Bella

by C M Blackwood

  “What are you doing?” a voice asked loudly.

  Robert’s face swam stealthily towards her out of the gloom; and he was still moving nearer to her, even as she snapped awake. She thought that she might have screamed, but wasn’t entirely sure.

  “What am I doing?” she whispered, pressing her hands to her face. “What am I doing?”

  When the door to the room was pushed open, she became rather sure that she had cried aloud. She squinted through the darkness, and scooted back against the wall.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping at a damp cheek with the heel of her hand. “Please don’t mind me, Robert.”

  “Robert?” a voice asked laughingly. “I should say he’s nowhere near!”

  Again, Lucie narrowed her eyes; and saw Clara.

  “Clara!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think? I heard you shout.”

  “I didn’t shout,” Lucie lied.

  “If you didn’t shout,” said Clara, “then I’ve gone insane. Now – do I look insane?”

  “It’s not always easy to tell,” answered Lucie, who felt all of a sudden somewhat puzzled.

  Clara chuckled. “I guess you’re right. But move over, and let me sit!”

  So Lucie moved.

  When Clara had seated herself on the bed, she leaned her back against the wall, and looked out of the window. Bright white moonlight, clean and pure, poured through it, and crept across the floor. Illumined was only half of the bed, however – and that half was Clara’s. Lucie peered out of her own shadows, a little comforted by the fact that her face was in blackness; and she looked at Clara, lit up silver in what light seemed to turn the small and stifling room almost cold.

  But out of the whiteness, then, came a vision of black; and Lucie was seized suddenly with a singular thought, which would allow her only to leap up to her feet, and hurry to the second bed, over which her jeans were strewn. They had been washed, of course, but she reached into the pocket anyway – and pulled out a little wad of paper. She unrolled it as best she could, and looked down at what shapes could still be distinguished in the smeared ink.

  I dreamt . . . of steps . . . a pool of black . . .

  She made her eyes into slits, and strained them so that they became almost sore.

  I want to remember.

  There came an involuntary gasp from her throat, and she thrust the paper away.

  “Lucie?” said Clara. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Lucie whispered, falling several steps backward. She could see the paper, lying near to the wall. “I’m not doing anything.”

  “What?” asked Clara. Of course, Lucie couldn’t understand her confusion; but perhaps we can.

  “I’m not doing anything,” Lucie repeated, scurrying back to the bed. She jumped under the covers, and hid her head for a moment. But then she remembered Clara was there, and emerged from beneath the sheet; moved quickly to kiss her cheek, and then covered herself again.

  “Goodnight, Clara,” she said pointedly.

  “Goodnight, Lucie,” said Clara. She sat for another moment, looking down at the vague impression that was Lucie’s head under the sheet; but then she rose from the bed, and went out.

  Lucie peered once more into the moonlit room, and let her eyes fall to the ball of paper on the floor. But a strange cold fear took hold of her heart, and she could only duck her head away again – though the barrier of the sheet, in that close room, made it somewhat difficult to breathe. Yet she managed somehow to close her eyes, and to drift again into dreams.

  This time, there were no staircases.

  12

  A Drive with César

  Clara left before her usual time the next day, as it was Saturday, and the cantina was open for early supper on weekends. After she had gone, Lucie found herself sitting alone in the parlor, bathed in sunlight from the window, and looking resentfully towards the piano. When she turned her eyes to the window, there came a little glistening light caught in the midst of a sunbeam – and it sat on the stool before the piano. Lucie swiveled her head quickly towards the light; discovered that it belonged to a very small ghost with long, flowing silver hair; and suffered, each and every time she looked, the disappointment of seeing it disappear once again.

  While she was thus employed, César came into the room. He sat beside her on the sofa, with his customary affable grin, and asked her how she was doing. She only sighed in response.

  “How unwell you seem!” he exclaimed. “But I declare, that I know just the thing. I have business today. Would you like to drive with me?”

  “Yes.”

  He patted her knee. “Let me get my briefcase – and then we will go.”

  He went out, returned with a small brown case, and beckoned her to follow him out. They went down to the sidewalk, where his car was parked beside the curb. He unfastened the manual lock of the rear driver’s side door, laid the case down on the seat, popped the lock back into place, and then swung the door shut. He took his place behind the wheel, and waved Lucie into the car.

  “It is a very pleasant drive, as you will see,” he said. He took up a pair of cheap sunglasses from the dashboard, and slid them on. “What a beautiful, bright day it is!” he proclaimed, as he maneuvered the car out into the street.

  “Will we be going far?” Lucie asked.

  “Not so far,” said César. “To the edge of the city.”

  “Do you go there often?”

  Of course Lucie knew perfectly well by now the purpose of the excursion; but she saw no particular need to dispense with pleasantries.

  “Every week,” said César. “But usually I must travel alone. It is so nice to have a friend along with me!”

  They chatted comfortably all through the drive, and reached their destination just as dusk was settling. Lucie wasn’t struck much by the change of environment; for there didn’t seem to be much difference at all. She thought she could have perhaps attested to the fact, that the narrow streets they traveled were even darker and dirtier than the ones they had left behind. Yet César zipped all along them in a familiar fashion, turning and turning till they came to a wide, brightly lighted (though no less filthy) thoroughfare. He drove into a square concrete lot, full of cars, at the head of which sat a little wooden booth.

  “Where are we going?” Lucie asked.

  “I must park here,” said César. “Trust me – we do not want to park in the street. We will return only to find four missing tires! No, no – we will leave the car with Felipe. I always use his lot. See –” (he waved to a little old man in the booth, as he passed by) “– we will park here, and pay Felipe his fee. No one comes into Felipe’s lot. They know much better than that!”

  He slid the little Toyota into a slot between a sleek silver Audi, and a long black Cadillac. “I am sure I look ridiculous, between these two cars!” he said. “But still – I am very fond of my tires.”

  He hopped out of the car, and called for Lucie to follow. Together they walked up to Felipe’s booth.

  The old man sat behind the counter, reading a magazine and sipping a beer. He looked very small, and very frail. Lucie couldn’t help wondering, exactly what he would do if someone did try to steal a car from his lot? But he seemed to understand Lucie’s befuddlement perfectly, and only smiled politely. Then he reached under the counter, and brought up a double-barrel shotgun for her to inspect. He moved aside a lapel of his old grey coat, and indicated a pistol there, holstered and strapped to his weak-looking chest. Then he pointed to a poster of Rambo, tacked up on the wall behind him. As Rambo sported one in the image, so did little Felipe wear a red bandana tied round his head. A few wisps of white hair floated over it.

  “Ah, Capitán Felipe!” César exclaimed. He turned to Lucie, and explained, “That is what all his friends call him.”

  “Were you in the military?” Lucie asked.

  “No,” said Felipe. He went on, in very good English: “They don’t take my kind into the
military! Couldn’t handle me, I expect.”

  Lucie frowned, not particularly understanding. Yet she returned the smile, when Felipe indicated his guns once more, and then turned to beam proudly at Rambo.

  “Where are your tenientes tonight, Capitán?” César asked.

  “Tracking down Wilfredo’s Mercedes!” Felipe answered. “He had business with Jorge on Sepúlveda – only five miles away, and didn’t want to call a car from Rodolfo! Now his pretty little red machine has been stolen, and poor Hector and Jaime must find it! Though I’m sure that they won’t render their services for free.” He held up his hands. “But what fee they decide is none of my affair.”

  César shook his head. “Ah, Wilfredo! He never follows the rules! Do you remember, Felipe, what happened last year? He would not go to Marco, after his business with Luis – and all his earnings were confiscated by a customs officer, never to be seen again! I would not be surprised if his luck was the same, with his pretty little red car!”

  The two men took a moment to laugh at this. Both seemed heartily amused at the misfortune of Wilfredo’s Mercedes.

  “Ah, well,” César said finally. “I will be no more than an hour, Felipe. Take this now –” (he took a cluster of bills from his wallet, and passed them across the counter) “– and if I go over, we can settle when I come back.”

  “Ah, no!” said Felipe. “For you, César, this is enough.”

  He even took a few of the bills away from the wad, and returned them to their owner.

  “You are a saint, Felipe,” said César. “The soldier saint of Main Street!”

  Felipe chuckled. “That I am, young man,” he said. “That I am.”

  César touched Lucie’s arm, and guided her out into the street. They went along the sidewalk at the right-hand; but as they moved on, the place grew dimmer and dimmer, and Lucie began to look warily about. César only smiled, and put his arm round her shoulders. “You are safe with me, Lucie,” he said. “Do not worry.”

  But his assurance did little to lessen her anxiety, when their destination was revealed to her. They were making for a little cantina with flickering signs and cloudy windows, which appeared filled to capacity. Just inside the door, the air grew foul and rancid, and the odor of stale beer mingled unpleasantly with what smelled like rotten meat. Many of the customers in the cantina wore hats, or hoods, or scarves; all wrapped up to the eyes, and looking much like Ali Baba’s forty foes, surrounded on all sides by slow swirling smoke.

  Lucie moved just as near to César as she was able, as they walked together towards a little booth against the side wall. Lucie slid first across the bench, and was followed by César. Seconds later, Manolo arrived, and set himself down opposite them.

  “Are you meeting someone here?” Lucie asked.

  “Yes,” said César.

  “Who?”

  “You do not need to know his name.”

  “Is it Wilfredo, Jorge or Rodolfo?”

  César laughed, and said “No.”

  “Is it Marco or Luis?”

  “It is no one you have ever heard of, Lucie!”

  “Is it Domingo Jiménez?” she persisted, tossing out the very last name she could think of – which she had heard, you will remember, from César’s own lips, that night at the Granite Corral.

  César’s eyes widened, and Manolo’s mouth fell partway open. Neither of them answered her; but their silence was quite enough to validate her last suggestion.

  “Keep quiet till we leave,” César said. “Say nothing to Jiménez.”

  They waited not five minutes, before a man came to join them. He wore no hat, but was clad in a full black suit, with a black tie, gleaming black shoes, and shiny little silver cufflinks. He seemed, in all respects, the lost Mexican brother of Robert Benoit.

  César and Manolo both rose to shake his hand. They exchanged very normal pleasantries, and then all sat down together. Jiménez called for rum; and then called on César for “his case.”

  From under the table, César extracted the small brown case which had been transmitted from Little Tortuga Street. He passed it respectfully to Jiménez.

  The well-dressed fellow’s eyes lit up at the sight of it. “Is it prepared as I requested?” he asked. He spoke in English, with not an accent to be found.

  “Of course,” said César.

  So Jiménez popped open the case, took out a sheet of paper that lay at the top, and began to inspect it. His face grew steadily more confused, till he looked up at César, and asked, “What is this?”

  “It is our agreement, amigo,” said César.

  “This wasn’t our agreement.”

  So César and Manolo bent their heads over the document, and examined it together. They began pointing at words and figures, the better to expatiate upon their meanings. The shadows from Jiménez’s face were beginning to clear.

  But the men talked on for some time more; and Lucie found herself glancing round for a ladies’ room. She tapped César’s shoulder, and said, “I need to use the restroom.”

  He sighed, but got to his feet just the same, and allowed her to pass by. “Just over there,” he said, pointing past the bar, to the corner beside the exit. “Hurry back.”

  For the first time since entering the bar, Jiménez’s eyes were drawn to Lucie. He studied her face for a moment, and tilted his head to the side, as if thinking particularly hard about something.

  “Go on, Lucie,” said César. “Hurry up.”

  Lucie turned from Domingo Jiménez’s piercing gaze, and dashed across the room. Having drunk down three sodas while the men conducted their business, she was in no position for dawdling. She spotted the restroom door without trouble, but was somewhat disconcerted by the appearance of a strange, dark, filthy man in rags, who hovered just beside it. He leered menacingly at Lucie, as she passed through the door.

  She took her time in the washroom, hoping to find the dark man disappeared. But still he was there. She turned uneasily from him, and began to walk quickly back to César; but she needed pass by the exit on her way to the table, and as she came to it, a large, cold hand clenched round her arm. A moment thereafter, she was dragged directly from the cantina.

  The dark man clapped a hand over her mouth, and tugged her into a narrow side alley. She didn’t have time to scream; but the dark man loosened his hold on her, once they were hidden in the alley. She sprang away from him. He shot out his hand again, and drew her back immediately, so that she was forced to look around for some sort of weapon. Much against her initial expectations, she spotted a rusty, decaying crowbar lying near a garbage can. She snatched it up, and brandished it all around. The man’s eyes filled with fear, and he backed away.

  “Detente!” he cried. “Detente, señorita!”

  “What?”

  “Por favor,” he said quickly, approaching her once more with grasping, shaking hands. Again she waved the crowbar; and again he fell away. “Por favor, señorita –”

  “What do you want?”

  “Tu amigo, Señor Vicente –”

  “César?”

  “Si! César. Pero no conoces el hombre –”

  “What?” Lucie repeated.

  The man spread his hands helplessly. “Mi hijo,” he began again. “Señor Vicente mató –”

  “I don’t understand you,” Lucie said; though really she thought she had understood most of the words. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  The innocent expression faded suddenly from the man’s face, and he loomed over Lucie as he had done in the cantina. He reached out his hands, grasped her shoulders, and knocked her head against the bricks. Her eyes crossed, and bright spots of color danced before them; but she managed to bring the crowbar down full over her abductor’s skull. It snapped in two at the impact, but still the man groaned, and dropped to the ground. He didn’t move.

  First Lucie put a hand to her head, where a wound trickled blood. Then she raced back into the cantina, and whispered frantically into César’s ear (th
e owner of which ear was still very and clearly busy with Domingo Jiménez): “I killed him!”

  “You killed who?” César demanded.

  “Come, come!” she said.

  “Lo siento, amigo,” César said to Jiménez. “Give me a moment!”

  “I can’t deny that I’m curious,” said Jiménez. “I’ll join you.”

  Lucie directed them to the dark man, lying still in the alley.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” César cried. “What mischief have you been doing, Pablo?” He looked to Lucie. “What did he do to you?”

  “He took me from the cantina,” Lucie answered.

  César kicked the prostrate fellow, who then began to twitch. He aimed another kick; then another; and then Manolo joined in.

  “Ten piedad, César!” hollered Pablo, who had regained consciousness, was screaming for mercy, and trying to shield himself from the blows.

  But the men continued to kick, till again the vagrant-looking fellow was motionless.

  Lucie looked down into his bloodied face. “Is he – is he dead?”

  “I think so,” César said calmly. He took Lucie’s hand, and led her out of the alley.

  The three men exchanged a number of quiet words on the sidewalk; but then they parted silently. Manolo went one way, Jiménez another. César helped Lucie (whose head was now spinning and swimming most unpleasantly) to Felipe’s lot, where he handed her gently into the car. He shut the door, then, and went off to Felipe’s booth.

  Lucie was grateful for this solitary moment. Still she thought of Pablo, lying dead in the alley. Why had he done what he did? Why look so angry at first – and then so very helpless? Why talk to her about César? What did he know about César?

  Lucie pondered these things through five minutes of silence. But when César returned, and added his chipper voice to the sound of her thoughts, she could no longer speculate. So she looked to him, and asked, “How did you know that man?”