Bella

by C M Blackwood

  Finally César’s eyes opened wide, and he was immediately anxious. But he tried to smile for his mother, and made his way from the parlor with as little to-do as was possible. He flashed a single grin more, as Josefína looked towards him from the kitchen – and, convinced that all was well, she went back to the work-room, where Maríbel was waiting for her.

  César went to the door, and opened it to find Larson, who was standing with a very deep frown etched across his face – doubtless the result of his being ignored for so long.

  “What do you want?” César hissed, leaning his head out of the door. “Why do you come to my home?”

  “Mr. Folsom requests your presence this evening,” Larson said stiffly. “I’m only here to deliver the message.”

  “Tell him he should not have bothered,” said César. “I will not come.”

  “It’s not so much a request, Mr. Vicente, you should understand,” Larson went on, with the faintest touch of a scornful smile curling his lips, “as it is a command. Should you fail to present yourself to Mr. Folsom by eight o’clock this evening, you will wish very much that you had considered more carefully.”

  “Are you threatening me, sir?” asked César, very much astonished.

  “Not me – oh no,” said Larson. “I’m only the messenger.”

  With that, he tipped his hat (with quite as little reverence as he usually displayed, in performing the same office for Cora Folsom), and turned on his way. César watched him till he had disappeared down the stairs, and even then kept the door open for a moment or two, peering warily into the alternating patches of sun and shadow which filled the hall.

  20

  The Meeting

  César arrived at seven-thirty on Robledo, and paused for a long moment outside the tall building that was Tom Folsom’s. Being Folsom’s own property, it was named in English. The words “Diamond Place” were scrolled in large letters above the entranceway.

  Now, Tom Folsom’s main interests lay in the Mexican drug trade, it’s true – but you should also know, that he held large stakes in illegal diamond mining in South Africa. When his business in Juárez ran slow, he had his diamonds to turn to; and when weather conditions, or prodigious amounts of death, interrupted the latter, he had the former. But, certainly, the title of “Heroin Place” wouldn’t have looked anywhere near so tasteful over his door.

  César, who knew all this perfectly well, underwent a very violent fit of sneering and scoffing, which resulted soon after in a cough and two sneezes. He flattened the creases of his customary white T-shirt, with a pair of sweating hands, and was no more satisfied, this time, with the hard muscle of his chest, than he would have been with a plastic gun. Not at the door of Tom Folsom.

  César had left his real gun at home, locked safely away in a little metal box. Should it have been found on his person in Folsom’s house, he probably would have been shot to death, with little to no consideration beforehand. So his belt, tonight, was free of firepower; and he sweated all the more for it, as he rang the bell for admittance.

  A smirking Larson met him at the door, and let him in with a great show of mock servility. He made César a low bow, and showed his teeth; but then straightened up, and brushed his lapels very studiously, as if attempting to clean from them the implied filth of César’s proximity. César snarled, and Larson growled, before the former gentleman made his way to the elevator.

  Having had the privilege once before of calling on Folsom in his home (which was, by the way, the very biggest and grandest apartment in the building), César went hastily to the shining wooden door, and knocked firmly upon it. He was answered by a young Mexican woman, whose face was very beautiful, but very sad. He had never seen her before; but acquainted as he was with Tom Folsom and his wife, it was a wonder to him that the girl could refrain from sobbing, and settle merely on displaying a countenance that was perhaps the most morose and melancholy thing he had ever seen.

  “Good evening, sir,” said the young woman, opening the door wider for him to enter.

  “Buenas noches, señorita,” said César. He offered her a broad smile, and added, “No es necesario hablar Inglés conmigo. Yo soy el mismo que tú.”

  For perhaps only the second or third time since she had come to live in that place, and sleep in a very tiny and stuffy bedroom off its back hallway, a whole two years prior, Belén found herself smiling. But the first one or two times, you should know, were entirely accidental; so now she clapped a hand quickly over her mouth, as if fearful of letting loose some strange contagion into the hostile air. But César’s telling her, that she was quite the same as him, and therefore didn’t need to put on any airs, made it so that she couldn’t help herself from showing some sign of her delight.

  César patted her hand kindly, and asked, “Dónde está Señor Folsom?”

  “En su oficina,” Belén answered. “Ven, te mostraré.”

  “Gracias.”

  Belén led him, not through Cora Folsom’s study, but rather on down the long, dark corridor, at the end of which there stood a very wide, very thick door. On the wall beside it there was fixed a little machine, through which one must swipe an access card for admittance. Belén took up a little square of plastic, which looked exactly like a credit card, and ran it through the machine. A light flashed green, and the lock clicked open.

  Belén pushed the door inwards, and then stood back for César to pass. He surprised her very much by bending down slightly, to kiss her cheek; and she was left standing in the dim light of the hall, with trembling hands and a perspiring forehead, for a very long while after he had vanished.

  César found Natalie-the-blonde-secretary at her desk in the lobby. He smiled at her – though with nothing of the sincerity he had shown to poor Belén – and informed her that he was expected.

  “If you’re Mr. Vicente,” said Natalie, “then I’m aware.”

  “Oh! Very good. Is he ready for me?”

  “You’re to walk right in.”

  “Thank you.”

  In anticipation of his arrival, the office door stood wide open. The room beyond was lit up very bright, despite the fact that darkness had yet to fall. Three tall fluorescent lamps stood in a row against the windows, placed almost as if to ward off any shadows that lay without. Seemingly they were successful; for there was not a trace of a shadow to be found. Upon entering, César put a hand over his eyes, and grimaced.

  “It is brighter than the sun,” he said, looking with a disgruntled expression towards the lamps.

  “It is,” said Folsom, looking up from a stack of papers on his desk. He laid down his pen, and repeated, “Surely it is, Mr. Vicente. And do you know why? It’s because I like to see everything. Everything, Mr. Vicente – not a stone unturned. You’ll find nothing here to shade my eyes.”

  César grinned, and shrugged his shoulders, but was meanwhile incredibly uncomfortable. He was very glad when Folsom gestured for him to take a seat.

  After he had sat, however, Folsom turned his face away, and went back to the study of his paperwork. The room was silent for well-nigh five minutes, before César considered the moment passed when an inquiry would be deemed reproachable. So he cleared his throat lightly, and asked, “Why did you want to see me, Mr. Folsom?”

  “Ah, yes,” said Tom, nodding very seriously, as if he had only just remembered what his business was. He folded up a sheet of paper, slid it carefully into an envelope, sealed the envelope and sighed. Then he went on, “There’s always so much to do! Night and day, day and night – there’s no rest for me.” But then he smiled. “I suppose, though – a man in my position has no right to complain. It’s very nice being me, you know, Mr. Vicente.”

  “I am sure.”

  “You are! Well, then, you are a sensible man. I’ve been made to wonder, as of late, if you were indeed – but now I see that you are. I’m not so worried anymore, about the outcome of this meeting.”

  “Outcome?”

  “Yes, Mr. Vicente – the outcome. The
upshot. The final result of our longstanding transaction.”

  César narrowed his eyes.

  Tom sighed once more, and looked towards the windows, with an expression on his face that laid the claim of his being the very most wronged and neglected martyr to be found, anywhere at all in the world. But then he turned back to César, and leaned forward to fold his hands atop the desk.

  “You have owed me a great deal of money, Mr. Vicente,” he began, “for well over a year now. You know this?”

  César nodded.

  “Well,” said Tom, “this is what I know. For the past several weeks, you’ve been conducting business with a man and woman – new business, it must be, since I know nothing about it. Now, tell me, Mr. Vicente! Why would you go and start business with strangers, when you have unfinished business with me?”

  César sat silent for a little, dumbstruck by Folsom’s inexplicable intelligence. He stuttered, and sputtered, and made a false start; but then managed to say, “How did you know about that?”

  “Does it matter how I know?” Folsom asked. “I don’t think it does.”

  “The woman has nothing to do with anything,” César explained quickly. “My business is with the man; but he is no stranger. The agreement has been in place for a very long time, Mr. Folsom – delayed for many months, but real nonetheless. It was in the works, I assure you, long before the first time I spoke with you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  Tom nodded in concession, and held up his hands. “All right, Mr. Vicente,” he said. “I believe you. But the fact still remains, that you must have given these people – or rather this man, as you say – money. You gave him money, Mr. Vicente, when you haven’t even given me mine. I have been patient, very patient – haven’t I?”

  “You have.”

  “Then why show me such disrespect?”

  “It was never my intention, I promise you.”

  “Your promises mean nothing to me, sir,” said Tom, who was growing by the moment more heated and vexed, “so long as my coffers are empty. Fill them, and you can make whatever promises you like – I will believe anything you say. Will you fill them, Mr. Vicente?”

  “What – what are you asking?”

  Again, Tom sighed; but now with more frustration, and more anger, than it was possible for him to conceal. “I’m asking for what you owe,” he said.

  “All of it!” César exclaimed.

  Folsom let loose a bark of laughter, quite in spite of himself. “Yes – all of it! Did you expect to remunerate only a percentage? My loans don’t work that way.”

  “I only mean,” said César, searching vainly for some way to placate the terrible drug lord, “that I cannot give it all now. Some, of course –”

  “I want it all. Every last penny.”

  César was growing frantic. “Please, Mr. Folsom – only listen. I can give you a third, as soon as tomorrow. But the rest – well, it could take three months.”

  “Three months?”

  César ventured a smile. “You are a businessman, Mr. Folsom, like me. We both understand the – liquidez of funds.”

  “I will give you a week.”

  “It is impossible!”

  “Then there’s only one option.”

  César swallowed thickly, and fell back in his chair, clutching at his chest as if he feared an impending heart attack. He was covered in sweat, and was shivering violently. He didn’t know exactly what Folsom would say – but he knew that it couldn’t be anything good.

  “Even with the blatant lack of regard you show for me,” said Tom, “I will offer you a way to escape destitution. All you need do is hand over to me all of your clientele. Inform them that you are no longer their supplier – I am. Then you will recommend me to Domingo Jiménez, whose acquaintance will serve very well in increasing my market. He’s never liked me, and has always refused to work with me – I don’t know why.” He took a moment to muse silently, as if reflecting on this strange distaste with some bitterness. But then he resumed, “If you do these things, Mr. Vicente, I will make you a generous offer – an offer so generous, it will allow you ample time to find yourself a new profession.”

  César was disbelieving. “You cannot do this to me!” he cried. “I own half of this city!”

  Folsom shook his head. “I’m afraid, Mr. Vicente, that it’s quite a bit less than half. In this great business of ours, I am the major shareholder. I hold sway; I hold the votes. Probably you would be in much better shape, though, if you had managed your money more wisely. I mean to say – a man of your stature living in a rundown hovel on the wrong side of the tracks! It’s a pity, really.” He paused; looked seriously into César’s face; and went on, “But it’s not my place to judge. Perhaps you might even turn things around for yourself – after you give me my money.”

  “I told you! I do not have it!”

  “Then you will have no more clients. I wish you a good night, Mr. Vicente.”

  “Please,” said César, flying to the desk in a single stride. “Please, Mr. Folsom – do not do this. I can pay you, I can pay! Give me two months – two months only. I will increase the interest – by five percent!”

  Tom Folsom sneered. “Keep your interest.”

  César came forward again with labored breath, and reached for Folsom’s hands. “I beg you, I beg you –” he began to cry.

  But Tom drew away his hands, and reached beneath the desk. It seemed he must have pressed some sort of button hidden there, for a pair of black-suited men came striding presently into the room. They looked to Folsom, and then to César, awaiting their orders. The burly Mexican man stood blank and aloof; but there was a look in the eye of Frederick Larson very akin to that of a hungry Doberman, as he anticipated impatiently the opportunity of exercising bodily force upon César.

  “Escort Mr. Vicente off of the premises,” said Folsom, his voice grown very nonchalant. He refused to look again into César’s face.

  But César certainly looked into his, and uttered many a cry as he was yanked off his feet, and out of the office. He screamed and screamed, first entreaties and then curses, as he was hauled through the apartment.

  Belén, who was in the kitchen preparing a late supper for Folsom, heard every shout. She knew, of course, who was doing the shouting; and the recollection of César’s kind face, along with the gentle kiss he had bestowed upon her cheek, caused several tears of wholehearted commiseration to escape her eyes.

  Meanwhile, out in the corridor, Larson and the burly fellow shoved César roughly into the elevator, and rode down with him to the ground floor, where they lost no time in throwing him unceremoniously into the street.

  21

  Clara’s Library

  While César was occupied with Tom Folsom, his sufferings unknown to all the members of his loving household, Lucie returned from a walk with Maríbel. The two young women had been escorted by Eduardo, to and from the house of Delfina Barba – where such a raucous discussion and debate had taken place concerning that lady’s wedding dress, that both Lucie and Eduardo entered the apartment with pounding headaches, and looked sympathetically at one another as the subject of the dress started up again – this time between Maríbel and her mother.

  Eduardo went in search of his father (who was sipping whiskey and soda in the kitchen), and Lucie wandered off in the direction of Clara’s bedroom, from which she heard, as she moved nearer, the faint sound of music coming. The door was shut. So she knocked; and Clara called for her to come in.

  Clara was lying on her little bed, with a diminutive radio standing beside her on a tiny table. Her back was propped up against the wall, and her head was situated just beneath the window (a window which Lucie noticed, upon drawing just a little closer, looked directly out into the courtyard). She stood for a moment looking down at the arbor, and the silver moonlit flowers scattered all around it. From that vantage point, there didn’t seem to be very much order in the great garden; but rather it appeared as
a rampant, wild thing that grew as a single entity, with a single heartbeat. Its heart was the arbor, and its many limbs reached out in all different directions, to cover the ground with their green leafy creepers. No path could be seen in its lush, velvety thickness. There was only a swallowing darkness.

  “Hello, Lucie,” said Clara, looking up at the face hovering just above her, which was still fixed intently on the window. She reached to switch off the radio.

  Lucie shook her head, looked to Clara, and smiled. “Hello, Clara.”

  “Do you want to sit down?”

  Lucie didn’t answer, but simply sat down on the edge of the bed. She let her eyes rove round the room.

  “I thought you would have left already?” she said.

  “Not for nearly an hour.”

  Again, Lucie made no response; but her averted face broke into a wide smile.

  As we said already, the room was hardly larger than a closet. But it was very neat, and everything seemed to have its proper place; in contrast to the brothers’ bedroom, which Lucie had discovered to be strewn all over with clothes and magazines, the first time she entered it. But then, there wasn’t even so much as a simple dresser in that room, while in Clara’s there was present a small but handsome chest of drawers – all of which drawers were fully shut, with no articles of clothing protruding or dangling forth from their depths, as was the case with Lucie’s own back home. Surely there was no room, what with the bed and the bureau, for any other item of furniture of any considerable size; but Lucie was immediately impressed by a vast number of wooden shelves, all nailed firm and straight on both the left- and right-hand walls, and filled with all manner and size of books.

  “Good heavens!” Lucie exclaimed. “Just – just look at all of them!”

  Clara – who had of course inferred her strange friend’s affinity for literature, the night she assumed the identity of one Huckleberry Finn of St. Petersburg, Missouri – smiled with pleasure.

  “Not all of them are in English,” she said. “But you’re welcome to read whatever you like.”