps considerable money.
— Solution 3: Hypnotize or drug Irena Portils, and so extract the information from her.
— Solution 4; While house is unoccupied, search for clues.
— Solution 5; Question Irena's mother and/or children. (???)
— Solution 6: None of above.
Wayness was not encouraged by her review of the notes. Solution 1, the most reasonable, would almost surely embroil her in an emotional confrontation with Madame Portils and cause her to become more intractable than ever. The same could be said for Solution 2. Solutions 3, 4, and 5 were almost equally impractical. Solution 6 was clearly the most feasible of the group.
Wayness returned to the lobby. The time was a few minutes after two o'clock, with the balance of the afternoon still ahead. Wayness went to the desk, where the clerk directed her to the public library.
“It is a five minute walk," said the clerk. He pointed his pencil. "Go along Calle Luneta a single block, to Calle Basilio; on the corner you will find a large acacia tree. Turn to the left and walk a block, which will bring you to the library.”
“That seems simple enough."
“Just so. Do not neglect the collection of primitive pottery on display in the reference department. Even here in Patagonia, where the gauchos once roamed, we honor the ideals of high culture.”
A door of bronze and glass slid aside; Wayness entered a foyer equipped with the usual amenities. Halls to left and right led to the various special departments. Wayness wandered here and there, at all times covertly watching for Irena Portils. She had formed no plan; still it seemed certain that these particular premises might be the best, perhaps the only, environment in which to make Irena‘s acquaintance. She paused to examine a rack of periodicals, pretended to consult the information banks, stopped to ponder the schedule of library hours, as posted on a sign. Nowhere did she so much as glimpse Irena, who perhaps had gone home for the day.
In the Art and Music room Wayness came upon the collection of primitive pottery to which she had been recommended by the clerk at the hotel. The pieces were displayed upon the shelves of a glass-fronted cabinet. There were a dozen bowls, some high, some low and as many other utensils. Most had been broken and restored; a few showed rudimentary decoration: patterns of stippling or scratches. The ware had been formed either by pressing slabs of clay into baskets, then firing basket and all or by the hand-forming of slabs into the shape desired. A placard attributed the pieces to 'the Zuntil folk’: semi-barbarian hunters and gatherers resident in the area many thousands of years before the coming of the Europeans. The pieces had been discovered by local Archaeologists at sites along the Azumi River, a few miles north and west of Pombareales.
Wayness frowned at the collection, which had just inserted a rather good idea into her mind. She considered the idea from all angles, but could find no flaws. Of course she would be required to become a liar, a sneak and a hypocrite. But what of that? To make an omelet one must break eggs. She turned to the librarian who sat at a nearby desk: an angular young man with
soft sandy hair a wide thinker's forehead, a high-bridged beak of a nose, a bony jaw and chin. He had been watching Wayness from the side of his face. Meeting her gaze, he blushed and looked hurriedly away, then could not resist another glance.
Wayness smiled at him, and approached his desk. She asked: “Did you arrange the showing of this collection?”
The librarian grinned. “So I did, in part, at any rate. I did none of the digging. That was the work of my uncle and his friend. They are the diggers, and very keen. I don’t fancy it all that much, myself."
“You miss most of the fun!"
“Perhaps,” said the librarian. He added, in a thoughtful voice: "Last week my uncle and his friend Dante went out on a dig. My uncle was stung by a scorpion. He jumped into the river. During the afternoon his friend Dante was chased by a bull. He jumped into the river too."
“Hm.” Wayness considered the collection of pots. “Did they go out again this week to dig?”
"No. They went to the cantina instead.”
Wayness had no comment to make.
Beside the collection several maps of the region were posted. One of these marked the location of the Zuntil sites; another, on a larger scale, displayed the reach of the various Inca Empires: the Early, the Middle and the Late. Wayness said: “Apparently the Incas never ranged quite so far south as Pombareales."
“They probably sent war parties out from time to time. But no one has ever found any authentic sites closer than Sandoval, which might well have been nothing more than a trading post.”
Wayness spoke offhandedly: "I think that is what the leader of our expedition wants to establish, one way or the other.”
The librarian gave a wry chuckle. “There have been more expeditions at Sandoval than ever there were Incas."
He appraised Wayness anew. “You are an archaeologist, then?"
Wayness laughed. “After this year in the field and three more years in the laboratory sorting out bones — ask me again." She looked around the room. “You are not too busy to talk?”
“Definitely not! Today is always a slack day. Sit down, if you like. My name is Evan Faures.”
