Mendoza in Hollywood (Company)

by Kage Baker

  Who did I think he was, you ask? Give me more Theobromos, and I’ll tell you my friend Joseph’s theory of genetic stability.

  Thanks so much. Joseph calls it the English Character Actor Phenomenon. Have you ever had occasion to watch a lot of British cinema, or look at British portraits or photographs? You may have noticed that many of the faces are identical, though separated by decades or even centuries. Compare a cast photo of the D’Oyly Carte company from 1885 with one from 1973, for example. Some of them could be the same people, as immortal as we are. Of course they’re not; and there’s no need to grope for a mystical reason to explain the resemblance, either. It’s a simple matter of genetics on a rather small island. There are only so many faces, only so many physical types in that gene pool. You can find the same sort of recurring appearances in other communities that tend to disapprove of marriage outside one’s race.

  Older operatives with countless lifetimes behind them—like Joseph, for example, whose theory this is—are always running into people who could be identical twins to mortals they knew centuries earlier. I’m told one gets over the surprise fairly soon. Perhaps I would, too.

  “By your leave, señorita,” said the mortal man, holding my gaze steadily as he stepped forward with a caution that indicated he’d noticed my weapon and taken my measure. “I believe we have acquaintances in common. I was informed at the Bella Union Hotel that there was a well-spoken daughter of joy who kept a private house at this location. Have I the pleasure of her company?”

  “No, señor,” I said. “She is away. I do not expect her return for some days.”

  “Ah.” He tilted his head a little to one side, considering me. “You are perhaps in her employ?”

  I blinked at him. It actually took me a moment to realize that this magnificent stranger was asking me to have sex with him. He thought I was a whore, my long-lost beloved.

  On the other hand, I had been celibate for just over three centuries now, and the nearness of his mortal flesh and the sound of his voice were more than I could bear.

  Why not? Why deny myself this thing?

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Very well,” he said, drawing off his remaining glove and tucking it in his hat with the other one. “I trust you have the afternoon free? Where may we be undisturbed?”

  I led him into Imarte’s room without a word.

  The light flickered over his eyes as he took in the dimensions of the room, rapidly noting placement of doors and windows, locking mechanisms, possible traps. He was scanning, señors, as ably as one of us, if without electronic assistance. He spotted the valise under Imarte’s table—no change in his expression at all—and turned his attention to me with nothing but expectant and straightforward lust. Had I always been able to read him like this? But I was so young when I met my man, and so many years of hard living since then had sharpened my perceptions.

  “What is your pleasure, señor?” I asked after an awkward pause. Wasn’t that what whores said?

  He drew his eyebrows together slightly. “Well, under the circumstances, I believe it’s customary for one to undress,” he said, just a hint of irony in that well-bred voice. Undress, right. I unbuckled my gun belt, and he held out his hand to take it. “Allow me.”

  He hung it over a chair, well out of my reach. I watched as he turned back to me, and our eyes met, acknowledging that he’d scored the first touch. He stepped back a pace to indicate that I should proceed.

  So I took them off, the drab and convenient garments of my life, the long walking skirt with its slightly muddy hem, the plain dark blouse and bodice, the battered high-topped boots and threadbare black stockings. My lingerie was a disgrace, shabby gray cotton I’d mended with pack thread; but I had never expected to sleep with anyone again. It just goes to show that you ought to invest in good underwear, because you never know, do you, when a long-dead lover will pop up and whisk you into bed. At least my flesh was presentable: to all appearances that of the same eighteen-year-old girl who’d loved the man in England. Immortality has that much consolation.

  He watched me intently, and only when he’d seen that I had no other weapons concealed in any other possible place did the good red blood rise into his face, and a certain ready warmth into his eyes.

  “Charming” was all he said; and setting down his hat and gloves, he shrugged out of his coat. There was his holster, for anyone to see, with a revolver snugly tucked away in it. He acknowledged my stare with a frank smile. “Lest one fall amongst thieves whilst traveling,” he explained. He took it off and hung it on the chair next to mine, but rather closer to the bed. While removing his boots, he was able to get a good look under the bed and satisfy himself that nobody was lurking there. Off came his waistcoat with its watch in the little pocket, off came his flowing tie; and that was as undressed as he was going to get, except for letting his suspenders down and unbuttoning where necessary. What a pity; I wondered if the rest of him was eerily identical to Nicholas Harpole. What I could see as he unbuttoned was gorgeously the same.

  We sank down on the counterpane together and, yes, if this wasn’t the same man, there was something wildly wrong with the universe. He kissed like Nicholas, used his hands with the same masterful expertise, played my body like a rare instrument just as Nicholas had done, as though I were something beautiful.

  There was only one moment of trouble, when an expression of amazement crossed his face, and he rose on his elbows and gave me a sharp wondering look; but the music was playing too sweetly to stop the dance now, and we went leaping on. I didn’t try to guess what he was thinking. Would you have?

  I won’t describe the physical pleasure. You wouldn’t believe it, señors. I don’t know that I believed it myself. One moment the world had been the sad ordinary place I’d lived in for the better part of three centuries, and the next it had shattered and fallen away like an image painted on glass, a dreary illusion gone forever. If this day was possible, then angels might exist, fairies too, miracles and wonders, even a loving God.

  I think we made love for hours. He was a determined sensualist, as perfect and as tireless as one of us, and seemed intent on exhausting me, which of course he couldn’t do, except emotionally. A long while later, I lay weeping silently, curled against him. He leaned up on one elbow to regard me.

  My God, the same dear face, flushed in the same way after his pleasure. His eyes were sharp and considering; and yet I could sense no desire to harm me, though I’d detected at least three more weapons concealed on his person during our lovemaking. What on earth was he, a professional assassin?

  Well, why else would he be carrying all those weapons? He’d been sent for the valise, and I was the only witness.

  This realization hit me like a thunderbolt, in the precise moment that he casually draped an arm over me and pulled me close again. Without apparent effort on his part I found myself caught against him, my arms securely pinioned and the weight of his big body holding me down. If I’d been a mortal woman, I couldn’t have escaped. My heart raced all the same.

  He looked into my eyes, probing for something. “That was delightful, my dear,” he told me suavely. “But you’re not a whore, are you?”

  “No, señor,” I said. “My apologies for the deception.”

  “You were in fact a virgin, were you not?” He sounded regretful, not for my lost innocence but because he was afraid there might have to be a death in this room, and he was sincerely hoping it wouldn’t be necessary.

  I stared. I couldn’t tell him that if I seemed a virgin, it might be because I hadn’t slept with anybody since March 1555. Did you know our bodily regeneration was that thorough? I hadn’t known. “Yes, señor, I was,” I answered.

  He smiled slightly. “I don’t flatter myself that my personal attractions led you to sacrifice something of such value to a young lady. Why, then, did you lie to me concerning your . . . vocation?”

  What he intended to do next depended on my answer to that question. What was the right answe
r? No way to tell him the truth. At least I was in fair control of myself. Time was when even a mortal in a temper would have had me winking out in nervous terror. Killer apes, I’d called them; but this was a killer angel. You may think he was a monster, señors, prepared as he was to quietly kill a woman he’d just pleasured; but I tell you it maddened me with new desire, and isn’t that monstrous? But who in the hell knows what’s clean or unclean in love?

  “I needed the money, señor,” I lied, as frankly as I knew how. “Bereavement has left me a pauper, without refuge. In the past few days my situation has become desperate. The whore of this place is absent, I told you the truth of that; and when you came inquiring for her, it appeared that fate had placed a terrible opportunity before me. You seemed like a decent man, señor.”

  “Or at least a wealthy one?” He raised one eyebrow and studied me. His body was relaxing. “And this, then, was the occasion of your fall from grace? I trust you won’t take offense if I observe that you don’t seem suited for this occupation. Are you aware you never even set me a price, my dear? Pleasant as our dalliance was—and believe me, señorita, it was a pleasure indeed—I think this is not the life for you.”

  He was amused. He was deciding there was no need for unpleasantness. He wasn’t through with me yet, though. Was I disappointed?

  “What price ought I to have charged, señor?” I asked.

  He smiled wryly. “The price of a good dowry in this backward country, or whatever donation the nearest convent requires to take in a novice. I believe I have a fair idea of the exchange rate at the present time. I’ll leave that sum in gold; but you must promise me you’ll use it for the one purpose or the other, as your inclination directs. Harlotry’s a dangerous business.”

  He was a professional killer, and so far as he knew, I was a wretched nonentity he might just as easily have discarded, by one means or another. Instead he had opted to do the decent thing. Who was this man? Who sent him here, to this miserable place? Queen Victoria’s Foreign Office?

  “Thank you, señor” was all I could think to say.

  He smiled again and kissed me, releasing my arms. “There’s a good girl. Now, shall we seal the bargain with a toast? What wine or spirits does the resident strumpet keep here?” He rolled off me and sat up.

  “There’s aguardiente,” I said.

  “Your local brandy, yes. That’ll do. Fetch us a bottle of the best and two glasses, and we’ll drink to your future as an honest woman.”

  I hastened to obey, so readily that I was on my way back from the pantry with the bottle and glasses before I remembered that I was stark naked. He smiled engagingly at me as I scurried back to him where he lounged against the headboard of the bed. He was concealing something in one hand, however.

  “Many thanks,” he said, taking the bottle and one of the glasses. He poured a drink for me, dispensing a white powder into my glass as he did so with beautifully neat sleight of hand. It dissolved without a trace in the aguardiente. He handed me my glass and poured one for himself. “Back into bed, now. Climb under the blankets. There’s rather a chill in the air.”

  There certainly was. I analyzed the contents of my glass, smiling ingenuously at him. Not poison, at least; something to make me sleep. Sleep while he did what? Made off with the valise, of course. What was I going to do now?

  “To your good health and moral reclamation,” he said, lifting his glass. I lifted mine too. He drank, but as soon as he saw that I wasn’t drinking with him, his attention was fixed on me again.

  “Perhaps you don’t indulge in spirits, my dear?” he inquired, in a way as delicate as the perfect spring mechanism of a steel trap.

  “Not often,” I said, lowering my glass. I leaned affectionately on his right arm. “Never mind, señor. You know, it’s only just occurred to me how you must have come to hear of this place. You must be a friend of Mr. Alfred Rubery.”

  Ha, that startled him. Nobody but a cyborg who was reading his pulse and skin conductivity could have told, however. His eyes narrowed in that dangerous smile.

  “The young ass,” he said. “Yes, he was quite taken with Madam Martha.”

  “I hope he was able to get back to his hotel safely? Really, señor, you’d have laughed if you were here to see it. A perfect farce! Except that he really was in danger of being shot by the jealous lover. He barely escaped with his clothing as it was. In fact. . .” I looked around the room as though searching, then pointed a finger at the valise as though I’d only just discovered it. “There it is, señor, that’s Mr. Rubery’s valise. He left it here in his haste. We expected he’d send for it, but ever so many days have passed. I assume he’s afraid to come back here. Would you perhaps be so kind as to take it with you when you return to the Bella Union?”

  “Anything to oblige a lady,” he said, kissing my hand, all cozy gallantry, but there was a coldly inquiring look in his eyes. Had I overplayed the scene? Had I swung too quickly from vulnerable waif to cheerful servant girl? I rather think I had. He looked again at the glass I wasn’t touching and sighed. I had given him a way to exit gracefully with the valise, but something about me rang false, and he couldn’t afford to leave a loose end.

  Damn. I do not interact gracefully with mortals. They can always tell.

  “This is all quite pleasant,” he said, getting his right arm free and sliding it around me snugly. “And may I say, my dear, that you speak English beautifully? I am really quite astonished at your command of the language.”

  Oh dear.

  “My mother was English,” I temporized. It was happening again; three hundred years, and another tissue of lies to conceal what I truly was. Talk about déjà vu.

  “Was she?” He had another sip of his aguardiente. “How did she come to be here, might one ask?”

  How indeed. Pirates? Kidnapping? Shipwreck?

  “She came in search of her brother,” I said carefully. “He emigrated, you see, señor, first to America and then to Texas, when the Mexican government was inviting settlers to farm the land. He sent word that he had a fine farm and was prospering. Her parents died, and there had been some thievery by solicitors—what, I never knew precisely, but she was left nearly penniless. She wrote to her brother to expect her and spent the little she had inherited to buy passage to Texas.”

  He was nodding thoughtfully. Nothing improbably romantic, nothing that clashed with geographical or historical facts.

  “Unfortunately,” I continued, “it appeared that her brother had exaggerated his success. He had become, in fact, little more than a beggar. The New World had failed to reform the prodigal vices of his youth. His parents were well-born, you understand, small gentry of an old family, but not rich. Yet he lived as though he had a fortune to inherit, drinking and gambling. That was why he’d been obliged to emigrate in the first place.” I monitored his reactions to my story. Was that all right, that little intimation of good bloodlines to appeal to his English snobbery? Yes, he was accepting it.

  “So, she arrived in Texas and found that her brother was not only not prosperous but sitting in the village prison for vagrancy, and all her prospects were dashed forever. I am afraid she quite collapsed. Luckily, as she sat weeping in the street, she drew the attention of a gentleman who had come to Texas to see to some business affairs he had there. He was a kind and gallant man, and he rescued her from her plight.

  “That man was my father, Don Rodrigo Mendoza. He was not a Mexican, you understand, señor, he was born in Old Spain, the youngest son of a house of ancient valor but no fortune. All his parents could procure for him was an officer’s commission, and he made the best of it. He came with the army to New Spain and won a grant of land in Alta California from his king. After the Revolution he remained here; there was nothing in Europe to draw him back, and he had come to love this New World.” There, a little more aristocratic ancestry, a father who was an officer and a gentleman. How was he taking that? He was still listening.

  “My father was no longer a young man w
hen he befriended my mother, but such was their love that he married her and brought her back to Alta California with him. They lived happily at his rancho near”—what was the most remote and unlikely spot I could think of?—”San Luis Obispo. I was born there, and they had no other children. I was educated in all that a lady of property need learn, and more, for my father had a great admiration for classical studies. I also had to learn what it is to manage an estate. We thought we would always be happy, but the coming of the Americans ruined my father’s fortunes, and we lost our home.” My Englishman was quite interested by that, to judge from his heart rate and respiration; but he merely made a sympathetic noise. I drew breath and went on.

  “The shame killed him, señor. To be cheated out of what he had won with his sword, by shrewd Yankee traders. And my mother did not long survive him, such was her grief. I was left with the clothes on my back and a determination to live. For five years I have won my bread by honest means, cooking and cleaning for strangers; and if it was menial work that my own maids would have scorned to do, when I was a cosseted child, at least I had the satisfaction of knowing that I had never descended into another kind of shame.” How was that playing? Pretty well. His pupils were dilated; always a sure sign he was moved about something.

  At least, that had been true for Nicholas Harpole, who was not this man.

  “Two years I have been the cook at this station, señor, and it has been enough to keep me. But times are hard, señor, surely you know that. The American war, the floods, and then the smallpox, and now the drought. Men run mad, and this land is dying. I have not been paid in weeks. Can you blame me for the despair that led me to this bed? The inn is nearly deserted now, and I fear it will be abandoned soon. Where shall I go then? How am I to live?”

  There, I’d written myself a role to play. This was Hollywood, after all. Though the slight tremor in my voice was genuine. My fear and misery were real enough; if they could be made to convince this glorious stranger of my sincerity, so much the better. But had I convinced him?